Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

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Fanwork Notes

Fanwork Information

Summary:

History remembers Curufin as the villain. There are a few who think better of him. 

Written for the Taboo challenge - will give warnings on chapters as appropriate.

Major Characters: Curufin, Galadriel

Major Relationships: Curufin & Galadriel, Finrod & Gildor

Genre:

Challenges: Taboo

Rating: Teens

Warnings: Creator Chooses Not to Warn

Chapters: 34 Word Count: 106, 368
Posted on 6 February 2017 Updated on 5 January 2025

This fanwork is a work in progress.

Mithrim

Hits 'consequences' and 'ostracization and exile'. 

Read Mithrim

Curufinwë hated these visits.

He accepted the necessity, of course – he was no fool, and knew that if he and his brothers were to have any chance of ever fulfilling the Oath he rued more with each passing day, they would need more than just themselves and their own forces for the assault on Morgoth.

To maintain their ties with the rest of the Noldor, those who had followed their half-uncle and their cousins, they must keep in contact. And the only way to keep in contact was to send messengers, for even if Nolofinwë were not against using the work of his half-brother’s hand unless absolutely necessary, not a single palantir had the High King of the Noldor in all his brilliance thought to bring with him across Alatairë.

The son most like Fëanaro has never quite been able to decide whether it was overconfidence or folly on his father’s part to leave such a vital tool behind in the Blessed Lands, where communication had never been a problem. The worst that might befall a traveler on the road from Tirion to Valimar was a lamed horse or a twisted ankle.

Here in Endorë, death was a possibility at any time. Palantiri would have made the distance between the lords of the Noldor less dangerous, and perhaps gone some way to healing the fracture lines between them. Even now, it does not take much to set them fighting amongst themselves. A single careless word can do it, and has on several occasions.

Curufinwë took his turn without complaint every few years, when it fell to him to serve as Nelyo’s messenger to their half-uncle, little though he liked Mithrim or Nolofinwë. These visits had been less of trial before Turukano had vanished with his people and Findarato had gone off to his hidden caves- not to mention before Tyelko had pitched such a fit about not knowing where Irissë was that Nelyo had banned him from returning to their uncle’s halls.

Now instead of every five years, the duty falls to Curufinwë every third year- for not only Tyelko, but also Nelyo will no longer go to Mithrim. (Ambarussa, of course, has never been sent. Since Losgar, he has always been kept within sight or sound of one of his older brothers. Curufinwë’s suggestion that it might actually help Ambarussa to be near Irissë – before she had vanished with Turno, obviously – had fallen on deaf ears.)

He had survived his initial audience with his half-uncle unscathed, and was idly wandering the halls, wondering if he’d be permitted to visit the pitiful shed that passed for the royal library here – a scant two rooms, barely full, a travesty compared to the massive collection his grandfather had commissioned an entire multi-wing building for in Tirion – when the commotion made him prick up his ears and return to the main hall.

Artanis and two of her brothers had just arrived, and unexpectedly it seemed.

Curufinwë wondered if he were the only one who noticed the gleam of gold on her finger, or merely the only one who had not heard that his youngest cousin had married. He and Tyelko might hold lands closer to Doriath than their brothers, but they got precious little news from the Fenced Land.

It was not Artanis, but rather Aikanaro and Angarato’s words that had drawn the attention of all.

Someone – and given who it was that had been expelled from Doriath, it required no genius to guess who – had finally let slip the tale of Alqualondë, and the Grey King had responded in predictably high-handed fashion.

The courtiers were muttering amongst themselves as they heard the tale of the banishment of the Arafinwions. Curufinwë could hear that reactions ranged from dismay to rage.

Both Nolofinwë and his remaining son kept their faces neutral and held their tongues as the court was dismissed. Then the King – Curufinwë refused out of loyalty to his eldest brother to call him High King in the privacy of his own thoughts– motioned for his family to join him in his private hall, where they could speak freely.

The group that gathered was smaller than it had ever been in his lifetime – besides Nolofinwë and Findekano, Curufinwë, Irimë and Laurefindil were the only non-Arafinwions. Aikanaro and Angarato looked grim, Artanis unusually pale. Artaresto had excused himself from the gathering, murmuring that he did not wish to leave his Sindarin wife alone in unfamiliar surroundings.

Curufinwë imagined it was more ‘did not wish to leave a lady of the Sindar alone surrounded by angry Noldor who have just been told that her holier than thou uncle has barred the speaking of the Noldorin tongue’.

The door had scarce shut securely behind them before the true feelings of the House of Finwë came bubbling over.

“Banned! How can he presume to ban our language?” an outraged Findekano demanded of his father.

“Simply, cousin,” Curufinwë drawled. “By saying it is so. After all, Elwë holds himself lord of all Beleriand. Surely he has only to give a command and we will all trip over ourselves to obey.”

“Peace, Atarinkë!” his uncle snapped.

Curufinwë preferred his father name, but from his father’s half-siblings, he answered without complaint to the name his mother had bestowed on him, understanding that it was strange for them to use Fëanaro’s father name for him. Especially since Losgar, family relations ran smoother if his aunt and uncle spoke to Atarinkë rather than Curufinwë.

“We now find ourselves between a rock and a hard place,” Nolofinwë said, sounding both resigned and weary. “For we either give up our tongue, or we make an enemy of Elwë.”

“Why should we worry? He is our ally in name only,” Curufinwë retorted, seeing at a glance that he was far from the only one appalled at the King of Doriath’s brand of justice. “The only Noldor he will suffer to enter his guarded kingdom are the children of Arafinwë – not one of their followers has he permitted within the bounds the maia queen has drawn about their realm. And now he expels even them, kin though they are to him, regardless that the sons of Arafinwë shed no blood at Alqualondë.”

He did not think it necessary to remind anyone that the daughter of Arafinwë had extracted plenty of Noldorin blood in defense of her mother’s people. Indeed, he cannot for the life of him understand why Artanis should share her brothers’ exile from Doriath when she alone had defended the kin Elwë claims to be so upset over.  By his reckoning, as Olwë’s granddaughter, she is as closely related to the Sindarin king as any that fell at Alqualondë except her mother’s brothers.

“Elwë and his folk come not forth to battle,” Curufinwë continued, “nor do they aid us in our endeavors save that the Greymantle deigns to grant us lands they themselves did not hold. For his nebulous good will we should give up the language of your father and mine? And, I assume, tolerate his poor treatment of my uncle’s children?”

Artanis meets his eye at that, and he shot her a brief smile, wanting her to know that even if Findekano will not, her other cousins will take up for her in her eldest brother’s absence. Tyelko may feel differently – for he was the one who had actually crossed swords with her – but Curufinwë has never held Alqualondë against her. In her place, he might well have done the same. He surely would have held a sword one way or the other – not stood by gaping like an idiot as her brothers had all done.

“He has not treated us poorly,” Aikanaro said. His voice rang hollow, however. “Only sent us from his realm while his anger is hot.”

“Oh?” Curufinwë asked. “He has not mistreated you? His wrath does not lie on you as well as on us whose actions deserve it? Where is my little cousin’s husband, then, that I may greet him and offer my hearty congratulations on their recent union?”

Artanis flinched, and that more than Angarato’s scowl told him that he had struck true.

Nolofinwë looked truly discomforted by that, as if he had only just now noticed the gold that wreathed his niece’s forefinger – and the lack of husband at her side.

“Your words are not the kindest, cousin,” Angarato growled. “Have a care-”

“I am not the kindest person, so my words should not surprise you,” Curufinwë pointed out brusquely. “Yet kind or not, they were not aimed at your sister. Artanis, was it your husband’s decision or his king’s that sent you here without him?”

“I go by Galadriel now, cousin,” she replied, more subdued than was her wont, but her voice firm. “And it was at Thingol’s command that Celeborn remained in Doriath, not his own choice.”

Curufinwë did not want to single out his baby cousin further when she looked so unaccustomedly fragile, nor did he trust that any words he might say to her while so angry on her behalf would not be taken amiss by her older brothers, so he simply nodded and turned back to his half-uncle.

“If such are the actions of King Greycloak when he is our ally, I do not see how it helps us to retain such a friend. He is not Lord Cirdan, who fights the Enemy at our side. He would have us give up much to salve his anger, yet if we do not, what consequence to us? He will not make war on us – he will keep within the protection of his wife’s borders to the bitter end.”

Nolofinwë did not dismiss his words out of hand, which was heartening. Curufinwë could tell it sat no better with his half-uncle or his cousins to submit to this ban on Quenya than it did with him.

“Irimë, what say you to this demand?” Nolofinwë asked. “It is plain enough what the younger generation thinks, for none have contradicted Atarinkë.”

Curufinwë stifled his smile. To phrase is as a ‘demand’ meant Nolofinwë did not believe Thingol had the right to issue such a decree, and might yet refuse. And his cousins would not have hesitated to argue against him were they not just as furious as he was. He was the least popular of his brothers – even Carnistir’s hot temper was generally readily forgiven once his anger subsided. (Artanis and Irissë’s ongoing feud with Tyelko had taken on a life of its own, and Curufinwë was far from the only one staying safely out of it.)

His aunt shrugged.

“Atarinkë seems to have the right of it,” she sighed. “We either anger Elwë or give up our language and all that goes with it. We gain little by yielding to him, and lose much.”

“Though there might be some small benefit,” Laurefindil piped up.

Curufinwë tried not to sigh audibly. His aunt’s golden-haired son wasn’t the cleverest, and probably at a loss for what to do with himself now that his four younger cousins were all elsewhere – one in Mandos, one with his older brothers, one wherever Turvo had dragged her, and Artanis now married and someone else’s to look after.

Assuming the marriage survived the current crisis, of course…

“Oh?” Nolofinwë asked, intrigued. “And what might that be?”

“My cousin would be Curufin were his name Sindarized,” Laurefindil said with a smirk. “Which his father never used, and though not his preferred name, would probably be more to his liking than Atarinkë.

“Yes, Glorfindel,” Curufinwë growled, willing to show that two could play that game “clearly we should all take up an entirely different language merely so you can see me and our uncle discomfited in equal measure.”

It was the first time in far too long he had heard Artanis laugh. Under the circumstances, he’ll put up with Laurë’s twisted logic if it will bring a smile to her face.

Ne'er Be Clean

This chapter definitely covers the 'Unclean Things' square on the Taboo card. I feel like it flirts with a couple others but doesn't really deal with them head on.

Read Ne'er Be Clean

It was several days before he had a chance to speak with Artanis again – tense days in which the court seethed with barely suppressed anger as the King deliberated in private how to respond to the Sindarin King’s insolent decree.

Artanis wasn’t exactly hiding, but nor was she her usual approachable self. The first few days she kept to her rooms unless Laurefindil or Irimë chivvied her outside. Though he could have sought her out, Curufinwë judged it wiser to let her brothers’ moods settle first. He did not mind serving as the outlet for others’ tempers when it was truly required, but it was not a role he favored when it could be avoided.

Messengers from Doriath arrived on the fifth day after the children of Arafinwë had reached Mithrim – and Curufinwë could easily see the insult in that, as if his cousins were liars not to be trusted to convey Elwë’s words accurately. (It would be understandable if it were him or his brothers, but Curufinwë was not entirely sure Findarato has ever told a lie in his life, and his younger brothers have yet to show so much as an ounce of anything like guile.)

The messengers refused to speak Quenya. As Nolofinwë could not converse in Sindarin, that meant one of Arafinwë’s children would need to convey their words to the king, for they were the only ones present fluent both in the language of the Grey Elves and the Noldor.

Artanis, on understanding the farce that was to be played out, excused herself from the great hall with alacrity, pointedly asking her uncle’s permission in the Noldorin tongue before taking her leave without deigning to acknowledge the presence of the Sindarin emissaries.

To his surprise, Curufinwë saw that her brothers were openly angry and refused to translate. In fact, if he had understood them correctly – and while the demand that he give up his cradle tongue was insulting, it irked him nonetheless that he could not yet reliably understand the language of the Grey Elves when spoken at speed – they had told the Sindar that as they were banned from using their father’s language, they could scarcely translate for their uncle, could they?

The looks they had been giving the one who seemed to be in charge of the small delegation were flatly furious, and Curufinwë dearly wished he knew what else was going on beneath the surface. He also appreciated that they’d then declined to speak Sindarin, speaking to each other in Telerin as they departed.

In the end, it had been Artaresto who took the place at the hand of the King and translated as the party from Menegroth repeated Thingol’s ban on Quenya.

How such a ban was supposed to be justice still eluded Curufinwë. It could only make for ill-feeling on the Noldor side, particularly since there were many both here and in Nargothrond who had taken no part in the Kinslaying, and the greatest part of those who had sincerely regretted having joined the fight without knowing how it had come to blows in the first place.

Had anyone bothered to ask him, Curufinwë could have easily predicted how Nelyafinwë would answer the Grey King’s demand when the news reached him – with utter scorn. Having already been condemned by a far loftier judge than Elwë Greycloak, and suffered the wrath of a more frightful opponent, there was little point to surrendering their language when they could expect nothing in return.

His half-uncle, unfortunately, did not agree.

“Tell the ambassador this,” Nolofinwë had said, his silver eyes flashing. “As a gesture of our goodwill toward the people of Doriath, we shall learn the Sindarin tongue. But we will not forget the Grey King’s singular brand of justice, and should he transgress against us, we will expect him to abide by our justice as we now abide by his.”

Given that the ambassadors looked as furious at Nolofinwë’s words as every Noldo in the room felt at Elwë’s demand, Curufinwë reluctantly decided that such an unsatisfactory draw would have to do.

Nolofinwë rose and left the hall, signaling by his departure rather than his words that he considered the audience at an end.

Curufinwë had not fully understood the next question put to Artaresto, but his cousin’s son spoke clearly enough that he understood the answer plainly – and that it carried with it the anger of all the Arafinwions.

“Of course you may see Merelin if you wish,” Artaresto said, his voice dripping disdain. “Unlike some, I do not seek to separate any from spouse or kin. Nor was it I who instructed her to choose.”

He then turned on his heel in what Curufinwë could only conclude was studied insult and left without another word.

Given that most courtiers wanted nothing to do with the Sindar, they were rapidly left alone in the hall.

Curufinwë smiled, and deliberately mangled his Sindarin when he spoke to them. Normally he would have scorned to make himself sound so uneducated, but it would force the Sindar to work harder to hold the conversation. At the moment, that amused him.

“I afraid most not care for you king revenge,” he said with a smile. “They see insult, grey king demand they give up much when not their actions he punish.”

“At least you make some effort,” muttered one of them. “They do not wish to do even that much.”

Curufinwë snorted, and in his irritation, spoke closer to normal than he had meant to.

“Little effort, as would you know if ever spoke the folk of Doriath to me. Curufin am I in your tongue, and my guard in Himlad makes safe your northeastern borders.”

They clearly knew who he was, for they looked appalled. Perhaps by their mores, they were now unclean merely for speaking to a Kinslayer. But their leader swallowed whatever answer he clearly wished to make.

“Your name is known to us, though we knew not you were he. As you are one of the few here that will speak to us, know you where we might find the Lady Galadriel?”

Curufinwë couldn’t resist twisting the knife a bit. If these trolls were party to the hurt done his little cousin, he was not about to make whatever errand they had been charged with easier.

“I know no Galadriel. Who is she?” he replied.

“She is the sister of Finrod, Angrod, and Aegnor. Finrod remains in Nargothrond, but Angrod and Aegnor were in the hall earlier, before your king spoke.”

“Artanis,” Curufinwë nodded as though only just understanding who they meant. “Where she is I know not. Her anger was great, she left before you spoke.”

Two of the Sindar, who by their looks were either brothers or cousins, exchanged a glance.

“We are unlikely to find her on our own,” the older one said. “We may not even find Merelin if none here are willing to help.”

The one who had spoken originally sighed.

“Can I trust you to give this to her?” he asked.

He held out a letter. The hand was unfamiliar to Curufinwë. If this was some fresh malice on Elwë’s part, he wanted none of it. Let the Sindar do their own dirty work.

“Who from?” he asked flatly, folding his arms across his chest, making it clear by his stance that he did not like the request.

“Her husband,” the Sinda replied quietly. “My cousin Celeborn.”

Curufinwë looked the other elf in the eye for a long moment, then finally reached out to take the letter.

“For her,” he said firmly. “Not for you or for him.”

The other man looked as though he would argue, but his companion tugged at his sleeve, giving him a pointed look, and he settled for nodding curtly before the pair of them turned to leave, presumably in search of Artaresto’s wife.

Curufinwë did not bother to wish them joy – in fact, he rather hoped they encountered Angarato’s son in their search. He knew he would have been livid if his pregnant wife had been forced to choose between her husband on one hand and her kin and home on the other. Many supposed that because his Arafinwion cousins were normally of good cheer and friendly to all that they did not get angry.

Any fool who thought so would discover their error the day they saw an Arafinwion pushed beyond the limit of his temper. He rather suspected Artaresto was well beyond that point and ready to explode.

While he might not know where Artanis was, Curufinwë knew his younger cousin well enough to guess where she was most likely to be. He headed straight for the private gardens, where the Sindar would not be admitted save in the company of a member of the royal family – none of whom were in any mood to invite them in. He nodded pleasantly to the guards as he passed them.

He found Artanis sitting in a concealed alcove on the far side of the fountain, nearly hidden behind the trailing branches of a young willow.

“Do you wish to know how it went?” he asked, dispensing with any false cheerful greeting.

She rolled her eyes.

Aikanaro and Angarato had little use for him, but Artanis, as one of only two girls in their large extended family – and the pair of them the ‘babies’ to boot –  had quickly discovered as a child that her older cousin Curufinwë was quite unlike the rest of the family in that he would answer nearly any question put to him honestly. Not only that, he would keep answering until she understood. He had become a great favorite of hers as a result, for she had had more questions in her tiny head than all three of her older brothers combined.

The only questions he had ever demurred on were those she had posed in her earliest years that trod too close to Noldorin and occasionally Vanyarin taboos for comfort – he had no wish to suffer his grandfather’s wrath, or his grandfather’s wife. Where babies came from he had answered up to a point, but the explanation of the exact process of making them he had decided better left to his aunt and uncle.

He had been scolded by Indis as it was, for talking to such a young elfling about such matters. That she had asked hadn’t mattered at all. Fortunately, his grandfather had intervened and suggested that young Atarinkë just needed to exercise better discretion about when to send a seven-year-old to ask her parents instead of her cousin.

He had shortly thereafter explained to Artanis that if she wanted him to continue to answer questions, she needed to not repeat who had told her the answers when they were questions that would upset her parents or her grandmother. She had been remarkably good at holding her end of the bargain.

“I assume it went badly,” she replied. “How could it not?”

“Your brothers refused to have any part in it,” he said, sprawling on the ground as he would not before anyone else here but her. If the others want to continue to treat him as though he was a lesser servant of Morgoth or an extension of his father instead of the cousin they’ve known all their lives, so be it.

“Good,” she said quietly.

He could hear the satisfaction in her tone.

“What did Thingol actually do?” he asked curiously. “Artaresto said something that made me wonder.”

Her mouth twisted.

“Cast us out. After all, we said nothing when others slew his kin,” she sniffed disdainfully. “As though they were not our kin also.”

“Did no one tell him you wielded a sword against us?” Curufinwë asked, still unable to fathom how it is that she had come in for such particular nastiness on the part of Elwë Greycloak.

“My brothers did, for all the good it accomplished,” she replied bitterly. “I am merely a different sort of Kinslayer in his eyes.”

“Who would have thought his judgement would align so closely with the Valar’s?” Curufinwë mused.

Her brothers could have turned back with their father. For Artanis, there had been no such choice – unless she had been willing to be branded a Kinslayer and seek pardon as such. Curufinwë knew he would never have abased himself so, and he couldn’t imagine it of her any more than of himself. If Artanis sought pardon, it would be from him and his brothers. The only other ones who could absolve her were in Mandos, beyond her power to ask.

Though some of his older brothers saw the matter differently, Curufinwë did not believe she had anything to apologize for anyway. She made her choices and held to them, and had not been daunted by the Valar or the Ice.

If that Sindar lordling whose greatness lay mostly in his choice of wife thought to intimidate her, he much misjudged Artanis Nerwen Arafinwiel. 

“What did Orodreth say?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow.

“He went by that name before Thingol’s decree,” she answered his unspoken challenge. “As I was Galadriel. Though he chose to take a Sindarin name to make it easier for his wife.”

“And you?”

“The name was given me by Celeborn,” she replied. “And I like it.”

Better than Nerwen, certainly, Curufinwë thought.

Not that his family could throw stones when it came to naming. Fëanaro had been better at creating both things and children than naming them. Their father names were, aside from his own and Tyelko’s, generally nothing to brag about. Nelyo’s and the Ambarussa’s had been thinly veiled slams at Nolofinwë (and to a lesser degree Arafinwë). Makalaurë’s was so generic it might have been any son of the House of Finwë, and Carnastir’s sounded like his father hadn’t even been paying attention.

“Your nephew told the Sindar that unlike some, he did not seek to separate anyone from spouse or kin.”

Like a thundercloud over the sea, a squall darkened her eyes.

“Thingol would have kept me in Doriath for Celeborn’s sake when he expelled my brothers, though it was made clear that as I had actually used a sword that day, my presence would defile Menegroth. But I said if my brothers were not welcome there, I would not stay either. I would not remain where it was clear that I was unwanted and seen as something unclean.”

Artanis had to resort a word normally used for objects, not for people, as whatever concept the Sindar had wielded against her was not one the Noldor recognized. They knew that Kinslaying was uniquely wrong, of course. But the notion that it somehow permanently contaminated those who had done it was not one they had the luxury of holding – too many among them, Artanis included, had shed Eldarin blood that day.

Serious though the matter was, Curufinwë still had to stifle a laugh. While she was not as restless as Irissë, trying to hold Artanis anywhere against her will was a doomed venture.

“I take it that was when he decided your husband should stay?” he asked lightly.

She went silent, which was all the answer he needed.

Her marriage could not be more than a few years old, for though she herself did not come to Mithrim, she wrote regularly to her uncle, aunt, and cousins. Had she married before his last visit, Curufinwë would surely have heard of it. Indeed, he rather thought his brothers would have spoken of the marriage with wonder had they known of it, for Artanis had refused many would-be suitors in Tirion. So perhaps not even a few years. A year or less.

Most newly-wed couples could scarce stand to be separated. Curufinwë could still remember how he and Tyelpesilmë had been constantly in each other’s company for the first months of their marriage, unable to bear a parting of more than a few hours. They had been married over a decade before he had spent a night away from her, and that had been for an errand of the gravest urgency.

He and his wife were the norm, not the exception. Even now, he felt her absence as a wound in his fëa. (It did no good to recall that particular wound was self-inflicted, and he usually tried not to think on the manner of their parting.)

As such, it was quite cruel of Thingol to insist on parting Artanis and her Celeborn – who was, from the sound of it, a kinsman of the Sindarin king.

“Indeed. Insufferable Noldo that I am, he would not see his kin come under our curse.”

At that, Curufinwë nearly laughed out loud, for Artanis had spent much of her youth hearing how very un-Noldor she was. His father had been one of her foremost critics, ever quick to spot Telerin habits and speech patterns in Arafinwë’s children. To now be told she was too Noldor must have galled her no end.

“It is unlike you to allow him to have the last word,” Curufinwë observed.

Artanis had the worst temper of her father’s children, and given that the Sindar king had pushed nearly every one of her buttons, he could not imagine her holding back.

“I didn’t,” she said ruefully. “I told him that little though he might like it, I was also his kin and had been long enough in his kingdom that any curse I might bear had already come to Doriath. And that if he thought that hiding behind the Girdle would let him escape Doom, the more fool he.”

“That’s more like the Artë I remember,” Curufinwë snickered, aware that the only regret on her part would be having lost control of her temper, not having told the Sindarin king unpleasant truths.

“The Valar do hold to their word,” she mused. “Tears unnumbered were we promised, after all.”

“And treason of kin unto kin, and fear of treason,” Curufinwë sighed tiredly. He knew the words of the Doom as well as he knew the words of the Oath. “Here.”

He held out the letter.

“The Sindarin emissaries knew they had little chance of finding Merelin without help, and still less of finding you. I consented to bear it for your sake, not for theirs, though I fear it contributed to their peace of mind all the same.”

The eyes that meet his held only the slightest hint of reproof, as well as exasperated admiration that he could manage to be both a sweet older cousin and an utter bastard at the same time.

She slid off the bench and tucked herself into his side, reading silently. He slipped a comforting arm about her shoulders and said nothing as she read, content to enjoy his cousin’s silent, undemanding companionship. He would have hotly denied it had anyone ever guessed, but she had often inspired in him the guilty thought that it might have been nice to have a pair of baby sisters instead of baby brothers.

She sighed when she finished.

“Thingol has not relented.”

“Did you seriously expect he would?” Curufinwë asked, surprised. Artë had more sense than to think that stiff-necked Sinda would back down so quickly.

“No,” she said with a frown. “But I did hope he would release Celeborn sooner. My unhappiness is nothing to him at present, but Celeborn’s he can see before him as long as he continues to demand his presence in Menegroth. It does not sit well with my husband to feel he is his uncle’s prisoner any more that it did with me.”

People Like Us

First and foremost, all credit to Himring, whose story Galadriel: There and Back Again gave me the idea for Galadriel's trick.

Also, while I've been making progress at a pretty good clip, it's only fair to warn that there probably won't be anything more for at least a week - I have a busy spell coming up and can't be sure I'll have time to write, let alone post anything.

Finally, I'm not sure I actually hit any squares on the Taboo card in this chapter. I think I danced in the vicinity of etiquette without exactly getting to it. (And maybe Obscene Gestures right there at the end if you squint...) Worry not, there's more taboos to come in future chapters.

Read People Like Us

Curufinwë was unsurprised to hear the sound of someone sneaking out of the royal wing late that night. He had asked to have the room nearest the entrance for this very purpose – though he had given the excuse that he meant to be off before dawn to begin the long journey to Himring, and did not wish to disturb his aunt or cousins so early. 

His half-uncle had nodded, and charged him to report all that had passed here to Maedhros.

Curufinwë had refrained from rolling his eyes and asking what else he would do – communicating and reporting back to his oldest brother was the entire point of him being here in the first place.

Fortunately for his current plan, Maedhros would not care how long he was in the journey, for he had already dispatched a message with a passing hawk. (Tyelkormo might not come to Mithrim anymore, but he was still useful in his own way.)

So it was easy enough for him to stroll outside with his pack and be casually leaning against a wall by the time Artanis emerged into the moonlight.

She glared at him, which drew only a smirk in return. She couldn’t very well tell him off as she was clearly dying to do without alerting the royal guard that she was outside. And he had the oddest feeling that if she were found out here, she’d be escorted right back inside without delay no matter how imperious an attitude she struck.

He jerked his head toward the southern road – the one she would need to take if she were making for Nargothrond. Not that Curufinwë knew exactly where Findarato’s concealed kingdom lay, of course, but he knew enough to make a rough guess, and to be certain that was where Artë was heading.

She pressed her lips together, showing her irritation, but she was hardly in a position to argue. If she tried to demur, he had only to raise his voice and the guards would be demanding to know where she thought she was going.

There were some disadvantages to being one of the youngest members of the royal family, and the only girl left standing. Overprotective uncles were one of them. Nolofinwë was taking keeping Artanis safe in the absence of her father and older brothers quite seriously.

Angarato and Aikanaro had departed that evening for Dorthonion, where they meant to supervise the final stages of construction on the tower at Tol Sirion, and were speaking of planning a new fortress in the highlands. From the sound of it, Thingol’s temper would cool before theirs did. (Artaresto remained, and likely would not stir from Mithrim before his wife gave birth in Tuilë at the earliest – indeed, probably not for several years thereafter if the pair had any sense.)

With Irissë and Itarillë gone wherever Turukano had hidden himself and his folk, that left Artanis the only princess of the Noldor in Mithrim, and Curufinwë had been observing her rapidly evaporating patience with no small amount of amusement. Even in Tirion she had not had to put up with so much nonsense – especially not since she had learned how to get around most of it very early on.

Curufinwë was still rather proud of himself for teaching her the trick.

Artanis had been all of five when he had come across her pouting in the palace playroom. Irissë was visiting her mother’s parents, and Ambarussa were at home with their oldest brothers that day, so Artë had no playmates. She had been sent in from the gardens that the adults might speak freely.

“Cousin, will you play with me please?” she asked sweetly.

He was not fooled by the adorable act – he knew perfectly well the little girl was no better behaved than his baby brothers, and as often as not the driving force behind the mischief the four youngest Finwions were caught in.

“What if I say no?” he asked, more to gauge her reaction than from any inclination to actually refuse.

“I’ll wail and say you were mean when the nanny comes running to check on me,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Grandmother’s not here today, so it will be Grandfather who hears about it.”

She had him there, the little minx. He wouldn’t have minded Indis complaining that he had been ‘mean’ to her youngest (and most interesting) grandbaby, but he didn’t want his grandfather cross with him. He would have been annoyed had he not admired that such a young kid could think things through so well.

“Fine. What do you want to play?” he sighed, resigned.

“I don’t want to play in here,” she explained. “I want to go out by the fountains so I can hear what’s going on. I’ll get in trouble if I go by myself, but not if you are with me.”

“I can tell you what’s going on,” Curufinwë said, rolling his eyes. He knew she was inside so as not to hear. She might not get in trouble if she finagled him into going out in the garden with her, but he probably would – at the very least, he’d be scolded by his father later for getting out-maneuvered by a five-year-old. “Your father is stuck playing peacemaker yet again while mine and Irissë’s argue like elflings younger than you, just with bigger words. You are missing nothing.”

“It’s boring in here,” she pouted.

“So we do something else,” shrugged Curufinwë. “Has your father or brother ever taken you to the library?”

“Grandfather’s library?” she asked, puzzled.

He could see her thinking ‘we play in grandfather’s library all the time’, and realized he hadn’t been clear enough for a child.

“No, the Royal Library. Where the scholars work,” he explained, infusing his voice with a hint of challenge and mystery. He suspected she was still considered too young for it yet, though given that she was the most un-little-girlish little girl he’d ever known, he couldn’t think why.

“I’m not allowed. I have to stay in the palace unless Atto or Ammë or Findarato is with me,” Artanis protested, but he could see she liked the idea. “That’s the rule.”

He laughed.

“You’re a smart girl, Artanis. Have you ever paid attention to Uncle Fëanaro?”

She blinked, trying to reason out where he was going with this.

“Of course,” she said uncertainly.

“What do you see him do?”

The confusion that greeted him reminded him that precocious as she might be, Artanis was only five.

“Does Uncle Fëanaro follow the rules?”

That got a decided shake of her silver-gold head.

“No. He does whatever he wants to do, even if it’s not very nice.”

“Exactly. And does he get in trouble for it?” he followed up.

This time he could see the resentful spark in her eyes when she shook her head.

“No. Grandfather never scolds him.”

Unlike all the rest of us, who get scolded when we get caught doing things we’re not supposed to do, he could practically hear her thinking.

“Do you want to know how he manages it?” Curufinwë asked, with an air of one about to give up a great secret.

“I thought it was because he is the Crown Prince,” Artë replied, her little brow furrowed as she peered up at him.

“That helps, but mostly it is because he behaves as though the rules do not apply to him.

Artanis frowned.

“It is that simple?” she demanded in astonishment. “Act as if the rules do not apply and they don’t?”

“If you behave as though the rules are not for you, more often than not, other people will invent reasons for why they should not apply to you,” Curufinwë said knowingly. “Watch my atto more closely if you do not believe me.”

She looked thoughtful.

“Why don’t you do what Uncle Fëanaro does?” she asked. “You don’t act as though the rules do not apply to you, you just act as though the rules are stupid.”

“Many of them are,” he snorted. “Aren’t you the one who decided that from now on when you played with Ambarussa, it would be the princesses who saved the princes?”

She grinned.

“Yes. Irissë and I were bored being the ones who always got kidnapped by orcs or trapped by wolves. It wasn't fair. It’s more fun when we get a turn to be the heroes.”

He could see her point- except that the last time they had played, the princesses had gotten distracted by ‘pony’ rides with Tyelkormo and forgotten to save the princes. Nerdanel had been unamused to discover they’d locked themselves into the glass garden on such a warm day with nothing to eat or drink. Ambarussa had been lucky not to get heatsick.

“Did you want to go to the library or not, hero? Rumil is finishing a new manuscript about the creatures of the sea. You would like the drawings.”

He knew that would be a sure-fire way to spark her interest, with her Telerin kin and frequent trips to the sea.

“Yes, please, cousin.”

Her little hand extended upward expectantly.

“I am not going to carry you,” he told her with a frown.

She gave him a look as if he were stupid.

“I do not expect you to,” she said loftily – or as lofty as someone more than three feet shorter than the cousin she was talking to could manage. “But I have also seen that when Uncle is behaving as though the rules do not apply, he will follow little rules while ignoring the big ones. Holding someone’s hand when we go walking outside is a little rule.”

She'd had a point. He held her hand.

Once she had learned behave as though the rules do not apply, Artanis had perfected the art. She had even used it on Fëanaro himself, to his great ire – the Crown Prince was not used to hearing ‘no’ from anyone, much less an emphatic, irreversible ‘no’, and most definitely not from his youngest brother’s baby girl.

It was probably slightly disloyal of him, but Curufinwë had thought it quite funny that Artanis had refused his father’s request for her hair – and all the funnier because of her expression when she did, as if she couldn’t conceive why in Arda he would have ever thought she would say yes to such a ridiculous question.

Thus he was not at all surprised to find her simply ignoring their uncle’s rule that she should not leave the royal palace or travel alone in Beleriand. She had no doubt filed those dictates under ‘does not apply’ in her head and was blithely doing as seemed best to her.

She glared at him silently for a very long minute before he held out a hand and raised an eyebrow.

Rolling her eyes, she took his hand as though she were five again and the two of them set off down the road.

They did not speak until they had gone some miles, well beyond earshot of even the most conscientious guards.

“What are you up to, Curufinwë?” she hissed.

“Why are you whispering, Artanis?” he asked archly.

She glared at him again.

“I am not whispering,” she announced. “Nor am I going another step until you tell me what you are doing.”

“For posterity, since I know you will never let me hear the end of it- and my brothers may not either, should anyone ever tell them- I am  agreeing with Uncle Nolofinwë that you should not be travelling alone,” he sighed with an air of being greatly aggrieved.

“I can take care of myself,” she snapped.

“I have never doubted it,” he replied amiably.

“Then why are you following me?”

“Following? I am not following you. We are walking companionably along together as cousins sometimes do,” he pointed out. “Or am I not allowed to travel with my favorite little cousin?”

For a wonder, she let little pass without challenge.

“And before you threaten to scream your head off until I tell you the whole truth, we are not yet far enough away that they will not hear you if you shout.”

“I have not threatened to scream my head off since I was fourteen.”

“It does not seem so long ago,” he smirked.

Now it was Artanis who rolled her eyes.

“I am perfectly safe going south,” she pointed out. “It is unlikely that I will be troubled by orcs.”

“I merely wish to accompany you to see Findarato’s new stronghold,” Curufinwë said placatingly. “You know how insatiably curious I am. Besides, think of this as a form of insurance – you can always tell Uncle that you did not travel alone should he ask later, and I suspect your brother will also be easier in his mind knowing you had someone with you.”

He only caught the minute sag of her shoulders because he was looking for it.

“Or were you expecting someone else to join you?” he asked.

He’d probably still tag along if her husband were meeting her along the way, because he truly did want to see both Findarato’s caverns and the ner who had managed to charm Artanis. But he’d be surprised if that were the case.

“No,” she said, sounding all at once like a lost little girl. “Celeborn cannot escape Doriath so quickly. He will come to Nargothrond when Thingol’s temper cools. But that will be months, perhaps even years yet.”

“You really should not be alone right now, Artë,” Curufinwë said gently, wondering if she actually understood how extraordinary her current situation was. “It is no weakness to admit it.”

“Oh, very well,” she sighed, sounding exceedingly put upon, but he felt the feather light brush of her spirit against his own that told him she was not as annoyed as she sounded. “Better you than Findekano, anway.”

He snorted.

“You are going in the wrong direction for him. If you want Findekano’s company, you should head east, not south. He may ask politely after Findarato, but it is Nelyo he will actually stir himself to visit.”

She snickered softly, then stopped.

“Will you not be missed?” she asked.

“I told them I meant to depart before dawn,” he shrugged. “Everyone will assume I am making my way back to Himlad. My brothers will not worry if I am gone some months. After I leave you and your brother, I can ride east and follow the Aros north. Perhaps I can even make some rude gestures at Thingol’s wardens on your behalf as I ride past the southern edges of his domain.”

This Hard Land

I'd say this chapter hits Curses, Consequences, and Murder on the bingo board. (Or is murder reserved for non-Kinslaying killing?)

 

Read This Hard Land

Journeying with Artanis turned out to be surprisingly restful. Unlike Tyelko, his usual travelling companion, Artë could simply amble along quietly or carry on a conversation when they both were in a mood to talk- and she would not push him to talk if he was in no such mood. She had no desire to go barreling off chasing game or speaking to every animal that crossed her path.

He also noted that she had picked up enough experience of Beleriand in her time with the Sindar that her claim that she could look after herself was no idle boast. Indeed, she was probably safer on her own than Findekano, from what Curufinwë had seen. He had only needed once to be told verbally to stop talking when she’d gone suddenly quiet and listened intently, relaxing only once whatever subtle sign he’d missed had either stopped or revealed itself as something harmless.

Most of the time when she struck that pose, it turned out to be harmless. The fifth time, though, it had not been – they had stumbled onto a small band of orcs, and were it not for Artë’s silent warning, he would have blundered right into them.  As it was, they had been able to take the foul creatures unaware and eliminate them before there was any real danger.

Despite that, Curufinwë still felt certain his baby cousin should not be left alone. The Artanis he knew would not have wept silently in the night when she thought he was asleep.

Rather than make for the southeast track that would take them through the mountains and lead them to the north-south road by Tol Sirion, she steered them toward the pass due south of the lake. It would mean travelling in the mountains longer – and a higher risk of encountering the orcs she claimed were no trouble every step of the way – but it would bring them out either by Taeglin or Narog, shortening the remaining journey.

Or so Artë said, at any rate. For all Curufinwë knew, she was taking a circuitous route to throw off any pursuit their uncle might send after her. Or maybe just to see if he’d notice…

“I am not taking you out of the way merely to see if you can remember the route,” she said at last. “Or guess at our destination.”

Blast. He’d forgotten that she had been fairly talented with osanwë to begin with, and been tutored by a maia for the past few decades.

“Oh? There is some reason to your path?”

“I would rather travel directly to the Narog and avoid the crossings of Taeglin – Thingol’s sentries still keep watch there though Brethil itself is outside the Girdle,” she sniffed. “I do not feel my comings and goings are any of his concern at present.”

For the first time, he caught a hint of the fury still raging beneath her apparent cool. Not so resigned to her mistreatment, then – and unlike Irissë who generally wore her heart on her sleeve, Arafinwë’s little girl had always been at her most dangerous when she seemed calm. If you’d crossed Artanis, you were safer if she was raging at you, because that meant she wasn’t channeling her anger into planning your humiliation, comeuppance, or complete destruction.

Morgoth definitely fell into the last category. Thingol had best hope he was still deemed a lesser vexation. Even his wife might not be enough to save him.

“It bothers me not in the least,” Curufinwë shrugged. “Will we pass by Ivrin?”

“We could come down through that vale if you wish it,” she said after a moment. “I had thought to skirt the foothills through Nuath until we reached the source of the Ginglith, but we could just as easily come out of the mountains there and follow the Narog down from its source…”

She paused, and he guessed from the similarity of her expression to one he’d often seen on Finderato that she was mentally calculating possible routes, and choosing the one that seemed best.

“I have fond memories of the family reunion,” he confessed. “Such good memories are rare in these lands.”

She laughed softly, though there was little merriment in it.

“True enough. Very well, we make for Eithel Ivrin.”

It was several days more before he judged it safe to attempt to get her talking about what was bothering her.

“Tell me of Menegroth,” he suggested casually late one afternoon.

They had been speaking of the various elven strongholds, both those already completed and those under construction, and once again playing the guessing game so popular among what remained of their family, “where is Turukano hiding?”

She quieted at once.

“It is a wonder,” she said soberly. “One can hardly believe that it was made by elves and dwarves rather than the Valar and ainur, for it is a living forest of stone and rock, and filled with light even without the sun or moon. It is easy enough to understand why it captured Ingo’s imagination to the point that he decided he too must have the dwarrows’ aid in building his stronghold. It is also the safest place I know in these lands – Melian protects all Doriath, but her protections are strongest there, and none may enter save by her leave.”

“What said Thingol’s queen to Alqualondë?” he asked shrewdly.

The Grey King could make all the fuss he liked, but if his wife was not angry in a like degree, Artanis would soon be forgiven. And surely the maia must see how pointlessly cruel it was to separate a wedded pair… especially since it was likely that Artanis’ husband was suffering just as badly. Thingol could ignore the distress of one he deemed kinslayer easily enough, but surely his other kinsmen would point out the hypocrisy of ignoring his own nephew’s pain.

“She was disappointed that I did not speak sooner,” Artë replied quietly. “And puzzled that I had held so much back.”

“Why did you?” he asked.

This is the part he had not understood. Artanis had been furious with them for Alqualondë.

She and Tyelkormo had come frighteningly close to killing each other there – though Curufinwë happened to know Artë had been fighting to disarm, to wound rather than to kill before his brother and his retainers had attacked her in earnest. After that, she had quickly proved herself just as deadly as any of them. It had taken him, Nelyo, and Ambarussa working together to disarm her and drag her bodily out of the fray before she could do irreparable injury to any of her cousins – particularly Tyelko, whose temper had not been improved by the loss of two of his most loyal swordsmen.

Nelyo had solved the problem of how to keep her from throwing herself back into the fight by putting her on the nearest ship and commanding the retainers they had hastily dragooned into crewing it to cast off, with Ambarussa under orders to do whatever it took to keep her on the bloody boat. They’d had to knock her down and sit on her. He’d never been so thankful his younger brothers were twins.

Artanis had capped it all off by having a blazing row with Fëanaro once the ships were out to sea that evening. It had been serious enough that Curufinwë was still surprised Fëanaro had not answered with his sword.  He would like to think that his father had realized that such literal kinslaying would be a step too far, but given the High King’s state of mind at the time, he had his doubts that there had been any rational thought involved.

Curufinwë sometimes wondered if his father had been thinking specifically of Artanis when he burned the boats, or if it had genuinely been solely about Nolofinwë. (He would never say so to her, of course.)

Given all that, the idea that Artanis would hold her tongue to protect them – to protect Tyelko – was ludicrous.

She shrugged.

“How was I to explain it? Yes, my cousins murdered my other cousins and robbed my grandfather, but they were not in their right minds because my other grandfather had just been murdered, and anyway we are all friends again now?” she asked. “Or perhaps that I had come to Beleriand ostensibly following the uncle who threatened to throw me overboard for questioning him?”

Curufinwë blinked. That part of the fight he hadn’t heard.

“You can swim,” he murmured, not sure if he’s protesting the faulty logic or trying to apologize half-heartedly and decades late for the threat.

“I believe the plan was to chain my feet first,” Artanis replied gravely. “Or perhaps my overly free Telerin mouth. I’m not quite clear on that point. At any rate, the only rebellion he intended to tolerate was his own.”

No wonder Nelyo had looked so relieved to hand her off to her father when the ships put into shore later that night. She had stomped off with Irissë and to the best of his knowledge, it was the last time either of them had spoken to Tyelko. (Though he supposed Irissë also had grievances of her own to add to the list of his brother’s crimes. Artanis wasn’t the only one they’d left behind, and Irissë had adored Elenwë.)

“Why did you come?” he asked. “It wasn’t because you thought following Father was a good idea.”

She snorted.

“Going back wasn’t really an option. And at the time, I was angry enough that I intended to follow through on beating your brother to death when next I saw him, no matter how many miles of ice I had to cross to do it.”

He’s fairly sure she was serious, and thankful that she and Tyelko had not come face to face before Findarato sent her to Doriath, where she has been ever since.

“It’s as well I did,” she continued thoughtfully. “We all needed something to keep us going on the Ice. If you had no reason to keep going, sooner or later you gave up. Hating Tyelko worked.”

“Do you still intend to kill him?” he asked, trying to work out how worried he should be about a possible meeting of the two.

“Only if he tries to kill me,” she replied. “I have seen enough since to know that his doom will be worse than any punishment I can devise.”

There was neither malice nor anger in her voice as she spoke, and though Curufinwë felt he ought to be offended for Tyelko’s sake, he could hear the ring of truth in her words. And the faint sorrow, for underneath it all, they were still family. Tyelko had taught Artë to shoot a bow and given her her first riding lessons as a small child. He might yet be her heart-sister Irissë’s beloved. Such ties were difficult to sever, try though they all might.

“And my doom?” he asked lightly, knowing that if she had seen the shape of Tyelko’s, she must have a guess at his as well.

The eyes that meet his are mournful.

“Do you suppose we can change the Doom?” she asked.

That she prevaricated was enough to tell him he did not truly wish to know. But at the same time, he has never lied to her before.

“I do not see how,” he told her resignedly. “You may yet be able to beg pardon of the West, but we swore by the One himself, with Manwë and Varda as witnesses.”

“I do not want you to go into the Void,” came the quiet reply, with all the mulishness of a wayward toddler.

“I do not much want to go there myself,” he said. “I suppose that means we shall just have to get the blasted jewels back.”

Artanis looked away and did not answer.

His heart sank. Tears unnumbered was not all they had been promised. Vala he is.

Artë was miserable enough without being reminded that any joy in this hard land could only ever be fleeting, and that in the end, all hope would fail. As, he realized tiredly, was he.

Would that I had not brought my son with me. He should have been left with his mother. Selfish. Selfish and stupid. You knew no good could come of Father’s course, so why did you commit Tyelpë to it?

But it was too late to change that. All he could do was do what small good was in his power. Right now, that meant taking care of his baby cousin, and hoping deep down in his tainted soul that maybe the Doom might miss her.

The Spaces Between

This chapter checks 'ethnocentrism and prejudice', 'culture shock', and  'cannibalism' (discussion only - no actual eating of elves).

Also, warning: there is a brief discussion of orcs which mentions implied sexual violence/forced reproduction against elves. (Again, I would rather over-warn than under-warn.)

Read The Spaces Between

Going downhill was a pleasant change after picking their way through the mountain passes. It also seemed to lighten Artanis’ mood, and for that, Curufinwë was thankful. His cousin laughed less and frowned more than he remembered even when he compared her to his memories from Mithrim when the host of Nolofinwë had first arrived, hollow cheeked and grim from their years on the Helcaraxë.

He will be severely tempted to test the limits of the maia queen’s enchantments if this is what finally breaks Artanis. His baby cousin had not shrunk from standing up to Fëanaro at his worst, and for failing to do what the Valar themselves hadn’t, failing to stop him, the grey king thinks to punish her?

He had tried several times to speak of inconsequential matters, even gone so far as to warble some of his brother’s more ridiculous ditties (songs he will scarce acknowledge knowing in public, let alone admit to having ever actually sung) but it has not helped that he can see.

Nor, if he is honest, did he really expect it to.

He may be kin, but he was not her beloved Celeborn, and that was who Artanis truly needed, even if her pride would not allow her to admit to it. Not that he did not understand it – he has seen enough to understand that she has been freer in Sindarin society than she was in their own, where daughters were all too often held lesser than sons. Now that she must stand once more as a Noldo – and one too many of her own people still may not fully trust at that – she will not allow herself to show weakness.

Even if it would not be weakness, but honesty. And a heartache that many of their people should understand all too well, for thousands of pairs had been sundered with the Flight and the Exile. Fully a third of their host know the same pain if not worse, for there are now also widows and widowers among them – words they had not even known in Aman, concepts unneeded in a land where only Miriel Þerindë had ever died.

He sighed. It was not right.

Ever the idealist, a voice inside him that sounded suspiciously like Silmë whispered.

I deserve this, he told that inner voice sternly. I did everything Thingol accused her of and more. She dared stand up and defy Atar. And she lived.

Because she’s Artanis, the voice sighed. It did not work so well for Pityo, did it? But I suppose he deserved it as well?

He had no answer to that, because Pityo hadn’t deserved his fate.  But it was also foolish to think that ‘deserve’ mattered anymore. It had ceased to matter after the Doom.

He trudged along, mulling the Doom, and the Ice, and Pityo and Aryo and Ambarussa and Artanis, not speaking, until they stopped for the night.

Artanis did not try to jolly him into talking when it was plain he didn’t want to be bothered. She simply set about preparing camp, setting up her bedroll and making up the fire.

Though they each carried one, they did not bother with tents unless the weather was bad. The blasted things were more bother to put up than they were worth on warm summer nights, and he had discovered that they both preferred the stars to staring at canvas while they waited for sleep to claim them.

Curufinwë found the stars more soothing and likely to inspire him. He suspected that after the Ice, the memories Artë associated with tents were not particularly pleasant.

He was trying to put himself in a less depressing frame of mind when Artanis looked up and frowned at him.

“You should just ask and be done with it,” she said flatly, poking the fire as if it had offended her.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, loath to mention the Ice to her.

“Your nothing is nails on a slate in my head,” she sighed. “Ask.”

Manwë’s non-existent balls. She had all but ordered him to…

Worse, she looked ready to wait him out and he did not fancy spending a journey of what promised to be several weeks more in a battle of wills – particularly not when Artë was perfectly capable of not saying another word to him for as long as it took.

“Will you tell me about the Helcaraxë?” he asked finally.

 “That is quite the nothing,” she said slowly, looking startled.

“Good to know I can still surprise you occasionally,” he said wryly.

“Why now?” she asked cautiously. “It was years ago.”

He shrugged.

“We’ve never spoken of it.”

Mostly because he’d been worried, and probably rightly so, that her brothers and their cousins might decide that skinning him alive would be the proper response to any such question.

She frowned, eying him pensively.

“Were you anyone else I would call this masochism, or perhaps self-flagellation. But I’ve never known you to wallow in guilt.”

“I’m not wallowing,” he told her, aware that he sounded less than convincing to his own ears. “But you know as well as I do that we will never defeat Morgoth so long as we remain a house divided against itself, and I do not think the breach can be healed so long as we are in ignorance of each other’s experiences.”

“No one else has asked,” she pointed out.

“No one else was in a hurry to risk another bout of kinslaying,” he replied acidly. “It was plain enough what Uncle Nolo thought of us when he arrived – and that no penance would ever be enough. All Nelyo suffered, and he still frowned at him as if Finno took an unnecessary risk.”

“Maybe he did,” came the reply, so quiet he wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard it rightly.

He stared at her in shock.

“You – you of all people, Artanis – can say that about Maitimo?” he demanded.

“It’s not about Maitimo,” she replied, looking miserable. “I- forget it.”

“No, I’m not going to forget it” he snapped. “This papering over all the cracks between us like they’re just cracks and not gaping chasmshas to stop somewhere, and if you can’t manage it, I doubt anyone else will!”

She sighed, looking more wretched than ever, and he felt a pang of guilt. He was supposed to be helping, not making it worse.

“It’s just that I’ve learned a lot from the Sindar – don’t wrinkle your nose!”

She glared at him, but it’s her usual glare, the exasperated ‘stop acting like you know more than I do when we both know you’re as full of shit as the stable midden’ that she’s been turning on him since she was in her late teens, not the ‘so help me, I am going to feed you to the nearest gaur one very small piece at a time’ she reserved for moments of true anger.

“Morgoth is cunning, and he has been toying with the eldar for a very long time – longer than your father had any notion of when he came sailing righteously across Belegaer.”

He raised an eyebrow at the Sindarin word that crept in, but she was too involved in her explanation to notice.

“Orcs were made from elves, did you know that?”

He’s heard rumors to that effect, but he’d never credited them. His jaw must be gaping in a very unusual fashion, judging by the look on her face.

“Curvo,” she said reprovingly. “I know you’ve heard about the Great Hunter.”

He snorted. No way not to when Tyelko had been fond of frightening all the little ones with the tale in turn. He’d given up by the time the babies came along – Ambarussa and the girls had been the only ones to escape unscathed, mostly because Finwë had some rather stern words for his eldest son over Tyelko scaring Lauro silly as a youngster, and Fëanaro had put his foot so firmly down even Tyelko couldn’t ignore it.

“Not just the campfire stories your brother liked to tell,” Artë added wryly.

Or perhaps not unscathed, he realized with a sigh. Tyelko must have told Irissë at some point, and what Irissë knew, Artanis did too. Hopefully not until they were older. Forty at least. Now that he was a parent himself, he felt rather differently about quite a bit of his older brother’s behavior.

“The Sindar found out what happened to the ones taken,” she continued. “I say found out, but it was more like they were shown. He wanted them to know. Sometimes he sent his creations back partially finished. Sometimes he sent the nissi back bearing litters.”

He hadn’t understood her rightly, surely. She had used a word only ever applied to animals, for pups and kittens, never for elflings. Twins were unusual among their kind, and he has never heard of a nis bearing more than two children at once. And certainly not... orcs.

“He tricked them many times,” Artanis continued, her eyes bleak. “Always to their cost, losing much more than what they thought they had regained. So when I think of Finno finding Maitimo chained to that rock with no guards around, somehow able to escape unhindered, after all I’ve been warned of about Morgoth’s tricks… I think maybe it was an unnecessary risk. Not because I wasn’t glad to have Maitimo back, but because I’ve heard too many tales since of elves betrayed or slaughtered by the thing that used to be their mate or child, too many rescues that were only a cruel joke. And I can’t help but think – if this is another trick, what is he using Maitimo to do? What will it cost us?”

She looked miserable at the thought, almost as miserable as he felt, because while he may not have heard all the tales, she has clearly heard enough from people she found reliable. Artanis was no credulous child to believe all she is told, and these were no campfire fright tales. She would ask until she was satisfied that she had the truth.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it,” she said after a few moments of silence lay thick between them.

“Like Angband you shouldn’t have,” he growled, suddenly angry, but not at her. She’s not the only one who hadn’t shared this information until now. “You should have said it a long time ago, Artanis! Our not knowing didn’t help anything.”

To his own surprise, he caught the thought she hadn’t meant to share – that it didn’t help, not really, because all it did was leave him in the same position as her, knowing there was rotten ice all around, that one false step would be their undoing, and still not knowing what could be trusted.

“I will tell you about the Ice if you truly wish to hear about it,” she offered penitently, though plainly still not convinced.

“Truly, I probably don’t, but I think I ought to, don’t you?” he sighed. “You see now what I mean? The spaces between us have grown wide enough for the ocean to rush in and drown us all, yet most of the family acts as if they haven’t noticed. We behave as though it’s normal that Turukano disappears and takes not only his daughter and sister, but tens of thousands of his father’s host with him, like he’s playing a particularly difficult game of hide and seek! My brothers and yours pretend it’s nothing unusual that we have to plan family gatherings like battles to keep fights from breaking out. And all of it runs straight back to him in the end.”

She nodded, as though what he’s saying is nothing she has not thought of before.

“Very well. What do you wish to know?”

He paused for a second. He knew only the barest of facts about the crossing of the Ice.

“Everything,” he said. “But for a start, how did you come to dare the Ice in the first place? How long did it take? And what was it really like, and don’t say something fatuous like ‘cold’ as Irissë did before she slapped me that first year in Mithrim.”

Artanis’ mirror image had damn near broken his cheekbone, though he’s not sure if it was for the question or for trying to detain her long enough that Tyelko could attempt to speak to her. Possibly both.

“Cold was the defining word for it,” Artanis pointed out. “It was cold beyond anything you’ve ever imagined. Take the bitterest night you were ever out doing something stupid with your brothers in Formenos in the dead of winter, multiply it by as much as you can conceive of, and then think of that forever, and you will have some idea of how cold it was. But there was no fire there. After a while, you were simply so cold, you started to imagine you might be warm, because you could no longer feel the cold properly. It was so cold the cold burned. But I imagine the full explanation of what she meant by ‘cold’ took too many words for Irissë’s patience at the time.”

It was a warm night, but Curufinwë found himself shivering all the same.

“To expose any inch of skin was to risk frostbite or worse,” Artanis continued. “Relieving ourselves was a challenge, never mind if you were unfortunate enough to have a runny nose or a sour stomach. The heavy robes the Sindar mock us for weren’t so frivolous on the Ice, because the more layers, the better. All those clothes Moryo laughed about and asked how I brought, as if I’d had a trail of porters carrying my trunks? They were worn every step of the way. I put them on anyone they remotely fit to try to keep them warm, and on some they didn’t. There were boys Tyelpë’s age with their heads wrapped in my court gowns, and my stockings served as mittens for my brothers and their retainers. Irissë did the same. All those trunks we had in Araman and it still wasn’t enough, not nearly enough for all the people who began the march with us.”

She paused, looking bitter.

“But even if it kept the heat of our bodies in, kept us from freezing to death, those layers could also be a danger. Too much cloth would muffle sound, and the sound of the ice under your feet and around you was the only warning you would get before it gave way. If you missed the warning, you might fall through and drown or freeze, or perhaps a tower of ice that looked solid a moment before would topple on you and no one would ever know if you were crushed, bled to death slowly, or froze, because with so much ice, it could not be moved in time to matter, so it would be your tomb all the same. There was no conversation, no singing, no laughter. Even if we’d had the energy to waste on such things, it would have been dangerous. So it was just the wind, and the creak of the ice. And occasionally, the screams.”

Whether she meant to or not, Artanis was giving him more than just words. He could see the featureless darkness, and feel the teeth of the cold.

“We would march until a sufficient number of us were tired enough to justify stopping. Normal food was gone within the first year, not that we were entirely sure how well we were keeping time with nothing but the stars to judge by. After that, there was only whatever we could find – fish, seals, sea birds and their eggs, seaweed, occasionally an ice bear if luck was with us. There was also another animal like a seal that we had no name for, but was good eating when we could get it – the Sindar say the Avarin tribes that used to live in the north called them walrus. But hunting and fishing were not without their own hazards, and it was even odds whether the foragers would return with food or merely with the loss of another of their number to report.”

She held up a hand before he could ask, knowing the question before he could bring himself to say the words.

“If any ate the dead, they never spoke of it. I didn’t see it. I doubt many did. It was not kinslaying, but all the same, it was a level none wished to sink to. And you would have had to eat it raw, for there was no fire. Not so much for lack of things to burn, for I know a few who carried books or wooden trinkets all the way from Tirion to Mithrim, but because fire melts ice, and we feared weak spots too much by then.”

“No one will watch a child starve,” Curufinwë muttered. If it came to eating the flesh of the dead, or watching his son die of hunger, he knew what he would do.

“There were few children left,” Artanis replied grimly. “The lucky ones had been sent back with my father, and when we first started on the Ice, we had not yet learned enough to know what not to do, or that the cold would kill the young ones more swiftly and with less warning. Or had you not noticed how singular Itarillë was?”

He started, because he ought to have noticed. Turvo’s girl was younger than Tyelpë, little more than a babe in arms at the time of the darkening. As a parent himself, he should have spotted the lack of like-aged children running around the lakeside camp with her.  Instead, he had noticed only that she did not run as a girl her age should, and that she was never allowed out of sight of her father, aunt, or uncle.

“And Elenwë?” he asked quietly.

He had not dared approach Turvo, or even Finno, to ask how it had happened. All he knew was that she had died on the journey, but he gathered from Artanis’ words that ‘the Ice took her’ covered a whole world of unpleasant possibilities.

“She froze,” Artanis said grimly. “Or perhaps she drowned. It’s hard to say, the rest of us were not close enough to tell if she was dead before she went under the water. Turvo is the only one who would know.”

He supposed he should have expected such an answer, given how vague everything about the Ice seemed to be, but he had hoped for better from Artanis.

But she was not done. He had asked, and she would answer in full.

“A group of us had ventured near enough to the edge of the ice to fish without boring holes,” she continued, her voice distant, as if she were repeating something she had once read in a book in their grandfather’s archives, and not something she had lived.

“A huge chunk broke off and fell into the sea, with Elenwë and her daughter on it. They were not thrown into the water, but Itarillë hurt her leg in the fall. The current was carrying them away toward the open sea. Elenwë had no choice but to try to swim to get back, for to stay where she was meant to accept her own death and her daughter’s.”

He knew what she would say next. Elenwë would have grasped any chance, however slim, to save her only child.

“She went into the water first, and did her best to keep the little one dry. She managed to get close enough to throw Itarillë to where we could pull her out and warm her, but the water was so cold... Elenwë stopped moving, and then she went under. We had to drag Turvo back, with Findekano screaming at him the entire time he better not dare undo the rope we’d tied around him. I doubt Finno truly believed until we had him back on the ice with us that he wouldn’t – though now I think it may have been because his hands were too cold to work the knots. We almost lost Itarillë as well, for her clothing was wet and small as she was, the cold had gone right through her.”

“You said you managed to warm her,” Curufinwë said, keeping his voice level, though he felt sick. If he were Turvo, he wouldn’t have ignored him. He’d have murdered him with his bare hands the next time they came face to face.

“Irissë and I pulled her into a tent and cut the wet things off her, then we held her between us with as many blankets as we had wrapping us to keep what little heat there was in. Aunt Irimë had us rub her limbs until we could feel life in them again. We kept her with us until Turvo was… better.”

Better. Not recovered, or well, because it was clear their cousin was neither and likely never would be again.

“And then we marched on.”

Let It Burn

Not sure if this hits the 'murder' square or not in Taboo bingo - that depends on whether or not you subscribe to Fëanor burning his youngest son intentionally or accidentally.

Which is of course to say that they're talking Losgar in this chapter.

Read Let It Burn

It took Artanis most of the night to finish telling him all he could stand to know and she could bear to tell about the Ice, including how she came to make the journey in the first place despite Maitimo’s command that she remain with her father.

It did not surprise Curufinwë that his youngest uncle had come to the same conclusion as Artanis: Fëanaro was not a king he could follow. The surprise was that his youngest cousin had continued to Beleriand all the same, though that she wished to be more than merely ‘the princess Artanis Arafinwiel’ in Tirion was not the shock to him it might be to some.

She smiled wryly as she caught sight of the rising sun.

“Appropriate, I suppose, given that we reached Beleriand with the first sunrise,” she said.

One who didn’t know her well might think she was amused.

“Your turn now, cousin,” she said, turning expectant eyes on him. “You spoke of knowing each other’s experiences.”

“Ask,” he bade her, though his mouth went dry at the thought.

His cousins have never asked, not a single one of them, even though it’s the only question he would have thought worth asking. But they never have.

How could you, Curvo?” she demanded flatly, the question blunt as a fist and only marginally less painful.

Having demanded she finally say the words that ought by rights to have been thrown at him years ago, he owed Artë a better answer than ‘I don’t know’. He didn’t dare shrug, or try to tell her that he could barely explain it to himself most days.

“Atar ordered us to burn the boats,” he said, trying to look at her, but failing. He winced as he remembered that to the Lindar – and to the granddaughter of Olwë their king – they were ships, not boats. “I don’t think there’s a one of us who didn’t remember you fighting with him, or how he looked when he spoke of it afterwards, and think I am not Artanis.”

“How flattering,” she said, with a withering glare.

“He almost killed you,” Curufinwë explained, remembering vividly his panic as he’d tried to find his oldest brother, the only one who might be able to safely intervene. “And he was used to defiance from you! You never obeyed as others did. He marched to his tune, you to yours, and occasionally it chanced that your scores happened not to clash. But we were his sons, and he would not tolerate from us what you could get away with.”

As the baby. As the girl. As the one to whom the rules did not apply.

She looked thoughtful.

“Someone dared it,” she said quietly.

“Telvo did,” he agreed dully. “Though he argued before the order to burn the ships. He was asleep when we started setting fire to them. By then, standing aside was the best any of us could muster, and only Maitimo at that.”

“Umbarto,” she corrected, with a note in her voice that raised the hair on the back of his neck. She sounded eerily like his mother, though the timbre of their voices had never been alike that he had noted. “His name is Umbarto, and true-named was he.”

He tried to look her in the eye then, but found her looking right through him. Whatever she was seeing was no longer here and now. He wasn’t sure the flames in her eyes were only those of the swanships, and he dropped his own gaze at once. If it was the future she was seeing, he did not want to know.

He waited patiently until the foresight passed, leaving her once again Artanis.

“Sorry,” she muttered, sounding slightly embarrassed. “That hasn’t happened for a while. Queen Melian has been a good teacher, and a great mentor. But sometimes…”

She shook her head.

“It is not even useful,” she continued, more herself with each word. “Visions are poor guides of what will actually come to pass, and one can go mad trying to choose a course based on Seeing.”

She focused on him, sharply this time.

“Maitimo stood aside?”

He blinked in surprise.

She had known that, surely?

He was certain he had told Finno, in those first miserable days after Maitimo had been returned, when they weren’t sure if he would survive. It had been as much penance as inadequate comfort, to let Finno know he hadn’t wasted his gallantry on a completely unworthy object, at a time when it was thought Maitimo might yet have the indecency to die despite it all.

“He would have no part in it,” he said. “He had argued the ships must be sent back as soon as possible to bring the rest of you, and was adamant that we should discuss the order of transport, who should be brought over first. Did you not know?”

She shook her head.

“No. How would I? None of you would speak of it when we first arrived, must less explain why Ambarussa was only one now- and less than one at that.”

It took him a minute to parse her words, and to remember that for her and Irissë, it had been common to refer to both twins by the same name as their mother had originally intended. The youngest Finwions had always known which Ambarussa they spoke of or to, even if no one other than the four of them understood.

It took him somewhat longer to understand how bewildering it must have been for the child who took after her grandmother Indis the most to be around Pityo, who has not been the same since losing his twin.

“What do you hear when you’re near him now?” he asked suddenly, wondering how it’s never occurred to him before now.

She frowned.

“Echoes,” she said slowly. “Echoes, and anger, and things that might be true, or might be just things people say, or maybe things he only imagined.”

He looked at her expectantly but she shook her head.

“I can’t understand them if he doesn’t,” she said irritably. “I don’t think his fëa is entirely there anymore.”

He was as surprised as she was that he heard the silent and I don’t see how you expect that it would be!

He nodded, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of old guilt.

“You spoke of screams on the Ice. If it is any comfort to you, or justice perhaps, we heard screams also, and they are a sound I would not wish on anyone, nor the feeling that goes with them, asking yourself if you’ve just killed your own brother.”

She was so still she might have been made of ice in that moment, and he was shocked to see horror in her eyes. This was not new. This could not be new to her – but it somehow was.

“You… burned him?” she whispered in disbelief.

Had she genuinely not known any of it?

But he’s never lied to her before, and he didn’t dare start now.

“I don’t know if I cast the torch onto the ship he was on or not, but if I did not, one of us surely did,” he said heavily. “It can be counted no less my doing than theirs. Yes, we burned him.”

And then he remembered how she could be ignorant of it.

Findarato had not wanted his baby sister anywhere near them, even before Finno brought Maitimo back. She had been sent to her great-uncle in Doriath as soon as Angarato had returned with the news of Elwë’s kingdom, and they had not seen hide nor hair of her until the Mereth Aderthad. Even then, her brothers had contrived to keep her either near to themselves, or with Nolofinwë and Irissë, or among the Green-elves who had come from Ossiriand, and found the hair of the Finarfinions fascinating – in short, anywhere but around her Fëanorion cousins.

She had made the journey back to Doriath with Thingol’s messengers Mablung and Daeron immediately after, and this was the first he had seen her since then.

She sat silent for some time, until finally he was forced to speak.

“You do not even say ‘poor Ambarussa’?” he asked warily, worried what was going on in that golden head.

She shook her head, and there was sadness in every line of her body.

“No, for I fear in time I may come to regard him as the lucky one,” she replied gravely. “He knew nothing of the perils or horrors of Beleriand, and the only treason of kin he experienced was that of Fëanaro. We shall see worse before the Doom extracts its last drop of vengeance from us.”

“You said yourself that foresight is a dangerous guide,” he pointed out, trying to give her some hope, however small.

“True. Let us speak of it no more,” she replied, clearly ready enough to leave her dark forebodings aside.

“Is there anything else you would know, before we come to Ivrin?” he asked. “I would preserve that place as one of happiness, not associated with old hurts and pains.”
She frowned.

“How came Maitimo into Morgoth’s power in the first place?” she asked. “I know it was said that he feigned to treat with him, and yet..”

“And yet you cannot see Maitimo as one who would use guile against even so false a foe?” Curufinwë asked reluctantly.

That he could well understand, for Artanis was young enough that Maitimo’s presence had been a promise of absolute safety until Alqualondë. He had never done worse than tease the young ones in the gentlest possible way, and all of them from Makalaurë on down had preferred him to Fëanaro or their own fathers for bumped elbows and skinned knees – and often for hurt feelings as well, for they had the utmost certainty of sympathy and hugs and most likely also a cookie or sweet to soothe away any trouble in their young hearts. They had trusted him with everything.

His oldest brother had been all their father could have been, had Fëanaro been less brilliant with things and more so with people.

Which, in hindsight, made him the perfect target for Morgoth.

He was selfishly glad he had not been at close hand to see the tears he was certain must have ensued when the two girls found out Maitimo was a prisoner of the Enemy, much less help curb the no doubt rash attempts at action on Irissë’s part.

Though it might have been interesting to hear what Artë thought. Artanis had always been the thinker of the group.

Now she frowned.

“No, Maitimo is a practiced enough politician that I am sure he can be crafty at need,” she told him. “But I would have expected that he would have known better than to try to outwit the one who was underhanded enough that he fooled both Fëanaro and the Valar themselves.”

“He didn’t fool Atar!” Curufinwë retorted irritably. “He knew Morgoth coveted the Silmarils, and sent him packing.”

“Curvo,” she said with a reproachful look, “I do not deny that your father had no difficulty telling Morgoth to begone and darken his doorstep no more. But it is one thing to know that he coveted the jewels, and another to have worked out what he intended. Can you honestly say your father did? For it looks to me rather as if Fëanaro played right into his hands.”

He tried not to glare at her, because the brat is right – as usual. If Fëanaro had taken his precious gems with him to that dratted festival instead of locking them away in Formenos, Morgoth could never have stolen them – not with all the Valar present. Their grandfather might not have been killed.

And everything after that might never have happened.

It is not only visions of the future one can go mad from.

Cleaning up your atar’s messes for him again, he heard Silmë say, plain as day.

She’d said it often enough in both Tirion and Formenos, for as his father’s preoccupation with his jewels and his half-brother’s suspected plots had grown, it had increasingly been left to his sons to smooth over the ruffled feathers and try to patch up the outrage or hurt of those he had clashed with – including the rest of their family.

Except that this time it was not Anairë’s hurt at her husband being slighted yet again to salve Fëanaro’s ego, or Indis’ patient disappointment at yet another overture of peace rejected, or even Eärwen’s fury spilling over because her children were every bit as much princes of the Noldor as her law-brother’s, and it was not their fault that the language of their father’s people had shifted by the time of their begetting.

It was all of that and more. It was a trail of death and destruction that stretched from Losgar north to the Ice and across it, all the way back down Araman to Alqualondë.

And Fëanaro was not there to be troubled by any of it.

Better things to do as usual, Silmë sniffed. I should dearly like to see your father, just once, have to face up to what he’s done.

So would he. But there was no compelling the dead to do anything, and he could not imagine that Namo would have better luck than anyone else who had ever tried to make Finwë’s eldest son see something he did not wish to bother himself with.

Then again, perhaps Namo had gotten the singular joy of chucking Curufinwë Fëanaro out into the Everlasting Darkness for his failure to hold to his Oath. It felt almost traitorous to think such things, but at the same time, it was hard to believe that the man he’d followed across the Sea was the same one he’d idolized as a child.

There was a reason you wanted to raise your son differently, Silmë pointed out.

That was something else he didn’t wish to think on. The longer their sojourn in Beleriand, the more intensely he regretted bringing Tyelpë – he wished there was any way to undo it, to yield to his wife’s wisdom however belatedly and return his son to the safety of Tirion. Better the son of a Kinslayer there than one of the Doomed here. And he should not have left Silmë alone…

He sighed, and began to pack his things for the day’s hike.

“Whatever Atar did or didn’t do helps us not now,” he said. “We are here and must make the best of it.”

“Indeed,” Artanis replied, handing him a bit of toasted waybread for breakfast. “We will find what good there is to be had, and hold onto it for however long it lasts.”

Short a time as that may be, he thought.

One Good Day

Hits "Table Manners" on the Taboo bingo card. Possibly "Etiquette" also, given that 'nudity' wasn't a space.

Despite the nudity, no warnings this chapter - just good clean fun.

Read One Good Day

It was a warm summer afternoon when they at last reached the pools of Ivrin.

The atmosphere was as pleasant and wholesome as Curufinwë remembered it. The smell of flowers, and the song of birds, and the feel of growing things was all around. If you ignored that they were still in Beleriand and Morgoth or his creatures could kill them at any time, they might have been back home, somewhere in the countryside outside Tirion.

Artanis was almost herself amid it all, so Curufinwë had not the heart to refuse when she suggested that they swim before worrying about where to site their sleeping place. He set his pack down and began to dig through it for something to swim in.

He was a bit startled that his cousin simply stripped out of her clothing, but she laughed and told him that was how the Sindar were accustomed to swim, and over her sixty-odd years among them, she had grown used to their ways, to the point that she no longer kept a bathing costume among her things.

“It is most improper,” he muttered, averting his eyes until the water covered her sufficiently for decency.

“As you say, grandmother,” she replied airily as he turned his back to change.

“Indis would lock us both up for years if she could see this – you for doing something so scandalous, and me for not stopping you,” he grumbled.

“Fortunately, she is not here,” Artanis replied, squirting water at him with her hands.

He snorted as he joined her in the water.

“Unfortunately, don’t you mean,” he retorted. “She would have words for your great-uncle as well, and I’d lay odds she’s the wiser of the two.”

Artë snickered.

“Sorry, I don’t think I quite heard you. It sounded awfully like you just said something nice about Grandmother…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said loftily. “You must have inhaled some water, and you’re hearing things.”

A small wave splashed him in the face, and he spluttered, biting back a curse out of habit before he remembered that she was definitely old enough to hear such words now.

“You can say nice things about her, you know. Your father’s not here to hear it,” Artanis said reproachfully. “And inhaling water doesn’t seem to have made you hear things.”

After that, the splash fight was on, ending only when the pair of them were sopping wet and thoroughly exhausted.

It was then that he noticed that Artanis’ skin was turning a bit pink in the sun.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, not sure how to bring up such an issue to his cousin when she was wearing no clothes.

“The same way you would if I had clothes on,” Artë said, rolling her eyes. “The Sindar may have a point when they call us prudes. You just say it! It’s called sunburn, and I’m almost as prone to it as the Sindar.”

She reluctantly left the water, and pawed through her pack until she found a lotion which she slathered liberally on her skin. To his relief, she also shrugged into a tunic. Then she set about putting up her tent, which was large enough for both of them.

“What is sunburn?” Curufinwë asked, stretching out in the sun to dry.

The sun was relatively new, but he hadn’t noticed it having any such effect on him. Then again, he didn’t usually spend so many hours out in it without clothing either. And the light pinkish hue Artanis had acquired all over would scarcely show on his darker skin.

“The elves that lived under the stars for so many years are all paler than us, as I’m sure you must have seen,” Artanis began.

He had noticed. The complexion of many of the moriquendi is not far off from the porcelain his mother used to reserve for dinner with guests, so pale as to be practically white rather than the healthy bronze to deep browns usual among the Noldor and the Vanyar.  Even the Teleri, from whom Artanis had inherited her lighter complexion, were still darker than their long-sundered Sindarin kin.

“Those of us who crossed the Ice also lost something of our normal skin color,” Artë continued. “We are not sure if it was from malnutrition, or whether it was from the lack of light. I suspect the light myself, for the Sindar are well fed and healthy, yet still paler than any we knew in the West. Their skin was altered by living for so many years without the light of the trees.”

“Yes, we noticed our skin changed without the treelight also, though not so much as yours. What has all this to do with you turning pink?”

“Pale skin reacts poorly when it is exposed to the sun for too long,” Artanis replied, sounding irritated, and a bit disgusted. “This is a mild case, but if I stayed in the sun too long it would eventually be like a true burn, turning red or even blistering. I never had such a problem by treelight.”

“You were never this sallow by treelight,” Curufinwë muttered, electing not to say that even with the newly acquired burnishing of pink, she still bordered on sickly to his eyes.

He was alert enough to duck the wet towel she flung at him for that, which would otherwise have hit him squarely in the face. (It also distracted him from musing on why the sun would have such an effect when Laurelin had not.)

“I don’t see why you’re worried. Clearly Celeborn finds it attractive enough – and how would he know the difference anyway, if the Sindar are all paler still?”

“It’s annoying,” she grumbled, pinning back the flaps before seating herself in the shade of the tent. “I never used to have to think about such things.”

“All the other dangers we face here and you’re vexed by the sun?” he laughed.

“Easy enough for you to say – your skin hasn’t gone all funny!” she retorted, folding her arms across her chest.

He smiled to himself, for Artë sounded completely normal for the first time since Mithrim.

“Does Irissë suffer from the same problem?” he snickered, remembering that she had been the odd one out among her family for her light complexion, nearly matching Artanis for all both her parents were Noldor.

“Worse,” Artanis sighed. “I at least usually remember to use the creams the Sindar have shown us how to concoct to protect the skin. She forgets until she’s burnt. At least, she did when we were last here.”

He filed that thought away to mention to Tyelko later. His brother will be calmer in his mind if he had some news, any news, of Irissë.

“Do you know if she is still in a fury with Tyelko?”

He had been the one to say they should not speak of unpleasantness here, and yet, with her name already being spoken, he found he had to ask.

Artanis seemed to deflate a bit.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, sounding at once smaller. “I last saw her at the Mereth Aderthad. She went with Turvo wherever he has gone, and since then she doesn’t even write. I don’t understand why she can’t write. Even if she could only send a letter with a bird just once…”

Curufinwë, unfortunately, could understand. Turukano no longer trusted any of them to keep safe the secret of wherever he had found to hide himself and his people away. And after what he’d learned from Artë, he can’t find it in him to say his cousin was wrong to think so.

But it would do no good to say that to Artanis.

So he changed the subject.

“Will your skin catch fire if you dare the sun again?”

She wrinkled her nose at him, but her glare lacked any real force.

“No, now that I’ve put the proper cream on, it shouldn’t burn any further. Why?”

“I have three bottles of wine somewhere around here.”

She stared in astonishment.

“You carried wine all the way from Mithrim?” she said skeptically.

“Of course not, silly, you’d have heard them clinking in my pack long before now.”

 “Not if you’d wrapped them properly so they wouldn’t break on the journey,” she pointed out matter of factly.

“I left the bottles here last time,” he explained, looking around thoughtfully. “The plan was to drink them with Turvo and your brother whenever we all met again. But as I do not think that will happen any time soon-”

Perhaps ever...

“-and you and I are here, we may as well open them. No sense letting them go to waste.”

He frowned, trying to remember which pool it was where he’d secreted the bottles away. Was it that one, or the one over there?

It didn’t help that he hadn’t been precisely sober when he’d taken Ingo up on the suggestion to save the last few bottles from their grandfather’s vineyards, one for each of them, for their next meeting – which was to be by the light of a brighter day, after their victory over the Enemy.

He doesn’t truly expect that part to happen anymore, much less Turvo to agree to drink with him even if it by some strange chance did. Ingo had failed to notice that while he was drinking with both of his closest cousins, it was being achieved only by him flitting back and forth between them. And Curufinwë hadn’t realized at the time just how much reason Turvo had to hate him.

Artanis watched his meandering with some amusement for ten minutes or so before sauntering over to a tree at the edge of one of the pools and –

“Are you talking to a tree?” he demanded, wondering if he should reconsider the idea of letting her have wine. If this was how she behaved when she had yet to have any alcohol…

“Of course,” she replied, untroubled. “You clearly don’t remember where you left your possessions, but this alder does. It’s that one, by the way.”

He gave her a hard look, fairly sure she was having a laugh at his expense, but he finally marched over the pool she had indicated, and checked in the cool, dry gap between some large rocks – where, much to his consternation, he found the bottles he’d been searching for.

“Is this what you’re learning with the Grey Elves?” he asked sarcastically. “How to converse with trees?”

“Among other things,” she laughed. “I fail to see the problem – you have the wine in hand now, do you not?”

He looked down at it, unable to deny the truth of that statement. She laughed all the harder at his indignant look.

Sighing, he fumbled in his pack for the corkscrew that was sure to be in there somewhere. When he finally came up with it, he opened the first bottle, before quirking an eyebrow at her.

“I don’t suppose you brought glasses, did you?” he asked sheepishly.

She snorted, and held out her hand. He passed the bottle to her, curious to see what she had in mind.

“This one’s mine. Open another for yourself,” she ordered.

He almost choked.

“Artë!”

“Curvo!” she retorted, unperturbed. “No one else is here to see us drinking directly from the bottle.”

“That’s not the problem and you know it!”

She shrugged.

“You’re the one channeling grandmother. Although I suppose table manners were more Aunt Anairë’s thing… Either way, I am not a child anymore that you need to water my wine or stop me after only one glass.”

And you’re probably in a mood to get well and truly drunk, given everything that’s happened lately, he thought quietly. But even so…

“These are not some weak Avarin grape juice! A whole bottle would be enough to put Tyelko under the table!”

His older brother has the highest tolerance of any of Finwë’s grandchildren – that they know of, at least, given that Maitimo has never engaged in drinking contests. Finno’s the only one who can come close to matching him, and the one time Ingo had been fool enough to try to keep up, every one of the young neri involved had subsequently been punished by their furious mothers for the messy result – not to mention the tongue lashing Fëanaro had given his middle sons for their foolishness.

Curufinwë still winced just thinking about it.

“Really?” she asked, looking interested. “Take him the third one as a peace offering, then. When he wakes up the morning after, you can tell him the headache is with my compliments, but I’ve changed my mind about strangling him.”

He sighed. He wasn’t sure what was worse – that he was completely failing to dissuade Artanis from her very bad ideas about alcohol distribution, or that as peace overtures went, given that she could not produce Irissë, her plan for Tyelko was probably as good as it got. (Overlooking, of course, the minor detail that it was his wine she was blithely giving away.)

Artanis smiled at his expression and took a relievingly cautious sip.

“Not bad.”

“I should bloody well hope not,” he sniffed. “It’s the last pressing Grandfather did himself.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Excellent. To Grandfather.”

He glared at her, but hastily removed the cork from the bottle that had just become his so he could drink to their grandfather too.

“To Grandfather,” he said, trying not to sigh.

He was going to regret this, he just knew it.

In Vino...

Only just realized this chapter never got posted here!

This one hits 'weddings And funerals' and 'culture shock' on ye old Taboo bingo card.

Read In Vino...

If Curufinwë had worried Artanis might down half the bottle in one go, he was pleasantly disappointed.

It turned out that she drank as gracefully from a bottle as she would have from a glass, and at what he judged to be approximately the same pace.

The bottle just held a lot more than a glass would have…

For a little while she asked after followers of his she had known, and he asked her for what news she had of her brothers, for not only had the younger ones been in Menegroth with her, she wrote to Ingo regularly and so was more up to date than he was on the progress of Ingo’s little building project.

He knew perfectly well she had other things on her mind, but much like with himself, there was no point in pressing Artanis if she wasn’t ready to talk.

 “Curvo?” she asked at last, when they’d been through several innocuous topics and part of their bottles.

“Hm?” he replied, regretting that he couldn’t properly judge the color of the wine through the dark bottle.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Have I ever said no to such a request?”

He took another swig.

“About being married, I mean.”

He swallowed.

Damnation.

“You can ask, but is this something you should speak to your brothers about?”

She frowned.

“I don’t know that it’s really a question they would be able to answer. And it’s for a married ner, not a bachelor like Ingo or Aiko.”

He tried not to panic.

“I don’t like to ask Ango, what with Lótë having turned back with Atto,” she continued. “And I doubt Artaresto would be able to answer, even if I were willing to make my nephew privy to my personal concerns.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You can ask, but I’m not entirely sure I’ll have an answer,” he replied, uncertain where she was going.

“You know that marriage is viewed slightly differently among the Sindar,” she began.

He snorted.

“That much was obvious, yes.”

She gave him a stern look.

“I don’t mean their attitude toward joining,” she said impatiently, using the Sindar euphemism for sex outside of marriage – a word the Noldor had neither known nor needed before they had come back to Beleriand. “Though I suppose that does enter into it.”

He rolled his eyes. He didn’t think much of the way the Sindar shared their bodies with anyone who woke their interest at the moment, much less the way they avoided the natural union of fëar that was meant to accompany that of hroär.

“Don’t be prudish. The Noldor didn’t learn any different until they reached Aman – and clearly not all Noldor forgot about the old ways, or how did Tyelko and Irissë come by the knowledge?”

Curufinwë very nearly spat out his wine in shock.

He’d known the two of them shared an unnatural attraction for each other, that Tyelko looked on Irissë in an uncousinly way, but to have acted on it… He couldn’t decide if the absence of marriage actually made it better or worse.

“New rule,” he announced crossly, glaring at her. “You will wait until I have not just taken a drink to say such things. This wine is too good to waste.”

“Agreed,” she said with a shrug. “Though I really do not see where it is so shocking.”

“I suppose it shouldn’t be,” he grimaced. “Now that I think on it, that makes quite a few little oddities over the years make far more sense.”

How driven to distraction Tyelko has been without her, for a start. One could not conduct such an affair for many years with a nis one would have married but for the laws of our people without it having an effect.

“Are you going to be very Noldor about the whole joining thing?” she asked anxiously. “If so, perhaps I shouldn’t talk to you about it. But I don’t know who else to ask. There aren’t very many mixed marriages.”

“I will try my best,” he sighed. “That is all I can promise. It is an attitude I do not understand, or much wish to either. I have to confess I’m relieved that you married properly.”

Artë flushed.

“I actually thought their attitude toward joining was quite sensible,” she confessed. “Why would one not want to be sure that they are compatible with their mate in that way before making a commitment that lasts for the life of Arda?”

He peered at her.

“Artanis, are you telling me-”

“That I joined with Celeborn before we were bound? Yes. As I said, it made sense.”

He nearly spit his wine a second time, though he supposed this one was his own fault for being stupid enough to take a sip before she answered.

“First,” he told her, “that is the only warning I am giving you about bending the rule about saying shocking things when I am drinking before I retaliate. I’m sure I can find something that will make you either spit your wine or snort it out your nose laughing.”

“Duly noted,” she said gravely.

“Second,” he continued, “it is a good thing indeed you did not speak to your brothers about this, whatever this is, because they would have killed Celeborn for behaving so inappropriately! I’m halfway considering it myself!”

She glared at him, though not nearly as harshly as she would have if she thought he meant it in any seriousness.

“Curufinwë,” she said, a hint of danger entering her voice, “you are the one who was always so adamant about keeping an open mind. You should therefore be able to keep an open mind about this, particularly since I am actually married to the ner in question now!”

“It is still not the way things are meant to be done,” he said mulishly, ignoring the validity of the first part of her statement.

“Not the way things are done among the Noldor, but it is very much the way they are done among the Sindar! To their thinking, it would have been odd not to join at least a few times before marrying, to be sure we were certain of each other and not mistaking a passing infatuation for finding the one we were truly meant for.”

“Very well. Go on.”

“When a Sindarin couple does decide to marry, to formally bind themselves to each other, it is just as sacred and inviolable a union as any among the amanyar.”

“I have conceded the point, Artë. Get on with the actual question.”

“Is it…”

She hesitated.

“Is it normal to speak of children almost at once after marriage?”

He almost laughed with relief, for given how she had approached the subject, he had been expecting far worse.

“No, not at all. The first years of marriage are about the bond with one’s mate, strengthening that bond, and learning what it is to live as a couple now that you are wed. You know it is no longer the same as being unbound.”

She nodded, though somewhat uncertainly.

He raised an eyebrow.

“If you noticed no great difference, then I would say that perhaps you ought to have been more careful about ‘joining’. Do you mean to tell me the Sindar never have accidental unions?”

 “You know perfectly well they do,” she chided. “Artaresto and Merelin were one.”

“That is different,” he snorted. “Arto did not understand the ways of the Sindar at that time. He assumed she meant what any of us would have meant by such an advance, and he was so taken with her that he did not stop to think.”

“They are not the only ones, and it is not always due to cultural differences,” she retorted. “It happens every so often, but most usually among couples who are well-suited to each other in any case. The Sindar and Avari hold that when one meets one’s Eru-intended mate, it may be difficult not to bond at once.”

“You would know better than I,” he shrugged. “Silmë and I both being Noldor, there was no joining, only binding.”

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off before she could say anything.

“I do not want to know,” he said firmly. “There are still a few things in this world which have nothing to do with Morgoth that I do not wish to think on, and you joining with anyone, husband or not, is one of them.”

She looked amused, but subsided in favor of taking another drink herself.

“Anyway, where would you get the idea that children are something a couple think on immediately after marriage?”

She sighed.

“This must be another difference between us and the Sindar,” she said mournfully. “For they do speak of it, almost at once. I was being asked even at the wedding feast when we would beget our first. Thingol led the toasting by hoping we would be fruitful. I had not until that moment thought that there might be any significance in the presence of so much more fruit than normal.”

Curufinwë’s jaw dropped.

“But how…?”

He trailed off, trying to make sense of it.

“I suppose there must be some practical reason for it,” Artanis offered uncertainly. “A couple may have been together for many years before they decide to formally bind, so perhaps with that in mind, proceeding to children more quickly is not so surprising?”

He rather thought that even a couple that had been joining for yeni would still need time to adjust to a marriage bond before bringing children into the world, but he had no more certainty than she did what informed the Sindar perspective.

“Or maybe it is due to life here being so much riskier than it was in Aman,” she mused, clearly thinking out loud. “When you know you may die at any time, perhaps it makes begetting a child seem more urgent, that you will have something of your mate, or he of you, if the worst should occur.”

“It is not a line of reasoning that would occur to me,” he snorted, drinking himself. “If anything, I would think the risk should make one less likely to beget children, not more.”

“I thought that myself,” Artë admitted. “I was quite taken aback at the question, and at how persistently so many of Celeborn’s kin continued to ask once we were wed. I wonder if my reticence isn’t part of what made Thingol behave as he did.”

“What?” Curufinwë demanded. “Because you are not yet with child after scarcely a year married, you do not truly love his nephew?”

“Something like that, I think,” she replied sadly, taking another drink.

“What a troll-brain! It’s a good thing his queen thinks more clearly!”

She snickered.

“You cannot come up with any better insult than troll-brain?”

“Shush. I am focusing on the problem at hand,” he informed her loftily. “Namely that my adorable little cousin is being treated poorly for being confused by a set of norms completely conflicting with those she grew up with. And rather backward!”

“I’m not precisely confused,” Artë shrugged. “Merely wondering if I had missed something about marriage. It is not as if my mother were here to advise me, after all.”

“Or your grandmothers,” he agreed. “But what about an aunt? You could ask Irimë.”

“Yes,” she said sardonically. “I could. If only I hadn’t run off almost at once with my disreputable cousin because everyone else at Mithrim was trying to smother me.”

He snorted.

“They’d have gotten over it once they’d had a reminder that you are Artanis.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked hopefully.

He thought about it.

“Probably not. With Irissë gone, you’re the only girl, even if you are grown and married now. Sorry.”

“Exactly,” she said emphatically, pointing at him with the bottle. “I didn’t want to deal with all that. Just like I didn’t want to deal with explaining to the Sindar that I don’t want to beget children with Morgoth’s shadow hanging over us.”

“Sensible,” he agreed, lifting his bottle in salute.

She clinked her bottle against his in something like a toast.

“I don’t think I could deal with the fear, raising a child in a world like this, where they could be killed or taken. Or where they might have to live without a parent because their parent was killed or taken. Do you know I barely know anyone in Doriath who has not lost a family member?”

He was stupefied by the notion. His father’s mother was the only one either of them knew of who had ever died in Aman.

“What does Celeborn say to all this?” he asked.

Artanis grimaced.

“He does not agree with me, obviously,” she admitted. “But nor does he wish to fight about it. He thinks given time, I will feel the urge for a child. He is being patient.”

Her irritation with such transparent humoring of her odd foreign notions was plain.

“Hold your ground,” Curufinwë advised. “I’m a parent, and worse, I’m fool enough to have brought my son here. It is the single stupidest thing I have ever done. You are more right than you can possibly know about the fear.”

“What do you mean, Curvo?”

“You may think you know what it is like to fear for a child, but until you actually have one, it is only imagining. It is much…more when it is no longer academic.”

She nodded pensively.

“That makes sense. I think.”

“You think?” he repeated, wondering if perhaps it was time to try to maneuver the bottle away from her. They’ve both been drinking fairly steadily, and his bottle is at least half empty.

“I will only be able to be certain whenever I do beget a child, however many yeni from now that may be.”

He laughed.

“To your hypothetical someday child.”

He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew perfectly well she’d hear his silent addendum: May she or he be sufficiently Noldo to irritate the hell out of Thingol and Celeborn both.

They drank again.

“How is Tyelpë?” she asked next. “Since raising a child on the Hither Shores is no hypothetical for you?”

He took a long swig before he answered.

“I have already said to you that I am an idiot,” he told her. “That alone should tell you much. My son is growing up without peers his own age, for I grudged none of my followers sending their young ones back to safety, nor Tyelko either. Tyelpë also has not the freedom to roam as we did in our younger days – he must keep to the fortress for his own safety, and in winter, he may go weeks without being able to stir outside for bad weather. Nor can I take him with me when I travel, for I do not feel he is mature enough or skilled enough yet to deal with the dangers.”

She grimaced, clearly thinking that she herself would be unhappy in such a case.

“I have no choice but to teach him swordplay, and tactics, and how to defend himself and any people he may come to lead,” Curufinwë continued. “I would be far happier if I could simply mentor him in the forge, where his real talent lies, and where he is happy and truly desires to learn.”

“Another smith?” Artë asked with a smile.

“He will do great things,” Curufinwë assured her confidently. “Just you wait and see! But I’m determined to keep him away from the Oath as much as possible. He was only a child, he didn’t swear to anything – I believe he still has the freedom to make his own path, shadowed though it may be by his family, and I will not have that taken from him.”

“I am surprised to hear you say so,” she said pensively. “I thought you would be more dedicated than any to your Oath.”

He laughed grimly.

“I should be, shouldn’t I? Atarinkë!” He lifted his bottle sarcastically and tried not to snarl, covering it by taking a drink instead.

“I did not mean it so, Curvo,” she said soothingly. “And I don’t think your mother meant that you were your father with your name, either.”

They have had that conversation many times. Artë has always professed the firm belief that his mother had seen what a good father he would be, even when he was young. He has never been able to determine how much of that is simply stubborn loyalty from the little cousin most like himself.

“Not the point,” he said, waving his bottle irritably. “The Oath is unfulfillable. The Valar knew it. Uncle Ara knew it. Stinking cesspits of Angband, you knew it. I bet Maitimo knew no good could come of it after Alqualondë. But we’re stuck for it, aren’t we? Atar even made us promise a second time, as if swearing by Manwë and Varda hadn’t been enough.”

Artanis’ eyes are full of sorrow, deep as the sea.

“But that’s not the worst of it,” he continued morosely. “The worst of it is that Silmë knew it, before we ever left Tirion. She begged me to leave Tyelpë with her. When I said no to that, she asked that I leave her with another child, to make the absence and the missing more bearable.”

“You have another child?” Artanis whispered in shock. “Curvo, you never said-”

“No,” he said flatly. “I denied her that, too. She was wise, and I was a blind idiot.”

He paused, frowning.

“No, that is not right either,” he corrected himself. “For the blind cannot help not seeing. I could have seen but chose not to, which is worse by far.”

Blind was another word that had been only a concept in Aman, but was a reality here. Several of his followers have lost their sight to wounds or burns. One lost an eye entirely.

“You think now that you were wrong?” Artë said quietly.

“As wrong as Atar,” he admitted. “It was pure selfishness on my part, me not wanting to miss my son growing up. I should have left Tyelpë where he would have been safe. He would have been known as a Kinslayer’s son in any case, but he would have been better off facing the wrath of the Lindar than orcs, trolls, valaraukar, and whatever other twisted creatures Morgoth has devised in his stinking cesspits. Failing that, I should have done as Silmë asked and begotten a child who would have grown up safe and loved and free of my taint.”

“You-”

“No, Artanis,” he growled. “I am not a cranky drunk, but even so I will not allow you trying to say that I am not tainted. We tell the truth, remember?”

She nodded unhappily. They are honest with each other, even when honesty is not pleasant. Let others reach for ‘tactful’ or ‘politic’ phrasings. They say what they mean, and they say what is. If anything, the fact that both of them were blurry from the wine by now should make it easier instead of harder.

Artanis flopped onto her back to lie flat.

“How did it all get to be such a mess, Curvo?”

He snorted.

“I could blame Morgoth,” he shrugged, “but that would be too easy. He certainly didn’t help, but we did quite a lot all on our own. Atar made his messes, I made mine-”

“And I made mine,” Artanis sighed. “Perhaps I should have been more Sindar about marriage and continued without binding for another yén or two. By then I might have better understood what I was letting myself in for.”

“Or you might have been cast out from Menegroth and never seen your Celeborn again,” Curufinwë pointed out. “Or he might have been killed. Or you might have been killed. Or any number of things. At least I’m blaming myself for stupid things I actually did.”

“Was marrying hastily not stupid?” she asked the ceiling of the tent.

Curufinwë regarded his own bottle suspiciously. How much had they had to drink?

“Not if you love him and believe he is the one for you,” he said firmly.

“Don’t want anyone else,” she said fuzzily. “Just don’t want a child. Not now. Not like this.”

“That’s it,” he declared, having thought it through. “You’ve had enough.”

“Have not!” she protested.

He knew perfectly well he was pleasantly cushioned by alcohol, but he was still coordinated enough to grab the bottle off of her, and discovered it was three-quarters gone.

Chalk up one more stupid decision in his column – he should have stopped her sooner.

“Have so,” he said firmly, invoking his older brother/cousin voice. “I’m going to get you some water, and I’m taking both bottles with me.”

He thought about it for a second before adding, “and the corkscrew.”

By the time he got back with a full waterskin, Artë was snoring.

He sighed, and turned her on to her side, propping her with a pillow. He had not forgotten Atto’s blistering tongue lashing about how incredibly lucky he and his brothers had been that Ingo hadn’t choked to death on his own vomit after that drinking contest – and that it would have happened if not for Maitimo.

Fëanaro had still been a responsible enough uncle at that time to also roust his hapless nephew painfully early the next morning to lecture Ingo along with his own sons about alcohol and the proper care of drunken elves too young and stupid to know when it was time to stop imbibing, and to warn what would befall any of them should they be so criminally irresponsible a second time. (Poor Ingo had been convinced that if the treelight didn’t split his aching head in two, Fëanaro’s voice would.)

He had no wish to explain to Ingo how he had been idiot enough to let Artë drink herself to death.

He put a cork in her bottle, in case she wanted to have the rest with dinner the next day, and after a long moment of thought, decided he should probably turn in himself and corked his own bottle as well.

Trying to find dry clothes in his pack proved too complicated for his muddled state, so he simply kicked off his still damp swimming costume and pulled a blanket over himself, making sure to turn his back to her just in case the blanket fell off in the middle of the night. (Though really, it was clear he was the only one who would find the situation embarrassing. If Artë could swim naked, he could sleep naked. There would be time enough to worry about getting dressed in the morning.)

With any luck, Artanis would not have a hangover when she woke, and would feel better for having talked about at least some of what was troubling her.

Sweet Dreams

WARNING - This chapter ends in an unpleasant place.   Non-con.

If you need more information, there is no violence and nothing graphic. Proceed at your own risk.

Read Sweet Dreams

Curufinwë knew perfectly well he was dreaming.

The Treelight gave it away. Had the Trees not been destroyed, he doubted his father could have succeeded in rousing him and his brothers to swear the Oath, much less persuading so many of the Noldor to follow him to Beleriand in pursuit of vengeance. But in the darkness, they had all been willing to listen to plans they would never have given any credence by the light of the Trees.

He had not fully appreciated the beauty of the Trees and their light while it was still part of his daily world.

Just as he had not appreciated-

“Husband, do you mean to ignore me all night as you contemplate Telperion’s wonders?”

He turned so quickly that, dream or no, it was a wonder he didn’t do himself an injury.

Tyelpesilmë’s beautiful face was amused.

“I shall take that as ‘no’, then?” she asked, her lovely smile turning a bit wicked – in the harmless way ‘wicked’ had once meant, in Aman, before it meant true evil.

“This is a dream,” he murmured.

“So logical and practical, even in your sleep,” she sighed.

“Not so practical I will not enjoy every second with you,” he replied, kissing her with the hunger of a starving man.

“You just said this was a dream,” she laughed, though the feel of her hands slipping beneath his nightshirt to caress his chest felt real enough.

“It is a good dream. Perhaps it is a dream we share,” he suggested. “You on your side of the Sea, and I on mine.”

“Still a secret romantic,” she teased, nipping lightly at his ear.

“Don’t tell,” he mumbled, nuzzling her neck as he attempted to master his body enough not to embarrass himself, for he was as eager as a bridegroom on his wedding night after so long apart from her.

“Who would I tell?” she breathed, the last word practically a moan.

“Anyone. Everyone.”

Silmë’s laugh turned into a gasp of pure pleasure as his hands traced her body.

“As if I could! No one but Tyelko, Artanis, and your mother would believe me. And they probably already know anyway. Have you missed me?” she asked.

“More than words can say,” he said, abruptly leaving aside his exploration of her hröa to simply embrace her, savoring every gentle curve.

“Yet you would not stay when I asked you to,” she pointed out sadly.

He bowed his head to meet hers, and they lay together with their foreheads touching, as he let her feel his sorrow and regret.

“I was wrong,” he said quietly. “And if ever I am granted the grace to see you again with waking eyes, I will tell you so.”

“Curufinwë Atarinkë admitting he was wrong?” she asked in mock astonishment. “And without arguing the point first?”

“It is not the first time I have been wrong,” he pointed out. “Nor is it likely to be the last. Though I hope I am growing wiser with the years.”

“You are a good ner, if not always a wise one, Curvo,” Silmë assured him. “Your father never admits fault no matter how in the wrong he may be. Not even to your mother.”

He knew that. He’s seen it often enough – and seen how it had been slowly corroding his parents’ once unbreakable union.

“I am endeavoring to be a better man than he was – and a better father.”

He heard the catch of her breath, and steeled himself to continue.

“I was wrong in that, as well. I should have yielded to your wisdom and left our son in Aman. In safety. If I had it to do over again, I would not insist that Tyelperinquar come with me.”

“Is he safe?” she asked hesitantly. “Is he well?”

He could fear her fear in that minute, and hadn’t the heart to tell her that knowing Beleriand as he did, his easily outstripped hers. That at least he could spare her.

“As safe as I can keep him here,” Curufinwë assured her. “But he is not happy, and I must accept that his unhappiness is my doing. He is not living the life a boy his age should. And he misses you, and my mother, and your parents.”

Silmë’s eyes glistened with tears.

“Why do you tell me this?” she demanded. “Why could you not just accept the kindness of the dream as it was? We might have loved each other and both woken happier for it.”

“Because what I am saying is the truth, and I would not lie to you any more than I wish to lie to myself,” he replied. “And perhaps I am a fool, but if this truly is a dream we share, it may be the only chance I have to tell you these things.”

He could not look her in the eye at that, for he did not want to have to put into words his fear of what his future held.

“You do not believe that you will ever return to me?” she asked, sounding heartbroken.

“I hope I will,” is the best he can manage, because the idea of being sundered from her forever hurts too badly to contemplate.

“Why did you not agree to another child?” she said, and he could hear her trying to keep from crying. “Why did you leave me alone?”

“I was wrong in that also,” he whispered, wretchedly watching a single tear slip down her cheek despite her efforts. “Please forgive me.”

He brushed the tear away gently, almost hesitantly.

“I will forgive you,” she said quietly. “If you promise me we will have that child someday.”

“My love,” he said, wishing with all his heart that it was a promise he could make, “I would if I could. But I can have no confidence of keeping such a vow.”

“Please, Curufinwë? Would you refuse me again?”

She pressed her hröa against his, and his body responded with almost shameful eagerness. It might be a dream, but it felt so real…

“Here, like this, I can give you anything you would have of me, beloved,” he told her. “But I will make no promise that I do not know I can hold to, not even in a dream. It has been a hard-learnt lesson, but I have had my fill of thoughtless words and careless oaths.”

She kissed him with a desperation that matched his own.

“That will have to be enough then,” she whispered between kisses, as they both did their best to remove the clothing that separated them from each other.

If this is the only time he will ever hold his wife again, he will make it a night to remember.

Later, in the contented afterglow, Tyelpesilmë clung to him like she would never let go – as if the Valar themselves would not be able to command such a thing – and they spoke of the child they would not have.

“A daughter,” Curufinwë said thoughtfully. “A daughter with her mother’s smile, and clever hands, and above all, your wisdom.”

He realized as he said it that he would dearly love it to be true. He has no doubt that the daughter of two such talented craftspeople as him and his wife would follow him to the forge as quickly as her older brother had.

Silmë laughed.

“I would rather a son with his father’s eyes,” she told him, one hand tracing designs on his chest. “After all, this child is to remind me of you, my love. Your eyes, and expressions, and perhaps your inspiration. But I would have him somewhat more inclined to listen to good counsel.”

She poked his chest for emphasis, but he was not inclined to argue. Indeed, his only amendment to Silmë’s dream child, he thought privately, deep in his fëa would was that if the child had to have his eyes, he should also have Silmë’s lovely silver hair to go with them.

---

Artanis was uncertain where in Doriath they were, but she knew it was Doriath. The trees, the birds, the air – all were signs she had been taught to read in her first few years in the Fenced Land. Not close to Menegroth, but not so far as she had journeyed of late.

She wasn’t inclined to question it – particularly not since Celeborn was there.

If Irmo wished to grant her this kindness, she would gratefully accept. Most of her dreams of late have not been nearly as pleasant. Even before Curvo had wanted to speak of the Ice and Ambarussa, the paths she walked in her sleep had been starless and frightening more often than not.

It had been all too easy, with her husband’s absence an unavoidable pain during the day and such darkness during the nights, to believe that Thingol had been confirming the judgement of the Valar themselves when he pronounced her unclean.

Never enough, are you, Artanis? Too Noldo for the Lindar and the Sindar, too Lindar for the Noldor. Too girlish for a royal house that has no use for anything but sons, yet too strong and stubborn to be a proper princess, Nerwen.

The whispers had been relentless, and without Melian’s fortified borders or Celeborn’s calming presence to buffer her, she had little defense against them. She could only grit her teeth and endure.

It was not as if this was the first time she’s had to do that.

Doomed. Bloodstained. Slayer of kin unrepentant. Too proud to admit your sins. No different than your uncle in the end.

Every whisper, ever rumor, every fear she’s ever had has haunted her since she left Doriath. Even suspecting that her tormented sleep was the work of the Enemy did not help, for what good was it to know the source if she could do nothing to stop it?

You will never see your parents again. You will linger here, watching your family die, until at last it is your turn, choking on your pride and drowning in your own blood.

After nights of that, she was only too glad for a night of simple forest and Celeborn. Indeed, she wanted little more even in her waking hours. Even if this dream turned out to be merely one more trick, she will take the respite. And it is just possible that Irmo might have taken pity on her. The Lord of Dreams may be brother to the Doomsman who exiled her, but he is also the brother of Mercy.

“I have missed you,” Celeborn whispered in her ear.

It was easy for him to do, seeing as his mouth was mainly occupied in teasing the sensitive tips of her ears.

“Whose fault is that?” she asked archly, doing her best not to moan aloud. 

“Certainly not mine,” he replied, his clever hands as busy as his tongue. “You have a very bad temper, beloved.”

She meant to scoff, but as his hands moved teasingly over her body, that became impossible.  Her breath escaped in a sharp exhalation that prevented coherent speech.

“I am not the only one,” she told him shakily, once she was able to manage words again.

“No doubt,” he agreed, his lips tracing across her neck and onto her chest as she turned to face him. “But I really would rather not think on my uncle just now…”

She did not particularly want to think of him either, not when Celeborn had continued his downward trajectory. In fact, talking, and even thinking was vastly overrated in such a position.

It was only later, as they lay sated and content with each other, curled happily against his chest, that she attempted to pick up the conversation again. Not about tempers and Thingol, though.

“How is it you are finally with me, if only in my dreams?” she asked, deliberately calling to mind the last time she’d slept by the pools of Ivrin- also, as it happened, the first time they’d joined their hröar.

She did not doubt for a moment that it was Celeborn she touched, with her in spirit as he could not be in person. She could feel him, and was calmer for his presence. This was the first time it had happened since she crossed the borders of Melian’s power.

He smiled drowsily against her hair. She knew he was doing it, even though she could not see it. She poked him.

“Do not you dare fall asleep on me!” she told him sternly. “I have missed you long enough.”

She felt his laughter, rumbling through his chest, as much as she heard it.

“We are asleep, golden heart,” he told her. “Else I would not be able to speak to you. You know I haven’t your way with osanwë.”

That last was said in a tone of disappointment that as good as admitted he’d tried and failed to touch her mind in their waking hours.

She hugged him, unwilling to have him linger on things he could not do when there were so many more things he could.

Curufinwë had not been the only one surprised that after so many nobles and princes who would have willingly married her in the Blessed Land, she had chosen a mere minor prince of the Sindar.  Celeborn’s people were rather proud of the match – or had been, before they knew of her bloodstained hands and murderous kin –  whereas hers will no doubt scrutinize her husband even more sharply than they would any other moriquendi, suspecting him to be unworthy of her.

It’s none of their business that she often feels like it’s the other way around. (Though it will absolutely be her business if any of her people dare run him down. She rather suspects they will not be foolish enough to do so in her hearing.)

“As to how I am with you, I am outside the Girdle, so what was impossible before is not now.”

She traced the contour of his chest, her fingers lingering on the spot she adored in the hollow between his pectorals.

“Did you wish to hear this?” Celeborn asked her. “Because that is rather distracting…”

“Tell me, and then I’ll decide how much I should distract you,” she suggested, not stopping entirely.

“I met Oropher and Belthil. They were returning from their errand to your uncle and were able to tell me that if I sought my heart, it was no longer to be found in Barad Eithel, and suggested I should turn my feet instead toward your brother’s halls.”

She smiled.

Celeborn had lost his parents to the Shadow long before she had met him. His cousins had done their best to stand in the place of siblings for him – Oropher as an older brother, Belthil a younger. Merelin and Nimloth were as much his younger sisters as Oropher and Belthil’s.

She too had been coming to look on them as family since her marriage. For the pair of them to have told Celeborn where to find her meant that they, at least, found her sins forgivable. She took heart from that.

“They continued homeward,” Celeborn told her. “While I adjusted my path to meet you as soon as may be. I shall leave them to take up the burden of talking sense into the king.”

She did not need to ask if Thingol had relented. For him to speak so meant he had not.

“Be easy, my love,” Celeborn said, his arms tightening reassuringly around her. “If there is wisdom in my great-uncle’s course, few other than himself see it. And we have not been shy about telling him so.  Loathe though our people may be to deal with Kinslayers, still less would we condemn those who have done no wrong. It is known that there are those among your people who shed no blood. From what Oropher says, they are now as angry with Thingol as he was with you.”

“That I knew already,” she told him drily, letting him see and feel the fury that had seethed behind the polite façade of the court. “Is Oropher’s heart more at ease now that he has seen for himself that Merelin is not being mistreated?”

“Surely you do not hold his anxiousness against him?” Celeborn asked. “She is the first of us to beget a child. He worries for them both, and that was before he knew her husband’s people to be in an uproar.”

“Artaresto has been as protective of her as you would be of me in such a position,” Galadriel assured him. “Besides which, she carries a princess of the Noldor. No one would allow her to come to harm, my uncle least of all.”

She caught the not-quite-concealed thought that flitted through Celeborn’s fëa at her words, a product of a longing he could not suppress.

“As to the begetting of children, we can speak of that some other time,” she said firmly. “I have not said never, only not now.”

Inspired by her talk with Curufinwë, she let herself be open with him, as she has not been before – she let him see how she did not know how under the stars Merelin and Artaresto did not go crazy from the worry of bringing a child into a world where they live so close to the threat of the Enemy. She remembered Arakano’s death all too well, and what it had done to her uncle. Strong as she may be, she knows she is not strong enough to see a child of hers die.

And it was clearly the right thing to have done, because she can feel his relief. Her worry, even her fear, he could understand. Celeborn pulled her to him, to soothe her worries and fears the best way he knew how.

---

Curufinwë wasn’t sure what it was exactly that had startled him out of his slumber – only that he was abruptly and irreversibly awake. He frowned, trying to work out what was not right. His arm tightened around the warm body nestled against his own.

That was when reality reasserted itself in the harshest possible manner, driving away the lingering remnants of the peace and contentment he’d felt in his dream.

He sat up, realizing in horror that the woman he was curled up to, with both of them very naked and smelling of sex was not his beloved Tyelpesilmë.

It was Artanis.

The Harsh Light of Day

Right, all, this is the chapter I've had in mind since the very beginning when I said I would post warnings on chapters as appropriate.

WARNING: non-con/rape

I cannot be any blunter than that, so if you don't read that sort of thing, you should either skip this chapter entirely, or skip the first section (search for "Curufinwë to take you to the start of the rest of the chapter.) 

If anyone's still keeping track of taboo squares, this one hits 'incest', and probably 'violate Laws & Customs' as well. 

Also, I am thoroughly relieved to have this chapter done, as I've been avoiding writing the first section since September.

Read The Harsh Light of Day

Galadriel snuggled happily into her husband. Would that this were real, rather than just a dream – her honesty had cleared the air between them, and they were closer than ever, no matter the distance between their physical bodies.

“I wish we could freeze this moment,” she whispered. “Just live in it forever.”

“Just you and I among the trees?” Celeborn asked, his amused voice reaching her ears more through his chest than from his mouth.

“Mmm,” she agreed, liking the notion more as she thought about it. “Just us. Not our peoples or our families complicating everything.”

He laughed.

“Beloved, you would be bored silly in a month at most if we were the only two people in the world.”

“I would not,” she protested. “There would be no Morgoth either. We would be free to wander where we would.”

“Very well, in that case I give it a year,” Celeborn chuckled, tightening his embrace as she swatted at him in mock irritation. “You, my lady of light, would not know what to do with so little society as just me. You are too fond of having people around. And we would both of us miss our kin, bothersome as they may be at times.”

She huffed in irritation, but Celeborn knew perfectly well how to distract her, kissing just the right spot on her neck to render her boneless.

“My love,” he said tentatively, “in this hypothetical world, where it would be just you and I, without meddling relatives or the threat in the North, would there be a chance of bringing a child of our own into the world? Not necessarily now, but soon?”

After her honesty earlier, he did not attempt to hide from her how greatly he wished they might bring a child into the world without too great a gap between him or her and Orodreth and Merelin’s daughter. Kin was very important to the Sindar – not that it was unimportant to the Amanyar, but he felt her people did not fully value what they had. Their families were immune from loss in a way his people have never been.

His voice was so wistful that she couldn’t help but wrap him in her love, and voice the reassurance he needed that were it not for that threat, she would surely be less reluctant to beget children soon, if perhaps still somewhat less eager for parenthood than he seemed to be.

“By the lights of my people,” she told him, “it is more usual to wait some years before begetting the first child – to be sure that the bond between the parents is strong, and their union solid, before bringing a child into it.”

She could feel Celeborn turning that notion over in his mind, the idea that a couple might take their time as new to him as the idea of begetting children immediately had been to her.

“Then,” he said seriously, his forehead touching hers, “I will not press you further on the subject. In the meantime, as living in this moment forever is sadly impractical, I suppose we shall just have to defeat Belegurth and his foul beasts. For I very much desire to meet a son or daughter of ours, and you will never feel safe enough to bring a child into the light while the Dark One holds sway in the north.”

He said it so matter of factly, so straightforwardly, that it sounded reasonable in a way her half-uncle’s promises never had. Galadriel had never loved her husband more than she did in that moment, for making her believe it was truly possible. Something fluttered in her chest, and she wondered if this was what hope felt like.

She kissed him and smirked at his response.

“Though we beget no children, it cannot hurt to practice the motions,” he murmured playfully.

They were wrapped together, Celeborn deep within her, when she felt something change.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but everything suddenly felt wrong, from Celeborn’s touch to the cool night air. Even the trees surrounding them no longer seemed friendly.

“Celeborn. Celeborn, stop,” she said urgently, putting a hand on to his chest, surprised that he could not feel it also. Normally he was far more attuned to their surroundings than she was. “Something is not right.”

For the first time ever, he did not heed her words. He continued as though he had not heard her at all.

“Celeborn, stop!”

It was no longer a request, but an order – one that was ignored.

“No, Artanis, I do not intend to stop,” he snarled harshly.

For a moment she was shocked beyond words or action. Then she attempted to push him off of her– and failed. It had never occurred to her to think of the differences between them before, but her husband was taller and broader than she was, and the difference in their body masses was nearly all muscle on his part.  Not that that should matter in a dream, she thought irritably.

His thrusts were stronger now, rough to the point of painful.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded in shocked incomprehension, hurt more by his indifference than anything else.

That was when she saw it – the malicious gleam in his eye, a flash of red. And she realized that he had called her Artanis. Celeborn had not used her father-name when it was just the two of them since the day after they’d met, when he’d confessed to her the name he had given her in his mind when first he’d seen her. Since then, the only time she has heard him say Artanis was if he spoke to her kin.

“Who or what are you?” she demanded angrily, renewing her efforts to free herself, but also slamming up every mental defense she’d ever been taught, whether in Aman or Doriath.

“Don’t you know me, Princess?” the thing wearing her husband’s form taunted. There was more than just a gleam of red in his eyes now. “I certainly know you – your pride, your arrogance. So sure of yourself you never once considered how vulnerable you are – and how much more vulnerable you could be.”

He finished with a grunt, and an expression of smug satisfaction she was tempted to claw right off his face, if she could but bring herself to do harm to something that looked so like her beloved.

Just do it, Galadriel! she commanded herself. That is not Celeborn! You know it is not!

Her opponent laughed at her hesitation, and then his expression turned to triumph, as she felt something spark within her that horrified her beyond words.

It is only a dream!

“Congratulations on achieving motherhood, Artanis Nerwen,” ‘Celeborn’ sneered. “I suspect your wood elf may be somewhat less than pleased. I’m sure he thought your first child would be his. Nevertheless, I’m confident this child will be a credit to his father. Admirable, one might even say.  I shall watch your offspring with interest.”

The mocking word was enough to give her the clue.

“Get out of my dreams, Gorthaur,” she snarled. “You may think you know me, but you know very little if you think to intimidate me thus. It takes more than an unpleasant dream to frighten a grandchild of Finwë and Olwë.”

He laughed, and the sound was as terrible as anything she’d ever heard.

“Brave words, little girl. What do you think your grandfathers will say when they hear of your shame? Or your parents? Just imagine the look on your poor Atto’s face when he finds out…”

Wake up, Galadriel! WAKE UP!

“Yes, Arafinwiel, do. After all, this is but an unpleasant dream, everything will surely be better when you wake!”

His triumphant smile lingered before her eyes as she dragged herself out of the dream by sheer force of will.

---

Curufinwë had been waiting nervously for Artanis to awaken for some time already when she abruptly bolted upright.

She looked horror struck, and her chest was heaving as if she had just been running – or fighting. Neither boded well.

“Artë?” he asked cautiously.

Her hand went at once to her lower abdomen – and to his own horror, he realized at once why.

No, he told himself. No. It could not be.

Begetting a child took intention on the part of the parents. It was never an accident. Most especially not when one was in such a drunken stupor as to be unknowingly rutting with one’s married younger cousin!

She looked at him, her horror only growing.

“Curvo!” she wailed.

“I swear I did not intend it,” he began, only to stop short at the wholly unexpected relief in her eyes.

“It is yours?” she demanded, sounding much as though she wanted that to be the case.

At his shame-faced nod, her shoulders sagged and some of the tension left her frame.

“Oh, thank Eru,” she whispered. “Nienna, lady of mercy, thank you.”

Curufinwë paused, rather confused himself.

While on the one hand, this was going much better than he had expected – astonishingly, all his body parts were still intact and Artanis showed no signs of planning to alter that arrangement – he was rather stunned that her finding out he had gotten a child on her was somehow a cause for thanks.

“Whose did you suppose it was?” he asked in befuddlement.

There were only the two of them there, after all, so it should have been an obvious conclusion…

She shuddered.

“Gorthaur’s,” she replied quietly.

He recognized the name – it was what the Sindar called the maia who had once been known as Mairon, a follower of Aulë. Corrupted by Morgoth into something nearly as terrible as himself, the Noldor now called him Sauron, though aside from Nelyo they had little direct knowledge of him.

The Sindar were not nearly so fortunate.

He wasn’t sure how she had come to such a conclusion – though that she seemed to think it reasonable put the events of the previous few hours in a very different light.

To evil end shall all things turn… I thank you most humbly, my lord Namo, for this lesson. You might have left Artanis out of it, however!

“In that case, I can see where the child being mine would be a relief,” he said weakly.

That was as far as he got before she leaped out of the tent to retch, then burst into tears – probably a sign that now that bearing the spawn of Sauron had been ruled out, the impossible position she still found herself was beginning to sink in.

He was her first cousin, and they were both married to other people.

Curufinwë could think of no explanation of their current situation adequate for either their people or her husband’s. Certainly not for their family. And likely not for her husband either. Silmë at least was on the far side of Alatairë, and the prospect that he might ever face her to confess his sin so faint as to be laughable – not that the conversation would be any less painful should the chance ever arise to have it.

He could not imagine that his amazing wife would not be horrified by the idea of him begetting a child with any other nis, let alone with his youngest cousin. Nor was it as if Silmë did not already have more than enough reason to appeal to the Valar to release her from their bond, assuming such a thing was even possible.

You have ever said she is as a sister to you!

He gulped, feeling a bit nauseous himself, and tried to bear in mind that this was still better than expected. Artanis was not calling down curses on him, or fleeing, or threatening violence. She was just… falling apart.

That was terrifying – not only was his youngest cousin normally steady and unflappable, usually new parents would at this time be ecstatically welcoming their newly begotten child’s fëa in an atmosphere of love, joy, anticipation, and wonder.

Besides his concern for his cousin, there was also another he had to worry about now, one who was a complete innocent in every sense of the word. What a child so young would understand of the emotional storm its parents were experiencing, he had no idea – but he couldn’t imagine it would be comfortable for the little one, or healthy.

He reached for Artanis tentatively, uncertain of her reaction, but hoping his touch might still be a comfort and not a fresh source of horror or disgust to her.

She wilted into him when he put his arm around her, sobbing in a mixture of Quenya, Telerin, and Sindarin that wasn’t particularly intelligible – but then, it didn’t need to be. He knew fairly well what she was feeling, aside from the part where it was not him that would be required to shelter and nourish the child in his own hröa over the next year.

He drew her back into the tent and wrapped her in her blanket, cradling her in his lap as he had done when she was but a child herself, rocking her as though she were young again. He stroked her hair with one hand, while the other went to her belly, trying to reach and reassure the now frightened child that all was well with its mother.

It was a boy, he noted, and was not sure if he was more relieved to find the child apparently healthy and normal despite the circumstances of his begetting, or disappointed not to have a daughter.

Ammë will be fine, my son, she is but surprised, for you are a blessing unlooked for.

“Can hear you,” Artë mumbled through her sobs.

“Can you?” he asked softly, electing not to point out to her that while the first and third word had been Quenya, the middle one had been Telerin. (Though he did not think she’d meant to mix her languages, it was still appropriate, for the word in question referred to osanwë rather than spoken words.)

“Good, then tell your son yourself that you are well. He’s rather distressed.”

He was immensely relieved that she was able to calm herself sufficiently to reach out to the child with a tremulous welcome of her own, even if he privately suspected she would go back to weeping again at the first chance.

Between the two of them putting forth the effort to project the emotions new parents should have felt at such a moment, they managed to lull the child into the dreamy state in which the unborn spent most of their time for the first six months of their lives, more sleeping than waking as their hroä formed and knit itself to their fëa.

Only then could he turn his full attention back to Artanis.

There were still tears in her eyes, and they were certainly not tears of joy.

“What now?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“First, perhaps you might explain how in Arda you concluded you were carrying Sauron’s offspring,” he suggested.

He knew perfectly well what he had dreamed, but he wanted to know what exactly had happened from her view.

She swallowed hard, but managed to recount in a low voice what she had experienced – thankfully, without going into overly much detail about the physical aspects of it. It was a relief to know that she had believed herself with her husband just as he had thought he was with Silmë.

He sighed when she reached the part about the betrayal, and ‘Celeborn’s’ eyes turning red and malicious. He understood now why Sauron was so abhorred by the Sindar if he could so easily delve into Artanis’ mind to turn her deepest fears into weapons to wield against her.

But there had been more than just passing malice in this, he suspected. The dream itself would have been bad enough, but by tricking the pair of them into begetting a child, the one who had once been called Mairon likely hoped to bring about still more strife, both among the Noldor as well as between the Noldor and the Sindar.

Treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason…

It could not be allowed to happen. That much Curufinwë knew. Much more was at stake here than merely Artanis’ reputation. (His own reputation was already of so little worth on both sides of the Sea that he discounted it entirely. All personal damage worth speaking of would be to her.)

“You are certain the child is yours?” she asked, for the second time.

“Absolutely,” Curufinwë replied drily. “Having done something similar before, I do recall what begetting a child feels like, even when a malicious maia is twisting both my dreams and my hroä against me.”

She nodded, still looking less than certain.

He hissed in exasperation.

“Artanis, you inherited more from Indis than any other of her grandchildren. You do not need to ask me whose child it is – you should know better than I!”

She laid a cautious hand on her belly, almost as if it were a foreign body, before concentrating. He was relieved to see something more sure finally come into her expression.

“Yours.”

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled.

The glare that came his way did more than anything else to assure him that she was beginning to feel like herself for the first time that day.

“And now?” she asked nervously.

“We bathe, and eat,” he said simply. “Then sleep. True sleep, not whatever that was we experienced last night. And we take it in turns from now on. If Sauron’s influence could reach this far, his creatures could as well. We were thoughtless fools, and should count ourselves lucky the consequences were no worse.”

He was unsurprised that she looked daggers at him.

“No worse?” she demanded. “You speak as though this were no great matter!”

He sighed.

“It is true that it is not nothing. But a child is hardly in the same class as being dragged bodily to Angband or cut to pieces by orcs.”

His oldest brother was testament to that, but he wasn’t about to bring that up to Artanis as shaken as she already was. It would help her not at all to know that no matter how confident or strong he might appear by day, there were still nights Nelyo awoke screaming. And Curufinwë has observed his brother closely enough to fear that those may not be the worst of his terrors.

“It may yet be the ruin of us both,” she pointed out. “Yet you say ‘bathe, and eat’ as though nothing has happened!”

“What do you expect me to say?” he asked with a shrug. “Running wildly about will help nothing. We are not yet ruined – or at least, you are not ruined, and I am no more ruined now than I was this time yesterday. I may be able to think our way out of this, but I won’t be much good hungover, exhausted, and inches away from shock. The fright you’ve just had puts you no better off. And no matter how little you may like it, you in particular need to eat and rest.”

For a split second, he was intensely glad it was only Artanis there, because if Irissë had been anywhere near, there would most certainly have been violence. But it was no longer just about her, and much as he might otherwise indulge her, he would not allow her to lose sight of what was needful for their child.

Though it would probably help if at some point he were able to stop wincing every time he thought of it as their child.

Picking Up The Pieces

Read Picking Up The Pieces

Galadriel waited until the sounds from outside the tent proved that Curvo was busying himself elsewhere in the campsite – he had moved his things out into the sun, and from what she could hear was washing both his bedding and himself in the nearest pool – before she sank onto her own bedding, hugging her knees to her chest. She managed to bite back the sobs, but she couldn’t stop the tears.

This was not how she had expected her life in Beleriand to go, any of it.

Findaráto thought she would be safe and even happy in Doriath, and she had been – until their great-uncle had heard the whispers of what the Noldor had done to his brother’s people and reacted as if he was the only injured party, as if she hadn’t seen her uncle killed and been taken prisoner on her grandfather’s stolen ship.

She’d reached Beleriand having learnt that to lead meant to feel every last drop of your people’s pain and your own powerlessness. Both sides of her family distrusted her, because she’s still not clearly enough their own for any of them. Too Telerin for the Noldor, too Noldor for the Sindar, and as far as she’s walked since, all either side can see is blood on her hands. (For all that, she’d do exactly the same again if she had to.)

Her marriage was a mess with her and her husband separated, she’s pregnant with a child that is not her husband’s, and she’s an ocean away from the one person she wants more than any other right now – her mother. No matter how disappointed and horrified Atto might be, Emmë would understand. She’d hold her daughter and sing and somehow Galadriel would feel better. Emmë always made it better.

It’s terrifying. She’s someone’s mother now. Her son is tiny and helpless and utterly dependent on her for the next year, and after that, when he comes into the light, she will be the one he looks for protection and food and comfort and to make everything right even when nothing is. She’s not ready for that, and she wouldn’t be even if it was Celeborn’s son she carried instead of her cousin’s.

And that’s another form of betrayal, the Doom closing its jaws on her as surely as on her cousins.

She knows and loves her cousin’s wife Tyelpesilmë.  Artanis had laughed at Curvo’s wedding and proclaimed how good it was to have another girl in a sprawling family of boys – another sister, she had qualified later, in private. Irissë was her age, but Silmë had become the older sister they lacked, the confidant who could explain things their brothers and cousins wouldn’t or couldn’t. (Even Curvo, who would answer just about anything, drew the line at advising her about interpersonal relations between nissi and neri – particularly when it clearly wasn’t abstract and hypothetical. He was no happier than any other in the family about the idea of ‘the babies’ growing up.)  

What would Silmë say if she knew?

Galadriel rocked herself back and forth silently, doing her best to keep her distress concealed. Not only would it only alarm those who love her – her husband, her son, and her cousin, though possibly not in that order- it was plain now that Gorthaur had some way of spying on her, and she will not give him the satisfaction. She has been twitted more than once by her cousins and older brothers about thinking herself the equal of any of them – now was the time to prove it if she is. Nerwen. Whatever you had in mind when you named me, Emmë, I dearly hope it wasn’t this.

Oh, Valar. She was going to have to name her child.

She hugged herself tighter, cold despite the warm morning. She would go crazy if she thought about all she was going to have to do – much less the thought that she may well have to do it alone. Celeborn may want nothing more to do with her. She has told him more than once it was too soon to think of begetting children, and here she is carrying a child that has nothing to do with him.

Her brothers are going to be furious, and probably blame it all on Curvo. It may well fracture the princes of the Noldor all over again, just when everyone was beginning to mend their quarrels. Aiko had finally stopped throwing Moryo’s letters in the fire. She’d managed to let go her anger at Tyelko – was it only last night she’d intended to send him a peace offering?

At least she can be reasonably sure he won’t use this to hurt her. He loved his brother too well for that, and he’s always been fond of children. But she would melt right into the ground now if it would let her avoid having to look Maitimo in the eye, or confessing to Ambarussa.

As for what her great-uncle will say…

She felt a wave of nausea at the thought, not only of what Thingol would say – and do, for if he would sunder her from Celeborn for being a sullied Kinslayer, she can only imagine what fresh punishment this will bring forth – but what the opinion of the Iathrim would be when it became public, as it inevitably would.

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

---

Curufinwë finally made himself stop bathing when he realized how ridiculous he was being. It didn’t matter how long he scrubbed, it wasn’t going to change anything. He was still going to be the father of Artanis’ child. Sauron had violated him no less than his cousin, his only luck was that he would not have to live quite as intimately with that violation for the coming months.

He realized that Artanis was not sleeping, but reluctantly decided that she would have to find some semblance of emotional balance on her own – had she thought his presence would be helpful, she would have asked for it. (More like demanded it.) He would only intrude if the child was roused.

Nevertheless, he was relieved to hear her eventually sing herself to sleep, Telerin lullabies by the sound of it. He peeked in when it had been quiet for a quarter of an hour, and tucked her blanket around her, tucking her in like the small child she’d been when life was simpler.

While Artë slept, he kept himself busy thinking. Oh, he was also doing mundane chores like hanging his bedding to dry, drawing water for drinking and cooking, gathering wood for the fire, and all the other little tasks that were part of keeping a campsite a comfortable place as well. But mostly he was thinking.

His first order of business was to evaluate the current situation of their chosen site and take stock of their supplies, for they would have to stay there at least until Artanis’ Sindarin mate reached them, which he guessed would be a week at the very least.

He had realized fairly quickly that much would depend on the reaction of Artanis’ husband. He hated the idea that his little cousin’s fate rested so wholly in the hands of a ner he had never even met, but there was no way around it.

If this Celeborn were unwilling to help them conceal Artanis’ condition, there would be nothing for it. If that proved to be the case, he might as well take her with him to Himlad at once. That would be the best protection he could give her, for none there would dare speak against her, not even his brother.

No matter what his private thoughts, Tyelko would bite his tongue for the sake of the children – both Tyelpë and the yet unnamed little one. And maybe even for Artanis herself. Fighting amongst themselves was one thing, but this would mean it was time to put aside their private quarrels to close ranks, family against everyone else.

And there would be many to put in that category. Nelyo would be furious with him, for if this scandal became public, it would surely mean the permanent end of any hope that the King of Doriath might relent and become more of an ally than a mere breakwater against the Enemy. It could well turn the Falathrim against them as well, not to mention those few Sindar who did not look to Doriath and the scattering of Laiquendi willing to trade with them.

If, on the other hand, Celeborn desired as heartily as Curufinwë to hide what had happened to his wife, then they would have to decide how best to proceed. Both Nargothrond and Doriath were out of the question – as, unfortunately, were all the strongholds of the Noldor, he realized. A few moments thought showed him that what was true for Noldorin strongholds would be equally true for those of the Sindar.

Artanis was not going to like his conclusions.

He didn’t much like them himself.

He kept his mind occupied calculating distances and probabilities until it occurred to him that he should probably begin preparing a meal, for he had no doubt it would be needed.

When Artanis finally woke again mid-afternoon, he had a hearty stew bubbling over the fire, and a rustic bread he remembered her being fond of on childhood camping trips to go with it. It was hardly the sort of pampering a new mother should by rights expect, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He’d try to improve tomorrow.

Artë took the full bread bowl he passed her with a doubtful expression, but to his relief did not argue. He did not want to have to explain to her that yes, she would definitely eat every bit of it – not only had she not eaten properly since the evening meal yesterday, her reaction this morning would have been draining to anyone.

He waited until she had eaten most of it, working his way silently through a bowl of his own, before he spoke.

“How long will it take your Celeborn to reach this place?”

She looked at him in astonishment, startled by the question.

“You cannot mean you want to tell him?” she spluttered.

“Want?” Curufinwë asked sardonically. “Not particularly. Need? Most definitely. There is no way you can hope to hide this from him, Artë. Even were you to keep your distance from him for several years, I assure you he would notice the changes in your body whenever you next were intimate.”

The undisguised horror in her eyes reminded Curufinwë forcefully that she’d likely never had any of the explanations nissi normally heard from mothers, aunts, or older sisters about what to expect when bearing a child. She and Irissë had been the youngest of their generation, and unmarried when they parted from their mothers. And though both were aunts, as unwed nissi, they would not have been privy to the details of their law-sisters’ pregnancies – that would have been inappropriate by the mores of Tirion. It was also a bit late for her to learn anything from her nephew’s wife.

“I do not mean that you will be so altered,” he explained hastily. “Worry not on that score!”

He hesitated, then decided that given how much else they were going to have to be honest about, it was foolish to be embarrassed about this.

“Silmë’s body, once she weaned Tyelpë, was not so different than before his begetting, and I found her as lovely and…”

“Attractive?” Artë suggested drily, clearly trying to spare him the search for a word for what he meant that would not appall her grandmother. Or possibly her…

“Exactly!” he agreed in relief. “As attractive as ever. But as a husband, even had I not known that she had borne my child, there were slight differences. Your husband, who knows you intimately, would notice. And while I do not imagine he will be pleased by this pregnancy, I think he would be still less pleased at such a breach of trust as attempting to conceal it from him.”

He watched Artanis turn slightly green for the second time that day.

“I do not mean that you should tell him right now,” Curufinwë sighed. “It would probably be best face to face.”

“You mean to stay until he arrives?” she gasped.

“Obviously,” he told her. “Do you think me such an orc as to run away to leave you to face whatever may come? I will be right there with you, even if it turns out that your husband beats me black and blue for it.”

In all honesty, he expects that at the least. He’s tried putting himself in the Sinda’s boots, and come to the grim conclusion that if some good for nothing interloping cousin had gotten a child on his Tyelpesilmë, only the worry of how she would take it would prevent another kinslaying. (Alcohol was a poor excuse, and he wouldn’t believe anyone blaming it on Sauron.)

“So how long should we expect to wait here?” Curufinwë asked again.

Artanis chewed her lip uncertainly.

“I am not sure,” she said. “I do not know where exactly he is, only that his cousins had told him I was no longer in Mithrim, and so he had better look for me with Ingo.”

He sighed.

“Artanis, if you try to tell me that you cannot ask him from here, I will make sure the entire family find out whose idea it was for you and Irissë to attend that revel in Oromë’s woods.”

Her eyes widened.

“Including Tyelko?” she asked in horror, too startled to even attempt a denial.

“Especially Tyelko,” he promised with a smirk.

Her face turned a shade of red that would have done Carnistir proud, but her eyes took on the somewhat distracted look he had long since learned was a hallmark of her speaking to someone at a distance.

He waited patiently, unsurprised that it was not a quick answer, for Celeborn probably no more knew where exactly Artanis was than she knew his precise location.

Some minutes later, she frowned.

“Ten days to two weeks,” she announced. “Depending on weather and other bothers.”

He presumed ‘other bothers’ covered everything from rivers running higher than usual to maurading orcs.

“Will that be all right?” she asked worriedly. “Should we go to meet him? It could halve the time.”

Curufinwë shook his head.

“We are better off remaining where we are. This is not only a wholesome place, it is sheltered, defensible, and well away from anywhere Thingol’s folk might spot us. It should seem perfectly natural to anyone who might observe Celeborn’s journey that he goes in search of you, and equally natural that we should await him, as if you had perhaps agreed to meet here.”

If Artanis thought otherwise, she chose not to argue.

Truth and Consequences

Read Truth and Consequences

In the end, it was closer to ten days than fourteen.

Curufinwë wasn’t overly surprised. He could imagine that there had been more than enough in that conversation to concern Artanis’ husband and drive him to make haste.

She had been somewhat calmer the last few days, which he suspected had more to do with the increasing proximity to her mate than any measure of resignation to their joint predicament.

It was the eleventh day since the begetting of their son – the fifth since he’d reconciled himself to the concept sufficiently not to wince any longer – that he spotted another elf approaching from southeast.

Artanis, he was thankful to discover, was still deeply enough asleep not to be consciously aware of his presence.

Curufinwë elected to meet the other ner far enough away from their little camp that Artë would not hear anything that was said. He was resolved that if Celeborn did decide to beat him, he would take it in silence, seeing as it would be no more than he deserved. If there was blame to be apportioned, he deserved the lion’s share as both the older kinsman and the one who had more experience of Beleriand, not having been safely ensconced behind the maia queen’s protection for the past several decades.

The silver-haired elf had come on foot, and while he carried a pack, it was not as prominent as the bow and matched knives. Curufinwë might have wondered that the Sinda had no sword, except that for a journey in the wild, the knives were doubtless more practical than a sword would be.

The newcomer slowed, closing the distance between them with caution that Curufinwë might have deemed insulting as recently as two weeks ago.

“Hail, stranger,” the Sinda called when he at last drew near enough not to shout.

“Well met, kinsman,” Curufinwë replied in his best Sindarin, certain by the look of the other that this must be Celeborn.

He could nearly have been a brother to the two who had been sent as ambassadors to Mithrim.

A single silver brow went up, surprised to be hailed as such by one who was clearly an Exile.

“Kinsman?” he asked. “I am speaking to one of the princes of the golodhrim?”

Curufinwë kept his face pleasant, though he liked that name no more than any of his folk did. If they could fuss so much about how their own names were rendered, they could certainly give his people their preferred appellation.

“Indeed. I am Curufinwë Fëanorion,” he introduced himself. “I have been traveling with my young cousin Artanis Arafinwiel who tells me her husband has named her Galadriel and she would answer to that now.”

Had they been meeting under other circumstances – as they ought to have –  the smile that broke out on Celeborn’s face at those words would have been most heartening.

“Well met, indeed, kinsman Curufin,” he replied. “I am Celeborn Galadhonion, and sorry am I that you could not be present at our wedding feast, for of her many cousins, I believe Galadriel has missed only Ireth more.”

He was now near enough that they could clasp forearms in the Sindarin fashion – something Finderato had written was a way of ensuring that the one you met was not about to draw a weapon. Curufinwë thought the gesture would be more practical if it involved both arms. While most elves preferred their right hand, it was far from universal. And his oldest brother was testament to the fact that with will and practice, one could become just as adept at the use of the left.

“Not as sorry as I was to have missed that feast,” he told Celeborn. “And I am sure Irissë will rue her absence still more when she hears of it.”

If she hears of it – who knows what news reaches Turvo these days. But if the news does come to her, she’ll plague her brother no end for making her miss the occasion.

“Many believed our little Artë would never marry. It was the wonder of Mithrim when she arrived wearing a wedding ring, and my brothers may well think the news a bad joke on my part, so accustomed are they to thinking of her as unattached.”

Celeborn laughed.

“That I can well imagine, for it was her independence of mind that first caught my attention. Such strength of character is not unheard of in our women, but it seemed more… unusual among yours.”

 “I would say rather that she is simply less bound than others by convention,” Curufinwë said drily. “She is hardly the only one of our ladies who can hold her own.”

Were that not the case, he thought,  both my mother and Silmë would be here with me – nor were they the only wives who refused to yield to their husbands’ folly. Ask your law-brother Angarato about Eldalotë, if you dare.

“But what has happened that Galadriel desired my presence so urgently?” Celeborn asked, less concerned about Noldorin ladies in general than his Noldorin lady in particular. “It is well enough to meet one of her kin, for until now I have known only her brothers and nephew, but I find it difficult to believe that could be such an important matter as her state of mind suggested.”

Curufinwë steeled himself.

If Celeborn reacted badly, better that it was him the Sinda raged at than Artë.

“Has she told you that her sleep has been troubled in the extreme since she departed Doriath?” he began cautiously.

Celeborn frowned.

“No, she said nothing of it,” he replied slowly. “Though I fear she would keep such news from me, knowing that I would be upset, all the more so at being unable to help her.”

Curfinwë seized the opening.

“Indeed,” he said. “I feared she had concealed it from you, for I myself learned of it too late. Had I known sooner, I might have realized that we should have been more cautious, and not trusted that we were safe merely because we knew there to be no orcs about.”

He had succeeded in rousing Celeborn’s concern.

“What has happened?” he asked urgently, looking torn between worry and confusion.

He would have known if Artanis had been injured, and yet he understood from what Curufinwë had said that all was not well.

“Is it true what I have been told about the one your people call Gorthaur?” Curufinwë asked. “That he delights in tormenting you, often forgoing a swift kill if it means more suffering for his victim?”

He could see in the other ner’s carefully blank expression that it was.

“I do not think you yet know all the words I would need to accurately describe the cruelty of that foul creature,” Celeborn said darkly. “What rhugar has he wrought this time?”

Curufinwë didn’t recognize the word, but took it to mean something along the lines of foulness.

With a deep breath, he plunged in, telling it all. Their foolishness with the wine, commiserating with each other about their absent spouses, and then falling asleep with no thought in their minds to keeping watch for their own safety. He left out that they had never needed such thoughts in Aman, for he was sure the other ner would add that part in himself.  (In his experience, the Sindar made no secret of their views on how well prepared the Noldor were for life in Beleriand, which ranged from disbelieving amusement to outright contempt.)

Celeborn frowned when he got to the dreams.

“But that was no trick,” he protested. “It was a shared dream!”

He reddened slightly, probably realizing as he spoke that by Noldorin sensibilities this was not a topic normally discussed with the male kinsman of one’s wife. Curufinwë had no idea how the Sindar viewed the subject, nor did he care to ask.

“Aye, it was,” Curufinwë agreed heavily. “Up to a point. You, I trust, would not have begotten a child without Art- without Galadriel’s knowledge of your intention – and her agreement?”

“Of course not!” Celeborn snapped, looking somewhat affronted. “The foundation of a good marriage is trust. How could she ever trust me again if I pushed her into something so important before she felt ready in herself to take that step?”

His outrage dimmed somewhat at the look on Curufinwë’s face, though his expression hardened.

“You seem surprised by my words. Do you truly think so little of us dark elves?”

“No,” Curufinwë said as soon as he was sure he had a voice to speak with. “My surprise is not for you wishing to wait for Artanis’ consent. It is for your words. I had expected you to say such a thing was impossible. That both would-be parents must intend to beget a child.”

Celeborn laughed grimly.

“I assure you that no matter what pretty tales you tell in your land of light, parenthood does not require the consent of two. It can be achieved if one party desires it greatly enough and has no care for the wishes or opinions of the other. How else did you think orcs perpetuated themselves in the early days, and indeed even now, if an elleth is unlucky enough to fall into their power?”

Curufinwë devoutly did not wish to think on such matters, and was abruptly thankful that at least Artanis had understood at once that it was not her husband’s will at work in her nightmare.

“What has happened?” Celeborn asked again, this time with far more worry in his voice. “Did an orc…”

He trailed off, looking as sick as Curufinwë felt at the suggestion he was dancing around.

“No,” he managed to tell Celeborn. “Not an orc. Sauron played us quite the trick. Artanis dreamed of you, I of my wife…”

He could see the realization in Celeborn’s eyes, but he made himself say the words anyway, if only because he needed to face it squarely.

“I dreamt I begot a child with my own wife, yet when I woke-”

“It had been Galadriel,” Celeborn whispered in horror. “She carries-”

“Yes,” Curufinwë admitted.

For a moment there was silence.

“As you said, it was not an orc,” Celeborn said, his voice sounding strained even to Curufinwë’s unfamiliar ears.

“I feel in some ways it is worse,” Curufinwë told him, unable to meet the other ner’s eyes any longer. “She is as a younger sister to me.”

“Even by Sauron’s usual standards, this is rather depraved,” Celeborn replied, sounding shaken.

“I ask no mercy for myself, but I hope you will spare Artë-”

“Spare her?” Celeborn’s voice cracked in shock. “What under the stars do you imagine I would do to her? To any woman with child? What sort of –” Curufinwë did not understand the word at all, for it was one he had not heard before and had no cognate in the tongue of the Noldor, “do you take me for? Or us – I know what you call us, but do you really imagine my people so barbaric?”

“I did not know what to expect,” Curufinwë admitted. “I have only been imagining how furious I would be had another violated my Silmë.”

He was surprised to feel a hand under his chin. Celeborn tipped his head up, forcing Curufinwë to look him in the eye.

“And would you, no matter how angry you might fancy yourself at this imagined ellon, dream of taking it out on your beloved wife when she was clearly one wronged, not one in the wrong?” Celeborn asked quietly.

“Never,” Curufinwë replied at once.

“No more would I,” Celeborn said firmly. “And now that you have told me all, I would see Galadriel. If you have been imagining such a dire reaction on my part, I fear she may also be thinking in such terms. I suspect she will have fears enough without that worry on top of them.”

Curufinwë nodded.

“She is just there, in the tent,” he pointed. “I have been keeping watch.”

“And thought if I were to react badly, better that she not witness it,” Celeborn guessed.

He started toward the tent where Artanis slept, then turned to face Curufinwë again for a moment.

“I am sorry we meet under such circumstances, kinsman Curufin. I think had things been otherwise, we would have been friends.”

Curufinwë nodded, for the thought had occurred to him as well. But no matter what else might happen, this would always stand between them, and he did not delude himself that it was something Celeborn would ever be able to overlook.

“Go,” he said gruffly. “She’s been looking for you for days.”

---

Artanis woke to someone kissing her forehead. She was all set to smack Curufin until she realized that it was emphatically not her cousin.

She bolted upright, and into Celeborn’s arms.

Beloved.

She took a deep breath, ready to tell him all that had happened, but she felt him shaking his head.

“Your cousin has already told me all, my heart,” he told her, holding her tightly. “I know.”

She had never felt so vulnerable in all her life.

“It matters not, Galadriel.”

If Celeborn’s voice shook, his fëa was as strong and sure as the earth beneath them.

“You will have this child, and he will grow up knowing he is loved by his kin. That is all that matters.”

She burst into tears, letting all the worry of the last few weeks out in a matter of moments.

Celeborn soothed her as best he could, only too aware that she had not wanted to beget a child, and grimly certain that her fears would not have lessened after such a demonstration of Sauron’s power.

“Shh, beloved. I promised when we wed that your kin were mine as well, and your battles would not be fought alone. I will not go back on my word merely because the skies look grim. We will weather this storm.”

“How?” Galadriel demanded. “Anyone who can count-“

“None aside from ourselves and your cousin can know when exactly I reached you. The Iathrim will know when I set out, and when I passed the borders. But who can say how long the journey took from there? A handful of days either way is no great matter. Children are not always born precisely a year to the day after their begetting, and with such a strong willed mother, who would be surprised if the child also has a will of his own?”

He said it with such confidence that she began to relax.

“Your cousin will hardly give you away – indeed, he seems more concerned for you than for himself. Who will think it anything out of the ordinary if we all continue to your brother’s halls, and share the joyous news on our arrival?”

She looked at him, the last of the tears draining uncertainly from her eyes.

“I believe we can do this, Galadriel. It is a shock, but not a disaster.”

When he kissed her, he felt the tension and some – but not yet all – of her fear melting away.

He could only hope that the presence of her brothers would ease most of the rest of it. It was beyond his power to give her the kin he could feel she wanted most – her mother, her grandmother, and her aunts – but he could at least see to it that she brought her child into the world surrounded by as much kin as could be gathered.

Hiding The Truth

Read Hiding The Truth

Curufinwë waited until evening before disturbing Artanis and her husband. Their marriage already faced more challenges in a year than most he knew ever had. He was not about to rush them when this was the first time they had spent together in two months or more.

He would happily have given them days, or longer still if he could. But there were matters they needed to discuss, and preferably before Celeborn got any foolish notions. He didn’t doubt the other ner wished to shield Artë, but he didn’t know what Celeborn’s idea of that might look like – and he feared any action not thought through carefully would make matters worse in the long run.

He approached the vicinity of the tent cautiously, as he had been wholly sincere when he told Artë he did not wish to think about her joining with anyone, husband or not – and he certainly had no wish to hear evidence of it if it were happening.

Fortunately for his peace of mind, he caught only the murmur of voices.

“Would the two of you care to take dinner with me?” he called, trusting that the answer would be ‘yes’.  

He did not know what the customs of the Sindar were, but the Noldor generally saw to it that an expectant mother’s food was prepared for her. What’s more, Celeborn, no matter what skills he might have at hunting or cooking, should keep close to his wife for the time being. Artë needed the reassurance, not to mention the support.

“Of course,” came the reply from Artanis. “Did you wish us to help?”

“No, I have the preparations well in hand,” he told her. “Half an hour.”

He hadn’t been idle.

He didn’t doubt that Celeborn was by far the superior archer – he’s seen what the Sindar can do with a bow, and archery here was more a vital skill than an occasional vanity as it had been in Aman – but one didn’t need much skill to bring down the slow, plump birds that abounded in the area around the pools. He’s bagged at least a brace every day for the past week. He’d selected two that had hung for several days and set them to roast earlier in the afternoon.

There were edible roots and wild grains enough about, provided one knew what to look for – and to be sure that animals known to have similar tolerances to elves were eating them with no ill effects. The early summer berries had been and gone already, while the late ones he recognized were only just coming in, but he’d found some nuts that would do for dessert instead.

He did hope that Celeborn had brought either ground grain or something that could be used for grinding with him, though – neither he nor Artanis had expected their journey to take more than a few weeks, and had not packed supplies for a longer expedition. What waybread was in their packs he had held in reserve against a true emergency, and the flour he had been using was running low. He doubted Artë would be pleased if she had to go without bread.

Well, they’d soon enough discuss what supplies Celeborn had brought with him.  There wasn’t much way around it. He intended to broach the subject of the future immediately after dinner, before the Sinda could set himself and Artë on any unnecessarily risky course.

The dinner he set out would not have drawn much praise in Tirion, or even in his uncle’s hall in Mithrim, but it made good use of what was at hand, and was nutritious enough that even a fretful father couldn’t fault it. (He was in a position to know.)

Artanis and Celeborn emerged from the tent hand in hand, and it pleased him to see her closer to happiness than she’d been the entire trip.

“Sit, eat,” he invited, waving a hand at the blankets he had set out to serve as seating. “There will be time enough for talk after.”

Artanis narrowed her eyes at him, clearly suspecting there would be plenty of talk, but pulled her husband down to sit with her.

“Still no fish?” she asked mischievously – and in Sindarin.

Curufinwë sighed, and not just because she’d made it clear what language they’d be speaking this evening.

He’d been avoiding that particular menu option, and with good reason. He knew perfectly well that Artanis could do far more with fish than he could, not to mention would probably prefer it done in the Telerin fashion. Curufinwë had never picked up much of that style of cookery – on the rare occasions he had ever needed something specifically Telerin, he had always applied either to his aunt or his law-sister for advice and followed their instructions to the letter.

“New mothers do not cook,” he pointed out. “But you would probably like the results better if you did any fish yourself.”

Celeborn frowned, evidently not agreeing with at least part of his statement.

“We’ve had fowl in some form every day for the past week,” Artë sighed. “I appreciate that you have prepared it a different way each time, but there are so many pools and streams here it seems silly not to have fish for a change.”

“Fine, fish tomorrow,” Curufinwë sighed. “But you will have to instruct me on how to cook it.”

“Squirrel or rabbit is also an option,” Celeborn pointed out. “Though I do not see why you think Galadriel should not cook.”

Curufinwë glanced at his cousin, but she seemed uninclined to jump in.

“If she truly wishes to, of course she may,” he replied. “But it is our custom to prepare all meals for new mothers, even if they usually are the cook of their family. Enough of a mother’s strength is going to her child that it is only sense for the father to do what he can to lighten her load.”

Celeborn said nothing, apparently reflecting on what he had heard.

“As to why Artë would be better with fish than I am, she spent enough of her youth in Alqualondë that she knows dozens of ways to prepare fish, all of which I’m told are far superior to we inland Noldor and our ‘fry it into submission’ method.”

“It’s probably because those who live in Tirion don’t properly appreciate fresh fish,” Artanis sniffed.

“Yes, we have to have them carted in, which means they’re not still flopping about by the time they reach the kitchen,” Curufinwë shot back.

Celeborn had looked at first as though he meant to intervene, but ended up suppressing a smile as it became clear that this was an old argument between the two cousins, with no malice on either side.

“You should have seen my mother’s face the time his father tried to prove how superior Noldorin cuisine was in the matter of seafood,” Artanis told her husband mischievously.

Curufinwë groaned, because he remembered not only her mother’s face, but her father’s – as well as Uncle Arafinwë’s exasperation, suppressed until after the little ones had been taken off to bed. Artanis had not been old enough at the time to have been present for that part.

The meal passed in similarly companionable banter, with Celeborn mostly listening, but occasionally contributing a well-chosen comment of his own – and bringing both his wife and her cousin to laughter more than once.

The more Curufinwë saw of him, the better he thought of Artanis’ chosen mate.

It made him all the angrier that they had allowed themselves to be such easy prey for Sauron. Artë’s first child should have been a source of unalloyed joy to the pair of them, and he should have been able to congratulate her and Celeborn and make something perfectly ridiculous for a child so young as a begetting gift. Jewel encrusted arrows, maybe.

When they had finished dinner, Artanis was the first to bring up the thought hanging over all of them.

“Have you given any thought to what we should do now?” she asked, making no pretense at delicacy.

Curufinwë nodded.

“It does not matter who the father that begot the child is,” Celeborn cut in. “I am happy to raise the child as my own, if you agree. No one outside of the three of us need ever know.”

“That would be the best thing, if it can be safely done,” Curufinwë replied cautiously. “I am glad to hear you say it matters not to you who begot the child. Unfortunately, I think it would matter to others. How sure can we be that no one would know? What of your queen?”

Privately, he doubted that the Sindar’s maia queen was the greatest risk, for he was sure that Sauron would be only too pleased to see that their secret could not be kept. But if Melian would know the deception at once, and worse, if she told her proud husband, who already had reason to dislike Artë…

Celeborn frowned.

“In truth, I am not sure. But it is usual among our people for a child adopted at a young age to form bonds with its adoptive parents as it would have to the parents who begot it – would that not also hold true, if the child knew me as father from the moment he comes into the light?”

“My worry is less the child’s bond with you than the child’s safety and Artë’s, should King Thingol take it into his head that you have been deceived into raising a child not your own,” Curufinwë said carefully.

He didn’t want to offend Thingol’s kinsman, but he needed to be certain both his son and his cousin would not come to harm if he allowed them to proceed with this plan. Besides, there was still another potential stumbling block.

“There is something else I must ask,” he said slowly. “Celeborn, you are light haired as Artanis is. Are either of your parents dark haired? Or their parents?”

The look of consternation on Artanis’ face gave him the answer before Celeborn spoke, and his heart sank. It would have been such a good solution if it could only have worked.

“No,” Celeborn replied, sounding puzzled. “Thingol’s kin are all silver haired, and my mother and her parents were as well. But why should that matter?”

Curufinwë closed his eyes. He had so hoped that there might have been even one dark head among them…

He sighed. There was no simple way of putting it.

“Unfortunately, it matters a great deal. Artë and I are cousins through our grandfather Finwë,” he began. “Our grandfather is – was – dark-haired as I am. His first wife Miriel was silver haired, his second wife Indis golden haired. Miriel’s son, my father, was dark haired. Indis has three dark haired children, and only one golden-haired – Artë’s father.”

“You are saying the odds are against the child being light-haired,” Celeborn frowned. “What of it?”

“Artanis’ father married Eärwen of Alqualondë,” Curufinwë continued, his voice flat. “She is the niece of Thingol, and silver-haired as are both her parents. Artanis and all her brothers are light-haired. Our uncle married a lady of the Noldor, as dark-haired as he is. All their children are dark-haired. Our aunt Findis has not married – at least, she had not when we departed Tirion – but our aunt Irimë married a Vanya, who is golden-haired as all his people are. Their son is golden haired.”

“You mean to say that two dark haired parents will produce dark-haired children, and two light-haired parents will produce light-haired children,” Celeborn nodded. “But when one parent has dark hair and the other light, there is no certainty what the outcome will be.”

“Precisely,” Curufinwë said heavily. “If the child is born light-haired, there is no difficulty. It would be unlikely that any would question he was your son, aside from perhaps the Queen.”

“The child might still be light haired,” Celeborn pointed out. “You have mentioned two such children, your uncle and your cousin.”

Might is not probably,” Curufinwë said heavily. “My father, as I said, is the dark-haired son of a silver-haired mother and a dark-haired father. My mother has reddish-brown hair, as her father does, though his is more red than brown. Her mother is silver-haired. Of my parents’ seven sons, three are red-haired, three are dark-haired. Only my brother Tyelkormo has silver hair. Further, my own wife has silver hair. Our son has my hair, not hers.”

Celeborn’s face fell as he absorbed the unfortunate fact that the odds seemed against light hair. That he did not pipe up at once with a counterexample was all the confirmation Curufinwë required that his logic was sound.

“All this is simple observation,” Curufinwë finished regretfully. “Given the circumstances, we cannot be sure that Sauron had not somehow tilted the odds to be against us.”

He wouldn’t be at all surprised were that the case – after all, what other ready way was there to cover the true circumstances of Artanis’ child than to pass the boy off as her husband’s?

“What is your plan, then?” Celeborn asked. “We cannot continue on to Nargothrond to await the birth as I had thought to do if there is a chance the child’s appearance will show plainly that he cannot be mine.”

“Indeed,” Curufinwë agreed heavily. “You cannot. Nor can you return to Menegroth, or go to our uncle’s halls in Mithrim. My own fortress is also out of the question, for that would surely occasion more remark than anything else, drawing the attention of any who heard of it.”

“You surely do not mean for us to remain here until the birth,” Artanis protested. “Alone! In the middle of nowhere!”

“That is precisely what I propose,” Curufinwë replied seriously. “Unless either of you have some better suggestion! This place is wholesome and should be safe, lying well behind the lines of defense our people are even now fortifying. With three of us, we should be able to contrive housing a bit more comfortable than a tent, and keep the larder well stocked.”

“Neither of you is a midwife,” Artanis said, her tone as frigid as the Ice.

“I have seen a child born,” Curufinwë reminded her.

“You didn’t do the birthing, Curufinwë” she hissed.

“I’ve attended more than one birth,” Celeborn replied bracingly. He met Curufinwë’s enquiring (and admittedly slightly desperate) glance head on. “I think we could manage. As your cousin says, there are three of us. And we have time enough to prepare for both winter and for the birth.”

Artanis was looking daggers at both of them.

“Artanis, I’m not proposing this out of embarrassment or pride,” Curufinwë told her crossly. “If you have another idea how to bring the child into the light without the world learning of how he came to be, I’m all ears!”

Her eyes said she was already plotting revenge, but the sour lemon expression of her mouth meant she didn’t have any better plan.

“And after the child is born?” she demanded. “How am I to explain suddenly showing up wherever you would have us go next with a son I inexplicably gave birth to in the wild? Without informing any of my kin of his begetting? It will be the talk of both peoples!”

“You go to Nargothrond,” Curufinwë said quietly, knowing she’d like the next part even less. “When the child is weaned, or old enough to wean. Given your fury over Thingol’s treatment of you, and the smothering you were subjected to in Mithrim, who would question you roaming around the wild for a year or two until your temper cooled? The only surprise will be the child. You shall say it’s a foundling. No one will know the boy is yours.”

Except possibly Ingo, who might see through the ruse, but he would hardly betray his beloved baby sister. And hopefully even if he guessed the full truth, he would cover for his idiot cousin for his sister’s sake.

That was a conversation Curufinwë devoutly hoped never to have. He was not entirely sure his lifelong friendship with Ingo would survive it. He has already lost Turvo’s goodwill for all time; he cannot contemplate losing Ingo as well.

“That would work,” Celeborn said slowly. “None would look for the father of a foundling to be anyone connected to you. And of course, as the boy’s milk mother, your bond with him would be easily explained.”

Both Curufinwë and Artanis looked at him in surprise.

Celeborn looked puzzled at their reaction.

“Do your people not know of milk mothers?” he asked curiously. “They are not common even among our people, but the concept is known to all.”

Artanis got the question out first.

“What is a ‘milk mother’?” she asked in bewilderment.

“No, I suppose you would not know, would you?” Celeborn sighed. “Mothers don’t die in your land of light.”

Artanis’ mental hiss was the equivalent of a stomp to the foot, preventing Curufinwë from disputing that point. At least one mother had died in Aman – had she not, none of them would even be here!

“It sometimes happens that a mother is lost while her child is still too young to take solid food,” Celeborn explained. “Rather than let the child die for want of sustenance, another elleth will feed it. She is then the child’s milk mother, and in the absence of any other close kin, she will keep the child with her until it is grown. The younger the child is when this happens, the harder it is for anyone to distinguish the milk mother from the mother that gave birth, for it creates a bond just as strong.”

Curufinwë frowned.

“But would anyone believe that a nis who has never given birth could do this?” he asked. “Remember, the child is not to be known as hers.”

Celeborn chuckled.

“Fortunately, the One was wise enough to arrange matters so that any elleth might do this. I am told the process is not precisely comfortable for an elleth who does not already have milk to give, but if the will is there, the milk eventually flows.”

“I don’t suppose it is precisely comfortable for the hungry child either,” Artanis put in tartly.

“No, likely not,” Celeborn agreed. “It can take up to a day for the milk to come in. Hunger is not pleasant at any age.”

“I suspect it is even less so when one is too young to understand what is going on,” Curufinwë muttered.

But it could work.

He turned the plan over in his mind. Manwë’s balls, it could work even better than he’d expected if what Celeborn said were true. He heartily thanked the One for not only milk mothers, but also for the Nelyar and Tatyar having mingled so freely prior to the journey – unlike with the oh so holy Minyar, there were no traits unique to either group that could establish beyond doubt that the child was Noldo, and royal at that.

“We bring the child to Nargothrond,” he mused aloud. “We give Ingo some story about having found the boy, perhaps near signs of an orc ambush. He might have kin somewhere looking for him, but we know not what kindred he comes from, and should his kin be Noldor, they would not be able to look for him in Doriath. Artë of course can’t leave him until he’s old enough to wean in any case... By that time, she’s attached, reluctant to leave him to the care of another, and concerned about who will look after him should no kinfolk turn up. Ingo being Ingo will offer to take him – and then you can rest easy, knowing your son is in the hands of kin.”

He looked up to find Celeborn nodding.

“I may not know Finrod as well as you do,” he said, “but I also think he would foster the child to ease his sister’s heart if he knew she worried.”

Curufinwë hadn’t seen Artanis sulk so openly since she was in her twenties.

“I do not want to leave my son with anyone else to raise! Much less birth him in the middle of nowhere with only neri to assist!”

Celeborn murmured something in her ear, but judging by her mutinous expression it was nothing she particularly wanted to hear.

Artanis rose to her feet, glaring at both of them.

“I am going to rest, and when I return, you two will have a better solution,” she announced, sounding every last inch Princess Artanis Arafinwiel of Tirion, before stalking off to her tent.

Celeborn exhaled with evident relief.

“That went better than I expected,” he said. “So, Curufin, what did you have in mind for housing?”

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Curufinwë sighed.

He wondered how much time Artanis planned to allow them to produce her commanded miracle. He faintly hoped she might have gone to rest. But he rather doubted it, given the huff she’d been in when she returned to her tent. He didn’t imagine they had more than an hour or two before she’d be back and pushing for a better solution.

Unfortunately, he just didn’t see one. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t given ample consideration to the problem already.

Celeborn looked thoughtful.

“When you said we should remain here, did you mean Eithel Ivrin specifically, or simply this general area?”

Curufinwë shrugged.

“I thought here, but I don’t know this country well. If you believe there is somewhere better suited to our purpose, please tell me. I have no doubt that you know the land better than either myself or my cousin do.”

“I do not object to remaining in the general area,” Celeborn replied, looking rather as if he was considering and discarding possibilities even as he spoke, “but I think we should move further into the woods.”

Curufinwë raised an eyebrow, waiting for the reasoning.

“This area is sheltered, but it is still more exposed than any of the springs deeper within Nuath,” Celeborn explained. “If we move further in, we would be concealed from any prying eyes, whether they belong to friend or foe. The fewer who notice our presence, the better. There are several smaller springs and streams that might suit our purposes.”

Curufinwë nodded in understanding.

Moving further into the wood also had another virtue. It would be unlikely any of their own people would think to look for them there, whereas searchers might just check Ivrin if Uncle Nolofinwë was sufficiently concerned about Artanis’ disappearance from Mithrim – and Curufinwë had to admit that was likely.

He was certain Artanis had left no word of her intended destination. If she had, they would have been intercepted in the first few days. As it was, he imagined scouts would be sent searching for her in all directions. They wouldn’t have to be particularly zealous to recall the Mereth Aderthad had been held here, or that Artanis thus knew the place well.

The thought of his uncle’s reaction to Artanis’ disappearance was almost enough to make him feel sorry for any of their cousins remaining in Mithrim. Almost. (Fine, he did feel sorry for Finno, whose prospects of slipping away to visit Maitimo anytime in the next few years had just plummeted.)  More to the point, reflecting on the subject made him uneasy as he figured days and distance – depending on how upset Nolofinwë had been and how quick to mount a search, scouts could well stumble on them at any moment.

With any luck, there would have been some delay before the search began in earnest, to allow letters to be sent to Tol Sirion enquiring if Artanis had followed her brothers. It should seem the most obvious destination. And the searchers would have travelled slower, not knowing Artanis’ intended destination, and duty-bound to investigate anything that seemed promising.

“Did you have a particular spot in mind?” he asked.

Celeborn considered for a moment.

“Yes,” he said. “There is small spring which gives rise to a stream that runs into Ginglith. Few even among my people know it, and it is closely surrounded on all sides by the wood. The forest is so thick there that even a spy looking down from the Ered Withrin would be unlikely to spot us. There should be material enough for building, whether we would construct a talan or a house in the manner of your folk, and it will be no great trouble to feed ourselves.”

“I suspect Artanis would prefer a house,” Curufinwë sighed. “She will have to forgo a good many things she should by rights have as a new mother. I would give her that much at least.”

Now it was Celeborn’s turn to nod.

“I understand,” he murmured. “I cannot bring her mother or her grandmothers to her, or even her aunts, though I know she wishes for them above all others.”

Curufinwë squared his shoulders. There was no point in Celeborn dwelling on what could not be. There was no point in any of them dwelling on it.

“Aside from our aunt in Mithrim, she could not have them in any case. Not unless the Valar were to relent and allow her to return West,” he said. “Do not reproach yourself for being unable to give her what is beyond the power of any elf.”

“She might at least have had Aunt Melian, and my cousins,” Celeborn said regretfully.

 “Unless she’s a good deal fonder of them than I think, she would probably prefer our cousin Irissë,” Curufinwë snorted, reflecting thankfully that was only slightly less impossible than his aunts or his grandfather’s wife.

Close as she and Artanis might be, he couldn’t imagine Irissë being much practical help – moral support at most. As an unmarried nis, she’d not been permitted in the room for the births of her niece or any of their other young kin of the next generation, only allowed entry after the child came into the light. If anything, she’d more likely be a danger to him, or have to be restrained from charging off to Angband to settle the score with Sauron.

“Is it possible to bring Ireth to her?” Celeborn asked hesitantly. “Galadriel should have her trusted kinswoman if it can be done. From how she speaks of her cousin, I think we could rely on her to keep our secret. I know it is said that none know where Turgon is to be found…”

Plainly he was hoping that story was only for the benefit of the Sindar, and the Noldor actually had better information.

“Unfortunately, it is said because it is true,” Curufinwë told the other ner regretfully. “None of our kin have any idea where they are to be found – if they did, my uncle would surely have retrieved his daughter by now. Besides, much though I love her, I would not entrust her with this secret. Less because I believe that she would ever intentionally betray Artanis than because I know she is prone to speak and act without thinking carefully.”

Celeborn nodded, and let the subject drop with no further comment.

“A house, then,” he said briskly, smoothing out a patch of dirt and offering Curufinwë a stick. “As I think Galadriel needs a bit longer to calm herself, we may as well discuss building. What did you have in mind?”

---

Safely secluded in her tent, Artanis hugged her knees. She was not going to cry again. She’d done enough of that in the last few weeks.

Hitting something would have been more satisfying, but there were no ready targets. Hitting rocks or tress would do nothing but damage her hand, and if she took her frustrations out on any of her own things, she was liable to break something needful. She didn’t have much with her, and what she had was going to have to last for the next year at least.

She didn’t doubt that she was going to hear about her fit of petulance later, from her cousin if not from her husband.

But it was utterly unreasonable to expect her to be pleased at the thought that she would bring her first child into the world as far from any other elves as possible, with none but Celeborn and Curvo to assist her. True, birthing couldn’t be too terribly complicated – the elves that woke at Cuivienen had managed it, after all, and none of them could have known what to expect the first time, much less had anyone more experienced to guide them through it. But it was usually a primarily female affair, an event for which one would be surrounded by kinswomen who had been through it already.

She hated Curvo’s plan, from beginning to end. She did not want to give birth here, she did not want to give birth with no other nissi to support and guide her, let alone any of her kin, and she most certainly did not want to give her child up or conceal from the world that he was hers.

Yes, fine, so she didn’t want to explain to the world that Curvo was his father, but Celeborn would not have offered to raise the child as his own had he not meant it. Why could they not go to Nargothrond to have the child? If he happened to be born with dark hair, she and her brother could surely come up with some way to conceal it. Although she supposed that would mean confessing to Ingo… and when she thought about that for more than a moment, she could understand why Curvo would rather not chance it.

She particularly did not want to conceal the truth from her son – yet that was exactly what she would need to do if Curvo’s plan was to succeed. Tell the boy that she was only the nis who had saved him from starvation or exposure, not the one who had given him life. Pretend she did not know who his kin were, even though she would be leaving him in the care of his uncle if all went well. See him seldom if at all for much of his childhood and youth- for once Ingo took a parental role, it would be remarked upon if she were to spend too much time with his son when she had not taken as much interest in Ango’s boy. (She had not neglected her nephew by any means, but she had not been constantly present as she wished to be for her own son.)

She tried to comfort herself with the idea that her child would be safer this way. Her brother’s kingdom might not be quite as hidden as Turvo’s, but very few knew the way hence, and those who came and went from Nargothrond did not gossip outside his walls about what happened within Ingo’s kingdom. If she went on about her life, returning to Doriath whenever Thingol relented as though she had no son, Sauron could not kill him as he’d threatened.  Even he can’t kill what he can’t find.

Perhaps they might even be able to delude the foul maia into believing that the child had died unborn. She was already a Kinslayer, after all – why should he believe she would shrink from one more death, when it would save her and her cousin both? She’s not sure such a thing has ever happened before, but there was a first time for everything, wasn’t there? When they departed Aman, the Noldor had never before defied the Valar either.

But when would the deception end? And what would her son think of such a mother whenever he finally learned the truth?

To her intense frustration, her thoughts triggered a fresh wave of angry tears.

She heard the rustle of the tent flap.

“If you do not wish to see me, I can go again,” Celeborn offered tentatively.

She shook her head miserably, and leaned into him when he put an arm around her.

“I am truly sorry, beloved,” he said softly. “I know this is not how you wish to bring a child into the world. It is not what any of us wish. But unless you would tell the whole world what has happened…”

“No!”

Her rejection was immediate and instinctive.

She will not put her child at risk. Well, at any more risk. There’s some risk just in existing in Beleriand, slightly more in being one of the Noldor, and more still in being one of their princes. That’s more than enough already without Morgoth’s right hand taking a personal interest.

“Then we must do what is necessary,” Celeborn concluded. “If it helps, I did ask if it would be possible to bring Ireth to be with you for the birth.”

She couldn’t help the laugh.

“Irissë would be terrible at keeping such a secret,” she said, trying not to let her nose drip. Crying had made it run. “She’d probably go riding hotfoot to Angband to demand Sauron answer for his crime.”

“Your cousin said much the same thing,” he chuckled. “I do hope I get to spend more time with her someday.”

Celeborn had met Irissë briefly at the Mereth Aderthad, when she had come to awaken Artanis and found the two of them sharing a bed – and not told any of her brothers or cousins. (At least, not that day. She had let it slip to Ingo several months later. Possibly on purpose.)

“Someday,” she agreed hollowly, though when that nebulous ‘someday’ might be, she had no idea.

“I think you might have to have the baby first,” Celeborn suggested gently.

“Obviously,” she sighed. “We’re not going anywhere until I do, are we?”

“Actually, your cousin and I have been speaking about that.”

She raised an eyebrow.

What more have the two of them been cooking up without her?

“I thought the plan was to remain here.”

“To remain in a wholesome and sheltered place where we will not be easily spotted, by eyes friendly or otherwise,” Celeborn corrected. “Your uncle might send searchers here. Curufin certainly believes it possible.”

Her stomach plummeted at the suggestion.

Yes, Uncle Nolo would be looking for her. He wouldn’t want another Irissë, vanishing without a trace – though he might well believe she had followed her. They were close enough that Irissë might have told her the secret.

“Where are we going?” she demanded.

“A spring I know of deeper in the woods,” her husband said, showing it to her mind to mind. “By the time the weather turns cold, we can be prepared to overwinter very comfortably.”

She didn’t doubt that. Celeborn wasn’t the architect Curvo was, but she still felt like it was somewhat dangerous putting the two of them together for such a task. At least she had an excuse to stay out of the way.

“And when do we depart?” she asked with a sigh.

“Just as soon as you can make ready,” he replied. “Your cousin seems quite nervous about the possibility of being found by your people, so we judged it better to be off at once.”

She looked around the tent. Breaking camp wouldn’t take very long. And in truth, she wasn’t all that sorry to go. Despite the joy of the Mereth Aderthad, her memories of Eithel Ivrin were now unavoidably bound up with what had happened to her and Curvo.

“There were good times here also, my love,” Celeborn reminded her softly.

“That is true,” she sighed. “And perhaps the day will come when they are what I remember first.”

Celeborn kissed her tenderly.

“I will help you pack.”

A Little Light

Content warning: pregnancy/childbirth. Nothing graphic, but if it's not your jam, skip to the end so you can get your answer about the baby. Searching on 'beautiful' should do it.

Read A Little Light

Curufinwë smiled at the mid-summer sun. The year had passed surprisingly peacefully.

The first few months he and Celeborn had been able to occupy themselves in building the house that would be their winter shelter. He had learned much of Sindarin methods of construction, and suspected he could use what Celeborn had taught him to improve the shelters in the outlying marches of Himlad. He was particularly intrigued by the ingenious stoves that minimized use of fuel while maximizing heat.

Artanis had needed those weeks simply to come to terms with what was happening. While she had been useful and nearly her normal self by times, there had been just as many days when she was so introspective that she hardly moved save when Curufinwë or Celeborn insisted on it. Fortunately, as the days grew shorter, she had found some semblance of balance. If she was less enthusiastic than most new mothers, she was at least fully engaged in the world again.

Autumn had seen all three of them putting up as much food as they could against winter – and he and Celeborn trying to convince Artanis that she should rest and let them do more of the work. They hadn’t succeeded as often as they would have liked, but they had prevailed more often than Curufinwë would have predicted. (It had occurred to him that Artanis might be learning there were some rules there was no getting around, no matter how she behaved. The process of growing her son and the energy it required from her was no different for her than it was for any other nis.)

They’d smoked, dried, and potted meat and fish, and dried or stored produce and wild grain. Celeborn had planted a few things he said could be grown through the winter – mainly root vegetables, but a few greens as well – in suitably sheltered spots. Artë had sung to them, coaxing them to grow somewhat faster than usual while the weather was still good. Curufin had chopped wood and stacked it at the ready for their heating and cooking needs.

Once the true cold came, they spent much of their time inside. Curufin taught Celeborn a few strategy games, and they used the games and song to while away the long weeks, keeping careful eyes on their provisions to ensure that while Artanis ate as she should, there was also no risk that the food would run out before the weather warmed.

By spring, Artanis had all but given up arguing the need for her to both rest and eat more than usual. With the return of the sun, and isolated as they were, life had been almost idyllic. They foraged or fished at need, and the days slid by without incident.

Things had gone so smoothly that Curufinwë had begun to believe against his own initial misgivings that they would actually get away with his mad scheme. For now, at least – he seriously doubted the ruse would hold up against their elders should her parents or his ever encounter the child, and he wasn’t too sure their uncle Nolofinwë wouldn’t see through it either. (Indis would certainly spot the truth at once if she came face to face with the child. Fortunately, the only way Curufinwë could imagine that happening was if the boy was permitted to make the journey to Aman.)

Then summer returned, and Artanis entered the most awkward stage of pregnancy. She complained often and at length that her entire body felt ungainly, bigger than she was used to, and above all – and this seemed specific to her, for Tyelpë had been born in summer as well yet Silmë had made no such complaints – that it was too hot.

It probably didn’t help that the house had been built with winter in mind.

“This is entirely your fault,” Artanis pointed out crankily, not for the first time that day or even that week.

“Indeed,” Curufinwë agreed. “It is indisputably my fault for insisting that we put up a small house in a Noldorin style rather than shelter you in a tent or on a talan for the duration of your pregnancy. It is also my fault for building with the chill of winter in mind rather than the warmth of summer. And while we’re at it, I admit it is also my fault we did not put a window in the roof that you might see the stars at night.”

He and Celeborn had had a spirited back and forth the previous summer about what exactly the building should look like. (To their mutual surprise, Artanis had largely left them to it, weighing in only on the occasional point she felt strongly about.) It had ended with Curufinwë bowing to Celeborn’s greater experience of building for conditions in Beleriand but adding a few improvements of his own to the basic design. It had certainly made winter more bearable – and more importantly to his mind, ensured that Artanis was not troubled by any reminders of the cold on the Ice. It had been tighter quarters than she was accustomed to, but comfortable enough.

The lack of window in the roof was a recent complaint, for she could no longer bear to sleep on the ground, which meant sleeping inside, yet she wanted to see the stars.

“Stop humoring me!” she snapped.

“Beloved,” Celeborn said mildly, “you have reached your fifty-first week. What else is he to do but humor you? It is agreed by elves of good sense everywhere, probably in your Aman too, that a father at this stage of his child’s life is to blame for any and all irritation or discomfort to the child’s mother.”

“You are no better!” she sniffed. “I am going to swim.”

Curufinwë managed not to laugh until she was out of earshot – he still had hopes of begetting another child should he ever be reunited with his wife, and he heartily wished to retain the body parts necessary to do so – but it was a very near thing.

His only regret about Artanis’ behavior in the past few weeks was that he would never be able to share it with anyone but Celeborn. Things that might have been irritating or even maddening in a wife were highly amusing in a younger cousin. And unlike Celeborn, he could be relatively certain he would not be subject to this again.

If anything, he was beginning to think the other ner should thank him, given that the worst of Artanis’ first-time maternal nerves were being vented on him rather than on her husband. Whenever she and Celeborn had their first child, Artanis would be calmer about the experience. At least, he hoped she would.  With luck, he might even be around to see it.

In all truth, his younger son was nowhere near as well-behaved as Tyelpë had been at the same age. This little one rarely let his mother rest through the night anymore. Artanis had been increasingly irritable for lack of adequate sleep since the forty-eighth week. Curufinwë was starting to worry that if the boy kept it up, he was going to end up with a mother-name like Uquildë, or whatever its Sindarin equivalent might be.

He sighed as they watched Artanis flop into the water with a sound of immense relief. The water would take some of the weight of her increasingly unwieldy body – and, no doubt, cool her as well. Hopefully that would improve her temper, at least for a little while.

“Take heart,” Celeborn muttered. “It should only be a few days more. I do not think this is a child who will take his time.”

“We can only hope,” Curufinwë replied tiredly.

Privately, the thought had occurred to him that if the child should be a late one, there just might be another Kinslaying. Artanis was more than ready for this to be over, and she wasn’t the only one.

Fortunately for all three of them, Artanis’ frame of mind was much lightened by her long swim, and she managed to get a decent nap before dinner.

Curufinwë reminded himself firmly when the next round of complaining started that it was nearly over.

---

Celeborn’s prediction turned out to be slightly optimistic. While the child couldn’t be called late, nor was he in any particular hurry. It was another five days before he made any move to come into the light, despite all encouragement from both his parents.

They had just finished an early lunch when the contractions started.

The look on Artanis’ face when she realized what was happening was almost comical.

“But… but I’m not ready!” she exclaimed, as close to panic as Curufinwë had ever seen her. She’d been calmer in Alqualondë, with the world as they’d known it falling apart around her.

“Artanis,” Curufinwë said with as much patience as he could muster. “You have informed us every day for the past week and a half that your greatest desire in the world was to not be pregnant anymore. The necessary step to no longer being pregnant is giving birth. It’s a bit late now to decide otherwise!”

She hissed in frustration as her belly rippled with another contraction.

“If this is painful, I am going to roast you alive,” she informed him in a voice that would have made Morgoth quail.

“I have never heard any mothers complain that birthing was painful,” Celeborn said reassuringly. “Longer than they would have liked, tiring, occasionally uncomfortable, and the word ‘undignified’ is used often, but not painful.”

“As long as you don’t try to fight what your body is attempting to do,” Curufinwë added hastily.

So far as he could remember, that had been one of the midwife’s most often repeated points when she had worked with Silmë to prepare for Tyelpë’s birth.

“Yes,” Celeborn agreed. “Though it may not feel that way, this is a natural process. Trust that your body will do what must be done, and don’t attempt to force it or hurry the process.”

Artanis shot both of them an absolutely filthy look.

“Wonderful. I’m in labor and being lectured by a pair of neri about giving birth. You, Curufinwë Atarinkë, had best hope I do not live to return to Tirion. Because if I do, I am most definitely telling your mother about this!”

Curufinwë dearly hoped that was an empty threat. His mother would be hugely unamused by this entire situation – and him being older, it would be deemed incontrovertibly his fault. (It didn’t help that his mother’s judgement would more or less agree with his own. He’s had plenty of time to think on his mistakes.)

“Why don’t we walk a bit, my love?” Celeborn suggested. “You are not even close to the part where you need to squat or kneel. That may be some hours yet.”

Curufinwë was grateful to Celeborn for the distraction, though he did wish it had been phrased a bit more carefully...

Hours?” Artanis demanded indignantly.

“Yes, I am afraid these things take some time,” Celeborn replied, offering her his arm. “If you want me to explain the process in front of your cousin, I can, but I suspect you Noldor think such conversations are somehow shocking in mixed company.”

Artanis reluctantly took his arm, and they set off on a round of the clearing, with Artanis occasionally stopping for a contraction.

Curufinwë had already heard several explanations of the process, and witnessed it at Tyelpe’s birth, but he suspected it was safer for all concerned if he allowed Artanis some distance until the child’s arrival was more imminent.

---

“I can see the head,” Celeborn announced what felt like days later.

Intellectually, Curufinwë knew it had been a mere ten hours. But it felt like much longer. He was sure Silmë’s labor had not taken so long – or had it only seemed shorter because they had been surrounded by their family? The only witnesses to this birth were the stars just beginning to appear overhead.

Though it was traditionally the father who looked for the first sight of the child, Curufinwë had agreed in advance with Celeborn that he should do the honors instead. Eager as Curufinwë was to see his son, he was not looking between his little cousin’s legs. He had chosen to support her instead.

Prude, was Artanis’ silent comment.

In this case, I am quite happy to be a prude, thank you very much. And I’ll remain one. I’ll wait until he’s all the way out, Curufinwë retorted. On that note, push!

With her leaning against him, he could feel the exhaustion she would have sworn blind to anyone else (with the possible exception of Celeborn) that she did not feel.

She was, though, and he could feel she was on the point of asking plaintively how much longer she would have to endure. The only thing holding her back was the thought that this was not a time to sound like a child herself. To Curufinwë’s relief, he saw Celeborn was finally reaching for the baby.

“Once more, beloved, and you can hold your son,” Celeborn told her confidently.

Artanis did as requested, and Celeborn caught the boy with ease, crooning soothingly at the newborn before he could cry.

“There, there, little one. I know that was not entirely pleasant, but it is over now. Your mother is impatient to see you,” he murmured, wrapping the babe snugly in the blanket prepared for him. “I think your father may feel the same.”

Celeborn passed the boy up to his eager parents.

“Oh, he’s beautiful,” Artanis breathed, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as thoroughly besotted by the newborn as any other mother catching her first glimpse of her child. “Look at him!”

Curufinwë was only too happy to comply. He was as thrilled at the sight of his son as Artanis. He was so happy he couldn’t even muster any annoyance that after all their worry and precautions, the contrary child had silver hair after all.

Of course he’s contrary, he’s your son, Artanis told him silently.

Mm. That explains his stunning good looks, he replied. And you have never been contrary in your life.

He suspected the only thing that prevented Artanis from smacking him was that it would have required her to take a hand away from her son, and she wasn’t about to do that.

“What are we to call him?” Celeborn asked with a smile.

“Look to his mother,” Curufinwë said, not quite keeping the sadness from his voice. This child would have no father-name, or if he did, it would not be from the father that had begotten him.

They turned expectantly to Artanis. Curufinwë was slightly nervous – if he had to wager, he’d lay odds on Artanis being the one in their generation most likely to bestow a mother-name of foresight.

Please let her see no darkness in his future. Please let him have a good name and a good life, he prayed to any Vala that cared to listen. He did no wrong. Do not punish him for my misdeeds. Please.

“Gildor,” she announced after a long moment staring into the boy’s eyes, one finger laid half-playfully, half-thoughtfully on his little nose. “His name is Gildor.”

Three To Make Ready

Read Three To Make Ready

The first few days after Gildor’s birth passed in a quiet, blissful haze.

Artanis, once the birthing was over and they had made her comfortable, slept deeply for the first time in weeks with her son beside her.

A quiet discussion between Celeborn and Curufinwë concluded with them agreeing to burn the afterbirth and scatter the ashes in the waters downstream, to leave no sign that there had been a babe born here. Giving the ashes to the water meant Ulmo might know, but between Morgoth and Ulmo, both Curufinwë and Celeborn agreed they would rather take their chances with the latter.

It had been a messy business – though no messier than the birth itself, Curufinwë supposed – but happily, they’d managed it while Artë and the babe were both still asleep.

Gildor woke first, but restless as he’d been his last weeks in the womb, he proved to be a calm and easily quieted child now, happy to be rocked and cuddled by his father and step-father. So long as someone was holding him, he was happy.

They let Artanis sleep until hunger made Gildor fretful enough that only his mother would do.

Celeborn looked so utterly charmed by the sight and sound of Artë singing what could only have been a Telerin lullaby while feeding her son that Curufinwë felt almost like an intruder. He slipped inside to begin preparing the next meal, and any tears he shed were definitely due to the onions.

The first few days of a newborn’s life were held almost sacred by the Eldar, a time of calm of which was not to be interrupted without good reason.

‘We made it this far, now we need to plan what to do next’ was not quite a good enough reason, yet Curufinwë couldn’t help musing on exactly that as he chopped, peeled, and pared. He felt some urgency about moving both his son and his cousin somewhere safer.

So far, they had succeeded with their plan, but so far the most they’d had to do was stay alive and out of sight. At some point in the not very distant future, they needed to move on to Findarato’s kingdom, and he couldn’t help feeling that the sooner, the better.

Only when they arrived in Nargothrond would they find out if this plan would truly work. Ingo was the one most likely to see through them, but if he was the only one, Artë and Gildor would still be safe, no matter how badly it might go for Curufinwë. But if anyone else realized…

He fervently hoped they’d find that Ango and Aiko were still off in their brother’s northern fortress. Ango had the shortest temper, and Aiko would defend his sister’s honor first and ask questions after.

Ango is probably visiting his first grandchild, Artanis said tartly. Or had you forgotten about Resto and Merelin’s daughter? 

He had, actually, but if Ango would be safely occupied elsewhere, so much the better.

“They’re almost certainly still at Mithrim,” Artanis continued, coming inside with a now sated Gildor dozing off on her shoulder. “I can’t imagine Uncle Nolo being eager to have them travel anywhere with a newborn.”

She didn’t have to spell out for him that she was in no hurry to travel with a newborn herself. He wasn’t either, in truth, but he saw little way around it.

“We don’t have to move on right this minute,” Curufinwë admitted. “But we shouldn’t stay here too long. We don’t want you to have been wandering aimlessly around Beleriand long enough to set tongues wagging when you show up at your brother’s with a child.”

The Sindar might take such things in stride, but the Noldor might wonder. And many of them were excellent at math. If they arrived at Nargothrond within the next few weeks, the timeline would still be tight enough that most would dismiss any possibility of the child being Artanis’ own out of hand.

“Why would anyone suspect an infant I claim isn’t mine is?” Artanis asked. “You do realize that what happened here is so odd that anyone who suggested it would be laughed off as a fabulist?”

“The less likely the truth seems, the better,” Curufinwë muttered, tipping the herbs he’d finished chopping into the pot to simmer with the meat.

“How much longer can you stay with us?” she asked.

He blinked at the unexpected question.

“You can’t leave Tyelpë alone forever,” she pointed out.

“He’s not alone,” Curufinwë protested. “He’s got Tyelko, who you know perfectly well is competent to mind younger children than him, and all the garrison of Himlad besides”

“But not his father,” she replied quietly.

“His father is rather busy at the moment, and Gildor is young enough to still need both parents for the time being. I’m not leaving the two of you until I’m satisfied it is safe to do so. I trust that Tyelko will remind Tyelpë he has to leave the library or the smithy to eat and sleep at appropriate intervals.”

He would doubtless hear about his prolonged absence from Tyelko, who had been expecting to look after his nephew for several months, not a few years. His brother had stong views on proper paternal conduct, and a father disappearing without notice would rile him. Curufinwë was in no position to truthfully explain his prolonged time away to anyone, least of all his older brother. And, of course, he couldn’t give Tyelpë a good explanation for his absence either, since the boy couldn’t know anything of what had happened.

He did his best to contain his thoughts, and hoped his face didn’t reflect his distress at the thought that Tyelpë might not meet his baby brother until Gildor was grown. Artanis had enough worries of her own that she didn’t need to deal with his into the bargain.

“How am I to explain your presence when we arrive at Nargothrond?” Artanis asked.

Curufinwë shrugged.

“Tell most of the truth,” he suggested. “That is your specialty, isn’t it?”

She glared at him, but couldn’t really argue.

As a child, Artanis had excelled at getting herself (and often Irissë and Ambarussa) out of trouble by the clever use of selective truth – she’d admit to part but not all of the story, and happily allow herself to get caught in a minor infraction to cover up a major one. By the time anyone discovered the bits she’d left out, it was usually so much later that to punish or even scold was pointless – if anyone worked out that she was the one at fault in the first place. Curvo, Ingo, and Turvo had taken the fall for their younger siblings more than once, as had Aryo and Aiko. Even Moryo had been roped in on occasion, despite being an adult by the time of Artanis’ begetting.

“You caught me sneaking out, and when you heard I was meeting Celeborn, you were struck with the desire to meet your new cousin,” she said slowly. “We were in no particular hurry to be anywhere, as we’re neither of us welcome in Doriath at present and I’d had enough smothering in Mithrim.”

“So far so good,” Curufinwë nodded. “And where does Gildor come into the tale?”

She frowned.

“Why must there be a tale at all?”

Curufinwë mentally braced himself. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t raise this point, though he wasn’t terribly surprised that she would. Parents bonded with their newly born children. It was perfectly natural. He wasn’t thrilled about having to leave his son either, but he recognized the necessity.

“He doesn’t have dark hair as you feared,” Artanis continued doggedly. “His hair is as silver as Celeborn’s. So why should I not keep him with me?”

“Very well, Artanis,” he said, “you keep your son with you and either announce or allow all and sundry to assume him to be Celeborn’s son. Why then did the pair of you choose to while away your pregnancy and give birth in the wild, so far from kith and kin with the sole exception of your kinslaying cousin? You could have been set upon by orcs or other creatures of the Enemy at any time. What kind of parents are you to expose your child – your first child – to such risk?”

She glared at him.

“We could not go to Doriath and Mithrim was too stifling!”

“You could not go to Doriath? Why ever not?” Curufinwë asked sardonically. He hoped she was taking the point that he was only posing the questions that others would ask – many behind her back, no doubt, but a few would dare it to her face. Thingol probably numbered among the few.

“Do you mean to say that Celeborn wouldn’t dare Thingol’s temper for his son’s safety? Or that you wouldn’t bend your pride? Was suffering our uncle’s fussing really so dire that you decided it was best to give birth in secret?”

Now Artanis was showing signs of true temper. Curufinwë didn’t like having to do this, any more than he liked having to entrust his son to another, but it was vital that Artanis understand that the boy was safest following the plan they had agreed on – what’s more, so was she. He pressed on.

“Even that being the case, it would not explain why you could not go to your brothers – any of them! If you could not catch up with Ango and Aiko, you know perfectly well that Ingo would never turn you away. And so does everyone else!”

“He is right, beloved,” came a soft voice from behind Artanis.

Neither of the cousins had heard Celeborn enter, but he had evidently caught enough to understand what was going on.

“There is no explanation that would suffice for my people,” Celeborn continued quietly. “It would be understood if necessity had forced us to travel close to your time and our son came into the light unexpectedly, the rest of his kin unable to be with us. But to have deliberately made it so when there were other options…”

The expression on his face suggested it might be an unforgivable offense, one that would make the break between Artanis and Thingol permanent.

“Nor do I think your brothers would understand such a remarkable decision,” Celeborn continued, deftly relieving Artanis of her sleeping son. “They would support you in far worse circumstances than having begotten a child while being unwelcome in our uncle’s kingdom.”

Artanis’ face was a thundercloud.

Remarkable,” Curufinwë repeated, pouncing on the word. “Remark being precisely what we need to avoid if you wish to keep your son safe. It is not only other elves you need to worry about.”

“It will surely be remarked upon when I arrive in Nargothrond with an infant at my breast,” Artanis snapped.

“It may be,” Curufinwë agreed. “But only in Nargothrond, and you will have a ready explanation for it. On the other hand, you arriving with a son you brought into the light out in the wild, having been missing for over a year, would be the talk of every elven realm known to us – and you know as well as I do such news would spread quickly!”

“If he were our son, beloved, there would be no reason to keep word of his birth from your uncle in Mithrim, or your cousins in the north,” Celeborn pointed out. “Much less our uncle and kin in Doriath.”

“And Ingo adopting a baby I found won’t be widely spoken of?” she protested with a snort. “I begin to wonder about your logic, both of you!”

“Ingo may mention in passing that he adopted a foundling,” Curufinwë said. “But that you found him need not be mentioned widely. It might be something to tell others in our family, but it would not be nearly as singular as you having begotten and birthed a child in secret would be.”

He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, “I doubt even my brothers would find it worth more than a shake of the head that you should have chosen to try your luck in the wild for some months, given the temper you were in when you left Mithrim. And foundlings are not unheard of – at least they are not in the north.”

Artanis still looked like she might cheerfully add several parts of him to the stew pot simmering away, but he could see in the slight sag of her shoulders that while she was not liking their arguments, they were getting through.

“He will still be with your brother,” Celeborn pointed out softly. “In a place you might visit as often as you choose. We should remain in your brother’s kingdom until Uncle Elu relents in any case – and that may be several years yet. He may regret his reaction by now, but it will take him longer to admit to it publicly.”

Artanis still looked mulish, but Curufinwë had seen defeat in her expression often enough to recognize it now. He didn’t press the point, instead letting Celeborn soothe her.

It was only after dinner that he returned to his question of how she would explain Gildor’s presence when they encountered the Nargothrondrim.

Artanis frowned, but did not reignite the earlier argument. Instead, she considered the problem.

“We can’t say we found him in Talath Dirnen,” she mused. “It’s watched from Nargothrond and probably from Doriath as well. If we claim to be somewhere they should have spotted us or his supposed parents, we’d be found out.”

She thought for a while.

“We came across him while following the Ginglith down, well above where it curves around toward the Narog,” she said finally. “That should be safe enough.”

Curufinwë considered that.

“That’s a rather specific location. Why there in particular?” he asked.

“With Turvo no longer holding Nevrast, it’s not unthinkable that small parties of orcs might come down the Lammoth, pick their way through Nevrast, and raid south of the mountains. A small party disappearing does happen on occasion. But orcs can’t come too close to the Falas, or to lands Ingo’s scouts patrol frequently, or they’d be noticed and slaughtered. It’s also not a place that would be easy for anyone to check into more closely – by the time we reach Nargothrond, it would be weeks at the least since we were there. Any traces of Gildor’s supposed parents, not to mention the orcs we blame for their absence, would be faint if not gone altogether.”

He nodded. Her logic was sound.

“Very well,” he agreed. “That is what we will say.”

---

No matter how much Curufinwë might feel it was best to have little Gildor safely within Nargothrond as soon as possible, he had never before contemplated traveling with a child so young. He wasn’t at all sure how to prepare for it.

Though she’d conceded the necessity of sticking to the plan, Artanis was still pushing to remain in their hidden glade several more weeks at least. If Curufinwë was nervous about travelling with a newborn, she was something approaching irrational on the subject. She had even broached the prospect of remaining there another winter, until Gildor might reasonably be walking – and been furious when both neri had shot down that idea at once.

Celeborn found the fretting of both his wife and her cousin rather amusing.

“You two do realize that there were children born on the Journey? And that here in Beleriand, waiting until a child can walk before going anywhere is not always possible? Of course there are ways to travel with an infant!”

He’d then set about trying to teach them. There were various forms of carriers that made taking a child on long journeys much more bearable than either Curufinwë or Artanis had imagined.

Celeborn started by showing them how to use a length of cloth to form a sling which might be worn by an adult on their front or back. It had the advantage of keeping the child close, in immediate contact with an adult, which generally meant a calm child.

He then moved on to a woven basket, which could be carried on an arm, or strapped to a back. But he also began work on what he called a cradleboard, which would be worn on the back of an adult, and offer little Gildor more protection from sun, wind, and rain than the basket. While it took a few days, it was considerably less time than Artanis would have liked before it was ready.

“It is still rough, and one can see that it was made in haste,” Celeborn said somewhat ruefully. “This one is terribly plain and undecorated. Normally a child’s kin would put much more effort into the making. But I suppose a hastily made cradleboard is in keeping with the tale we are to tell.”

Curufinwë nodded.

He didn’t say it aloud, but it would also be evidence to any who might otherwise be suspicious that Celeborn had been with them when Gildor was ‘found’ – he suspected few other Noldor had seen a cradleboard before, and it would not have occurred to him to make such a thing.

Thus it was that they set out from their hiding place a scant week after Gildor’s birth, bound for Nargothrond with all possible speed. Curufinwë couldn’t help thinking as they turned south that little Gildor, who was making pleased chirping sounds from his cradleboard, was the only one happy about the journey.

Arrival at Nargothrond

Read Arrival at Nargothrond

It was difficult to say which of them was the most relieved when Artanis finally spotted the landmarks she was looking for that signaled the borders of her brother’s kingdom.

That was to say which of the adults, since Gildor had showed every sign of enjoying the journey. Curufinwë and Celeborn had taken turns walking behind Artanis to talk to and amuse the baby while they were on the move. Whenever they’d stopped, Gildor had been the center of attention. If he had less family than a child of the House of Finwë should by rights have about him, the ones he did have were doing their best to make up for it, showering him with all the attention they could muster.

Confident as she’d been travelling alone when it was only her own skin she risked, Artanis had proved to be a very thin hair removed from paranoid travelling with her infant son. It had taken some time to convince her that either of the two other grown elves present might take a turn carrying the boy, for all that one of them was her husband and the other the child’s father.

The reminder that this far behind the defensive lines of the Noldor in the north and Thingol’s patrols in the forests to the east, there should be little chance of attack, by orcs or anything else, had not eased her worries in the least.

Curufinwë had been torn between chalking it up to first-time parental nerves – for if he was honest, he couldn’t say he wouldn’t have been just as on edge carrying Tyelpë around Beleriand at such a tender age – and wondering if there had been more to Sauron’s threats than she had revealed to them. Either way, he would breathe easier knowing they were safely within Ingo’s stronghold, and he suspected Celeborn felt much the same.

They still had some way to go to reach Finderato’s halls even once they entered the kingdom of Nargothrond. Ingo’s realm was the largest of the Noldorin territories, and his halls were more to the south than the north of his lands. But Artanis was confident that they would run into some of his people well before they reached her brother’s halls.

They followed the Ginglith down rather than take a more direct route, to lend credence to the story Artanis had decided on. She had been correct that while the land was not unguarded, the patrols farther north were fewer and further between than the more regular rounds made by Nargothrondrim scouts nearer Tumhalad.

The first patrol they met immediately turned into their escort, with others augmenting them as they continued. The guard station at the junction of the Narog and Ginglith provided them horses, making the last leg of the journey much swifter.  Since they were now travlling on horseback, Artanis switched from carrying Gildor in the cradleboard behind her to a sling in front of her. (Once again something Celeborn was the expert on, much to the interest of the Nargothrondrim accompanying them, all fellow Noldor.)

Curufinwë read Ingo’s anxiety plainly in the proceedings – clearly Artanis’ disappearance had alarmed more than just their uncle. So he was unsurprised that when they finally reached the stronghold itself that the guard that met them brightened at the sight of her.

“Send word to the king!” he exclaimed.

A young messenger scampered off at once as the guard sketched a perfunctory bow to the two neri, but turned nearly all his attention on Artanis.

“Your brother has been extremely worried, Princess Artanis!” he informed her.

“Galadriel,” she corrected almost absently. “If Finderato has been worried, it has been needless. I am in good health, and as you can see, have not only my husband but my cousin with me. All the same, you should bring me to the king at once.”

“Of course, Princess! And-”

The guard abruptly broke off as Gildor poked his head out of his sling, no doubt curious about the unfamiliar voice.

“My princess?” the guard asked uncertainly.

“Ask no questions here, for my brother should hear this news first,” Artanis informed him with a grin. “Look, Gilya, this is Nargothrond. See the gates?”

Their progress to Ingo’s office would have been significantly faster had Gildor not made himself known. Most elves were fond enough of children that any young child would have occasioned attention, but a young child being carried into the stronghold by the king’s sister was a novelty that everyone wanted to see for themselves.

Curufinwë was beginning to wonder if every person in the caverns was going to accost them to coo over Gildor by the time he spotted what could only be the door to Ingo’s office.

Of course, that just had to be the moment the steward of Nargothrond caught up with them to fuss over the boy…

Curufinwë sighed loudly in exasperation. Much to his relief, the noise caught his cousin’s attention.

“Artanis Nerwen!” Ingo said severely as soon as he caught sight of her through the open door. “Do you have any idea how worried everyone has been?”

He rose, no doubt intent on both scolding and embracing his willful little sister, only to freeze as though struck at the sight of Gildor.

Curufinwë seized the opportunity to hurry Artanis and Celeborn into the office and close the door firmly behind them, shutting out Ingo’s steward and his babbling.

“You-”

Ingo paused, his eyes darting from his sister to her husband and back again.

“You had a child?”

His voice cracked from the shock.

Curufinwë was hard put not to snicker.

“In a manner of speaking,” Artanis replied drily. “Stop laughing, both of you. It’s really not funny.”

Curufinwë glanced sideways to find Celeborn just as amused at Ingo’s discomfiture as he was himself.

“We came across him on our travels,” Artanis told her brother. “He’d been concealed, and we found signs of a struggle nearby. We searched, but found no signs of his parents. We couldn’t very well leave him there alone. Could we, Gilya?”

The last was directed at the baby, who gave her a toothless grin nearly as engaging as her own and burbled cheerfully back at her.

Ingo looked to his cousin.

“I sincerely doubt his parents will appear to claim him,” Curufinwë said drily, “But it may be possible he has other kin who may look for him.”

“He looks too young to take solid food yet,” Ingo began tactfully.

Curufinwë laughed out loud at that, and turned to Celeborn.

“You see? I told you he would not have heard of it either! It is not just myself and Artë.”

Ingo looked from one to the other in bemusement.

Celeborn sighed.

“I have already had to explain milk mothers to these two, and convince Galadriel it was something she was as capable of as any other elleth. Perhaps one of them should do the honors here, to see if they’ve understood properly?”

He raised an expectant eyebrow.

Curufinwë snorted.

“And here I thought you’d been enjoying getting the chance to show up the deficiencies of us wise elves,” he drawled. “So many holes in our knowledge…”

 “It seems some things were forgotten when you reached your Blessed Land,” Celeborn retorted with a smirk.

“Why must neri always complicate everything so?” Artanis demanded with a shake of her head. “Gilya, I mean to teach you better. It’s really not difficult, Ingo. It turns out that any grown nis may feed an infant at need, and I wasn’t about to let the poor child starve.”

“No, obviously not,” Ingo agreed weakly. “I take it Gilya is not his proper name?”

“Gildor is the full version,” Curufinwë offered helpfully.

“And is that…” Ingo trailed off, clearly looking for a tactful way to phrase the question.

“It is the name I gave him,” Artanis announced, sparing her brother any further discomfort. “It will have to serve. He is rather young to tell us otherwise.”

“Oh, of course,” Ingo nodded. “What do you intend to do with him?”

Celeborn cleared his throat pointedly.

“There’s time enough to worry about that,” Artanis temporized. “He’s not of an age to wean yet, so we’ll have to stay here some months, unless of course his parents should be found. Not that I am welcome in Doriath at present in any case.”

“I am not optimistic about the prospect of finding his parents,” Celeborn put in quickly, as if steering the conversation away from Artanis’ anger at his uncle. “We cannot even say with any confidence whether they were of my people or yours.”

All eyes turned to Gildor’s silver hair, which could be found among both Tatyar and Nelyar alike. His complexion, yet to lose the ruddiness common to most babies, could likewise belong to either folk.

“There was nothing with him that would give us any particular clues,” Celeborn continued. “The cloth the child was wrapped in is of no special make, traded widely. You would find similar pieces from the Falas to Mithrim and everywhere in between.”  

“He will remain with me,” Artanis declared firmly.

“For now,” Celeborn amended at once.

Ingo looked from one to the other and hastened to change the subject.

“Well, perhaps we should get you settled into your rooms,” he said brightly. “You will lodge together of course, and I will have the things needful for little Gildor brought to your quarters. I’m afraid you’ve caught me unprepared, I wasn’t expecting another nephew so soon!”

He managed a slightly shaky laugh.

“As to you, Curvo, your coming is also unlooked for, but a pleasant surprise all the same. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a bit for my steward to prepare rooms for you, unlike my sister I hadn’t made anything with you in particular in mind, though of course there are family guest rooms! In the meantime, I’m eager to hear how Artë took to motherhood.”

Artanis balled up the nearest sheet of paper and threw it at her brother, though not with any real force. Nor did she argue as Ingo handed her and Celeborn into the custody of his steward with instructions to lead them to the rooms he had designed with his sister in mind and see them and their fosterling comfortable before readying rooms for his cousin.

The steward’s brows had raised at the word ‘fosterling’ and Curufinwë trusted that unless the folk of Nargothrond were very different than the Noldor of Tirion, half of Nargothrond would hear that tidbit before dinner.

He himself waited until Artë and her husband had disappeared and the door was safely shut again before answering Ingo’s question properly.

“The boy can’t go to Doriath,” he said flatly. “Celeborn and I have been trying to make her hear reason on that score practically since she first fed him. But she’s as bonded with the boy as any mother who gave birth – and from what Celeborn tells us, that’s normal to be expected with a child so young.”  

Curufinwë wasn’t above hinting that Artanis hadn’t explained milk mothers particularly well.

“I shall ask Celeborn to go into more detail later” Ingo shrugged. “Perhaps after dinner. But if Artë wishes to foster the child, why should she not– or does Celeborn object?”

He looked slightly flummoxed at the idea, as well he might, for he doubtless knew Celeborn better than Curufinwë did, and was surely aware how good his law-brother was with children.

Curufinwë snorted.

“He doesn’t object to the boy as such, only to the notion that to take him to Doriath might mean keeping him from any kin who seek him. He spoke the plain truth – there is no way to say with certainty if young Gildor is a son of the Noldor or the Sindar just by looking at him. He’s too young for words or even coherent osanwë, so he can’t very well tell us about his parents, much less his people. And unlike you, who welcome all and sundry, Thingol’s borders are closed to all but the Sindar, and possibly not even all of them anymore.”

Ingo sighed, and his shoulders sagged.

“So she cannot take the boy to Doriath,” he said tiredly. “And of course she will not wish to hear that. Why must so many of our problems come back to Alqualondë?”

Curufinwë caught the unvoiced question his cousin probably hadn’t meant him to hear – why did your father have to resort to violence against my kin? And why must it be my sister who pays for it yet again?

“I was sorry enough that Father’s decisions had such terrible consequences before this,” Curufinwë offered hesitantly, “but seeing how Artë has set her heart so on the boy…”

“Done is done, Curvo, you’ve said it more than once already,” Ingo sighed. “It’s no less true now than it was the first time you pointed it out. But you are right about Thingol’s borders. Though if my great-uncle’s temper has cooled, I have yet to hear of it, so I imagine any decision on what to do about the child when Artë returns to Menegroth is some years before us yet.”

“You knew she’d been cast out of Doriath?” Curufinwë demanded, appalled.

“I heard – after the fact!” Ingo replied. “And was as worried as I suppose you must have been to hear that he’d sent her away but insisted on keeping Celeborn at his side! And there was not a thing I could do about it, being as unwelcome in my uncle’s sight as she is, and for much the same reasons.”

Ingo paused, and shot his cousin a keen glance.

“I also heard of her disappearing from Mithrim, once again after the fact. Everyone has been worried sick about her! I don’t suppose you can throw any light on that?”

“Not much,” Curufinwë replied. “She must have left at almost the same time as I did or just after, for she was at dinner with our uncle my last evening there. I had a notion to visit Eithel Ivrin again, and ran into Artanis and Celeborn nearby.”

“Eithel Ivrin?” Ingo asked in bemusement. “Why under the stars should you want to go there? It’s not exactly on your way back to Himlad.”

Curufinwë grinned and pulled the bottle from his bag.

“Thought to retrieve this,” he told Ingo cheerfully. “Of course, it was to have been all three of them originally, but I’m afraid two bottles are gone. I ran into Artanis and she introduced me to Celeborn, and I’m sure you can guess what happened to the other bottles. Fortunately, before we could open this one, your sister generously decided that it should be sent to Tyelko as a peace offering.”

“Clever of her to make peace with your brother using your wine,” Ingo smirked.

“Yes, I said much the same, but you know how that goes,” Curufinwë sighed. “At any rate, we lingered long enough in the area that winter was coming on, so rather than risk getting caught out by bad weather on the road, I elected to remain in Nuath, and they kindly decided to keep me company, having no particular place to be.”

Ingo’s expression was growing easier as his cousin spoke, until he was grinning himself.

“You might have let the rest of us know where you were – and where Artë was,” he said, with only a faint trace of reproach in his voice.

“I might have, had I been told that she had snuck away from Mithrim leaving no word for anyone,” Curufinwë shrugged. “But as Artë said nothing on the subject, the first I knew of what an uproar everyone was in was when we ran into your first patrol.”

“Oh, very well, I suppose it’s unfair to hold my little sister’s mischief against you,” Ingo said, shaking his head. “She’s made you the fall man for her doings often enough over the years. I’ll scold her later, for all the good it will do, and then I suppose I’d better show my ‘nephew’ off before gossip can get too ridiculous.”

“She’s a surprisingly natural mother,” Curufinwë told him. “If Celeborn can but convince her Beleriand is safe enough to bring a child into, I have every hope that Gildor will have younger siblings.”

Ingo laughed.

“Yes, well, as fond an uncle as you sound, I hope you and Celeborn will let the rest of us get accustomed to the notion of Artë as a mother before persuading her it’s time for another. I’m afraid at the moment, I still feel the only thing more remarkable than Artanis with an infant would be Irissë turning up with one.”

“Valar help us all if she decides to reproduce,” Curufinwë muttered.

Artanis’ favorite partner in crime was little more than an overgrown child herself, and one who had her father still wrapped around her little finger at that. The idea of her raising a child was slightly terrifying.

“Yes, well, we probably won’t hear about it even if she does, seeing as she’s wherever Turvo has hidden himself,” Ingo said.

There was something in his manner that made Curufinwë suspect there was other bad news.

“Out with it. What didn’t you tell us?” he asked, bracing himself for the worst.

“Uncle Nolo sent out searchers for her, in all directions, after Artë disappeared. Not all returned.”

Curufinwë winced.

“Who?”

“Aunt Irimë, Lauro, and the guards who accompanied them. They were last seen near where Lithir joins Sirion. But they vanished, with even less trace than Artë left in Mithrim, and the only consolation anyone can see is that Uncle Nolo believes that he would know if Auntie had been killed.”

Curufinwë winced. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well

“Drat the Doom,” he swore softly. “This is my fault. Had I sent word to Mithrim…”

It’s one of the few things he’s said to Ingo that’s completely honest. He hadn’t realized their aunt would be among the searchers. He would have thought Uncle Nolo would keep her nearly as close as he meant to keep Artë.

Ingo laid a consoling hand on his shoulder.

“Even if you had,” he said gently, “it likely would have come too late to matter. Uncle didn’t wait very long before sending out searchers. No matter how highly Artë may rate her own abilities, he wasn’t nearly as confident about her travelling on her own, and in such a state. Allowing time for you and Artë to have both reached Ivrin, any message you sent would have come to Mithrim after Auntie went missing.”

“It’s no less bitter for all that,” Curufinwë growled.

“No, but at least there is still some hope,” Ingo soothed.

Curufinwë could tell that Ingo said it as much for himself as for his cousin’s sake, so he chose not to point out that those who held the northern borders knew as well as the Sindar did by now that there were worse things in Beleriand than death.

Little Star

Read Little Star

Finderato watched his young ‘nephew’ as Artanis tried to both keep the boy happy and eat her own meal at the same time.

He had elected not to inflict a formal dinner in the great hall on her so soon. They wouldn’t be able to put it off forever – Artanis was nearly as popular with his people as he was himself, and to keep her in seclusion would cause grumbling even if she hadn’t just done something as remarkable as turn up with an unexpected child.

But he also hadn’t thought it wise to have a family-only dinner this first night either. Not when so many had gotten a glimpse of little Gildor, and his halls were surely buzzing about it. So several of his trusted counselors and retainers were dining with them in the small hall. That at least would show they were making no attempt to conceal the boy, or acting as if there were anything odd about his presence.

Well, odder, anyway. It was rather remarkable that Artanis should be even a milk mother as Celeborn termed it. Some of his people were Sindarin, for not all wished to remain behind the Girdle, and they seemed to recognize the term. He meant to ask Celeborn more about it when he could do so privately.

Little Gilya had silver hair and grey eyes that would not have been out of place were he Artë’s own blood, and a cheerful disposition. He was also clearly at ease with the three who had brought him to Nargothrond. The boy had better luck than many in these shadowed lands, to be spared whatever had befallen his parents and then brought to a place of safety.

He was amused to notice his captain of the guard was engaging the baby, allowing a grateful Artanis to finish her salad. Perhaps he should help…

“Here, Artë,” he said quietly. “Why don’t I hold him a bit so you can eat? I’m sure I haven’t forgotten how to keep a child that age happy for a little while.”

Artanis was slightly reluctant to pass the boy over, but he left her little choice, reaching for the child before she could figure out a graceful form of protest. He smothered the thought that she was as nervous as if the boy were her own, lest she catch it – and his amusement at her nerves.

“There, Gilya, why don’t we let your Ammë eat? You sit with me and play prince for a bit, there’s a good lad.” In a stage whisper he added, “All you have to do for now is smile at everyone!”

The baby squealed delightedly and did just that.

“He’s a charming one, isn’t he, my king?” the quartermaster beamed. “It’s easy enough to see why the princess is so taken with him.”

He blew an obliging raspberry for Gildor, who came as close to giggling as such a young child could.

Finderato smiled indulgently and booped the boy gently on the nose, provoking another not-quite-giggle, along with a burble of happy nonsense.

“He likes you,” Curvo pointed out with a lopsided grin.

“He seems to like people in general,” Finderato observed.

He decided not to mention that the boy felt like kin, like his own nephew, not some foundling. That was another thing that would have to wait until they were among their own. But he found it rather disquieting.

Was there more to the boy than Artanis had let on?

“I’m glad the young one will stay here for the time being,” his steward declared. “It’s too terrible to imagine taking such a young child on a journey. I can’t think what drove his parents to such a risk, especially when it’s known both here and in the Falas that the area he was found in is less safe than we should like.”

“Perhaps they were coming down from Nevrast,” the captain of the guard suggested. “Some do still go up there from time to time, hoping to find some trace of their kin who disappeared with Prince Turukano. If the child came into the light earlier than expected…”

“Stress can bring labor on early,” the steward agreed with a troubled look. “Perhaps they knew the beasts of Angband were on their trail.”

“Oh, please let’s not start that up again,” groaned his treasurer. “You did the topic to death already over the starter course. No matter what their motivation or how it happened, we know a small party traveling with a young child was caught out by orcs and likely killed.”

“Let us hope they were so lucky,” the quartermaster muttered.

Finderato and his guests had discussed in some detail at the outset of the meal where and how Artanis had found her fosterling, and he had resolved to send out an armed party with some of his better trackers to see if anything more could be found of the boy’s parents or where they had come from.

Celeborn had freely admitted that with only three of them, he and Curufinwë judged it too risky to search very long or widely for what had become of them – especially with signs of a fight so close at hand. They thought it more prudent to get the baby safely to Nargothrond as swiftly as possible.

Celeborn had also had to not only show but explain his handiwork, which despite being what he termed ‘hasty’ and ‘plain’ had occasioned much comment from Finderato’s lords – or at least, from the Noldorin lords. The Sindarin among them seemed inclined to agree with Celeborn’s assessment.

His quartermaster had actually offered to assist in the making of a better cradleboard, should one be necessary, but Artanis demurred at once.

“I understand from my husband that such things are used only for the youngest children,” she said. “As I expect to remain here some months visiting with my brother, I have every hope that by the time I travel again, Gildor will no longer need one.”

Finderato had privately resolved to make a Lindarin cradle for the boy, and meant to enlist Curvo and Celeborn to help. Foster or blood, the boy was the grandson of Eärwen of Alqualondë and should have the same style cradle as her children and her grandson.

The actual cradle they had all slept in remained in Tirion, but he had recently helped Ango construct a similar one for his granddaughter. Unfortunately, with Gildor nearly the same age as Resto’s daughter, they couldn’t very well pass that one from child to child as had been done with the cradle Eärwen’s brothers had made for her first child, which had later been used by Ango, Aiko, Artë, and Resto in turn.

Gildor chose that moment to favor him with a toothless smile, one he couldn’t help noting was a hopeful imitation of Artë’s.

“You take after your Ammë, don’t you?” Finderato murmured as the main course arrived.

Conversation turned from the mystery of Gildor’s parents and their fate to the ongoing repercussions of Thingol’s actions. Through it all, the baby somehow stayed ensconced on Finderato’s lap until the cheeses and fruits were brought, at which point he fussed until he was handed back to Artë.

Dinner rapidly wound down with fond looks from his lords and advice to ‘not tire the baby with too much excitement on his first evening here!’

“As if I could,” Finderato snorted. “He’s still young enough that he’ll sleep when he’s tired, no matter what everyone else around him is doing.”

He bid his lords a pleasant evening, then led Curvo, Artë, and Celeborn – who he really hoped to find a short name for before long – into his study.

Little Gilya’s eyelids were already heavy, and Finderato knew the baby would drop off once he was fed.

Even if the process of feeding was still a bit startling to him…

You’re looking as if I’d grown an extra limb, his sister said wryly.

Sorry, he replied. It’s just not fully sunk in yet, you with a baby. Even if it does look surprisingly natural. I don’t think anyone back home would have expected you to take to motherhood so quickly!

She laughed, but softly, so as not disturb an increasingly drowsy Gildor.

“Your uncle is very silly, Gilya,” she murmured.

“True,” Finderato agreed, “but only because poor uncle Ingo has not had very much practice at being an uncle lately! Your cousin Artaresto is already grown and just had a baby of his own.”

“Oh, we forgot all about Resto and Merilin!” Artanis gasped in dismay.

Celeborn looked concerned, as well he might, since Artaresto’s wife was his younger cousin.

“Little Finduilas came into the light nine months ago," Finderato reassured them, "and Resto speaks of wishing to bring her here. He feels this will be both safer and more wholesome a place for a child than Tol Sirion, and I wholeheartedly agree with him.”

Not only was Nargothrond’s location known only to a loyal few beyond those who made their home within its halls, it was much farther from Angband, well behind the protective cordon of Noldorin realms in the North. Mithrim had only the mountains between it and the wide plains of Ard-galen, which would be all too easy for Morgoth to cross at speed…

“Speaks only?” Celeborn asked in surprise.  “I wonder that they are not here already. I would be, were I in his place and it were my daughter.”

Finderato tried to keep his response light, though it was no laughing matter.

“I fear having just traveled with this charming little fellow, you underestimate how reluctant most Noldor are – and my uncle in particular – to allow such a young child to be taken on such a journey!”

Quite aside from the dangers of Beleriand, Uncle Nolo and all who had marched with him had too many bad memories of what had happened to the littlest ones on the Ice. The reaction at Mithrim to the idea of taking a young child on any long journey was one of absolute horror - in fact, he was already wondering if there was any way to not tell their uncle about where and how Gildor had been found, as it would likely complicate matters. Uncle was already objecting strenuously to the idea of little Finduilas being removed from Mithrim. 

Ango and Resto felt the risk of the journey worth it when it meant Finduilas could then remain in what promised to be the safest Noldorin realm until she was grown, but they were not the ones who had the final say. Ango had written that he hoped once his granddaughter was old enough to walk, they might convince their uncle she could safely make the trip in the summer, for he was as keen as his son to see his law-daughter and first grandchild as safe as possible. He had asked his older brother's assistance in the matter - and reminding their uncle what could still befall travelers even this far south would be the opposite of helping.

“I suppose my disappearing as I did has made things more difficult for them,” Artanis murmured ruefully. “I should have thought on that, and gone with Ango and Aiko instead.”

Finderato snorted.

“They wouldn’t have taken you to Tol Sirion, and you know it, Artë,” he told her shortly. “It was always a choice between Mithrim or here. Though you should have had an escort for the journey."

"I had an escort," she sniffed. "Or does Curvo not count?"

"That's not what 'escort' means, and you know it," he said firmly. "But Uncle would have been reluctant to allow an infant to travel no matter what.”

“If you want to regret anything, regret our aunt,” Curvo put in solemnly.

“Our aunt?” she asked in confusion. “Why, what could have happened to Irimë?”

Finderato would have told her, but Curvo took the plunge, relating what they’d discussed earlier in a few terse sentences.

Artanis cuddled Gildor to her almost defiantly.

“Aunt Irimë can’t possibly be dead,” she said mulishly. “Uncle would know. We would know, too!”

Finderato sighed inwardly. Would that saying it could make it so.

“We might not,” he pointed out as gently as he could. “And you’ve been among the Sindar long enough to know that ‘not dead’ isn’t always a good thing.”

Celeborn shot him a rather fierce glare, evidently judging his wife didn’t need such a reminder at the moment, but Finderato was unrepentant.

If Artë was troubled by any pangs of guilt or regret, he hoped it might teach her to think more carefully the next time she was tempted to do something so foolish. This wasn’t Tirion, and they weren’t children anymore. There were real consequences for their mistakes, far more severe than anything they’d ever faced or even imagined in Aman. He wouldn’t scold, but he wasn’t going to hide the outcome of her actions from her.

“I want you to write to Uncle tomorrow,” he continued. “What else you say to him is your own business, but I'm sure he would prefer to hear from you that you are safe and where you have been all this time.”

“I’ll write as well,” Curvo sighed. “The fault wasn’t hers alone. I should have sent word and didn’t.”

“As you will,” Finderato shrugged. “You should probably also send word to your brothers what has kept you. I can’t imagine they were expecting the annual message run to Mithrim to drag on this long.”

“Of course,” Curvo agreed. “I expect I’m due quite the tongue-lashing from Tyelko, and I’d best put in something for Tyelpë as well.”

“You’re not thinking of rushing off, I hope?” Finderato asked, worried that perhaps he’d given Curvo the impression he needed to hurry back North. “You’ve only just arrived, and with autumn coming on, I’d rest easier if you waited until spring to travel. The last thing we need is for you to be caught out by storms in Nan Dungortheb.”

Curvo snorted.

“I was actually hoping you wouldn’t mind me staying here, and picking your brain or possibly your map room if you have one,” he replied. “I’ve a mind to try going around to the south and east of Thingol’s kingdom rather than trek back north to take the road.”

Finderato smiled, following his cousin’s thought easily.

They needed to have more than one route between their lands – otherwise cutting off the road would cut Curvo and his brothers off from anyone but Ango and Aiko. And even there, crossing the mountains that separated Dorthonion from Dor Dinen or Aglon was not something anyone had attempted yet. Both needed to be investigated, and preferably now, in times of peace.

It wouldn’t do to wait until Morgoth was attacking to think about such things.

But rather than discuss such things in front of Celeborn, which might put his law-brother in an awkward position given his loyalty to Thingol, he laughed.

“I might have known there would be no sending you off when there’s a little one around,” he said cheerfully. “There’ll be no getting rid of you before he’s walking at least.”

“I’d stay until he’s grown if I weren’t needed in Himlad,” Curvo replied, answering in kind. “In fact, if you’re intending to bring young Finduilas here, I’d almost say Tyelpë should come as well, if this is to be where we’re keeping the youngsters.”

“He’ll be thrilled to hear you want to class him with the babies,” Artë sniffed. “He’s of age. He’ll probably be upset you don’t think he’s an adult yet.”

“He’s still a boy, and I’ll thank you not to rush him into adulthood,” Curvo said firmly. “You might as well call this one an adolescent!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she protested immediately. “Gilya’s a baby!”

“Good, I’ll wait the better part of a yen and ask you then if you think he’s an adult,” Curvo offered. “See how you feel about it when it’s your little one.”

Celeborn was trying to laugh without being noticed, but Finderato thought Artanis’ glare didn’t bode well for Curvo’s continued health.

“Peace, you two,” he said indulgently. “You’re both right – Artë, he’s technically an adult, but he’s a young adult. At his age, you and Irissë were taking it in turns with Ambarussa to see who could get in the most creative form of trouble.”

Her baleful look was directed at him now.

“You’re all ridiculous,” she announced. “Except possibly Celeborn.”

Curvo evidently had a death wish, because he chose to laugh.

“Celeborn agrees with us, he’s just too sensible to say so.”

“I really don’t know how the three of you made it to Nargothrond without bloodshed for all the bickering,” Finderato marveled. “Is this the secret to keeping orcs away?”

“Perhaps,” Celeborn smiled. “Shall I take him, beloved? He’s fast asleep now, and it would leave your hands free to throw things at your brother and your cousin.”

“Yes- wait, what?” Finderato demanded in mock outrage.

“No, thank you, my love,” she replied. “I think I shall put him to bed. And I may sleep myself. He is not the only one who has had a long day.”

The three neri rose politely as she stood, and Celeborn kissed her and Gildor both – which reminded Finderato that he could probably get away with the same, although his kiss was to his sister’s forehead rather than her lips. Curvo managed to sneak in a kiss for the baby as well before Artë departed.

“Well, that went well,” Curvo said with relief as the three sat back down.

Well?” Finderato asked in surprise.

“We’ve managed not to work her up about what will happen to the boy,” Curvo shrugged.

“Why should she be worried?” Finderato asked. “She’s welcome to stay here with him as long as she likes.”

“And when my uncle inevitably announces that he has forgiven her and we are welcome back in Menegroth?” Celeborn asked with a sigh. “At that point, not returning will risk starting the entire fight over again.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Finderato shrugged. “Unless you expect he’s going to turn reasonable in the next few seasons, I don’t see why she needs to trouble herself about it just yet.”

He paused.

“On the other hand, we probably should make a start on repairing the breach between us and Uncle Elu if it can be managed. It’s hopeless to ask Artë to write, but perhaps you might send word to Doriath, Celeborn?”

Celeborn nodded.

“I will say nothing of Galadriel just yet, but I will mention where I am. If he can’t guess I speak for both of us, Aunt Melian certainly will.”

Finderato smiled.

“You’ll write to Doriath, Artë’s writing to Mithrim, Curvo is writing his brothers, and I suppose that leaves me to break the news to Ango and Aiko that they have a new nephew.”

He paused in dismay as it hit him.

“They’re going to think I’m playing some sort of elaborate prank, aren’t they?”

Both his cousin and his law-brother laughed and wished him luck.

Two Truths

Read Two Truths

Galadriel heard Celeborn enter their rooms not long after she had sung Gildor to sleep.

Her brother had thoughtfully included both a sitting room and a bathing chamber as well as a sleeping room when he designed it. Ostensibly it was just for her, but she felt sure Ingo had known by the time he began building that it would not be her alone occupying the rooms. He’d been certain of her and Celeborn before she had been herself.

The thought didn’t make her feel any better about lying to him. If she couldn’t trust her eldest brother, who could she trust? And yet... something whispered that she dared not tell Ingo. He would never knowingly betray her or her son – but the catch was in the modifier.

She could almost hate Beleriand at times. She would never have thought such things in Aman. Then again, in Aman, she would never have been in such a fix in the first place. Or have married her husband… No, she can’t hate Beleriand. Not really. And all that she dislikes about it is Morgoth’s doing, or his lackey Sauron.

She did not turn as Celeborn came to stand behind her. He wrapped his arms around her, and she could feel the equally tangible love and reassurance flowing from him.

Do not be so troubled in your mind, beloved, he told her silently. I suspect it will be several years before you need to think of parting from the little one. Uncle’s temper is no more yielding than yours.

She sniffed. There was nothing wrong with her temper. Or with her not wanting to hand her son over to others to raise. Even if ‘others’ meant Ingo.

“We could stay here until he is grown,” she suggested hopefully, despite knowing all the reasons it was unlikely to happen.

Celeborn chuckled into her hair, knowing perfectly well it was not a serious plan.

“And when Uncle eventually climbs down from the very thin branch he’s currently perched on, you will tell him what? That it’s gracious of him to relent, but you are so taken with your foundling that you no longer care for the wonders of Menegroth? That you have learned all you think needful from Aunt Melian?”

I want to see my son grow up!

“You won’t miss much, my love,” Celeborn pointed out. “You’ll be here for his early years, and able to visit regularly after that.”

But to be so insistent as to stay even once you may return to Doriath – it would raise questions. If the idea is that he is safest hidden and anonymous…

She had no good counterargument.  

Gildor’s greatest safety was in not being her son. Not when Sauron was watching for him, no doubt devising a specially unpleasant fate for him. So long as he remained in Nargothrond, the outside world might not know of him at all beyond a few trusted family members.

She knew that, but she didn’t have to like it.

No, beloved, nor do I expect you would. It is not what any of us would wish.

Celeborn sighed, and she was vexed afresh to realize how much it upset him as well. He would happily have served as father to Gildor.

“There is also this, my heart,” he continued. “Your brother speaks of Orodreth and Merilin relocating here once their daughter is old enough that your uncle will permit her to travel. I suspect they will not be returning to Menegroth before she comes of age.”

She allowed that to sink in. There was more than one level to it.

On the one hand, if young Finduilas were coming to Nargothrond, Gildor would grow up with a cousin his own age. That was something she wanted for him – and that she did not doubt Orodreth and Merilin would want for their daughter also.

On the other, if Merilin was not returning to Doriath, Celeborn was in an even more difficult position. Thingol, whatever his other foibles, was extremely protective of his kin. He was going to be unhappy enough at the thought of his youngest grandniece living outside of Doriath. Galadriel was certain he would be outraged at the idea of Celeborn doing the same.

Not only was her husband one of Thingol’s most trusted lieutenants, he was the only child of his parents. Thingol was doubtless already uneasy at how long Celeborn had been beyond the Girdle, and how long he had had no news of him. Letters from Nargothrond would only partially assuage his anxiety.

“It is not just me,” Celeborn added softly. “When his temper cools, Uncle will remember that you are his brother’s only granddaughter. He will want you safe as well, if only so he can be sure he will never have to explain to his older brother how you came to harm. And you know as well as I do there is no place safer than Menegroth.”

“Nargothrond is nearly as safe,” she murmured rebelliously.

I think we must trust to your cousin’s plan, Celeborn told her. It has worked so far. I see no reason it should not continue to work.

What kind of mother does that make me? she demanded. Abandoning my child?

The very best, Celeborn assured her. A mother who would sacrifice her desire to be near her son to see him safe. And he will be. Your brother will take good care of him.

She didn’t reply, but she did lean into his embrace. She would do what was necessary, and they both knew it.

It didn’t mean she had to like it.

It also didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

---

In his study, Ingo reached for pen and paper.

“Do you want to write your letter now, or would you rather wait until the morrow?” he asked. “I know you must be tired, but I thought to get mine out of the way at once, the better to commandeer my nephew once he’s awake and fed!”

Curufinwë sighed.

“No time like the present. If you get your letter done so you can watch the boy, Artë will have no excuse to dawdle over writing hers. So I may as well have mine ready for the messenger as well – she’ll finish before midday if you take Gildor out of her sight.”

Ingo’s smirk said he’d already thought of all that.

“Besides, it will be just like old times,” Curufinwë concluded.

They’d both been made to write letters confessing various misdeeds in their youth. Usually by their grandfather, but occasionally by their fathers, and in one memorable incident, by Curufinwë’s maternal grandfather.

Ingo grinned and shoved a few leaves and a pen across the desk, positioning the ink bottle where they could both reach it.

“Except this time, we’re not in trouble,” he pointed out.

“This is why I love you, Ingoldo,” Curufinwë sighed, drawing his chair close enough to the desk to write.

“My stationary?” Ingo said innocently.

“Yes, of course, your stationary,” Curufinwë snorted. “Your optimism! Here we are in Beleriand, our language has been banned, you and your sister and brothers are on the outs with Thingol, we’re all Doomed, and Morgoth would cheerfully gut every last one of us. But according to you, we’re not in trouble. It’s a refreshingly upbeat outlook.”

“I was thinking of the letters of apology we were made to write after getting caught in mischief when we were young, and you know it,” Ingo replied with a roll of his eyes. “Oh, and being the devious one of us, if you have any idea how I can break the news about Artë’s foundling so that my brothers actually believe me, do please share.”

“Not a clue,” Curufinwë confessed cheerfully. “That one is all yours, Ingo. We can trade if you like – I’m only explaining to Tyelko why I decided to leave him not just in charge of our fortress, but as the responsible adult looking after Tyelpë, for a few years instead of a few months.”

Ingo considered for a few minutes before shaking his head.

“Pass. I’d rather have my brothers not believe me than yours breathing down my neck about irresponsible fathers.”

“Wise of you.”

They both wrote in silence for some time before Ingo spoke again.

“Why did you do it, Curvo?”

“Why did I do what?” Curufinwë asked absently, still deliberating on how best to explain to his older brother why he was writing rather than hurrying back even now that he theoretically could. Tyelko was not going to be pleased.

“Why did you go after her?”

Ingo put his pen down to turn his full attention on his cousin.

“I’ve thought about it, Curvo, and I don’t believe that you just ran into her and Celeborn by chance. I’ve already said all I intend to say to Artanis on the matter, so given you needn’t worry you’re getting her into more trouble, could you please give me the truth?”

Curufinwë sighed.

He should have seen this coming. Ingo knew about Artë’s selective truths as well as he did himself. They should have realized he wouldn’t take whatever the first story was at face value. Everyone else might, but he wouldn’t.

There was a form of truth he could tell Ingo, though.

“All right.  She snuck out of Mithrim the last night I was there. I heard her leaving and followed. I’d intended to depart in the early morning anyway, so I was already packed. I didn’t think it was any great matter to travel with her for a time, to be sure she came to no harm.”

Ingo nodded, as if he’d already suspected as much.

“Why not just return her to our uncle? This long journey leaving word for no one was ill-advised.”

Curufinwë snorted.

“I admit that leaving no word was foolish, but on the whole, the fault for it lies with me, not Artë. You didn’t see her when she arrived, Ingo. I’ve never seen her in such a state. Did you know Thingol separated the pair of them intentionally?”

He was relieved to see that Ingo looked shaken by that.

“I… had not known that Celeborn was commanded to remain behind. I thought he was attempting to smooth things over with my great-uncle.”

Curufinwë took some savage glee in correcting the misimpression he suspected Thingol had deliberately fostered. He also reminded himself that Ingo, having never married, hadn’t the least idea what he was talking about in blithely proposing a recently married ner would voluntarily separate himself from his mate.

“Your sister arrived with your brothers, and from what she told me when we spoke in Mithrim, she had little hope that Celeborn would be permitted to join her – and that was before Thingol decided to insult your brothers by sending two other messengers to repeat the message as if they could not be trusted.”

The hard line of Ingo’s lips gave him more of a resemblance to Finwë – and Fëanaro – than usual. That prompted Curufinwë to share the full story of how the court at Mithrim had learned of Thingol’s wrath and his ‘justice’, and how not only Artanis, but Angarato and Aikanaro had reacted.

“You tell me a version of the story I had not heard,” he said grimly. “I knew Ango and Aiko left Mithrim fairly quickly, but I had not heard all the details you gave. I suppose Ango thought he was helping the situation by saying only that they departed after Oropher and Belthil arrived.”

That he could believe. Plenty of people fancied that Ingo didn’t have a temper. The truth was that he simply had a long fuse and kept it well under control most of the time. Ango had probably thought that it would do little good to set his brother’s temper off again when he had probably just cooled down.

“You thought nothing of the presence of the two Sindar?” Curufinwë asked curiously.

“I thought they came to see for themselves how Merilin did,” Ingo shrugged. “Oropher is her older brother, Belthil her cousin. In their place, I would have been concerned, and I think you would have as well. Ango must have believed leaving some details out would lead to a quicker reconciliation – or it may be that he’s taking ‘forgiveness’ a bit too much to heart after my last lecture.”

Curufinwë decided it was better not to ask.

“Doubtful. Moryo still hasn’t had a civil reply, or even an aggravated ‘would you stop bothering me already?’ from him.”

“Shame. You might tell him he is allowed to complain to Uncle – the nonsense has gone on long enough that it’s getting beyond stubbornness. So we’ll chalk his leaving things out of his report of what transpired in Mithrim a mistaken attempt at diplomacy, then,” Ingo mused. “That part I understand well enough. But why under the stars did you tramp around in the wild for so long?”

“It was some weeks before Celeborn joined us at EIthel Ivrin,” Curufinwë said with perfect honesty. “And once he did, your sister was in no hurry to rejoin civilization. I thought, given the circumstances-”

“Someone with a clearer mind, somewhat more removed from the situation should be around,” Ingo sighed. “I can’t fault you, I suppose. At least, not for giving them time. For not sending word to our uncle, though…”

“I’ve already felt the sting of my foolishness, I assure you, Ingo,” Curufinwë sighed. “I could have left word when I went after her. I see now that I should have. But it would never have occurred to me that Aunt Irimë would be among those who went after her, much less that she would go missing. I would have expected Uncle to keep her as close as he meant to keep Artë.”

“I suspect it’s a bit difficult to rule one’s sister as easily as one’s nephews or nieces,” Ingo said drily.

“I’ll have to take your word for it. You have more experience in that department than I do, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon,” Curufinwë said somberly.

Not only did he not have any sisters, Makalaurë, the only one of his brothers who had married, had left his wife in Tirion – childless. As such, the prospect of him becoming an uncle seemed rather unlikely. Which was a shame, because most of them liked children and would probably be wonderful fathers.

“Cheer up, your brothers could make you an uncle yet,” Ingo suggested.

Curufinwë shot him a look that said ‘drop it’, and mercifully, Ingo did.

“I’ll just have to settle for spoiling little Gildor, and Finduilas should she arrive before I return to Himlad,” Curufinwë suggested, trying to lighten the tone.

“It will be good to have a pair of little ones running around,” Ingo agreed with a smile. “Though I’m not so sure Finduilas will be here so soon, not unless you intend your visit to be longer that I thought. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, of course. But I suspect it may take a year or two to persuade Uncle to let her travel.”

Curufinwë winced.

“Yes, I suppose we’ve complicated matters for Ango as well,” he sighed. “Does it help if I add an apology to your letter?”

“Not much, I suspect, but you can try. At least it’s you and not Moryo. I’ll just have to start every letter for the next fifty years with ‘I promise I didn’t have Curvo write anything in this one.’”

Ingo pushed the paper across to him.

“Did you want me to write something in yours as well? Tyelko generally takes apologies from me better than he does from you.”

“That’s… actually not a bad idea,” Curufinwë agreed. “Here.”

He paused.

“You’re right. This really is like old times.”

 Ingo laughed softly as they both started adding to each other’s letters.

Making & Mending

Read Making & Mending

Making & Mending

Curufinwë breathed in the smell of the workshop – sawdust, wood, the background notes of the various substances used as wood stain, and the faint metallic tang of some of the tools – as he would the aroma of a fine wine. Moments like this were as rare as a good vintage these days, and every bit as much of a treat.

He and Ingo had not embarked on a joint project since leaving Tirion. Not like this, working with their own hands. He was still somewhat surprised he had been allowed to help. The cradle was Telerin, after all, and not only were his father’s opinions on that subject well known, what Curufinwë himself knew about Telerin customs was minimal (and mostly filtered through Ingo anyway.)

But Ango and Aiko were away in the north, and Ingo had spoken truth when he said the work would go faster with two. Unlike the cradle that the three brothers had made and sent to Mithrim, this cradle was being built for a child who was already with them, so the faster, the better.

Ingo had shown him the plans he and his brothers had used. It was the work of a single afternoon for them to cut the pieces once they had settled on appropriate wood. After that, it was more a matter of thrashing out the decoration of it than anything else. The actual assembly was simple enough that an apprentice could have done it unaided. (Ingo had dithered between trying to recreate the design on the cradle that was no doubt still sitting in Ango’s house in Tirion or creating a new one for Gildor. He’d given way when Curufinwë had drawn from him the detail that Finduilas’ cradle wasn’t identical to the one her father and grandfather had used either.)

Ingo insisted on sea accents, of course, but it wasn’t as though they could wait for a messenger to go to Cirdan’s port and back for the seaweeds that would normally be used to stain the wood as Ingo wanted. So Curufinwë had sighed and demanded a guide take him around the environs of Nargothrond, where he’d harvested samples of grasses, berries, and tree bark in the hopes of coming up with acceptable substitutes.

Ingo had laughed and left him to his investigation with the caveat that he was only allowed two days – they didn’t have forever for him to experiment until he found a perfect solution. After that, if he hadn’t come up with something, they’d just have to use lacquer, non-traditional though it would be. The Lindarin customs of Aman would have to adapt to their situation in Beleriand, little though anyone liked the idea.

While Ingo applied himself to carving birds and stars to assemble into a mobile to hang above the cradle, Curufinwë ran a quick series of tests which determined that the blues could be produced by a non-edible berry that grew on a type of evergreen tree, while the greens and browns could be made from a variety of rivergrass, depending on the freshness of the grass and dilution of the pigment.

Admittedly, he had cheated just a little – he’d asked Celeborn’s opinion on the subject first. After a year in the Sinda’s company, he wasn’t fool enough to think the man couldn’t save considerable time by pointing him in the right direction. (Celeborn had been as interested in Telerin notions of cradles as the Noldor had been by cradleboards. Curufinwë had pointed out that if he wanted to know, he could stop by Ingo’s workshop. Or just be patient, as he’d no doubt get to see the finished piece.)

Curufinwë had thus been able to report his results to Ingo after only one day, and the two of them had carefully stained the wood and then inlaid accents of silver, pearl, and shell once it was dry.

The finished cradle was fit for a prince of Alqualondë – a serene little boat sailing on placid, pearl and silverfish studded seas. Ingo’s star and seabirds mobile completed the sea theme when hung above it on the canopy hook.

His father would have a fit at the idea of a grandson of his in such a thing. Artë would love it. Curufinwë thought it was the best thing he’d made in at least a decade if not longer.

Ingo beamed as they carried it into Artanis’ rooms, where they found her finishing up a letter. Celeborn was holding a sleeping Gildor, and from the looks of it, close to dozing off himself.

“Look, Artë!” Ingo called.

She looked up, then surprised them both by bursting into tears at the sight of the cradle.

Ingo gave Curufinwë a startled and slightly helpless look. It served as a rather forceful reminder that Ingo had yet to experience his own mate being more emotionally volatile than usual thanks to the wonders of maternal hormones.

He knew Artanis was generally annoyed, both at the time and in retrospect, by this facet of biology applying as much to her as it did any other nis. The first time it had happened, she had been glaring at him and weeping simultaneously.

There was no glaring this time. Curufinwë wasn’t entirely sure what had prompted the tearful reaction.  Much like Ingo, he’d expected she would be thrilled, but this seemed more like the opposite.

“Artë?” he asked cautiously, when it became obvious that Ingo was waiting for him to take the lead. “What’s wrong?”

Her barely understandable ‘nothing’ would have been unconvincing even if it hadn’t been part of a renewed flood.

Curufinwë shot a pointed look at Ingo. Artë was Ingo’s baby sister – not to mention favorite younger sibling – so he ought to be more useful than this. He was also much better at the whole hugs and hand-holding thing! Celeborn at least had the excuse that he had a sleeping baby in his arms.

“Given that you rarely cry and you’re about a hair from distraught, I think we deserve more of an answer than ‘nothing’,” Curufinwë said with a sigh. “Care to try again? With maybe a tad more honesty this time?”

Ingo’s expression now was aghast as his lack of tact or gentleness, but if Ingo had wanted tact or gentle, he should have taken the plunge himself – or taken the baby from Celeborn to leave him free to comfort his mate.

“It’s beautiful,” Artë sobbed. “It’s so like the one we had when we were little, back home. But why go through all this trouble when you know perfectly well I can’t keep him? It’s cruel to give a gift like this!”

Curufinwë had seen enough of Artanis’ ploys to get herself and her co-conspirators out of trouble in her youth to wonder if this was genuine emotion, or a sliver of genuine emotion being amplified for effect. He was leaning toward the latter, but couldn’t completely rule out the former.

Poor Ingo was perplexed.

“I don’t understand,” he said, beginning to sound upset himself. “He’s your milk son – from all that Celeborn has told us, that makes him my nephew as surely as if you’d borne him! Why shouldn’t he have the same cradle any child of yours would? We already made a similar one for Resto’s girl! Gildor’s can be handed down to his younger siblings, whenever you have them.”

Ingo’s mind was full of certainty that the boy – when he was older, of course – would be just as thrilled to be a big brother as Ingo himself had been, and eager to pass something so meaningful to his infant brother or sister. There was a rather touching memory of Ingo singing lullabies to baby Artë, paired with a nebulous vision of Gildor doing the same for a little sister in a hazy someday.

Curufinwë winced internally. He suspected the fresh spate of tears in response to that was genuine. So much for Ingo helping…

 “I don’t think anyone believed you would give up your ‘firstborn’ quite so soon,” he drawled. “I expect you will see him through his cradle years. As such, having an actual cradle seems more useful than not. And we’re certainly not suggesting you abandon him in the wilderness! What do you imagine Celeborn had in mind when he said ‘it will be better if the child remains in Nargothrond’ if not your brother?”

That is what this is all about?” Ingo asked, radiating nothing but surprise. “Artë, really! How could you think for even a second I would leave little Gildor to anyone else’s care? He is yours, of course I will look after him whenever you are called back to Doriath! But I don’t think you need worry about it for some months yet, surely?”

“There, you see?” Celeborn said, finally joining in the effort to soothe her. “I have told you more than once there was nothing to worry about. Your brother is right – it’s unlikely we will leave before next winter at the absolute earliest, and perhaps not for another several years. Little Gildor will be walking, talking, and likely making your brother re-consider whether he acted hastily in offering to look after him before we seriously think of returning to Menegroth.”

“You speak as though I have no idea what I’m getting into,” Ingo sniffed. “I have been around young children before – including your wife.”

“Yes, but that was in Aman,” Celeborn smirked. “This one will be toddling about in Beleriand, specifically here in Nargothrond, where you could easily lose him down the lower corridors, or-”

“Enough,” Curufinwë growled. “Children get into mishaps on both sides of the Sea, there’s no sense trying to list out all the ways he’ll end up worrying his parents.”

“Usually you Amanyar are the first to point out how much safer everyone was in Aman,” Celeborn shrugged.

Ingo appeared to have entirely tuned them out. If he had to guess, Curufinwë would bet he had been holding a conversation of his own with Artë.

“Ingo?” Curufinwë prompted. “Anything to add?”

“I could announce I’m adopting him,” Ingo mused. “Then no one at all could dispute the propriety of him remaining here after you depart.”

Curufinwë couldn’t imagine who would, even without a formal adoption– Ingo’s people were already taken with their ‘little prince’, and neither the Noldor nor the Sindar among them found it the least bit odd that Ingo was as well. Given the way the Sindar seemed to regard it as sensible to have more kin than just the parents involved in a child’s life, it would raise no eyebrows at all for Ingo to stand in place of a parent if the boy’s ‘mother’ felt he ought not go to Doriath. That might even be explained as wanting to shield him from Thingol’s temper…

A formal adoption would also mean any talk about Gildor beyond Nargothrond would be of him as Ingo’s son, not Artë’s. If Artanis were mentioned at all, it would be only quietly among their cousins and possibly to their uncle. It would be far more remarkable to the Noldor that Ingo should be a parent than Artanis, given that she was married and he was not.

From his experience with the gossip mill of Tirion, Curufinwë doubted who found the boy or served as his milk mother would come up at all, for it would pale in comparison to a bachelor prince announcing he had a son. Even if Artë were mentioned, he was willing to bet that would be brushed aside as anyone inclined to think they weren’t hearing the full truth came to a deliciously scandalous conclusion about the wrong child of Arafinwë. Artanis covering for her brother would seem far more likely than Ingo covering for her.

“Yes,” Ingo continued, blissfully unaware of his cousin’s thoughts. “That would be best, I think.”

Curufinwë winced internally, realizing he would need to enlighten Ingo what rumors he might be letting himself in for. He was certain no such thing would have occurred to honorable, honest Ingo. He really should have realized that potential aspect of his ‘solution’ sooner, but he had been so focused on protecting both Artanis and their son.

“It would make clear that I stand as his father,” Ingo continued. “And of course, you would not have to worry about him being sent to Tol Sirion or Dorthonion, for his natural place would be here, ensuring the kingdom functioned properly in my absence. Who else would I look to when I need a regent but my son? At worst, I might send him occasionally to Hithlum or the Falas as a messenger.”

Curufinwë beamed at his cousin. He had expected it would take some careful prompting to get Ingo to offer what both he and Artanis wanted most for Gildor – the assurance the boy would be kept safely within Nargothrond, not sent further north. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t so shocking. They’d already been discussing much the same thing when speaking of little Finduilas.

The idea of Gildor as king of Nargothrond should Ingo fall was admittedly rather disturbing, but Curufinwë decided he could wait to worry about that if – definitely if, not when – it was a more immediate worry.  

For now it was enough that Ingo had said it. Artanis was swiftly subsiding into somewhat embarrassed sniffles, and muttering about ‘being silly’.

But in Curufinwë’s view, worrying about her son and doing whatever was necessary to protect him wasn’t silly at all.

---

Galadriel hated this. She hated having to give her son away, even to her brother, the person she trusted most in Beleriand aside from her husband. She resented being not in control of her life. And she absolutely hated that she cried at the drop of a hat these days, leading to her brother and cousin thinking she was just as silly as any empty-headed court hen in Tirion who only worried about the latest gossip.

She deeply appreciated the cradle. It was newly made, but as close to the one she remembered from her own childhood as Curvo and Ingo could make it. It was beautiful, and the most of home and normalcy as she had seen since leaving Mithrim. She was surprised Ingo and Curvo had thought it worth wasting time on something so unimportant. It hadn’t occurred to her that her big brother would think her ‘milk-son’ as much a part of family tradition as their nephew’s daughter.

But it had also been a forceful reminder of just how much Gildor would lack compared to what she and her brothers had as children. It would be much more than just not knowing the parents who had begotten him loved and adored him and were there for him daily. There would be no grandparents, no fond aunts and uncles right at hand, no Rumil seeing to his education and ensuring he could go toe to toe intellectually with anyone from Fëanaro himself on down. No freedom to come and go as he would, tearing about the countryside with no worries. No pack of siblings and cousins.

If Gildor was lucky, he would have one cousin, but even that was no sure thing. She knew Uncle Nolo would have final say there, no matter what Ingo and Ango thought, and Uncle was now far too nervous to like the idea of sending a young child anywhere beyond the safety of Mithrim.

She’d been writing to Merilin when they brought the cradle in – part congratulations, part sincere apology. She was sure Merilin would rather be in Nargothrond than Mithrim in light of the Ban, even more so now with her baby daughter to think of.  

She had already written to Uncle Nolo as her brother had asked. The reply had arrived that morning – just long enough for couriers to make the trip to Mithrim and back. She was thankful it had been her brother’s people and not her uncle’s bearing the letter. Uncle’s couriers would have been more curious about…everything.

To say her uncle was angry might be an understatement. The passages about her thoughtlessness had been as strong as anything she’d ever heard from her father or grandmothers. At least she knew Uncle Nolo was also relieved to hear she had turned up safe and well – reading between the lines, it was more than he’d dared to hope.

If anything, Ingo had played down how worried Uncle had been. His anger was not the same as Thingol’s anger. He was angry because she’d frightened him, badly. He’d lost his sister, and had believed for a time that he had lost her as well. She suspected the only thing stopping Uncle Nolo from demanding she return to Mithrim immediately was that he didn’t want her wandering the land again now that she was somewhere safer.

There was much to do to repair the shock her ‘disappearance’ had sent through the Noldor, not to mention the rupture with Thingol that had been the catalyst in the first place. Though she wasn’t ready to start on that just yet. At least, not with Doriath’s king.

Celeborn had written to Thingol and Melian.  Galadriel knew his letter was far more conciliatory than anything she was capable of producing right now. But she couldn’t put off writing to them forever. She had thought about penning something to Aunt Melian, but had decided that Nimloth was the better choice. Nimmy would report to their mutual great-uncle, but she would also understand.

Galadriel had kept her silence for the sake of her uncle – not half, but whole – and her cousins and her brothers. In light of her great-uncle’s idea of justice, she didn’t regret it. His reaction would not have been any more temperate if he’d been told when they first reached Menegroth. She saw no reason to apologize for doing what needed to be done to shield her family and her people, not when Thingol punished all alike, regardless of guilt or innocence. Nor did she find it easy to look past the position he’d put her and her brothers in, once again viewed with suspicion by their kin on both sides.

Thingol would regret his swift temper and treatment of his younger kin well before she found it in her heart to forgive him for it. He would also want her back behind the safety of the Girdle sooner than she would wish to go. She’d had long enough to think to conclude that would have been true even if she didn’t have a son to worry about.

As with so much else of late, she recognized the need for diplomacy and good relations with her great-uncle. She would do what she had to do – just as she’d been doing all along. But it didn’t mean she had to like it.

And once she had done her bit for diplomacy, she intended to have a good long think about how best to proceed against Sauron. Because if that misbegotten maia thought she was going to forget his role in upending her life and threatening her family just when she had been finding her feet, he knew nothing of the Noldor and less of Galadriel Arafinwiel.

Inglorion

Read Inglorion

Curufinwë had to smother a smile as he entered his cousin’s office to find Ingo trying to read through some document or other while holding Gildor – especially since it was plain to any who knew him as well as Curufinwë did that Ingo was sorely tempted to toss the reading aside in favor of playing with the baby.

Gildor was doing his best to encourage Ingo to abandon duty with a series of ‘comments’ that weren’t quite words yet, but very close to it. Curufinwë was amused to note that the sound was definitely Noldorin, not Thingol’s tongue. He wasn’t sure if it was just the boy mimicking what he heard most often as children that age did, or if it was a sign that Gildor had inherited the same obstinacy as both his parents.

Ingo had always been good with children – as a rule, he liked them every bit as much as they liked him – so it was really no surprise that the son of his favorite sister and his favorite cousin adored him.  (At least, Curufinwë flattered himself he was Ingo’s favorite cousin.)

He couldn’t hope for a better foster father, really, given that Celeborn was out of the question. What’s more, the announcement that Ingo would adopt the boy had been met with rapture. Although his residency was still numbered in weeks, the littlest prince of Nargothrond was already a firm favorite with his people.

Ingo caught sight of Curufinwë and waved him in – or tried to, but found Gildor now had firm control of the hand that wasn’t holding him.

Maybe he should start hoping Ingo would be able to manage anything like parental sternness – by the looks of it, little Gildor was well on the way to having his foster father wrapped firmly around his little finger. Easygoing as Uncle Ara had been, he had still known how to put his foot down when the occasion called for it, even when it came to his beloved daughter. In fact, particularly when it came to his beloved daughter. (Uncle Nolo had been the polar opposite. The idea of Gildor getting away with as much as Irissë had was more than a little terrifying.)

“Curvo, just the person I was hoping to see.”

“Oh?” Curufinwë asked. “What mad scheme do you have in mind now?”

Ingo grinned.  As boys back home, all manner of mischief on their part had started with either those very words or something remarkably close.

“I have been thinking,” Ingo began, one finger caught in Gildor’s mouth as the baby gummed it gleefully. “Celeborn tells me that it is usual for adoptive fathers to give their sons the ionessë they would give their own children. But most adoptive fathers are already married.”

Curufinwë nodded, and tried to distract Gildor from Ingo’s fingers with a small jewel on a brightly colored string – though not so small as to be a choking hazard. As he’d expected, the boy cooed with interest and dropped what he’d been holding, allowing a grateful Ingo to extract his now slobber-coated finger and wipe it on a cloth at hand for just for that purpose.

“I hope, of course, that Amarië waits for me yet, and I wish to give her no cause to reproach me…”

Ingo’s distress at the rumors that were already making the rounds at Mithrim had been no less for Curufinwë’s warning to expect them. His sole consolation was that there was no way his beloved could possibly hear of them. If not even the echo of your lamentation reached Aman, ridiculous gossip certainly didn’t.

“Ingo, set your heart at ease,” Curufinwë told his cousin. “Any and all in Nargothrond will happily tell her of your sister’s foundling, and how noble it was of you to adopt the boy when she was so anxious about him.”

Assuming, of course, that she truly waited for him – they had all been promised tears unnumbered, even the sons and daughter of Arafinwë. If Artë hadn’t been spared, Curufinwë doubted Ingo would be either. But he wasn’t about to let Ingo hear such depressing thoughts. He was the natural optimist among Finwë’s grandchildren. If Ingo gave up hope, the rest of them might as well try to swim home.

“Yes, I know, but I cannot consult with her what ionessë Gildor should have,” Ingo said helplessly. “She should have some say, do you not think?”

Curufinwë stifled a groan.

The patronymic and matronymic of a child were normally decided on by the parents together, for each of them might have several names to choose from, and their own preferred name might not flow well with the names given to their child. (His own mother had vetoed Curufinwion for her sons once Maitimo’s father-name had been given, and thank the Valar for it, else he himself would have been Curufinwë Curufinwion. His father had been a man of many talents, but no one had ever claimed naming sons had been one of them.)

“Were you both on the same side of the Sea, it would be quite natural,” Curufinwë agreed easily. “But I do not see how you can possibly ask her under the circumstances. And should you confess to having some way of communicating with our loved ones in Aman that you have not shared until now, I imagine everyone will be remarkably cross with you, myself not the least.”

Gildor, not to be distracted by all this talking, made a grab at the gem, and gave his true father a remarkably good miniature version of Artanis’ glare when it was pulled just out of his reach.

“Yes, well, I thought perhaps I might give him an ionessë based on one of the names the Sindar here in Nargothrond call me.”

Curufinwë considered this a moment.

“You mean rather than Finderation or Ingoldion or Artafindion? It seems to me you already have names enough to choose from. Please say you don’t intend to go with Finrodion!”

The last one might sound acceptable to Sindarin ears, but not to Noldorin ones.

 “It really doesn’t sound so terrible as to warrant that face!” Ingo laughed. “But no, I was not thinking Finrodion. I had in mind a name which is actually quite close to what you and the rest of my close kin call me, which is why I am drawn to it. And I thought it better suited, for it not only rolls off the tongue more smoothly, I rather like the meaning and think it would do well for a child. Not just for Gildor, but should Amarië and I ever be blessed with other children…”

It took no genius to recognize that it being impossible to ask Amarië what she thought of the name, Ingo was trying to consult someone whose opinion he respected, who might moreover have some idea of what his beloved would say to it.

“That being?” Curufinwë prompted.

“Inglor,” he replied. “That would make the little one Gildor Inglorion. It is a good name, do you not think?”

Curufinwë considered it for a moment.

Inglor would mean something like goldenheart in Sindarin, if he understood it correctly, and the gold referenced the rare quality of the heart in question. Yes, that would do. With such a name, it would be utterly impossible that even the most suspicious Sinda would ever connect the boy with the cursed House of Fëanor, much less with the Fëanorion known to all to be most like his father. Now that the kinslaying was known, most of the Sindar thought his father little better than Morgoth.

Equally importantly, he suspected that Amarië would be thrilled to give her children such a lovely name, even before the full meaning of the Sindarin was explained to her.

“Yes, Ingo, I think it is a very good name. Amarië will surely approve,” Curufinwë told him. Turning his attention to the baby, he added, “Gildor Inglorion you shall be, little one.”

Ingo’s reproachful look lacked any true anger at Curufinwë usurping his privilege as father to be the first to tell the child his full name, not that Curufinwë would have cared in the least if it had. He would miss so much about his son’s life that he wanted to have this if nothing else.

“And no, Gildor, you may not have the pretty gem to chew on,” he continued. “I mean to set it in a circlet for you to wear when you are old enough for such things.”

Ingo groaned, and while part of it was surely theatrics, there was a core of genuine emotion in it.

“Curvo! I may realize that’s an honor for the boy, but it is likely to be many years before he sees it as such – and if he has absorbed any of Artë’s attitudes, you are condemning me to a good many treasure hunts for the wretched thing!”

Curufinwë smirked.

Artanis and Irissë had been notorious for hiding their circlets as children, and Ambarussa had been perfectly happy to join in the game given the opportunity. He was fairly sure at least one of Irissë’s was still stuck in her grandmother’s prize rosebushes – at least, he knew for a fact that it had been when they left Tirion. As far as he was aware, Artanis had eventually retrieved all the ones she had hidden. But she had also been the most creative by far with her hiding places.

“Think what fun you’ll have, Ingo! It will be just like old times, scrambling madly around the palace trying to work out where the little imps stashed them this time.”

After the first few dozen times, their fathers had assigned retrieval of the missing accessories to him, Ingo, and Turvo as the ones most likely to worm clues out of the culprits and left it at that until the youngest four outgrew that particular maddening habit. (At which point they developed other maddening habits.)

“Yes, because that was such fun then,” Ingo snorted. “I can just imagine how well it will go here. If he takes to hiding the dratted thing down some of the lower corridors, we may never find it at all! But why a red gem? Shouldn’t it be green for my house? Red was your father’s color.”

Curufinwë shrugged.

“I am trying to make your predicted treasure hunts a bit less likely,” he said, the story coming to him easily enough. “I’ve used a different stone every time I needed to catch his attention. He liked the red one best. There will be time enough for his proper colors when he’s old enough not to try to outdo Artë and the twins.”

“Let’s hope you won’t prove to be as contrary as your Ammë,” Ingo told Gildor fondly, nuzzling his tummy and drawing a delighted gurgle from the baby. “Though I will not complain if you are also as kind-hearted as she is, little Gilya.”

“Perhaps I should make one sized for an adult now as well,” Curufinwë mused. “It is not as if I can be certain of being around by the time he will need it.”

“You are always so cheerful,” Ingo sighed, looking reproachfully at him.

“Kindly remember you’re the optimist here,” Curufinwë shrugged.

There was only so far he could coddle Ingo, and what he’d said was simple truth. He estimated it at even odds whether he would be alive by the time his son was of age.

Ingo sighed. Then his expression changed, appearing rather torn, and slightly nervous.

“If you truly fear you will not be around to make him one when he is grown... I am sure it will mean much to him to wear his uncle’s work rather than that of some other craftsman who is nothing in particular to us. I would certainly prefer it.”

It was plain that Ingo did not want to ask too closely – while the Arafinwions were more given to foresight than their Fëanorion cousins, it could not be completely ruled out in any of Finwë’s grandchildren.

Almost no one spoke of it, but Curufinwë suspected that none of them were particularly keen to discover what form their own personal doom would take, much less the doom of well-loved kin whose ends they might yet witness. Artanis had as good as admitted she tried not to see such things.

“I will make both now,” Curufinwë assured him. “I can use my best guess at the proper size for the adult version. You can always have someone else adjust it later should it prove necessary. I’ll use a design that lends itself easily to such adjustments. It’s not as if it’s a particularly difficult procedure, any competent smith should be able to manage it.”

Though hopefully it would not be necessary – he planned to use his own head to size the adult circlet. His head and his father’s were within half a finger width of each other in size, as were all his brothers’ save Tyelko, who despite giving the impression of being larger than any of them save Maitimo actually had a smaller, more delicate shape to his skull. (The thickness of said skull was anything but delicate, which was fortunate, given how many accidents he’d had over the years.)

“I suppose you need something to keep you busy over the winter,” Ingo sighed. “I knew the maps wouldn’t occupy you very long.”

“Neither will a pair of circlets,” Curufinwë snorted. “I imagine you’ll end up with some new pieces, and Artanis as well. I should probably make something for Celeborn as a belated wedding gift. But never fear, I’ll be out of your hair before Ango arrives in the spring.”

Ingo sighed again.

“It won’t kill him to be civil to you or your brothers. In fact, it would be good practice. I’m sure we’ll all gather again at some point.”

“Oh?” Curufinwë asked, raising a single dubious eyebrow. “When do you suppose that will be? Not that it matters. By the time the weather is good enough for Ango to travel, Tyelko will be fuming at how long my ‘short’ visit to Mithrim has stretched. I wouldn’t dare linger once the passes are free of snow even if I were on better terms with your brother.”

“Did you have any idea how exactly you mean to make your way back?” Ingo asked, pushing a map across his desk, and rescuing a second from the baby’s attempt to claim it. “No, Gildor, maps are not for chewing on, and particularly not that one.”

Brothers and Sons

Read Brothers and Sons

The sun was just kissing the tops of the western peaks when Curufinwë entered the Pass of Aglon and dismissed his guard.

The trip back had been uneventful – relatively speaking, at least. No journey through unknown parts of Beleriand could be honestly said to be entirely uneventful.

There had been some slogging through swamps, and a misunderstanding about where exactly Doriath believed their eastern border to be in the triangle between the rivers Aros and Celon. (Apparently in Thingol’s opinion, the woods were all his, regardless of which side of the river they were on – or which river, for that matter. In the interests of not having to have that particular argument a second time, Nan Elmoth would henceforth be left alone.) But overall it had been markedly less eventful than the trip from Mithrim to Nargothrond, and for that he was sincerely thankful.

Ingo had insisted on sending a detachment of guards with him, not that Curufinwë had argued against it for very long. He would never again make the mistake of thinking that distance from Angband meant safety. Though unable to persuade any of his Sindarin followers to act as guides, Ingo had managed to scare up a handful of Noldor volunteers willing to undertake the journey with him. They had been his companions until they reached the borders of Himlad, at which point they had left him to his own people and turned to follow the Aros back south.

He had offered to put them up for a week or so if they were willing to come all the way north to Aglon, to allow them to rest properly and eat well in return for their troubles. He’d hoped to persuade them to remain long enough for him to copy out fair versions of his charts and notes to send to Ingo. He hadn’t been entirely surprised that they refused, nor was he inclined to take it as a slight or insult as they seemed to fear he might.

He understood their haste to be off again well enough. He knew perfectly well most of the Arafinwions’ followers would rather not encounter Tyelko if they could help it – the full details of the ugly incident with Artë might not be widely known, thank Nienna for small mercies, but how enthusiastic Tyelko had been at Alqualondë certainly was. And even aside from that, he could see plenty of practical reasons they would not wish to delay. The return trip would no doubt go swifter now that they knew a safe path through the fens of Sirion. Barring anything dramatic, they could reasonably expect to be back with their own folk by autumn, well before the weather turned cold.

He’d have to send the maps and notes to Ingo some other way. Via Mithrim, if need be, though he couldn’t see where their uncle would have much use for information on routes between Nargothrond and Fëanorion territory. Maybe it would reassure him all the same. It had to help a little to know his nephews were taking the defense of Beleriand seriously, and working together instead of quarreling among themselves. Didn’t it?

He decided he’d rather not think too hard on the answer to that. But considering what a bind he and Artë had unintentionally put Resto and his Sindarin wife in, Curufinwë was willing to play nice if it helped his cousins arrange matters more to their liking. The maps could go via Mithrim, with a copy for Uncle into the bargain. That might give young Resto the pretext he needed to travel to Nargothrond...

It was as well that the notion of being able to help Resto put him in good frame of mind, because he found his older brother waiting for him at the gates. While Tyelko was somewhat less displeased than he had been the time someone failed to keep a proper eye on Tyelpë at Losgar, he was emphatically not happy.

“Remembered where you’re supposed to be at last, have you?”

The belligerent stance and arms crossed in front of his chest were unnecessary, not when Tyelko’s face made plain that he was furious.

“I hadn’t forgotten,” Curufinwë retorted, trying not to roll his eyes. “I’m glad to see you too, dearest brother.”

“If you didn’t forget, perhaps you could clarify how ‘a month or two, three at most’ turned into ‘a bit over two years’,” Tyelko suggested silkily, his voice reminiscent of Atto at his worst. “And the answer had best not be ‘I was bored and felt like visiting Ingo’!”

The qualifier, on the other hand, was all Ammë. One of these days, Curufinwë would settle to his satisfaction just how it was that the son who looked the least like either of their parents could channel both of them so effectively when he was hacked off. It was remarkably unfair.

“I admit that it did involve visiting Ingo, but-”

“This is not like home,” Tyelko snarled. “For a start, you are a father!

 

“So is Ingo,” Curufinwë replied mildly, and watched in delight as Tyelko abruptly deflated from ‘spoiling for a fight’ to ‘total confusion’.

“What?” he demanded. “Curvo, if this is one of your ridiculous pranks…”

“It’s not, as it happens. Artë found a child, an infant actually, presumably orphaned, and she fussed so much over not being able to keep him herself that Ingo adopted the boy. You should most definitely congratulate him next time you write.”

His older brother was ordinarily a dilatory correspondent at best, but for a young relative, he’d make an effort.

“Ingo…but he can’t have a child, he isn’t even wed!” Tyelko protested.

Curufinwë couldn’t help the laugh, because that wasn’t either of their parents – that was Indis.

“Oh, your face,” he snickered. “At any rate, I admit I did take longer than I should have, and much longer than I intended. But even before Ingo took up fatherhood, Artanis snuck out of Mithrim alone, and it seemed the better part of wisdom that she should have an older kinsman watching out for her if she was set on wandering around Beleriand. Thingol tossed our cousins from his kingdom without regard for kith or kin, much less newly-wed spouses.”

Tyelko was straight back to spluttering as the import of his words sunk in.

“Artë married?” he demanded in disbelief. “First you tell me Ingo has a son, now you tell me Artë married?”

“Yes, we seem to be a bit behind on the news up here in the North,” Curufinwë shrugged. “Though it looked to me as if it came as a surprise to Uncle as well. She wed Celeborn, who is either a nephew or grandnephew to Thingol. I’m not entirely certain, given how freely the Sindar rearrange their family trees, but I think he’s properly a grandnephew. And as I get to tell our brothers all this as well, your reaction does not bode well for me being believed – stop laughing.”

“Better you than me, little brother,” Tyelko snorted. “But don’t think this talk of Artë’s marriage and Ingo’s boy has completely distracted me. Your son has been worried about you. You didn’t prepare him for such an absence any more than you warned me. That message you sent from Mithrim that ‘it may be a little longer’ gave us no grounds to expect you would be this long.”

His glare was not as fierce, though, and he was still chortling as he threw a companionable arm about his younger brother’s shoulders to steer him toward the fortress – and hopefully a hot bath, a good dinner, and a comfortable bed. After so many weeks travelling, and arguing with another of Thingol’s nephews into the bargain, Curufinwë didn’t even particularly care if the bed was his own or not.

“I didn’t know at the time that it would be,” Curufinwë said patiently. “I sent that message just before sneaking off with Artë. And I should add that went much worse than I expected.”

“Yes, you’ve always been far too fond of her to notice she’s as devious as you are and has no compunction about using you to keep herself out of trouble,” Tyelko said, almost cheerfully. “Though I think it only fair, given it’s pretty much what you used to do to the rest of us! So what has she done this time?”

“Nothing, actually. Mostly just moped until her husband joined us. She was in a fairly bad way at being separated from him.”

“I would expect so, if they were only just married,” Tyelko shrugged. “But you would know better than I would.”

“It didn’t improve my opinion of Thingol any, if that’s what you’re asking,” Curufinwë replied sourly. “Or hers.”

Tyelko’s smile was downright wolfish.

“Excellent, that gives her someone else to be furious at,” he chuckled. “I wish Thingol joy of his new feud. He certainly has a talent for irritating people. And unlike Nelyo, he’s got to let her back into his kingdom sooner or later if she’s married one of his nephews. Perhaps he’ll be willing to make an alliance with us just to restore the peace and get her off his hands.”

“That reminds me,” Curufinwë said, reaching into his pack. “Here, with her compliments.”

He handed Tyelko the bottle reserved for him, which amazingly he’d managed to remember not to drink with Ingo. (Given how many winter nights they’d stayed up plotting and drinking in Ingo’s study – not necessarily in that order – he felt it was something of an accomplishment.)

“A bottle from grandfather’s vinyards?” Tyelko sputtered. “How under the stars did she manage to haul this over the Ice?”

“She didn’t,” Curufinwë said, not entirely keeping the sourness out of his voice. “She appropriated it from me, and said to tell you to enjoy the hangover with her compliments, she’s changed her mind about killing you.”

“Kind of her,” Tyelko chuckled. “I absolutely will. Was this change of heart before or after she got all maternal? Speaking of which, does that mean I can expect another nephew or niece in short order?”

“Before, no, and before you ask what mellowed her, we were drinking the other 2 bottles.”

At that his brother’s chuckle turned into full blown laughter.

“So she knows whereof she speaks when she talks about the hangover? Even better. I’m proud of her! Do you know how much longer she intends to stay with Ingo? I should thank her in person. And unlike some, I won’t be leaving a son here to worry himself sick if I go visiting.”

Curufinwë tried – and failed – to picture the general reaction of Nargothrond to Tyelko showing up.

“Am I going to stop hearing about this anytime soon?” he asked resignedly, knowing perfectly well the answer was ‘no’.

“Oh, maybe in another yen or so,” Tyelko shrugged. “Or whenever Tyelpë gets over it. Whichever takes longer.”

“Tyelpë was not alone, and he’s not a young child anymore-”

“You are a father, your first responsibility is to your son,” Tyelko said sternly. “You said you meant to do a better job than Atar did – staying away for so long with no word is not better. He nearly worried himself sick. He knows perfectly well that terrible things can happen to elves travelling in Beleriand.”

Curufinwë had to both bite his tongue and count ten to prevent him snapping at his older brother that looking after his responsibility was exactly what he’d been doing. Only the thought that Artanis would skin him alive and use him for orc bait if he spilled their secret so quickly – and to the older brother least likely to keep it from anyone who shouldn’t know – kept him silent.

It didn’t help that he would have to find a reasonable sounding explanation for his eldest son that did not include the words ‘you have a brother’. He had somehow managed to avoid dwelling on that up until now. Artanis had her own heartaches at the thought of leaving Gildor with Ingo; his included not only the painful knowledge that he would see his younger son only rarely, but the added pain that his sons would not know each other for years, if ever.

He would miss his son’s childhood, but Tyelpë would miss the joy of having a baby brother, and Gildor would not have his older brother there for him as he should. It was not fair to either of them, and yet what was there to do? Not for all his thinking in Nargothrond had he been able to come up with a good excuse to send Tyelpë to visit, nor was he even sure it was advisable – if the boys were drawn to each other as most siblings would be, it might set more than just Ingo wondering.

Perhaps Tyelko could carry a letter. With his fondness for his younger kin, it was all but certain he’d find an excuse to turn up in Nargothrond before long – and faster still if little Finduilas ended up there as well.

Or maybe…

“Atto!”

Tyelpë was old enough that it surprised his father slightly that he’d still show such boyish enthusiasm, much less use such an informal address where others could hear.  But he was glad of it as his son raced across the hall to give him a heartfelt bear hug.

“I am so glad to see you again at last! I… was starting to think my party would have to be put off, my begetting day is nearly here.”

That wasn’t what the boy had started to say, but Curufinwë knew it would not help to try to tease the initial thought out of him here. Besides, what he’d changed it to was hardly less honest. His firstborn’s begetting day was only slightly more than a month away.

It was a bit challenging to figure Tyelperinquar’s age precisely. Not only was there some debate on how many sun-years a Tree-year had been, there was widespread concern among the Noldor scholars who kept track of such things that the time-keeping during the Dark years had been inaccurate, and that the years 1498, 1499, and 1500 had been reckoned incorrectly, with two of them shorter than they should have been (the last one substantially so, as it had been brought to an early close by the first rising of the sun) and one longer.

Curufinwë had consulted with his elder brothers before his ill-fated trip to Mithrim and decided to celebrate Tyelpë’s coming of age this year. The boy was certainly over one hundred sun-years in age by now. That seemed to be about the time the elves of Beleriand considered a young one an adult, even if it were slightly sooner than the Noldor would have deemed their children adults in Aman.

All his brothers were invited; Pityo would certainly come, as would Kano and Nelyo, and even Moryo would hopefully be permitted a reprieve from his eastern exile. (And perhaps that feud could be laid to rest, since it wasn’t only Artanis who had someone better to be angry at now… He would wager Ango and Aiko’s irritation at Moryo putting his foot in his mouth several years back was the palest of noonday shadows in comparison to Ango’s current thoughts on Thingol.) If Tyelko had not heard anything for certain, it would probably be a good idea to poke Nelyo on the subject now if Moryo was to have any hope of arriving in time.

And if they were all there, he could tell them the joyous news about Artë and Ingo in person…

“Not a chance, Tyelpë,” he reassured his son. “I would not miss my son’s coming of age for the world! I am very sorry that I was kept so much longer than I had intended. Come, let’s find some dinner and I can tell you all about it.”

At least, all that he could safely tell.

Small Steps

Read Small Steps

Galadriel held her son’s hand tightly. The last thing she needed was him running off and taking a tumble into the river. She wasn’t sure why children this age were referred to as ‘toddlers’. Gildor had gone almost directly from crawling to running with next to no actual toddling in between.

Her brother thought it was hilarious and assured her that she had done much the same. She had pointed out rather tartly that there had been fewer chances a small child running headlong through Tirion would meet with a fatal accident.

Ingo, drat him, had only laughed harder and shared what he believed to be a highly amusing anecdote in which, at roughly the same age as Gildor was now, she had charged at full speed off of one of the quays near their grandparents’ house in Alqualondë. Their mother had been horrified.

He had sobered slightly when she reminded him that unlike Emmë, they couldn’t count on Lady Uinen or some other friendly maia bouncing Gildor right back out of the Narog before he drowned should he do something similar.

But despite his habit of running off if she didn’t keep hold of him, she wouldn’t have Gildor miss this – Resto, Merilin, and Finduilas would be arriving shortly. They had been explaining to him for several days now that he would have a new playmate, a cousin his own age.

Unfortunately, from the looks of it, Resto and Merilin weren’t travelling unsupervised. And that wasn’t Ango with them.

“Ammë! Ammë! Kena! Kena!”

“We speak Sindarin in public, Gilya,” she murmured quietly. “ Look .”

“Look,” he repeated, a slight trace of crossness in his tone.

Curvo had gotten his wish in this at least – their son was more than Noldorin enough to irritate Thingol. Noldorin had also been the language the boy chose when he began to speak. It was probably not surprising, given that it was what he heard her and Ingo using when it was just family. But she knew from Celeborn’s reaction that it would do her and Ingo no good with their great-uncle should he ever hear of it.

Gildor would have learned Sindarin either way, as many Sindar as there were in and around Nargothrond. Even if that hadn’t been the case, it was only sense that he should be able to converse with the elves of Beleriand freely in their own tongues. But it was galling to need to teach Sindarin to him as a requirement rather than something that happened naturally. She meant to put as much if not more effort into teaching him the Lindarin of her grandparents as the language of Beleriand.

“Yes, I see, darling. That’s your Uncle Resto and Aunt Merilin, and your cousin Finduilas with them. Won’t it be exciting to have a cousin to play with?”

“Who with?”

“Who else is with them? That would be your Uncle Tyelko,” she said, trying not to sigh.

She really shouldn’t have been surprised that Tyelko had managed to attach himself to the party coming down from Mithrim if he’d been there when they were making ready for the journey. It would have been odder if he had stayed away once he knew there were not one but two little ones who might appreciate a mostly responsible uncle who was excellent at games and pony rides.

Indeed, little Finduilas was riding on his shoulders, and showing every sign of enjoying her vantage point.

Gildor let out a squeal of delight, and managed to worm his way out of Galadriel’s restraining grip.

Fortunately for her peace of mind, he did not aim for the river. Instead, he ran headlong at Tyelko, who scooped him up with a whoop. Finduilas clapped her hands gleefully.

“Hello there, you must be the rascal my little brother told me about!”

Gildor paused from laughing long enough to look hopefully around for another child.

“Ah, sorry, squirt!” Tyelko chuckled. “Didn’t mean to confuse you. My little brother is your Atto’s age – not your size anymore, I’m afraid.”

He’d continued his forward progress, the additional child in no way slowing him.

“Hello there, Artë! This one keeping you on your toes?”

When he reached her, he deposited an utterly charmed Gildor in her arms.

“In a manner of speaking,” she said drily.

“Aunty!”

Resto’s greeting was enthusiastic.

“I wasn’t sure if we’d find you still here or not,” he said. “But I’m pleased to see you – and to introduce you to Findë!”

He beamed as Tyelko made a show of somersaulting the girl down from his shoulders, which started her giggling. Resto’s attempts to get his daughter to ‘greet your aunt properly’ failed utterly, for as soon as she was on her feet, Gildor squirmed back down and the two began chattering away – in Quenya.

She had to work to keep the smirk off her face, and the only thing that helped was noticing that Tyelko wasn’t making the least attempt to hide his. Thingol’s ban wasn’t so ironclad that anyone would call a pair of toddlers ‘betrayers of kin unrepentant’. (Though she didn’t doubt that if they did, her son would be in far more trouble than her grandniece.) 

“I suppose I should be grateful she has a cousin near to her own age,” Merilin sighed as Resto moved to greet Ingo. “I just hope between us all we can make her understand when she needs to speak Lindarin.”

She didn’t say it, but Galadriel suspected she was thinking of Gildor as well.

“Plenty of time for that,” Tyelko snorted. “Unless you plan on taking her to Doriath soon?”

“Absolutely not,” Resto said, firmly enough that for once he sounded like Ango. “She’ll be staying here until she’s grown. I won’t have my child subject to Thingol’s whims, much less Thingol’s temper.”

The set of Merilin’s mouth betrayed that this was a sore subject, not that Artanis had expected otherwise. She and Celeborn were also of differing opinions on their great uncle. Merilin and Celeborn could forgive, but Galadriel and her brothers could not forget.

She for one would never again not be on her guard in Thingol’s realm – if she had to be there at all. Ango had already declared he wouldn’t be. She suspected Aiko felt similarly, and he had the loosest ties to Thingol of any of them. Ingo had rarely been there for anything beyond short visits, and could easily plead the necessity of running his own kingdom to dodge any invitations. She doubted it was any different for Resto. They had been shown too clearly that they were outsiders.

“I don’t intend to return for some years,” she said, gesturing toward Gildor. “Not while he’s still so small, at any rate. It would be a shame to miss any of his childhood.”

For any cousin but Tyelko, she would have added the qualifier ‘even if Thingol admits my bloodstained hands won’t pollute his kingdom’. But the truce between them felt too new and fragile for references to Alqualondë just yet. Besides, she suspected at some point talking to him without others around would be unavoidable. If she wanted to vent about Thingol, in front of Merilin and Celeborn was not the time.

“They grow so fast,” Tyelko agreed. “Part of why I was so keen to see the pair of them now!”

Any further conversation was cut off by two toddlers doing their best attempt at polite while still being quite firm about wanting back up. Tyelko, ever the obliging victim when it came to his young kin, swiftly complied and strode off inside without waiting to see if anyone else was following.

Well done not killing him, Ingo told her.

She shot him a glare before turning to follow, ignoring his laugh.

“You can trust him with children, you know,” Ingo told her, catching up with her easily. “He survived with four of you, after all. Two should be much more manageable.”

With that in mind, she managed to take herself off with Celeborn – who was even less keen to spend time with her cousin than she was – for an afternoon alone together.

The formal dinner that evening was unavoidable. Nargothrond was in a state of excitement at having Resto and Merilin, not to mention little Findë. Tyelko inspired more wariness, but Alqualondë or not, he was still a prince of the Noldor. If Ingo was willing to host him, no one would protest openly.

The two children were far too excited about each other to be the least bit fussed about how long dinner lasted, and had to be carried from the hall fast asleep not long after dessert.

Galadriel found herself walking with Merilin for the first time since she had left Menegroth.

“He’s quite the little darling,” Merilin said, nodding toward Gildor, who was so happy that he had a slight smile on his face even in his sleep. “Easy to see why Finrod’s people are so charmed.”

She seemed to be choosing her words carefully.

“I could say the same,” Galadriel replied, keeping her tone pleasant. “Though I hope for your sake that your daughter is calmer than this one.”

“He behaved so beautifully,” Merilin protested.

“Only because your Findë was there,” Galadriel snorted. “Don’t let him fool you.”

“We shall see,” Merilin said with a smile that faded slightly. “At least, I hope we shall?”

“Of course,” Galadriel replied. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Uncle Finrod wrote that he was adopting the boy, but it’s clear he’s quite attached to you – which is no surprise under the circumstances. As his milk-mother, you might have reconsidered leaving him here with your brother. I’m sure Uncle wouldn’t mind in the least if you brought him to Doriath.”

Galadriel suppressed a sigh.

She supposed this was preferable to the question she’d thought might be asked – if she had reconsidered bearing children in light of her ‘milk-son’. It was merely the mildest of hints that Thingol would quite like to meet the boy… She supposed it might also count as a tentative overture to restoring relations.

On the bright side, knowing how she and her brothers felt, Merilin was unlikely to argue at a demurral. If anything, she was likely to read  into it an unwillingness to expose a child to Thingol’s capricious temper. She’d no doubt heard more than enough on that score from Resto, and possibly Ango as well. (Ango had been uninterested in travelling south with Tyelko, and had sent a request via his son to be informed when ‘that overenthusiastic lummox’ departed.)

“No, we’ve been quite clear with Gildor that Ingo is his father. In due time we’ll explain that I am properly aunt, not mother, and I don’t always dwell in Nargothrond. When he’s old enough, Celeborn and I will return to Menegroth. But there is no expectation he will go with us. His place is here.”

“That’s good for the little ones, I think,” Merilin said thoughtfully. “I have been unhappy at the thought that my daughter would grow up without kin near her own age. It was not so for me – and not, I think, for you either?”

Galadriel smiled at the slightly bittersweet memory of her own youth with Irissë and Ambarussa. She hasn’t seen the cousin who was practically a sister to her since the Feast of Reuniting, and didn’t even know where she was. It was a far cry from their childhood, when there had scarce been a day they weren’t in each other’s company.

“Not at all,” she said, allowing the wistfulness to show.

“Well,” Merilin said, clearly trying to end the evening on a more cheerful note as she reached the door to her family’s rooms, “I suppose we must hope for other cousins for the pair of them. Orodreth’s father can do nothing to add to the numbers, but perhaps Aegnor might? Do you think we can between us persuade your youngest brother that he should marry?”

Galadriel couldn’t help the laugh. As far as she knew, marriage and begetting of children was far from her brother’s mind – and that was unlikely to change if Ingo and Ango had anything to say about it.

“You don’t choose easy goals, do you?” she asked. “Unless you’re far more persuasive than I am, these two will be grown long before Aiko marries.”

“We shall see what two determined women can accomplish,” Merilin grinned. “Good night.”

---

With two children eager to spend as much time in each other’s company as possible, not to mention several more relatives to take turns watching them, Galadriel found to her surprise she had more time to herself than she had since Gildor’s birth. She took to escaping into the countryside with Celeborn most afternoons. The time in the nearby woods was nearly as much a balm to him as the time alone with her mate was to her.

It also had the happy side benefit of keeping her well away from her cousin. If anyone other than Ingo would see through the story about Gildor, it would be him.

After a week or so, she had a disagreeable feeling that whenever they happened to be in the same vicinity, Tyelko was giving her thoughtful looks. So it wasn’t entirely unexpected when Tyelko wandered into her rooms one evening while Celeborn was off with Merilin, and Ingo had both little ones.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me,” Tyelko announced, ignoring her annoyed expression as he tossed himself into the chair that was usually Celeborn’s. “But that’s ridiculous. You sent me a peace offering, and I accepted, so we’re good, are we not?”

“We’re good,” she agreed, wondering where he was going with this.

“Then why do I get the feeling if I hadn’t neglected to knock, we wouldn’t be chatting so amiably?”

She met his gaze impassively. The worst part of trying to fool Tyelko was that he knew her nearly as well as Curvo or Ingo did – and could recall every trick she’d ever used to get out of trouble in her childhood or youth. Especially the many he’d fallen for at the time.

“You speak as though you haven’t been spending as much time with the little ones as you possibly could,” she sniffed. “I could as easily say you have been avoiding me . It’s not as if it’s been any secret where I am most of the time.”

“Funny you should mention the little ones,” Tyelko said with a grin that bordered on wolfish. “It’s them I wanted to talk about. Or more accurately, the little rascal you call a milk-son.”

“Has he been misbehaving?” she asked suspiciously.

“Hark at you sounding so maternal,” Tyelko chuckled. “Shame several folks back home can’t hear this! But rest easy, that’s not what I meant at all. Gilya’s no worse than any of the rest of you, and if what my brothers say is to be believed, considerably better than I was at that age.”

That’s a relief,” she replied drily.

“I have no complaints whatsoever about his behavior,” Tyelko continued. “It’s just that I’m not quite sure I believe the story Curvo came back with of you three just happening to stumble across an abandoned infant.”

It took all her self-control not to flinch.

“Particularly now that I’ve seen him. When I put those nagging little doubts together with his looks…”

Tyelko paused.

“Don’t throw anything at me for this,” he said carefully. “But I’ve an idea Gildor is more than just your milk-son. So please be honest with me. Are you covering for Ingo?”

“Excuse me?” she asked, not entirely sure she’d heard him correctly. On the bright side, it meant her surprise was honest enough.

“He’s nearly the spit of Ingo at that age,” Tyelko told her earnestly. “Except the hair, of course. Ingo’s was more golden. But he looks like Ingo, he behaves like Ingo… You’re too young to see it, but I suspect Uncle would have the same thought, and so would Aunt Irimë. Come to that, I think Nelyo would as well.”

“Not Kano?” she replied, more stalling for time to think than from any real curiosity.

“Not unless you happened to catch him on a day when he’s fully paying attention, but that doesn’t happen too often these days,” Tyelko shrugged. “I can see you’re furious with me. But really, Artë, it’s downright uncanny if your story is true and he’s entirely unrelated.”

She glared at him.

“Ingo would never be unfaithful to Amarië,” she said fiercely. “Never.”

It hadn’t once occurred to any of them that in trying to keep suspicion away from her, they’d deflect it onto her eldest brother. Well – it hadn’t occurred to her. She didn’t know for sure that it hadn’t crossed Curvo’s mind that it might be added security. It wouldn’t be unbelievable for him to have considered it and decided not to say anything.

“I’d understand ,” Tyelko told her earnestly. “Truly, Artë. We’re a long way from home, and no matter how much he loves her, Amarië’s not here, nor is she going to be. And if the blasted Doom is to be believed, he may never see her again. If he found a nis who reminded him of her-”

“I’m glad you chose to have this discussion when no one else was around to hear it,” she said with perfect honesty. “And before you ask any more ridiculous questions, I’m quite confident that Ango and Aiko had nothing to do with Gildor’s begetting.”

Tyelko snorted.

“Ango inherited your grandmother’s looks, and wee Gildor couldn’t look less Vanyarin if he tried. I might have thought of Aiko if I hadn’t known for a fact that he went straight from Doriath to Mithrim and thence north, so how you’d have stumbled on a child of his on your way here is a problem I doubt even Curvo could logic out.”

“It’s not as if I said he birthed the child,” Galadriel sniffed.

“No, you didn’t. But it’s no less ludicrous an idea – if Aiko had someone in Doriath, he’d hardly have gone north and left her on her own. I also notice that for all the talk about how Gildor couldn’t be Ango’s or Aiko’s, you’ve not said straight out that he’s not Ingo’s,” Tyelko said quietly.

She had no good reply. If she denied on Ingo’s behalf, Tyelko might well hit on the truth – or part of it, at least.

“It would explain why it’s you and Curvo who brought the child in, as well as why it’s you who had to be the boy’s milk-mother. You’re the two he trusts most. And ‘adopting’ the boy keeps him close…”

Tyelko leaned forward.

“You don’t have to say anything. I’m not about to run my mouth to anyone else. The child is family either way. I just thought it might be easier on Ingo to not have to pretend.”

“You mustn’t bring it up in front of him,” Galadriel said at once.

“If you think he’d rather not, I won’t,” Tyelko agreed. “I meant to make things better, not worse. If he’s too embarrassed by the affair… Well, then we never had this conversation.”

“What conversation?” Galadriel asked brightly, channeling her days of covering up childish mischief and praying it rang true.

Tyelko grinned.

“I don’t suppose you have any more bottles of grandfather’s wine squirreled away, do you? I wouldn’t say no to sharing a glass or two.”

“You know perfectly well I don’t,” she snorted. “I sent the last bottle to you with Curvo – and I assume you drank it.”

“With great pleasure. But you can’t blame me for hoping, can you?”

As Time Goes By

Read As Time Goes By

“I have another letter from Uncle.”

Galadriel barely glanced up from her writing desk, where she was working on a rather lengthy letter of her own, this time to Ambarussa. One of the facets of life outside of Doriath that she had come to appreciate was the ability to communicate directly with cousins not named Finno. Ambarussa wasn’t always as prompt in responding as she could have wished, but he did reply – and more regularly to her than to anyone else, from what she heard from her brothers and their cousins on the matter. He was talking of coming to visit.

Gildor, ensconced in his favorite spot by the fire, didn’t take his nose out of the book Aiko had sent him.  It was a new year’s gift, a guide to the plants and animals of Dorthonion Aiko had made with the boy in mind. Gildor had turned into an avid reader of late, and it didn’t much matter to him whether it was Noldorin or Lindarin he was devouring. Everyone else saw Ingo in his behavior. She suspected it could just as well have come from either of his parents.

“So soon?” she asked.

The last packet from Menegroth had arrived only two weeks ago.

Thingol had become quite the diligent correspondent of late. She had been suspicious at the first few letters. But several years of nothing more than polite greetings and concerned inquiries about her health and that of ‘your young nephew’ meant she no longer worried at the sight of each one that it would contain a command to Celeborn to return.

“My love,” Celeborn began hesitantly, “I know you are not eager to hear this, much less to go back. But Uncle has invited us to Menegroth. He points out that it is a certainty we will return here for whatever festivities there are on the completion of Finrod’s halls, but he dearly hopes to see us before then.”

“No!”

The protest from Gildor – who knew that none of his elders except his aunt Merilin were keen on the idea of him going to Doriath – was instant.

“Ammë, please don’t leave!”

It was the first time she’d ever seen him abandon a book so carelessly, but in his haste to reach her, he dropped it on the floor without a backwards glance.

She wrapped her arms around her very upset son with a mild glare at Celeborn for his lack of sense in raising the subject in front of the boy. He might just as easily have waited until Gildor was off with Finduilas or Ingo – or better yet, asleep for the night.

It was small consolation that Celeborn was startled by his reaction.

“There, there, Gilya,” she soothed him. “Neither Uncle Celeborn nor I are going anywhere anytime soon, and certainly not today. Calm yourself, darling.”

“I don’t want you to go,” he murmured. “Please, Ammë?”

“I know,” she replied. “I don’t much want me to go either.”

Celeborn’s reproachful look reminded her that at some point, she would have no way around it. The most she could hope for was to put off the separation. But surely she could manage that a little while longer. Gildor was so young…

She didn’t think things were yet at a point that departing Nargothrond could no longer be put off. This was Thingol’s first direct invitation – at least, the first she’d heard of, and she knew that Celeborn would not hide such a thing from her. In retrospect, Thingol been preparing the ground carefully for some time. She ought to have seen it for what it was sooner.

 She tried to silently convey to Celeborn that now – with an upset child listening – was not the time to discuss this.

Galadriel pulled her son into her lap.

“My little love,” she said softly. “Sooner or later Uncle Celeborn and I must return to Doriath. He’s very important to our uncle Thingol, you know.”

“Don’t care how important he is to Great-Uncle Thingol, he’s important here,” Gildor told her neck mulishly.

And so are you!

She laughed at the part said aloud, and stroked his hair, wordlessly reassuring him that he was quite important to her, too.

“You’re right, he is, isn’t he? Deep breaths, Gilya. You needn’t worry yourself so. We’re not going anywhere in the next few seasons. Thingol of all people will understand us not wanting to leave you while you’re still so young. If you were his little nephew, he would keep you close and refuse to hear of you going anywhere until you were grown.”

“’M not little,” was the slightly resentful reply.

“You are to us, my big boy,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “Though you’re growing every day. If you keep at it, before you know it, you’ll be as tall as we are. Dry your eyes now, and let’s go see if the kitchens don’t have something nice for you.”

“Apple pie?” he asked hopefully, though with a lingering sniffle.

“We won’t know unless we try,” she smiled.

---

Later that evening, when Gildor was sleeping – and she’d checked to be sure it was true sleep and not just feigning slumber to listen as he occasionally did – she brought it up again with Celeborn.

“Thingol can’t truly expect I’d leave Gildor so soon – he’s only just ten. Nor can he seriously think you’d go while I remain here. Surely it’s clear to him by now that we stay together.”

Celeborn sighed.

“I suspect he knows full well this invitation will not be accepted, at least not immediately. But if he’s begun asking…”

Galadriel knew what he meant without him saying the words. Thingol could not be put off forever. For another few years, perhaps. But not all too long.

“What’s more, you know that while he can do without Merilin if need be, he is accustomed to having both Oropher and I at hand. And he is about to have to do without both of us for a season. I suspect he is not liking the idea at all.”

Galadriel pondered that thought.

Thingol depended on his grandnephews to serve as his presence for any errand that required someone go beyond the borders. Lúthien had never been permitted beyond the Girdle; Daeron only once, primarily as a gesture of goodwill toward the Noldor before the relationship had soured – not that they had properly appreciated the honor at the time. Eöl could come and go more freely, but he now held Nan Elmoth – and kept a wary eye on her cousins, Galadriel suspected, though no one had ever said so in her hearing. Nimloth was excellent eyes and ears on the borders, but by her own choice only went beyond them if she was visiting Eöl. Belthil simply didn’t have the same depth of experience as his older cousins, being the youngest but Merilin.

With Oropher planning a visit to see his sister and meet his young niece, it had likely started Thingol thinking on ways to get Celeborn back sooner rather than later. Not only was he useful, Thingol genuinely did not like having his younger kin beyond his sight – and more importantly outside of Melian’s protection.

“I know,” she replied finally. “But he should know that one doesn’t leave children so young unless there are more pressing reasons than his impatience. Not until he’s at least twenty. Thirty would be better.”

She knew it was only a delaying maneuver, at best putting off the argument. At some point, either Merilin or Celeborn – preferably Celeborn – would have to be able to give Thingol a timeframe when he could expect to regain his missing advisor.

“That is not your only reluctance,” Celeborn said, eying her thoughtfully. “Would it not be best to clear the air now?”

She frowned.

There was little point in pretending she didn’t know what he was talking about. But he would not like hearing it.

“You know perfectly well I am in no hurry to return where I am not wanted.”

“You are wanted, beloved. Aunt Melian never agreed with sending you away in the first place. And Uncle has asked after you assiduously. I am quite sure he regrets his temper.”

Galadriel snorted.

“I do not doubt he regrets that his temper has inconvenienced him. But my absence would suit him just fine if it did not mean yours as well.”

“Beloved…” Celeborn sighed.

“No, Celeborn,” she said, cutting off whatever words he had at the ready to try to smooth things over. “I have had more than enough of uncles whose treatment of me is conditional. I am tired of being accepted on sufferance, admitted as kin only provided I can be slotted neatly into the box someone else wishes to put me in. I grew up with an uncle who never ceased to find me inadequate as a Noldo. I have no use for one who deems me inadequate as a Linda – not that I see where he has any standing to judge the matter in any case. Does he really believe he grieves more for people he has never met than those of us who knew them as kin from the time we first opened our eyes?”

“I don’t recall you ever standing up to your Noldorin uncle,” Celeborn retorted, his temper flaring.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” she shot back. “He nearly threw me overboard for it. Well out to sea. In a storm. So you must excuse me if I am in no particular hurry to find out how Thingol handles unruly nieces.”

Celeborn stilled.

“You were on the ships?”

“I was on my grandfather’s ship,” she replied crisply. “Not by choice, but unlike every other person aboard, kin to me or not, I had every right to be there. Perhaps that’s why my uncle was in such a hurry to put me ashore once the storm broke.”

That Fëanor had dared steal the ship named for her grandmother – built with her grandfather’s and uncle’s own hands, the sails woven by her grandmother and the interior fitted out with her mother's work – to burn on unfamiliar shores had still angered her even before she had learned he burned Ambarussa with it.

Celeborn looked stricken, and took both of her hands in his.

“I never met your uncle the Ship-thief, my love. But I promise you this – Uncle would never raise a hand to you, any more than he would to Merilin, Nimloth or Lúthien. Never. No matter how bad a temper he is in.”

She could not have said if it was true or not, but it was clear that Celeborn believed it. Absolutely. She’d been that certain of her family once.

“I did not believe my uncle would try to kill me before the Kinslaying either,” she said, her voice so quiet it was barely more than a whisper.

Celeborn wrapped his arms around her.

“I will tell Uncle it is too soon to think of leaving the little one. But in return, I would very much appreciate it if you would tell me the full story of the Kinslaying – and that which followed it – so there will be no more such surprises.”

He sighed as he felt her stiffen.

“I understand why you have been reluctant to speak of it, my love. Truly. But I promised you that we would find the path that was right for you and I – for us, not for one people or the other but for Galadriel and Celeborn – and that we would do so together. I doubt that either of us will do well trying to choose blindly. I know parts already. Surely that should make the full tale less trouble to tell. And a burden shared is a burden lightened.”

He ended on a hopeful note, which meant he knew perfectly well he was slogging uphill.

Galadriel was silent for a moment.

“Celeborn the Wise,” she said slowly.

“So you have named me,” he replied quietly. “Though I do not think I wear it as well as you do Galadriel.”

“I will tell you. But not tonight. It is not a tale for when little ears might overhear. And I would rather tell it in the light of day.”

Celeborn nodded.

“We will find a time. It need not be right away. But not too long?”

She sighed.

“Very well.”

“Oropher will visit in only a few months’ time and stay the winter. He can carry my reply back, so you need not commit anything to paper about when precisely we may return. Uncle shall have to content himself with an assurance that in due time we will.”

---

In the end, she managed to drag it out only another fifteen years. She would have pushed to remain even longer, but Celeborn had pointed out that if she waited too long, she might well lose the excellent excuse of ‘Ingo has finished his halls, I must go see Nargothrond now that it is complete’ to come back fairly quickly.

Privately, she thought Ingo would be still putting ‘finishing touches’ on in another thirty or forty years, but she didn’t dare risk it. Having that ready-made pretext in her pocket was too useful – particularly if it helped her establish early on that she and Celeborn would alternate between spells in Nargothrond and spells in Menegroth.

All that didn’t make leaving Gildor behind any easier though.

He was doing his very best not to cry as they made ready to depart – ‘I’m not a baby anymore, Ammë!’ – but his eyes weren’t precisely dry and he was rather sniffly.

Finduilas was sticking to him as close as she could, looking nearly as mournful as he did. Galadriel was more thankful than ever that Gildor had a close cousin. He needed someone to lean on – and someone his own age, for whom he would not feel obliged to put on a brave face.

She hugged her son, and did her best not to muss his hair in front of everyone when he was trying so hard to be a big boy.

“Chin up, darling. It won’t be very long before we come back to visit. You and Findë will probably be getting into so much mischief you won’t even notice we’re gone.”

“Will so,” came the sulky mutter.

“I know, my little love,” she whispered. “But it can’t be helped any longer. Be brave for me? It’s not at all easy to ride away without my Gilya.”

She stepped back. Gildor stood up tall, gulping hard as he did.

“Safe travels,” he said, in a voice that was creditably close to even.

She was so proud of him – and so tempted to tell Celeborn she’d changed her mind.

“Thank you, nephew,” Celeborn said gravely. “I know I speak for both of us when I say we trust you will write often.”

“I shall drive the messengers to distraction,” Gildor declared. “You may come to regret saying that!”

Celeborn laughed as he mounted.

“We shall see! Fare ye well, Nargothrond.”

Galadriel turned to her brother. Ingo smiled and squeezed her hand as he helped her onto her horse.

Worry not, Artë. You know his new rooms are all set. And if Finduilas doesn’t beg to overnight with us as I suspect she means to, I shall likely be in there myself much of the night to ensure he sleeps well. We will both write often.

“If you don’t make a start, you’ll still be here come nightfall,” he prompted them, giving her a knowing look.

You do trust me with him, don’t you? I may have adopted him, but we both know he’s still yours.

Galadriel sighed, and steeled herself.

Of course I trust you.

They rode out. She only turned to look back twice. And did not let any tears fall until she was certain they were out of Gildor’s sight.

Growing Pains

Read Growing Pains

Curufinwë sighed as he laid down the steward’s report.  He’d been working long hours to ensure everything was in good order before his upcoming trip to Nargothrond.

He wondered idly what Artanis thought of the idea that their son was about to be at least technically ‘adult’ – and whether or not it would be safe to rib her about it when he saw her. Ingo’s latest letter had implored him to come for Gildor and Finduilas’ coming of age, which was to be celebrated jointly that summer.

He’d returned for visits once or twice over the intervening years. He expected Artanis had done the same, though likely more often given it was an easy journey from Thingol’s realm to Ingo’s these days. Unfortunately, any visits she’d made had never overlapped with his – though perhaps it had been for the best.

While he was sure she’d tried to hold out longer, Artanis had to surrender to the inevitable and return to Menegroth before Gildor’s thirtieth begetting day, doing her part for diplomacy. Thingol might have grudgingly accepted one of the younger kin under his protection who had a Noldorin mate leaving, but he wouldn’t brook two – and apparently Celeborn was the one he preferred not to do without. (Although a cynic might say that Merilin was better suited to be Thingol’s eyes and ears in Nargothrond.)

Curufin expected Artanis would be there for this, and was looking forward to it. Given the lack of diplomatic relations between Thingol and any son of Fëanaro, letters between them had to take a roundabout route via Mithrim, and sometimes thence to Nargothrond or Tol Sirion. It could take two years or more to get a reply to any question. It made it difficult to keep up with each other, and all but impossible to speak freely. (He had no idea what Thingol did, but he wouldn’t be surprised to learn Uncle Nolo read the letters between his nephews and niece passing through Mithrim, if for no other reason than to make sure he didn’t have to worry about new feuds breaking out.)

With both Gildor and Finduilas celebrating, all the Arafinwions should be there. In fact, now that he thought about it, there was every chance his brothers might all be there as well – unless Nelyo decided that someone had to stay up north to keep an eye on things.

He couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Tyelko had asked one or two rather odd questions after his first visit to Nargothrond, but never said anything more after that. What Nelyo would think was something Curufinwë avoided pondering. He worried less about the others.

If Pityo were actually clear-headed enough to figure something like this out, it would be the best possible sign he was truly recovering. But even if he did, he’d never rat out Artanis. He just might take a swing at his older brother, though.

Kano was unlikely to believe the truth even if Curufinwë flat out told him – he’d laugh and ask what Artanis had really done if this was the diversionary excuse.

Moryo was clever enough to figure it out, but the only thing he was likely to do with the information was extort his least favorite brother for extra supplies. Fortunately, given Ango’s ongoing refusal to be reasonable, Moryo was also the most likely to be told to stay home to mind the borders. Then again, given that Ango wasn’t actually fond of any of them these, days, he might well turn up…

“Daydreaming, little brother?”

“Don’t be silly, Atto doesn’t daydream. He thinks.”

Tyelko and Tyelpë had slipped in without him noticing – not unusual for his son, but practically unheard of in his older brother, who was normally about as subtle as an orc unless he was on a hunt.

“What brings you two here at this time of day?” he asked.

“The little one,” Tyelko began only to be interrupted.

“Really, Uncle? I’ve been an adult for some years now, and there are actual children in the family.”

“The little one,” Tyelko repeated, louder and for emphasis, “was explaining to me his plans for a new series of experiments, and I thought before he got started, it might be a good idea to sort out who’s going where when.”

Curufinwë glanced at his firstborn.

“Tyelpë?” he asked. “I thought you knew we were going to visit Uncle Ingo. Your cousins’ coming of age? I’m sure I mentioned it to you.”

More than once, in fact. He was somewhat nervous about bringing the two boys face to face, but could see no good way around it. Particularly given both Ingo and Tyelko have been pestering him about bringing Tyelpë down for the past few years.

“You did,” Tyelpë replied, squirming slightly. “It’s just that I had a letter from Uncle Moryo, and another from Great-uncle Nolo. Uncle Moryo wrote about something the dwarves he trades with had mentioned, and Great-uncle reminded me of something he had seen Grandfather do once, and when I put them together, it gave me an idea…”

“I take it testing this idea requires a fair amount of time and you are hoping to be excused the trip?” Curufinwë asked, with a sigh that was only partly feigned.

Given half a chance, Tyelperinquar would lay out his entire thought process from tinco to úrë. It sounded as if in this case it was a lengthy chain. Curufinwë would happily indulge his son later – Tyelpë hadn’t yet reached the point in his craft where it wasn’t still a useful exercise to have him explain his reasoning and ensure it was sound. But for the moment, he preferred to stay on topic.

“Yes, Atto. I can’t see where it will make much difference. It isn’t as if Finduilas or Gildor know me – we’ve exchanged a few letters, but that’s all. I’d be just one more older relative to them. They’d probably rather celebrate with their friends and the kin they know. I doubt they’ll feel slighted. I wouldn’t, in their place.”

There was some sense in that, even if it was largely motivated by Tyelpë’s desire to pursue his own project. And there were certainly a fair number of young folk in Nargothrond these days, if Ingo’s letters were anything to judge by.

“Tyelko? You dragged him up here, I’m assuming that means you have an opinion on this.”

His older brother shrugged.

“I just thought it was better to sort it out than have the two of you both turn all dramatic when you announced it was time to pack and Tyelpë blinked in confusion and said he wasn’t going anywhere.”

“You were right. But right now I’m asking what you think about leaving him here? Seeing as you’re the one who’s generally been adamant he ought to meet his little cousins and faulted me several times already for not taking him with me or sending him on his own or with you.”

Tyelko sighed.

“I still think they ought to meet. Knowing one’s kin is to the good, and he’s too much on his own here. There’s no young folk here as there are in Ingo’s halls. But I also think the boy is old enough that it’s time he had a taste of being in charge – and I don’t know when else he’s ever going to get it if you and I keep taking it in turns to stay here with him as if he were still in need of a minder.”

Curufinwë paused to digest that idea. It was an aspect he hadn’t thought of, but Tyelko had a point. His son was a prince of the Noldor. At some point, he would be expected to lead. If the peace held, he would not need to do so in earnest any time soon. All the same, it wouldn’t be wise to wait until a major battle to test his abilities. Battle would be the sternest test, of course. But giving him a chance to demonstrate he could run a fortress without his father or uncle hovering over him would be a good start, and hopefully to his benefit.

“Hm,” he said. “You’re right, he is old enough. As he said, he’s an adult. He has been since not long after Gildor and Finduilas came into the light, as a matter of fact. But if he’s in charge, he’ll have to remember he can’t stay in the workshops all day and all night. Being in charge means just that – being in charge. Do you understand, Tyelperinquar?”

Tyelpë blinked.

This was evidently somewhat more than he’d bargained for. But he was also quick enough to realize that if he turned it down, he’d be going to Nargothrond and whatever experiments he had planned would have to be put off for a year at least. Better to have less time to work on them than none at all.

“I… hadn’t thought you would trust me with so much responsibility, Atto,” he said, shifting from whatever he’d meant to say at first. “Did you mean it?”

Curufinwë wasn’t sure if the lad was hoping it would be taken back or not.

“I would hardly have said it if I didn’t,” he replied briskly. “You’ve been of age long enough to begin taking on more responsibility. I should probably arrange to have you spend a few seasons each with your uncles in Himring and Helevorn as well, to see how other fortresses are managed. Just because Uncle Tyelko and I do things a certain way does not mean it is the only way, or even the best way.”

Maybe that carrot would make spending time with Moryo less of a trial, assuming he made it to the young ones’ party. He might not be fond of Curufinwë, but he did fairly regularly mention wanting to see more of his only nephew.

“And have him trained to fight by someone who won’t go easy on him,” Tyelko added in a not quite undertone.

“Atto doesn’t go easy on me!” Tyelpë protested indignantly.

“You say that because he’s the only one who’s trained you so far,” Tyelko laughed. “If you’d had anyone else, you’d know better!”

“You’ve trained me too,” Tyelpë pointed out with a slight glare. “I’ve the bruises to prove it.”

“I treat you like delicate glass,” Tyelko snorted, rolling his eyes. “Can’t do anything else with your worried father hovering constantly. Nelyo and that captain of his ought to take you in hand with Curvo at a distance sufficient that he can’t tell them to be nicer about it. Orcs won’t be nearly so considerate as your adoring atto.”

“One thing at a time,” Curufinwë said firmly, glaring at his older brother. “Yes, Tyelpë, you’ll remain here. Your uncle and I will both make the trip to Nargothrond. Maikindo will know he’s to answer to you, not vice versa.”

“Though that does not mean you should not take his advice,” Tyelko put in. “He and Lanwion both know a good deal more about the nitty-gritty of running this place than you do as yet.”

“How is ‘being in charge’ so different if I’m to mind the captain of the guard or the steward than if I’m to mind you?” Tyelpë sighed in irritation. “Just because it’s your retainers here with me while I’m nominally in command instead of one of you two?”

You will be the one everyone is looking to, Tyelperinquar,” Curufinwë replied sternly. “Last I checked, Maikindo’s title was ‘Captain’, not ‘Prince’. You being in command will not be nominal. Nor are we saying that you are to leave things entirely to him – only that if you are taking a decision and he feels strongly that you should reconsider, you should hear him out and weigh his advice carefully. Particularly if it’s a military matter.”

“I know the limits of my knowledge, Atto,” Tyelpë sighed. “It’s unlikely I’d argue if Maikindo tells me something is a terrible idea.”

Curufinwë glanced at his brother.

It didn’t sound as if his son was ready yet for the concept that there might come a time when he would need to argue with Maikindo. The man was a damn good tactician and had an understanding of what orcs were likely to do that verged on foresight, but he was not in overall command. And he was as fallible as any other person.

But there should be no need for such discussions in the next few months. So far the winter had been almost worryingly quiet. With any luck, it would stay that way all year. Tyelpë could have his first experience of leadership, then go to Helevorn to shadow Moryo for a year or two. If nothing else, he’d learn a good deal about logistics.

---

As it happened, not all of Curufinwë’s brothers ended up making the trek to Nargothrond.

Aglon had stayed quiet, but the Gap had not, so Kano and Nelyo had both remained in the north. Selfish as it might be, Curufinwë was relieved to think that his eldest brother would be close at hand should anything happen at Aglon in his absence. And yes, also somewhat relieved that Maitimo would not be setting eyes on young Gildor anytime soon…

“Would you knock it off already, Curvo? You’re so nervous it’s making me nervous, and I think the boy will do just fine. The way you’re behaving anyone would think he wasn’t even as old as the young ones we’re going to Nargothrond for!”

He tried not to glare at Moryo. He wasn’t behaving that badly.

“He’s right, and you know it,” Tyelko laughed. “What’s more, if you don’t stop it, you’ll get Pityo all keyed up, and that’s the last thing we need.”

Rather than have their youngest brother ride north to meet them, the three of them had come south to him. The plan was to continue all the way down to the Ramdal, and then ride along south of the hills. They hadn’t been entirely sure how crossing Sirion would go, but knowing more ways to Ingo’s kingdom was worth whatever small trouble it might prove.

Now that they were actually to Sirion, however, the crossing was looking less simple than they’d hoped. It was still early in the day, but tempers were already fraying.

“I’m hardly about to get worked up about my nephew being left in the fortress he’s lived in since it was built,” Pityo remarked evenly. “It’s not as if he’s a toddler. Besides, he’s got your entire garrison to look after him. You two idiots, however, I’m sorely tempted to push in. If you keep being so annoying, I’ll chuck your packs in after you.”

“I’ll help,” Tyelko offered with a toothy grin, cutting off any possible retort his other two brothers might have made.

“I’m beginning to think we should have ridden further north,” Curufinwë said, glaring at Pityo. “We might have crossed where the river was still safely underground.”

“Yes, I’m sure picking our way through those hills would have been much easier,” Pityo snorted. “You really ought to come down from your mountains more often. Get to know the rest of Beleriand.”

“Enough!” Tyelko sighed. “Pityo, you made your point. Either tell us what you think is a good way to proceed or chuck them in and be done with it.”

Pityo gave them a look that suggested he might well have taken the latter option had a voice not hailed them.

“Hello there, cousins! Lucky for you we spotted you earlier in the day and worked out where you were making for. This is a terrible place to try to cross!”

Aiko had a small party with him. Curufinwë wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or irritated to see Gildor among them.

“Uncles! It is good to see you all!” he called. “But Uncle Aiko is right – this is the very worst spot to cross. It may be narrow, but it’s deeper than it looks and dangerously swift. Even the Gates would be safer. But there is a much better place if you will follow us downstream, about half a league from here.”

The river widened as they rode, until it spread into what might have been called a gentle stream had it not been so broad, easily a hundred paces. But it was now shallow enough that the horses could pick their way across without so much as wetting their knees.

When they reached dry ground on the western side, Gildor grinned.

“There, that was easier, wasn’t it? Mark this place if you’re going to cross below the Gates, or pick your way north further east and go through Aelin-uial. Either is safer than trying to cross too near the Gates.”

“You might have told us that sooner,” Tyelko grumbled.

“I’m sure Atto would have, if you’d given us any indication you meant to come this way,” Gildor shrugged. “We expected you’d come down with Uncle Finno.”

A snort from Aiko’s direction made it clear that Gildor might have thought that, and possibly even Ingo, but not everyone had such delusions.

“Not while Ango was in the party,” Aiko told his nephew. “There would have been fistfights if not worse,  by the time they reached Taeglin at the latest.”

“Still the only sensible man around here, Aiko?” Moryo asked affably. “It’s good to see you again. I know Helevorn is well out of your way, but you are welcome anytime.”

“I’ll save that for when I need to rile my brother,” Aiko said wryly. “Gildor, your uncle Moryo, who you won’t have met before. The rest I think you know.”

Gildor nodded.

“Welcome, uncles,” he said with a grin. “You are not quite in Atto’s kingdom yet, but close enough for us to play hosts.”

Aiko rolled his eyes, but fondly.

“I don’t know where you propose to host them, lad” he said. “We’re more than two days’ ride from Ingo’s halls, and there’s not so much as a shepherd’s hut between here and the Narog.”

“Yes, it’s two days home at best speed,” Gildor nodded. “But there is a meadow we can reach by this evening that’s quite comfortable to camp in, and perfectly safe. I thought we might overnight there, and have an easy ride on the morrow.”

Curufinwë decided that if this was anything to go by, Gildor was of a more practical bent than his older son. He somehow doubted Ingo would have any doubts about leaving him in charge whenever he next went north to Tol Sirion.

“Your father lets you go ranging so far?” Tyelko demanded, before his brothers could.

“We are less troubled by unexpected orcs than you in the north,” Gildor replied easily. “Or even Uncle Amras in the east. It’s safe enough. Besides, I’d need to learn how to travel sensibly in any case. Great-Uncle Nolo is insistent that as he cannot come here, Findë and I must go visit him now that we’re old enough. We’ll make the journey with Uncle Ango, Uncle Aiko, and Uncle Finno when they return north.”

“So of course you had to practice on your own first?” Moryo said drily.

Gildor grinned.

“You can hardly call it on my own when there were never less than a dozen of us out here at a time. Findë, too.”

“Has her father taken leave of his senses?” Tyelko growled.

“Hardly. Her mother’s the one who has been teaching us,” Gildor said, his tone so crisp that no one who knew Ingo or Artë could have missed that he was annoyed on his aunt’s behalf. “She’d have been out here with us to greet you, except that the party coming down from Doriath are expected anytime. So she chose to stay to welcome them. Oh, and best behavior, you Noldor – Findë’s Uncle Oropher is coming with them as well. We’re all under orders to make nice and humor Thingol in front of him.”

He favored them with a sunny smile at the grimaces that announcement elicited before turning and urging his horse into a trot.

Moryo grabbed Curufinwë’s hand.

Are we sure he’s not Ingo’s by blood? he asked quietly.

Curufinwë glanced at his brother and shook his head ever so slightly. This was neither the time nor the place to discuss it.

He’d prefer not to discuss it at all – none of his brothers were stupid or unobservant – but if it was unavoidable, they should wait until there were no Arafinwions present.

Family Reunion

Read Family Reunion

Sitting around the campfire that night, Curufinwë found it almost possible to believe that nothing had changed since his youth. He could easily have fooled himself he was out in the countryside with his brothers and a cousin or two, laughing, joking, and telling stories, and cheerfully either eating or mocking whatever food they had been able to contrive, depending on the ability of the cook.

But if this were Aman, it wouldn’t have been Gildor sitting with them – or if it was, Gildor would have been Silmë’s son, not Artë’s. As he ought to have been… Curufinwë shook off the thought, which he’d been careful to keep in the innermost part of his mind, where no Arafinwions might overhear. Wistfulness for what might have been helped no one, and letting anyone else stumble onto the secret now would be worse.

Ingo had definitely rubbed off on the boy. (To Curufinwë’s relief, Moryo had taken his hint earlier to heart and not said another word on the subject.) But seeing his younger son in action left him wondering if perhaps he ought to have made different choices with the older one.

He was certain Tyelperinquar would be at a loss if asked to set up a camp on his own, and certainly not have contributed so creditably to dinner. He could also not speak so casually of trips beyond the immediate safety of the fortress he called home. At most, he visited the nearby support facilities – mainly the mines and quarries that supported the stronghold, but occasionally also the farms that kept them fed and in wool and leather.

Nor did he range nearly as far from Aglon. The furthest Curufinwë had ever allowed his son unaccompanied by him or Tyelko was the upper reaches of Aros, and then only with a large guard – and that was much closer than Sirion was from Nargothrond. Of course, Tyelperinquar also lacked like-aged companions he might take on such trips, where it sounded as though Gildor and Finduilas had a large set of friends they regularly had ‘adventures’ with.

Gildor had been cheerfully telling his uncles tales of their exploits since dinner – carefully selected and edited, Curufinwë suspected. He certainly wouldn’t have told his uncles everything he got up to at that age. (Nor would any of his brothers, for that matter. Especially not Tyelko, who was from all appearances enjoying the stories the most.)

“…and then he fell down, but fortunately into the water, in the section where it was deep enough that he didn’t crack his head or break any bones hitting the bottom. He came up sputtering and yelling and we’ve called him the Falling Squirrel ever since!”

Tyelko’s raucous laughter would have drawn every orc for miles had there been any about.

“What did Ingo say to all this?” Moryo asked dubiously.

“I doubt Ingo’s heard the full story,” Aiko said with a chuckle. “He’d take a dimmer view of horsing around on those rocks than Tyelko does. Less because he’s worried about this one doing himself harm than he frets that Findë might and he’d be stuck trying to explain it to her parents.”

“Her parents?” Pityo snorted. “Unless Merilin’s a good deal fiercer than I’ve been led to believe, I’d be far more concerned about Ango.”

Curufinwë privately agreed. Any fool who allowed Ango’s only grandchild to come to harm was likely to find out why he had been named Angamaitë - even his older brother.

“All of you worry entirely too much,” Gildor assured them airily. “We look out for each other. Save your fussing for when we’re older and off to take our turns on the watches up north. For now, we’re having fun, and the worst that’s ever happened to anyone is a twisted ankle. Besides, you behave as if I haven’t heard the stories about what you lot got up to as kids!”

That set off a round of everyone trying to one-up each other with stories of their brothers – always brothers, or occasionally in Aiko’s case, sister, but never themselves – getting into well-deserved trouble.

Judging by the grin on Gildor’s face, it was exactly what he’d intended them to do.

It almost took the edge off Curufinwë’s stab of concern at the casual way the boy assumed that in time he too would be taking part in the guard against Angband in the north.

Almost.

---

Gildor rousted them bright and early – emphasis on early rather than bright, given that the sun was only just peeping over the horizon.  There were more than a few grumbles at that from those among them who were not natural early birds, Moryo in particular.

“What’s the hurry, little one?” Aiko chuckled as his nephew hurried them through breakfast.

“If we get an early start, we should be back before Aunty arrives!” he replied eagerly.

“She didn’t get in yesterday?” Curufinwë asked.

Two nods in the negative answered that question – both Aiko and Gildor were certain Artë was still on the road.

“What’s that you say? You want us to go as slowly as possible this morning?” Tyelko said, matching action to words. “No need to rush?”

“You do realize he knows the way from here and you don’t?” Curufinwë couldn’t resist pointing out to his brother after only a few seconds of watching Gildor glare at him. “Overdo the slow motion and he might just ride off and leave you.”

“I could, couldn’t I?” Gildor said thoughtfully. “In your own good time, Uncle. I mean to depart in a quarter of an hour, with or without you.”

“Just what the world needed, Curvo teaching Arafinwions how to be devious,” Moryo snorted.

“Flattering of you to think that one needed any teaching,” Aiko sighed with a shake of his head. “Be grateful he’s an only child.”

And likely to remain that way, his tone implied.

It was a reasonable assumption. Ingo would take no bride, unless by some utterly unlooked for chance the Valar relented or Amarië found a way to cross the Sea in search of him. Should that ever happen, Curufinwë suspected she’d dote on the boy as much as Ingo did.

Privately, Curufinwë thought that Gildor was certain to acquire a younger sibling or two – even if one discounted the prospect of Amarië joining Ingo, there was simply no way Artë and Celeborn weren’t going to be parents at some point. It was merely a question of when.  He smiled to himself at the thought of Gildor teaching his younger sister or brother how to drive their mother to distraction. He could only hope he’d still be around to see it.

Smothering such thoughts with a sigh, he got busy packing up. He knew the boy meant it about leaving with or without them. Though he also trusted Aiko would get them there if they were left.

“Not in time, though,” Gildor said with a smirk. “And you’re almost as impatient to see Auntie as I am.”

Curufinwë sighed.

He hadn’t missed this facet of young Arafinwions at all – they’d all been damnably proficient at osanwë, to the point of catching unvoiced thoughts more often than was comfortable if one wasn’t careful.

“Manners,” Aiko chided his nephew – but with a grin that said he’d also heard the original thought as well as Curufinwë’s reaction.

All of them somehow managed to be prepared to leave by Gildor’s deadline, with Pityo – the first one ready other than Gildor himself – sniping at the rest of them for being such slowcoaches.

The ride to the Narog and thence to Ingo’s halls passed pleasantly enough. The early morning lent the countryside an air of being brand new, every leaf and blade of grass sparkling as the dew caught the fresh light. As the sun climbed higher, the day warmed, and it was not only Gildor who sang cheerfully as they rode. (Gildor broke off singing from time to time to point out to them sights he considered worthy of comment, or sites of particularly enjoyable adventures.)

Curufinwë hadn’t been at Nargothrond since Ingo had declared his halls complete – Tyelko had been the one to go to that gathering along with Pityo. It was also Moryo’s first time there, so Curufinwë trusted Ingo would be raring to give them both a full tour. He was eager to see what Ingo had made of the place. It had already been promising enough when he was last there.

Gildor’s haste brought them to the gates at the same time as the party from Doriath, which was more than just the three Curufinwë had been expecting. Despite Aiko’s half-hearted admonition to Gildor to remember his manners and behave in a manner fitting a prince of the kingdom, the boy did a flying dismount in his haste to greet Artë.

Curufinwë was startled to note that Gildor was now of a height with Celeborn, who greeted him almost as heartily as Artanis herself did, though it was Artë who kept an arm around him as the rest of their travelling companions followed them toward the gates.

Curufinwë recognized Oropher, but while he could see a resemblance to Oropher and Celeborn in a few of the others, the rest of the party were unknown to him. Likely they were also kin to Finduilas’ mother Merilin, who was greeting them all warmly. If so, this promised to be an interesting visit – the princes of Doriath weren’t overly fond of him or his brothers, being now aware that unlike Artë they fully deserved the epithet kinslayers.

Indeed, more than one of them were already looking askance at him and Moryo, the most obviously Noldorin among their group. Tyelko with his silver hair wouldn’t be out of place among the princes of Doriath, though doubtless they would discover he was the one who had nearly killed Artanis before long.

He wasn’t sure if Tyelko’s thoughts ran in the same direction as his, but his oldest brother present shot one of the women a charming grin, which only widened at her rection. Ingo appeared at his elbow and appeared to be trying to guide him away from the Iathrim with a slightly strained expression. Perhaps he hadn’t fully considered the logistics of the occasion until now…

Curufinwë would have snickered at Ingo’s predicament, had he not known perfectly well he’d need to do his part to keep the peace. On second thought, given the lack of their two eldest brothers, he’d likely end up doing more than his part.

“I’m just trying to be friendly!” Tyelko assured Ingo cheerfully as Ingo passed him over to his brothers.

“Of course you are,” Curufinwë snorted. “And your friendliness has nothing whatsoever to do with Sindarin notions of permissible relationships.”

“I’m wounded, dear brother,” Tyelko replied. “How could you ever think such a thing? Much less say it in front of the children?”

“Thankfully the children are occupied in greeting their visitors,” Moryo said drily. “And I suspect Ingo would appreciate it if you not complicate matters by attempting to seduce a princess of Doriath.”

“Why, is the famed lady Lúthien here as well?” Tyelko asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

Moryo gave their older brother a hard stare, and Curufinwë hoped that he wasn’t fool enough to take the bait Tyelko was gleefully dangling in front of him. They didn’t need to start quarreling less than five minutes after arrival.

“Dear cousins, long time no see!”

Curufinwë was surprised but pleased to discover when he turned that in addition to the party from Doriath, another group of guests were newly arrived. Findekano had come down from Mithrim. It was clear he brought no other kin – Curufinwë briefly wished several rather creative but non-fatal injuries on Turvo for having taken Irissë with him. But he did have enough of an entourage to even the numbers and offer a buffer against any unpleasantness from the Sindarin contingent. Finno was on good terms with the Sindar of Mithrim, and he and Uncle had exchanged letters with Menegroth that had been cordial from all Curufinwë had heard.

“Who is that?”

Gildor and Artanis had joined the knot of Feanorions plus Ingo, and Gildor was eying Finno in bemusement.

“That’s your Uncle Finno, darling,” Artanis answered fondly. “Though the stars only know what brings him here. Ingo, you didn’t say he was expected.”

“He wasn’t,” Ingo shrugged. “I wrote and invited Uncle, though without any notion he’d accept.”

Artanis adored Ingo too much to tell him he was ridiculous, so Curufinwë said it for her.

“You surely knew better than to seriously think he could leave Mithrim for any length of time.”

“True, but I thought he’d be pleased to be asked. It never entered my mind he’d let Finno make the journey. Though I suppose it’s a rare occasion, there aren’t all that many of the younger generation, so two of them coming of age in the same year…”

“Perhaps you should be offended Finno didn’t attend Tyelpë’s party,” Tyelko suggested.

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Curufinwë snorted.

“Wrong brother,” multiple brothers and cousins informed Tyelko in unison.

“What do you mean?” Gildor asked in confusion.

“Darling, why don’t you go see if you can pry Findë away from Oropher so you can introduce yourselves to Uncle Finno,” Artanis suggested. “He’s come all this way to see you! In the meantime, I’ll walk your other uncles inside before Tyelko can cause any trouble leering at Nimloth.”

“What do you mean trouble? What trouble? She didn’t mind!” Tyelko protested.

To everyone’s relief, he grudgingly allowed himself to be herded inside by the combined pressure of brothers and cousins all the same.

See How They Grow

Read See How They Grow

Between everyone trying to catch up with Finno, Curufinwë’s brothers catching up with Artë and Aiko – Pityo in particular was keen to spend time with Artanis, something that was equal parts relief and concern for everyone other than the pair of them – and the need to keep an eye on Tyelko, Curufinwë had to wait until the next morning to find Ingo in the hopes of a private chat and tour.

He and Moryo had spent the rest of the evening making sure Tyelko wasn’t about to do anything that would embarrass Ingo or result in Maitimo deciding none of them could be trusted to visit their cousins anymore. (There was considerable, but not complete overlap between the two categories. Curufinwë had caught Ingo trying not to laugh on several occasions, and more to the point doing nothing whatsoever to help.)

Tyelko was inordinately pleased with himself, all the more so after he managed to evade his brothers and wrangle a seat next to Nimloth at dinner. Oropher had contented himself with a single mild glare, but the other Iathrin princes shot baleful glances at them all through dinner.

The unlikely pair mostly kept to polite conversation – though Curufinwë had been exasperated to note that Nimloth was as likely to introduce the less discreet topics as his brother was. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was in on his brother’s apparent mission to wind everyone up. Either way, he suspected he wasn’t the only one itching to have words with his kinsperson by the end of dinner.

Happily, despite flirting outrageously, Tyelko had just enough sense to carry it no further, and spent the night in his own room - alone. Curufinwë and Moryo made sure of it. It would have been bloody helpful if Kano had been able to come. Curufinwë didn’t fully trust that Tyelko would heed them the way he would his elder brothers.

As much as he’d indulged, it was a safe bet that Tyelko would sleep in. Pityo had been tasked with making sure he didn’t cause any diplomatic incidents before lunch.

In practice, that meant Artanis would also be on the case. No one seriously expected that Pityo alone would be sufficient. With only half of the Fearsome Foursome present, one of them now married with a reputation to think of, the idea that Artë and Pityo would cause chaos or uproar of their own was less a concern than it would have been back home. (Curufinwë did spare a moment to think of the reactions of his elders to the idea that Artë was suddenly the voice of mature reason.)

That left Curufinwë free to slip over to Ingo’s apartments, take breakfast in peace, and point out that he hadn’t seen Ingo’s halls in their full splendor yet.

He was dismayed to discover someone less encumbered by idiot brothers than he was had already beaten him to Ingo’s rooms.

“Curvo!” Ingo beamed. “What good fortune, I thought you were eating with your brothers and didn’t want to disturb you. Have a seat, and be known to my cousin Eöl. The two of you should get along splendidly, both being such talented smiths.”

Curufinwë would have been more irritated with Ingo had Eöl not looked as taken aback as he felt to be sharing a table.

“Cousin?” he asked, aiming a raised eyebrow at Ingo.

“The son of Thingol’s sister. Unfortunately, we were not in time to meet our great-aunt.”

Ingo’s smile dimmed a bit, and Curufinwë hoped dearly that Eöl would not take it as an insult that his parentage had not been known, much less that his mother was among the lost. Then again, Ingo did generally manage to get away with saying such things…

“My apologies, Prince Eöl,” he said with a slight bow before taking the seat Ingo had waved him toward.

“Your apologies are unnecessary,” Eöl replied brusquely. “I can hardly fault you not knowing what you have not been told. And as you will not have been told this either, I am no prince.”

“But surely if you are King Elwë’s nephew…”

“I am happy to leave the titles – and the cumbersome responsibilities that go with them – to my cousins. I mind our eastern borders, which  is more than enough. And from what Finrod tells us, I think we are less formal than your people in any case. Most of you, that is.”

“Tyelko is… unique,” Ingo offered wryly.

That was one way of putting it. Curufinwë didn’t dare ask if the expression on his face meant Eöl had actually found Tyelko’s antics the previous evening amusing. He doubted it.

“You needn’t worry so about your brother,” Eöl snorted. “Nimloth is unlikely to egg him on beyond what she already has, no matter how funny she found it to shock the rest of us.”

“Is this her first time outside the Girdle?” Ingo asked, doctoring a slice of bread with a generous amount of jam.

“Hardly,” Eöl replied – slightly patronizingly, Curufinwë thought. “She’s been to Mithrim before, and the Falas. But it is her first time meeting your cousins. And I hear she’s been irritated by Oropher’s attitude of late.”

His tone suggested to Curufinwë that Eöl had heard it directly from the source.

Eöl rose.

“As to cousins – I greatly doubt it was my company your cousin was seeking here at this hour of the morning. I bid you good day, Finrod. No, don’t bother. With so many kin visiting, it will be difficult enough to make time for us all without any of us getting difficult about it. I’ll find the workshops well enough on my own. Or I can always ask that charming boy of yours. Uncle wouldn’t mind a visit from him, you know.”

Curufinwë kept his face neutral, but he’d be making sure that didn’t happen. He’d enlist Artanis to quash the notion if need be.

“I hope he won’t be offended to hear there’s a considerable queue forming for that privilege,” Ingo sighed. “I’ve heard the same from every other relative present. And from my uncle the High King, delivered via his son.”

Eöl laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You should have thought on that before you invited everyone!”

“Probably should have drawn up a timetable,” Curufinwë added.

The man might not like him, but it wouldn’t hurt to attempt to break the ice.

“Ah, this one would be the clever cousin,” Eöl chuckled.

“Not necessarily clever, just a bit more experienced at fatherhood,” Curufinwë demurred.

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch which one of the young fry was yours,” Eöl said apologetically.

“My son begged to be excused the trip – he’s in the midst of a project. It’s to be devoutly hoped my steward is succeeding prying him out of the workshop for regular meals.”

“A lad after my own heart,” Eöl chuckled. “Curufin, was it?”

Curufinwë nodded, keeping his face pleasant.

“I’m sure we’ll speak again. Until later, gentlemen.”

“That went rather well,” Ingo said once the door had closed behind Eöl. “Perhaps if I throw the two of you together a bit more in short doses…”

“We’ll both grow to enjoy taking our medicine?” Curufinwë asked sardonically, reaching for the fruit basket.

“He’s lord of Nan Elmoth,” Ingo replied. “It couldn’t hurt if you were at least on polite terms.”

“I don’t suppose you thought to warn them we’d be here?”

“I did, as a matter of fact. They chose to come, despite the risk of having to deal with… what’s that charming word they have?”

“Kinslayers? Curufinwë asked acidly. “I’ve heard it quite a bit, thank you.”

“No,” Ingo said impatiently. “Ship-thieves, I think it is.”

“Still accurate and only marginally less inflammatory. I salute them.”

“Shame you couldn’t convince Tylpë to come. Eöl’s a bit standoffish with you, but I suspect he’d like him. He’s good with young folk, you know. His apprentices all adore him.”

“I’m just as happy not to expose my son to Sindarin attitudes about us.”

“Try to look at it from a diplomatic point of view,” Ingo sighed. “Tylpë wasn’t involved in any kinslaying, and while he may have sailed, he was a child at the time – unlike the rest of us, the Sindar hold him blameless. Eöl might have been amenable to taking him as an apprentice for a time.”

Curufinwë bit back a sharp comment about the likelihood of such diplomacy succeeding. No need to give offense, even if he thought Ingo was almost dangerously naïve about how deeply Sindarin anger at the kinslaying ran – and possibly more naïve still about Noldorin anger at the Ban. He spent too much time cocooned in his own kingdom.

But Ingo was partially right. It was a shame Tyelpë hadn’t come. If this Eöl was a competent craftsman, the boy might well have learned something just in speaking with him…

“Done is done,” he shrugged. “He’s old enough now that I don’t want to order him about unless it’s truly necessary. He needs to learn to manage his time himself. Such a missed opportunity might make him think harder next time there’s such a gathering. Though I note you didn’t warn us to expect Thingol’s folk.”

“Did I need to?” Ingo asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “You knew we were celebrating for both Gildor and Findë. Did you really suppose her mother’s kin would stay away?”

“I supposed they would send their regrets when they heard we were expected,” Curufinwë snorted. “They won’t so much as give us the time of day when we pass by their northern borders.”

“Maybe if Thingol were here himself, but he’s not,” Ingo shrugged.

It sounded as if there was a silent ‘thankfully’ on that.

“I take it you’re still not welcome in Menegroth?”

“Oh, I probably am, but I’ve been quite busy,” Ingo grinned. “Far too much to do without throwing in any travel. And as she’s been there some years, Artanis is unlikely to be in any great hurry to return. I’ve a notion she may attach herself to the group going up to Mithrim after this.”

Curufinwë wasn’t so sure it would be Mithrim, but he agreed she would not be scurrying right back to Menegroth. If she did go up to Mithrim, she’d probably find an excuse to either visit her brothers in the north or come back to Ingo’s kingdom again after that. Possibly even both.

“I’m surprised she wasn’t here before me,” he observed.

“She and Pityo have plans of their own today,” Ingo laughed. “Which is just as well – they’d be bored to sobs with as thorough a tour of the place as I expect you want. Artë has already seen it all, and Pityo would prefer to be outdoors. Eat up! Once you’re done, we’ll get going. Maybe we can wind up in the workshops while Eöl’s still there. Wouldn’t hurt to dangle the notion of your son needing a change of scenery and a mentor who hasn’t known him all his life…”

“All right, all right, I yield,” Curufinwë sighed. “If only because I know Maitimo would agree were he here to listen in. But the diplomacy is on you. I suspect Eöl will like me better the less I have to say.”

Ingo was a cheerful a host as ever, despite the fact that he was hosting what just might be the most fraught family gathering since the one immediately after Father had pulled a sword on Uncle Nolo. Even the bust-ups in Mithrim had the underlying assumption that no one would kill anyone. (If only because they trusted someone else would prevent it.) With the Sindar, Curufinwë felt like that wasn’t necessarily the case.

More annoyingly, he seemed to have assembled a talented kitchen staff of both Noldor and Sindar who had put together a breakfast spread Curufinwë was going to miss when he returned to his own stronghold. Maybe if Ingo put in a good word he could tempt a Sindarin baker north?

Ingo had the decency to keep the talk inconsequential until they finished eating – well, until Curufinwë finished eating, really. Ingo was merely picking at a sweet pastry out of politeness. He’d already eaten with Eöl.

Curufinwë could practically feel Ingo itching to talk politics, and deliberately took his time finishing. It was nice to pretend, just for a little while, that they were something like a normal family again.

He was surprised to get a reprieve in the form of Finno.

“Ah! Good, I caught you before the pair of you could sneak off!”

“Sneak?” Curufinwë asked indignantly.

“I don’t sneak,” Ingo informed him with a lazy wave.

“Everyone knows that,” Curufinwë added dryly.

“And even if I did,” Ingo continued, “this is my stronghold. No need to sneak. I can go where I like, when I like.”

Finno rolled his eyes at the pair of them.

“So if I’d been a bit later, the two of you wouldn’t be hiding out somewhere enthusing about architecture, your latest projects, or some mad scheme?”

He seated himself as Curufinwë glared.

He’s trying to get a rise, don’t fall for it, Ingo warned, once again affecting great interest in the pastries.

“I’m mostly here for the festivities, of course,” Finno told them. “But as I’ve managed to catch you both privately – Father would like an update on the situation here and in Himlad.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking Tyelko?” Curufinwë asked. “He’s the elder.”

“Yes, I’m sure I’ll get a sensible readout of both the military and the political situation from Tyelko,” Finno snorted, helping himself to bread and jam without waiting for Ingo to offer. “Assuming, of course, he’ll deign to take time out from needling Ingo’s other cousins with his antics.”

He paused.

“He will stay on the right side of scandal, won’t he?”

“No promises,” Curufinwë muttered. “Actually it might help if you-”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” Finno laughed. “I’m younger than he is, he’s not about to listen to anything I have to say about his private pursuits.”

“You’re the Crown Prince!” Curufinwë snapped. “Stop being so bloody useless.”

“As if titles are going to make any difference to your brother!” Finno laughed.

“I have the oddest feeling Maitimo will be reading your letters before mine,” Curufinwë shot back.

“You could at least try to help,” Ingo pointed out, before any real quarrel could develop. “I think it’s been a combined effort so far.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Finno shrugged. “But while I appreciate your confidence, I doubt I can stop him doing anything he decides he really wants to do.”

---

It was nearly lunchtime before they were able to shake Finno off. He might chalk it up to Uncle Nolo wanting to a report, but it was clear that despite his pose of casual indifference, Finno himself was just as keen to hear what was passing in Himlad and Nargothrond. Curufinwë would believe some of the questions were straight from Uncle, and a few sounded more like Maitimo, but the bulk were clearly Finno’s own.

By the end, Curufinwë was downright surly and even Ingo’s cheerfulness was turning brittle.

“His bloody highness the Crown Prince,” Curufinwë muttered as Finno finally left them to themselves.

“You’d be just as persistent if Maitimo had told you to find out everything,” Ingo pointed out with a sigh.

“You didn’t enjoy that any more than I did,” Curufinwë grumbled.

“No, but needling him about it didn’t make it go any faster, did it?”

Curufinwë hated it when Ingo got so logical.

“Besides, having tolerated him so long, he more or less has to stay out of our hair – or mine, at least, as host – for the rest of the day,” Ingo concluded. “Which gives us plenty of time for a proper tour, and maybe even some time in my workshop.”

“Optimist,” Curufinwë snorted, but without any real bite.

He knew as well as Ingo did that with the formal dinner that evening, the odds of them getting anything like uninterrupted time grew slimmer with every passing minute.

He hadn’t, however, reckoned with Ingo having designed his workshop with the need for privacy in mind. First one had to know where the workshop was. Then one had to actually get inside – no easy matter if Ingo closed the very solidly built door and didn’t want to hear you knocking.

Consequently, they did actually manage a few hours of quiet conversation after the very comprehensive tour – and Curufinwë had a suspicion it was no accident Ingo managed to run into so very many kin on both sides during the tour. Having had a few minutes of his time, they were in no position to demand more when he was so clearly busy...

But neither Artanis nor Pityo were daunted by the workshop door, and Artë clearly knew all too well where to find her brother.

We’re not going away until you open the door, she informed them loudly.

Curufinwë was at the door before Ingo could protest.

“You know as well as I do she means it, and with two of them, she can cover whatever non-obvious alternate exit you thought she didn’t know about,” he pointed out.

“Come on, you two. You can lock yourselves away again after most of the guests have gone,” Artanis informed them.

“We’re not wrangling Tyelko at dinner,” Pityo added flatly. “All morning and most of the afternoon was more than enough.”

“He has firm plans to dance with Nimloth,” Artë added.

“Joy,” Curufinwë muttered. “Is there really no other woman in this blasted kingdom who can distract him?”

“He doesn’t want to be distracted, he’s enjoying upsetting the Sindar far too much,” Ingo snorted. “Come on, we’d better both get changed for dinner.”

“I might be able to get away with what I’m wearing now,” Curufinwë said, more to get a rise out of Ingo than anything else.

“Not if you want to convince Tyelko to behave,” Pityo sniffed. “And I think a screaming match between her uncles might ruin the party for young Finduilas.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tyelko won’t scream,” Artë sniffed. “As much fun as he’s having winding them up, he’ll sit there and smirk while Oropher loses his temper.”

“We’re going, we’re going!” Curufinwë sighed.

By the time they made it to dinner, his patience was wearing thin.

Tyelko’s behavior might not be scandalous according to Sindar norms, but it didn't need to be when he was. By Noldorin lights, if he wasn’t making Nimloth an offer of marriage, his conduct was nothing but scandal. (If he actually proposed, Curufinwë wasn’t sure who would try to kill him first, Moryo or Oropher, but it would definitely be the end of him.)

“Cheer up, Curvo, anyone would think you weren’t having a good time!” Tyelko grinned as they took their places at table. Nimloth slid into the seat to Tyelko’s right.

Curufinwë fought the urge to clout his brother. It was rare for him and Moryo to be of the same mind on anything, but he shot a slightly desperate glance at the more sensible of his older brothers present.

Unfortunately, Moryo looked to be about the same blend of exasperated and tempted to smack Tyelko. Seated as he was at the far end of the table, there was no hope of either of them banging any sense into the one most likely to get them all in trouble. Maitimo was going to be furious.

Ingo sized up the situation at a glance.

“I’m going to invoke Grandmother’s rule about no quarreling at table,” Ingo sighed.

“At that rate, some of us will never eat,” Moryo snorted, pinning his older brother with a filthy glare.

“You’re not going to feed me?” Tyelko protested, all wounded innocence.

“You, possibly not,” Ingo laughed. “But never fear, Huan will have his fill.”

All eyes turned to the ‘children’s table’ where Huan was being fussed over by Gildor, Finduilas, and their set. With dinner only just starting, and restricted largely to family and close friends, none of them saw the need to be formal just yet. The public ceremony later would be a different matter.

Both Gildor and Finduilas were dressed in Arafinwean colors, though Finduilas’s outfit had more Sindarin accents. Gildor on the other hand looked the very picture of a prince of the Noldor.

Huan was happily sitting between the two at the center of the table, probably the only creature in Nargothrond who could have managed it.

“He may be tempted to stay,” Curufinwë suggested.

Tyelko’s mock outrage faded into something slightly more genuine.

“Stop trying to give my dog away!”

“If you’re going to let Huan go with someone else, I volunteer,” Nimloth offered with a smile, laying a hand on Tyelko’s. “He’s such a sweetheart.”

The motion of her hand, tone of her voice, and look that went with it suggested she wasn’t actually talking or thinking about Huan. It would have been a scandal in Tirion.

Her diversion might have prevented any further protests on Tyelko’s part, but it looked to be inspiring them from the Sindarin contigent. Oropher was turning an interesting color. (Though Curufinwë noted Eöl appeared to be trying not to laugh.)

Tyelko grinned, and Curufinwë knew whatever he said next was going to make things worse. Fortunately, he didn’t get the chance.

“Her uncle will no more welcome your dog within the borders of Doriath than he would you,” Pityo snorted, breaking the tension. “Besides, Findellë and Gilya would claim first dibs.”

Curufinwë privately resolved that if they made it through the rest of the evening without anyone but him and Moryo wanting to strangle Tyelko, Pityo could have whatever he wanted as a reward.

Fortunately, Artanis scented danger.

“Will there be an engagement announced this evening, Merilin?” she asked lightly.

Curufinwë breathed a sigh of relief as the conversation moved on to center on Finduilas, and her suitor, the son of some retainer of Ingo’s. It sounded as though Merilin might have preferred a Sindarin lad, but she wasn’t going to argue with her daughter’s preference. Whether the engagement was formal yet or not, it sounded as if it were settled as far as the young couple were concerned.

Conversation moved on, and despite some mild flirting, Tyelko managed not to start further trouble until the meal was winding down and discussion turned to plans for the two newly-minted adults’ future plans. Curufinwë had been foolish enough to let his guard down and was talking with Artanis and Eöl when he realized that things in Tyelko’s vicinity seemed a bit frosty.

Oropher struck back, pressing Ingo to let Gildor go to Menegroth with them when they return, Artë informed him silently.

Curufinwë hadn’t the faintest idea how his brother had concluded that would not be a welcome move, but he must have. If it weren’t for his ongoing flirtation with Nimloth, he would have said something far more disdainful about Thingol’s kingdom by now…

“Goodness, the pair of you are arguing as if it’s up to us to decide,” Ingo cut in smoothly. “They’re adults now, that’s the entire point of the evening! It will be up to them – and they have a good many options.”

He waved the two young people in question over.

“Gilya, there’s been many invitations issued to you, and a few to Findë also – now that you’re of age, quite a few people would like you to come visit. It seems half your gathered relatives are eager to hear when they can expect you...”

Curufinwë managed to keep his face calm, but he dearly wanted to demand just what under the stars Ingo was thinking.

Fortunately, most of the rest of the table, Tyelko included, had seized the opportunity to talk up the virtues of their invitation, and both his son and young Finduilas were delightedly listening. The ensuing babble gave him time to calm down.

Once he did, he listened and watched.

Finduilas was more excited at the prospect of Menegroth, producing some rather smug looks from Oropher and Celeborn. Artanis was putting on a good show of amusement, but Curufinwë doubted she was any better pleased at the prospect of Gildor anywhere near Thingol and Melian than he was.

“Don’t get too excited just yet, Gilya. Uncle Elu may well carry the honors with Findë,” Artanis broke in. “But I suspect Uncle Nolo will insist you come to him first – he’s not seen you yet. And you are a prince of the Noldor, my no longer so little love…”

Gildor looked at Finduilas, and Curufinwë was certain there was a silent conversation going on.

Findë sighed slightly, then brightened.

“That’s fine,” she announced. “We’ll go to Mithrim first. We can decide where to go next when we’re tired of being there!”

The uproar was instant, with everyone but Finno, Artë, and Ingo expressing some combination of disappointment, protest, outrage, or all of the above. Even Nimloth was pouting – though Curufinwë noted she was also gauging the effect of her pout on Tyelko. He and Moryo were going to need to make sure Tyelko ended up in his own room again tonight.

Gildor let it go for a few seconds before he laughed.

“Cheer up, uncles, we’re only going to Mithrim, not to the front lines! And it’s not as if we won’t write. Now come, if you keep up this fuss, we’ll be late for the dancing in the Great Hall!”

The Long Peace (An Interlude in Letters)

Read The Long Peace (An Interlude in Letters)

Dear Tyelko,

Salutations Curvo, (I wouldn’t want to damage your dignity any further...)

I hope you reached Aglon without incident. We got back all right, not that it should come as a surprise given the escort. When it comes to the children’s safety, Ingo’s a good deal more responsible than you give him credit for – even Father agreed he had done an adequate job. High praise from him!  It’s such a shame you didn’t bring Tyelpë. He could have come up to Mithrim with us as well – he’d have had a grand time, even if he is a bit older.

Gildor and Finduilas are a hit with everyone, from Father on down. He’s been a bit sentimental about what Aunt Irimë would have made of them, but on the whole I think it’s done him a world of good to have young ones about. Not just him if I’m honest – it’s given us all a bit of a kick to have them here. They’ve made some friends their own age among the Mithrim, and a few of them are talking of going down to Nargothrond with them when they’re sent back. Or when Finduilas is sent back, at any rate.

Ingo writes that he may collect Gildor himself, and take him up to Tol Sirion for a time. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give the boy a spell of running something a bit more manageable than a kingdom to start with. Once he’s trained up, Ingo can be up north more often and leave Nargothrond to him and the girl. Between the two of them, I think they should manage handily, don’t you?

I imagine they’ll both be here several seasons first. Father’s over the moon to have them. As they’re not nearly as much trouble as some at that age – Artë and Irissë, for example – no one’s in any particular hurry to see the back of them. Though I suppose I shouldn’t say such things. There are times I’d put up with any number of her childhood ‘adventures’ to have my sister back. (Did anyone seriously think she’d last this long cooped up with Turvo? I thought for sure she’d turn up not long after Rillë came of age. But that’s some years ago now and not a peep…)

The kids say they’ll write next time – I’m being told I’m beastly (Gildor) and mean (Findë) for not giving them adequate warning there was a message packet about to go. I’m under orders from the latter to request Huan be petted, given a nice juicy bone, and told what a good boy he is. Oh, and to send greetings to you also from them both.

Your cousin (Tyelko),

His Bloody Highness the Crown Prince (Curvo),

Finno (Can I still sign myself Finno if I’m using the style His Bloody Highness the Crown Prince? Mother’s etiquette lessons never covered that eventuality.)

---

Dear Uncles,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’m writing from practically next door! Well, that might be a slight exaggeration… I suppose it would be accurate from Uncle Ango or Uncle Aiko, but Tol Sirion is a bit further afield. Still closer than Nargothrond or Mithrim, though!

Father feels now I’m grown it’s time I got some firsthand experience in the less fun parts of being a prince of the Noldor, so it’s long cold overnight watches in northern winter, patrolling the river to be sure there’s no orcs laying ambushes for hapless travelers, and more complicated logistics than at home. Uncle Ango is furious about it – I think he’s worried Findë will get ideas. But Father thinks this will be good for me, and happily it’s him who has the say. I’d hate for anyone to think I was a slouch, or worse, that I was afraid to take my turn up here.

I know you’ve both been here to visit, so I won’t bore you with descriptions of the place, or waste time assuring you that long watches and tramping around in the cold aside, I’m as comfortable and well set up here as I am at home, and far less likely to lack for something constructive to do. (I’m kept quite busy, actually!)

With both Father and I in Tol Sirion, Findë’s getting a touch of experience herself, running Nargothrond. She seems to be getting on well enough, though she’d probably be happier without Uncle Ango breathing down her neck and fuming about Father’s lack of sense and Uncle Resto and Aunt Merilin ‘gadding about’…

How are Huan and Tyelperinquar? (Tell the latter he might write on occasion. You can tell Huan as well, if you think he would!) Let Huan know I wouldn’t mind seeing him, and I’ve already warned the kitchens I know a very good boy who has to have a treat whenever he stops in. Is it quiet enough on your side of the mountains for one or both of you to make the trip? Uncle Aiko’s joining us for Midwinter.

Love,

Gildor

---

Curvo,

Your last letter came too late, Gildor’s gone back south again. I’ve sent it and the one from Tyelpë on with the packet I just dispatched, but I’m not sure when it will catch up with the boy. Findë’s mother Merilin is to take both of them to the Falas for a season, to make Cirdan’s acquaintance and learn the route. (Just in case, you understand – we all hope they won’t need to travel it for anything more than leisure anytime soon.)

Ango’s as hard-headed as ever, but if you’re looking to send Tyelperinquar visiting, I’ll be here for the next few years and wouldn’t say no to company. He might find some of the architecture interesting, even if I don’t explain it as well as Ingo would. And you have my word I’ll keep him out of any real trouble! Give my best to Tyelko.

Your cousin,

Aiko

---

Dear Uncles,

How is everyone up north? You’ll never guess who’s in charge here now – me! And on my own, too. Uncle Resto and Aunt Merilin are visiting Menegroth, and Findë went with them. (Don’t tell anyone, but I hope she comes back before they do. Just because I can manage the place on my own doesn’t mean it’s fun having to actually do it.)

I know it won’t arrive in time for his begetting day, but I’ve sent Tyelperinquar a present. I made it myself. Hopefully he won’t laugh at the craftsmanship – if he does, remind him he’s got a head start on me, I’m only a beginner. But I think he’ll like the joke. (It took me three tries to get the solution right for the color come out correctly. And yes, Uncle Curvo, I took detailed notes.)

Sorry it’s a short letter – I didn’t realize there was a messenger going until just now. You’d think they’d tell the regent these things, but no… Oops, really have to run now to get it to them before they leave!

Love,

Gildor

---

Dear Curvo,

Hope all’s well at Aglon. Giving you fair warning I mean to stop in to visit on my way by, I’m heading back to Tol Sirion. I’ve visited all the rest of your brothers this trip, it would be terrible to leave you out.

The hunting with Kano and Nelyo didn’t go quite as hoped, but I did find something incredible here in the east. There are other people here! They’re a different sort of people, they call themselves Men. They look much like us, but their speech is different, they tell stories I’ve never heard before, and their fathers didn’t wake at Cuivienen, but somewhere they call the Valley of Sleep.

(I can see you gearing up to argue now, but it sounds nothing at all like Cuivienen. Not that we can be sure – the main difference between them and us seems to be that they are rather short-lived. The ones who woke first are all dead, and naturally so, nothing to do with the Enemy. But they must have woken with the Sun, for they have no stories that reach back further.)

I can’t wait to tell you all about them, I know you’ll be as fascinated by them as I am.  Moryo isn’t nearly as interested, or possibly that’s just because he has yet to forgive me for going straight to him after I found them. But I think it’s really that since they don’t mean to stay where they are, he reckons they’re someone else’s problem. I’ve consoled myself over his lack of interest with some of his wine, and as I think it possible you might need consolation also, I’m bringing a few bottles with me for you.

The bird will reach you before I do, but provided the river isn’t still running as high as it was on the way out here, I should join you within the week.

My best to Tyelko and Tyelpë, and I’ll see you all soon.

Yours,

Ingoldo

---

Curvo –

That golden-haired pain in the ass you’re so inexplicably fond of is heading your way. Lock the door to your rooms if you don’t want to be woken in the middle of the night to hear all about his latest discovery. You can tell him I’m still annoyed about that, but more annoyed about him nicking a full crate of my best wine. (He’d better be planning on sharing with you.) I hope he’s a better guest in Aglon than he was in Helevorn.

Moryo

PS – When can I expect that set of maps you wrote about? I will send a messenger for them if you let me know when they’ll be complete. Though it might be more practical if you send me a mapmaker to train some of my people so we can start producing our own. If you want, we can thrash out the details at the gathering in Himring?

---

Dear Uncle Curvo and Uncle Tyelko,

Greetings from Dorthonion! (And also from Uncle Aiko, but probably not Uncle Ango, who keeps muttering about this letter suffering an unfortunate accident. I’m not sure how he thinks that’s going to happen without the messenger suffering along with it - I’ll be keeping an eye on it and only handing it over just before he goes.)

Atto and my uncles have finally admitted things are peaceable enough that I can venture beyond Tol Sirion without immediately being set upon by orcs. I am however strictly enjoined to stay within Dorthonion, so no hope of sneaking off to see Aglon or Himring, tempting though it may be. I’ll have to content myself with letters and sketches for another long-year or two. Maybe by then I’ll be grown enough to be allowed to visit other uncles…

Aside from that, I have little to complain of. It’s lovely country here, and I’ve gotten to meet Men, which was interesting after hearing my father talk about them so much. It’s odd to think that most of the ones he met are considered old or even dead by now. It seems a very strange thing that their lives are so short. Do not worry, I have not said so to them. Or to many others - Uncle Aiko seems very troubled by both their lives being so short and me saying so. I’m not sure why it bothers him.

Speaking of Uncle Aiko, he’s a good deal less merry than I remember him this visit. I’m sure that can’t be just over the short lives of Men, though – is there something going on the grown-ups think I’m too young to know about? Asking you as Uncle Tyelko is a bit more forthright than the rest and Ammë says Uncle Curvo can generally be relied on to tell the truth…

Oops, must cut this short or will miss the messenger! Best greetings to Tyelperinquar and Huan!

Love,

Gildor

---

Dear Uncles,

Tell Tyelperinquar his letter arrived, but I wasn’t able to make head nor tail of it – did he spill something on it before sending? If not, it must have met with misfortune on the road. It’s all splotched and the ink has run in many places. I was relieved to be able to read enough of it to make out the signature and take it as proof of life. I do look forward to meeting him whenever you can spare him for several months – though I suppose that won’t be for another few years.

Atto has decided I’m both old enough and responsible enough to be left in charge at Tol Sirion on my own for a season or two. I can hear Uncle Curvo grousing from here - Uncle Tyelko please remind him I have been grown for some years now and assure him I’m not half as flighty as he thinks.

I’d offer character references from Uncle Finno as proof, but I doubt it would do any good. Uncle Aiko just shook his head when I asked. Uncle Ango has declined to ‘indulge me in my nonsense’, and would probably agree with Uncle Curvo just as long as he didn’t know he would be agreeing with Uncle Curvo. He couldn’t overrule Atto, but Findë isn’t permitted anywhere in the north but Mithrim. (Great-Uncle Nolo isn’t entirely pleased about me being here, but he agreed with Uncle Ango about Findë and kept her with him. I really think the Noldor ought to reconsider this odd notion that it’s somehow less dangerous for neri to be here than for nissi. Or is it just that you all like Findë better and no one has told me??)

Uncle Moryo is to visit soon, he’s just settled a group of Men formerly from his lands near Taeglin. Findë, by way of consolation for not being allowed to visit me or her grandfather, has gone to Brethil to see them. I’m trusting she’ll tell me more about them than he does. I’m pretty sure he still hasn’t forgiven my father for the terrible crime of waking him up in the middle of the night to talk about Men. I can’t tell if he’s worried I might get equally enthusiastic on the subject myself, or if he just thinks I’m too young to be told details, but he’s been very closemouthed about the whole thing in his letters.

Give Huan a good rubdown for me (and Findë too) and tell him we miss him.

Gildor

---

Curvo,

Tyelperinquar appears to have enjoyed his time here. I can’t vouch for how much his craft improved, but he did learn a thing or two about logistics and defense. I also chased him outside to enjoy the fine summer weather as often as possible. I’d have thought Tyelko would have him out of doors more often at Aglon, but I can’t imagine how Tyelko could let him get away with knowing so little in that department. Please tell me it’s not because you’re still on your overprotective papa kick. He’s not a child anymore, and hasn’t been for some years now. He couldn’t even make a respectable campfire! (Which I have to say  puzzles me completely – I was under the impression managing heat was quite important in his preferred craft?)

No, I did not stop by Tol Sirion as originally planned. Word reached me that Ango just happened to decide he should supervise young Gildor. I’m sure word of my impending visit had nothing at all to do with his decision. (Remind me how it is that I’m deemed the difficult one in all this?) As I’ve not yet been told by our eldest brother that I may be anywhere near him, I thought it better not to risk it. I’d keep my temper, but I don’t trust him to do the same without anyone else around.

I’ll write Gildor again if he’s that disappointed. But not to worry, I indulged him more than enough about Men in my last letter. He should go to Brethil himself for a few weeks if he’s still curious – if Ango tries to deny him, a word in Ingo or Uncle’s ear ought to do the trick. Varda knows the Haladin would be thrilled to meet Ingo’s son, all the more so as I don’t believe he ever mentioned to them or any of the Men they knew that he had one...

On a more serious note, a visit to them from Ingo’s son and regent would be sensible diplomacy. The Haladin are good allies, and it would do no harm to remind them not all elves in western Beleriand are like Thingol, who rubbed them the wrong way with his demand they protect the forest against orcs. (Rather like if I were to order you to the forge – entirely unnecessary and accomplishes nothing but getting your back up.) Perhaps you can pass that notion on to whoever needs to approve?

You might also send Tyelpë to Tol Sirion for a season or two – or to Nargothrond, if Gildor is back there by the time you make up your mind. Your boy could do with spending time with kin in his own generation. The occasional visit here to socialize with the few young folk among my people is not at all the same. From a comment or two he dropped while he was here, I think he’s envious of Gildor having Finduilas so close. He also got rather morose wondering how Turukano’s Itarillë does. I did my best to jolly him out of it, but it’s cousins he wants, not uncles.

Moryo

PS – I’m fine, thanks for asking.

---

Dear Uncles,

Hope you are well. I’ve just gotten home, by way of Brethil. It’s sobering how short the lives of Men are. The chief of the Haladin has just died. I can’t quite get my head around it, he was barely more than a boy. It seems hardly right that he should be considered old, much less have died. I know my father finds them fascinating, but I don’t know that I have the heart to make friends with Men as he does, knowing they will be gone so quickly.

Did you mean it when you said in your last letter that you might send Tyelperinquar to visit us? That would be grand I speak for Findë as well! Ammë says if he visits, she might also, as it would be such a rare concession from you to let him go so far. (She is here just now, but not planning on staying much longer – though she says she can come back quickly if there are young kin she has not seen in several long years to visit.) On a slightly more serious note, she offers to be adult supervision for the three of us, should you think it necessary. She believes you might, as my father speaks of going back north soon to relieve Uncle Resto at Tol Sirion. He and Aunt Merelin haven’t been down here in nearly ten sun-years, and Findë misses them. Speaking of Findë, she wants to add a bit of her own -

                             I am willing to beg, plead, and cajole if it will get you to agree to sending cousin Tyelperinquar! I would come to Aglon myself to do the pleading, but I doubt Uncle and Grandfather would allow it even if Atto would. Too close to the dangerous parts of the north, they’d say. But surely you can’t object to letting Tyelperinquar come? He’s older than either of us, and we’re allowed to travel! Huan could come with him to guard him on the road! Please?

-F

I’m afraid you’ll just have to imagine the guilt-inducing pleading face she made while writing that for yourself, I haven’t been able to do it full justice in a sketch. 

Now that we’ve been cheeky enough for one letter, keep warm this winter and we’ll hope spring brings the answer we want. Tell Huan he’s the best boy!

Love,

Gildor

and Finduilas also 

Come Tumbling Down

Read Come Tumbling Down

It was past midday when a frightened messenger summoned Curufinwë from the library with word that his brother urgently wanted him up on the battlements.

A glance out the window made it plain what was on Tyelko’s mind.

Curufinwë took the stairs two at time, three when he dared.

He found Tyelko pacing like a furious cat, Huan at his side growling with hackles raised, and a knot of worried officers gathered by the opposite staircase.

“Curvo, there you are. You must have seen the flames by now, but you may not have spotted that.”

Tyelko pointed into the distance, and from this height Curufinwë could spot what hadn’t been apparent from the library. The hosts of Morgoth were on the move.

He swore as he got a look at the numbers of them.

“Tulkas’ balls, look at them!” Tyelko hissed, quietly enough that their men would not hear.

It was the first time that Curufinwë could ever remember hearing his older brother sound frightened. Under the circumstances, it was less than no comfort. He was thankful Tyelpë wasn’t up here to hear it.

Not that he could truly blame Tyelko. The vista before them would strike fear in the heart of anyone who wasn’t an utter fool.

The northern horizon was fire as far as the eye could see, and the smoke rising beyond the mountains in the west had him seriously worried for his cousins and their people in Dorthonion. To the east, still more smoke and darkness was pouring out of Lothlann to obscure Himring.

Unless the oncoming hordes were the main brunt of Morgoth’s forces – and Curufinwë honestly wasn’t sure what was more terrifying, if they were or if they weren’t – Kano would be in serious difficulty, and caught in a far worse position than they were. Assuming he survived the initial blow, of course. If the assault on his positions was sudden enough, he might not.

All that flashed through his mind before Curufinwë considered the problem he and Tyelko were about to face. The sheer numbers of orc coming toward them according to his minimum estimate – the absolute least number, and almost certainly too low – would have been cause for serious worry at any time. In the current situation, with no realistic prospect of aid arriving from their brothers or cousins to bolster them, it was catastrophic.

What’s more, that smoke and darkness could hide more than just the fate of Himring. For all they knew, more orcs could be creeping through the mountains to either side of them. If that happened and they were taken unawares…

“We can’t hold against so many,” he said grimly.

Tyelko gaped at him in shock, and he saw nervous looks on their captains’ faces, for he hadn’t spoken as quietly as his brother.

“As you said, look at them!” Curufinwë snapped. Turning to the others, he added, “All of you! Take a good look!”

He had no time to coddle anyone. If they were important enough in the structure of Aglon to be up here, they might as well hear the hard truth now.

“Just on what I can see – and given all that smoke, I’m certain there’s more that I can’t – I make us to be outnumbered fifteen to one at the least! And that’s just for us – there are enemies we can’t see engaging our brothers and cousins. There is no relief coming. Even using every defense and trick we have, we stand to be overwhelmed, by sheer numbers if nothing else. It’s a question of when, not if.”

It was going to be bloody, that much was certain. There was a determination to those columns. They came to conquer or die.

“You can’t be thinking about retreat?” Tyelko challenged him.

“Of course I am!” Curufinwë retorted. “I have a son, and I don’t mean him to perish here. We also have a good many followers who aren’t warriors, people we are pledged to protect. As heroic as fighting to the last man may sound in songs, I don’t imagine it’s much practical use to any of them. Nor would dying here fulfill our Oath!”

Tyelko frowned.

“I’ll look to the defenses,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Outnumbered or not, we can’t yield the pass without a fight. That would be disaster – they’d be hard on our heels no matter where we attempted to run. This is the best place to hold them. They’ll have to bottle up, and you’ve laid a good many traps and surprises for them over the years. I’ll handle the fighting. You look to the retreat.”

There was sense in that. Their lieutenants, the ones they worked with on the administration and running of Himlad, have long had orders to maintain a protocol for evacuation on short notice. They have even drilled several times, but this would be the true test of their preparations. It would help if they could begin moving people out well before they were overrun, while there was still some prayer of keeping things orderly.

“Who determines when it’s time for the fighters to join the retreat?” Curufinwë demanded, knowing perfectly well that Tyelko might get too caught up in battle to recognize when it was time to go.

“You do,” Tyelko snorted. “I just said the retreat was yours to coordinate, didn’t I? Get going! Even with your advance planning, I’d say you’ve got a lot to do, and not much time to do it in. I’ll slow them down as best as I can, but if you’re right, the most I’ll be able to do is buy you some extra time.”

“How long can you hold?” Curufinwë asked, please with how even he managed to keep his voice. He wouldn’t coddle anyone, but he also couldn’t have those they must depend on to fight lose their nerve.

“I expect we can manage comfortably until midnight or so, perhaps dawn tomorrow if luck is with us. But anything beyond that is up to chance, fortune, or fate, however you prefer to term it,” Tyelko replied with a pensive frown. “You have time enough to organize the exodus and make sure we don’t leave anything needful behind, at least.”

Curufinwë frowned. Sunset – not that term was truly applicable, not with so much obscuring the sun – was in four hours. Orcs generally had the advantage at night, but that also meant they wouldn’t expect elves to trust the cover of darkness…

“I’ll get the evacuation in motion. We begin the retreat at the twentieth hour,” he announced. “Do as much damage to them as you can before then, but don’t argue with me when I tell you it’s time to go – and I warn you now that will be well before midnight. I’ll want everyone out by then.”

“Everyone who’s going,” his brother corrected grimly. “A few of us will have to remain behind to cover the retreat and make it look like we’re still fighting until the last possible minute. I’ll ask for volunteers. They’ll understand the score, and have instructions to make sure they don’t get dragged to Angband alive.”

You are not to be one of them,” Curufinwë told him fiercely. “You hear me?”

Tyelko pulled him into one of his bear hugs.

“My silly little brother! Stop fussing about me and go take care of our people. You’re better at it than you think.”

“Don’t talk like you don’t expect to come with us,” Curufinwë ordered shortly. “Be safe, brother.”

Tyelko laughed as he released him.

“This is Beleriand, Curvo. None of us are safe, not even Artanis tucked away in Thingol’s snug little cave with his wife guarding her. That’s when all the forces of Angband aren’t streaming down onto our heads! That you think ‘safe’ is even remotely applicable now is the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.”

“You have the worst sense of humor,” Curufinwë muttered as he turned to go.

“Not true, just imagine if you had to listen to Maitimo right now.”

Tyelko’s chuckle followed Curufinwë down the stairs as he raced for his son’s workshop. First things first.

“Tyelpë!” he bellowed.

His son jumped in surprise at his precipitous entrance, spilling the contents of the beaker he’d been holding. Fortunately, it proved to be nothing hazardous to elven bodies.

“Father?” he asked. “What under the stars-”

“We will be under attack shortly, and must prepare our retreat before the fortress falls,” Curufinwë cut him off. “There is no time for protest, much less argument. With Handelon away, I am placing you in charge of all the workshops. Make sure you coordinate with the leather workers and tailors in particular. Pack what can be readied for transport within six hours. Anything that can’t be ready for transport by then is to be rendered unusable, or preferably destroyed completely. All must be ready for departure no later than the twentieth hour!”

“But –”

“Did you not hear me, my son? There is no time to waste, not even a minute. This fortress will fall, by morning if not sooner. When it does, the Enemy’s creatures will sweep through here and into Himlad like a noxious flood, killing and despoiling all they touch.”

Tyelpë visibly pulled himself together.

“Yes, Father. I’ll see to it at once. But what-”

“I need to organize the healers, and those who will lead the head of the convoy south. We can’t wait for the warriors to be in dire straits before we begin moving those who do not fight.”

“Yes, yes of course,” his son replied nervously. “I understand. Destroyed, though?”

He looked longingly at the warehouse across the yard, where Curufinwë knew a fresh shipment of ores from the dwarves had arrived but three days ago.

“Whatever we cannot take with us will fall into the hands of the Enemy, Tyelperinquar,” he said gently. “Better we destroy those things ourselves and know them of no use to our enemies than have that which we wrought turned against us or our allies. You do not want to spend the rest of your life wondering if something you made killed your people, much less your uncles or your cousins.”

Tyelpë nodded, still looking slightly nervous, but trying for determined.

“Bring some of the ore if you can,” Curufinwë added, hoping he would not come to regret this moment of generosity – if he could call it that. It was probably more like weakness. “But there is much here in the workshops that would be far more difficult to replace. That must be your guide now – base your priorities on how easy a thing will be to transport and how difficult to replace. You will likely be called on to justify your decisions later, and not only by me or your Uncle Tyelko. Speak to your fellow craftmasters immediately. You will have more details as soon as I have informed the other department heads.”

He regretted Handelon’s absence, but it had seemed safe enough at the time to approve the master tailor – the current representative of the senior craftsmen of Himlad – visiting his younger sister at Amon Ereb. Tyelpë perhaps lacked adequate seasoning to be handed such a heavy task as this, but it couldn’t be helped. Other craft masters might quibble or indulge in silly disputes about precedence and seniority if he unilaterally named one of them to step into Handelon’s role, wasting valuable time. None would argue with Prince Tyelperinquar.

“Yes, Father,” Tyelpë nodded.

He didn’t look happy, but then, who would this day? All that they had built was about to go up in flames, and there was precious little they could do about it. They could only grab what they could from the incipient wreckage and flee.

As he headed for the infirmary, Curufinwë was pleased to hear his son giving orders in an authoritative voice, no trace of doubt to be heard. He must remember to tell the boy later how proud he was of him.

But as he warned the head healer to prepare for casualties and for an evacuation simultaneously, Curufinwë suddenly wondered where it was they were evacuating to.  

All his planned scenarios had envisioned the Enemy attacking one or two Noldorin positions, leaving them plenty of obvious choices for where to regroup. But from what he had seen up above, they were the center of an unbroken assault from Dorthonion to the Gap, and while it might not be dangerous to count on Hithlum remaining untroubled, it was certainly foolish.

“Prince Curufinwë, if we are expecting so many wounded, and we’re to retreat…”

He refocused on the head healer, to find the woman looking extremely distressed.

“Yes?” he asked briskly. “I understand your task will be difficult, but we have not a moment to lose, Terenë.”

“My prince, with so many casualties as we must predict from what you describe, and the expectation of imminent retreat, we won’t be able to bring them all with us,” she said quietly. “There simply won’t be enough wagons or horses to assure transport for any whose wounds leave them unable to walk or ride.”

Whether she realized it or not, even what wagons and horses there were would be claimed in part for other duties. The armory, for example, would require some of them, as would Tyelpë for whatever he hoped to salvage. Some would be needed for the granary and food stores, and that was simply non-negotiable – they couldn’t count on forage and hunting alone to feed their entire convoy.

His next stop had better be to the steward, lest it come to quarrels between him and Tyelpë about what was more needful… In hindsight, there had been an obvious flaw in their drills – he had always had known in advance what was available for transport. There had been no need to consider how to allocate anything. Why hadn’t he thought before now to keep an accurate tally of wagons on hand, and to have determined the breakdown in advance? So much for his planning skills!

He hesitated as he returned to the immediate problem. He knew what he would do in Terenë’s position, for he would leave none to the Enemy’s twisted idea of mercy. But what one once dedicated to Nienna and Estë might do was another question – one he did not know how to answer.

“I recognize the difficulty,” he told her gravely. “Save as many as you can. You need not trouble yourself that you will be reproached later for not achieving the impossible, by me or anyone else. I shall make sure you are informed how many wagons and horses are available for your needs before the end of the hour. But beyond a certain point in the battle, I doubt all of the wounded will come to you in any case. Most of our fighters understand only too well what is upon us.”

She nodded, looking not at all cheered, and got on with preparing for the inevitable. His last sight of the infirmary was one of triage stations and stretchers being readied.

Fortune smiled on him for a change, for he found the steward and the stable master together, and had it out immediately how many wagons and horses were at his disposal for the evacuation. What’s more, he was able to rule at once how many were to be allotted for food, to Tyelpë, to the healers, and to other departments, and to send runners to all who needed that information.

The kennel master and livestock master were next, and if they were unhappy at how few wagons they had to work with, they at least understood the logic that most of the animals could be moved out on foot. The livestock master hadn’t waited to hear even that much - he already had his apprentices moving the animals kept in the fortress proper, those in its immediate environs, as well as writing furiously, composing warnings to send to the pastures further down the pass. He meant to send the ones for the furthest outpost with birds, the nearer ones with some of his younger apprentices – which had the happy side effect of getting them safely away before the fighting began.

Then Curufinwë was off to the master of the armory, who unsurprisingly was already organizing.

“I don’t have more than a few wagons for you,” Curufinwë warned. “And you’ll have to pull them with oxen, the draft horses are all spoken for.”

“I don’t have much call for wagons, my prince,” the harried captain replied, his hands busy even as they spoke. “Everyone that leaves can carry something, even if it’s just a knife or two – and I imagine the steward feels the same, so I’ll send to him to work out between us what each evacuee should carry so as not to overload them. If I can borrow a wagon or two from him or the kitchens for the early stages, to ferry some of what’s here further south to distribute among our people on the farms and hunting lodges, that would ease things considerably – granary or kitchens could have them back after that, and will probably want them more than I will by then anyway.”

“Very good,” Curufinwë replied. “Send a runner to me should you need any assistance or arbitration.”

“Who should I speak to about how best to spoil what can’t be moved out?”

“Prince Tyelperinquar,” Curufinwë advised. “I don’t dare give you any particular smith, lest he already have assigned them a more urgent task. He will know who has the necessary skills.”

Then he left before he could get in the way.

The kitchens were next, and he was pleased to find he had once again been anticipated. In addition to huge kettles of fortifying drinks and broths being readied to support those fighting and the infirmary, every cook, range, and oven that could be pressed into service was busy turning out waybread and other foods that would keep on the road as fast as they could.

The head cook confirmed she had everything in hand, vowed that nothing useful would be left for the filth of Morgoth, and suggested that any wounded in the initial waves of fighting who had to be kept back from further fighting but still had their wits and the use of their hands could be put to work preparing or packing food.

“Send a runner to Terenë with the idea, but if she is agreeable make certain that you work out between you who will see to it that the wounded sent here are evacuated in good order,” Curufinwë ordered. “I will not have anyone left behind by oversight or miscommunication because it was unclear who was responsible for them when the time comes to go!”

He also borrowed a runner to send a note to the library. There was but one small wagon for the librarian and archivist to work with, and it would be up to them to salvage what they could, with the priority being the maps, records unique to the fortress, and the few volumes they had that were the sole copy in Beleriand. The sooner that wagon left, the better, for they’d be the lowest priority once the situation became dire. Little as Curufinwë might like the prospect, they could survive without books or archives if need be. Food, medicine, arms, tools, and the means of making more of all of the above were rather more important.

He took himself to the map room before its contents could be packed or destroyed. It was all well and good to set the evacuation preparations in motion, but he needed to figure out where they were going. Amon Ereb would be the logical place, and the preferred retreat most of his set plans had figured on. But with Morgoth sweeping down from the north with more strength than they had dreamed he possessed, there was a serious possibility Kano and his people would be wiped from the face of Beleriand, leaving the Enemy an unopposed path down the vale of Gelion.  

Should that come to pass, Moryo might be still able to safely move his people south using the mountains as cover, or flee east through the mountains if that seemed more prudent. Pityo, assuming his staff could keep him focused, ought to be able to withdraw his people to Amon Ereb and put the fortress onto siege footing in time.

But for him and Tyelko, getting caught out short of Amon Ereb with all their people would be utter disaster. There were a good many leagues of broad plains between Celon and the Ramdal with little if anything to conceal their column, and still less to aid them in a defense if they were assaulted.

Fleeing through Nan Dungortheb was no better. Not only was it not a pleasant road even at the best of times, they could not count on the east-west road that skirted Doriath remaining passable, not when Ard-Galen was aflame and he suspected battle would shortly be raging in Dorthonion if it wasn’t already. If Dorthonion fell, the road would be lost entirely, and Thingol’s maia wife might well find her protection of their forest put to the test.

No, they needed to be less predictable. The sons of Fëanor and their cousins have long kept to opposite sides of Beleriand. Perhaps it was time to shake things up a bit. And possibly serve as reinforcements…

West Beleriand might be in less danger at first blush, but depending on how broad Morgoth’s assault was, the situation might well turn on a knife’s edge. Finno would no doubt bring what he could to bear from the mountain strongholds, but much would depend on where Ingo happened to be at the moment. If he were caught unawares at Tol Sirion or Manwë forbid out in Ard-galen itself, there would be no word but disaster for the outcome. (Better not to think on that.)

But if he hadn’t, if Ingo was even now tucked away in his hidden halls, he would march north from Nargothrond. That would leave his kingdom badly undermanned should the fighting sweep down Sirion south of the mountains...

Curufinwë briefly considered what might happen with Doriath, but he suspected it would be a rock in a flood – the water would flow all around it in the initial gush, and they would think themselves safe. Doriath would give way only when it was utterly surrounded and there was no longer anything left to keep the waters away from them. But while they held, they could be helpful, even if Thingol the Useless kept within his borders.

Curufinwë scrabbled for the map he’d made on his way back all those years ago.

Yes, that was it. If they followed the Aros down and around, and cut south as far west as they dared, where there was still firm ground to reach the Andram instead of trying to pick the safe path through those bloody marshes, which might well have shifted by now and probably couldn’t bear so many anyway… They could come to Nargothrond by a far less exposed route. A safe route.

Ingo wouldn’t turn them away. Curufinwë knew that. He also knew his people and his brother’s would be safer there than anywhere in East Beleriand. Tyelpë would be safe there.

If Amon Ereb wasn’t taken, there would be time enough for him and his brother and their surviving fighters to make their way there when the dust settled and the maps were redrawn. And perhaps some of his followers, the craftsmen and support personnel who had no business in battle, might take the opportunity to change lords. It would be for the best.

He didn’t delude himself by now. It was plain that he and his brothers were going to come to no good end. He couldn’t very well insult his liegemen and -women by openly trying to shuffle them off to the Arafinwions. But he was not only duty- but also conscience-bound to see his people provided for as best he could. As far as he was concerned, Nargothrond was the best they could hope for. Ingo was a good leader and his people adored him.

Curufinwë just had to see to it that they got there.

He could do that.

He had to.

The Twain Meet

Read The Twain Meet

Curufinwë nearly groaned in relief when the scouts at the head of his ragged column finally spotted Sirion ahead of them. It had been a very long and stressful few weeks. At least, he thought it had been a few weeks. The days had all run together in a way that hadn’t happened since the Darkening.

Perhaps it was his imagination, or perhaps the lack of sleep was getting to him, but the crossing point they’d used on his last visit – the point they’d aimed for as it seemed safest – looked to be running both higher and faster than he recalled it.

He would have liked to let Tyelpë lead the way, but as he’d never been to Nargothrond before, his son wouldn’t have the first clue which way to go. With any luck, they’d run into some of Ingo’s people soon.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Or now.

Curufinwë had sharp eyes, but he still couldn’t spot whoever it was challenging him. Ingo’s guards were good.

“The princes Curufinwë, Tyelperinquar, and Turkafinwë, with all that survives of Aglon and Himlad,” he answered grimly.

“Stars above!”

The answer came not from the hidden guard who had spoken before, but from a voice Curufinwë recognized only too well.

“Gildor?”

Was Ingo mad to let the boy wander around at a time like this? Did he not know what had been going on in the north? If this was more of his dratted optimism…

“The very same – luckily for you, Uncle,” Gildor answered, appearing from behind a tree as suddenly as if he’d popped out of thin air. “I doubt anyone else here would have recognized you, and they certainly wouldn’t have taken it on trust that you are who you say.”

At least someone had their head on right.

“What, would they think we were orcs?” Tyelpë asked indignantly.

“Quite possibly, given the news of late,” Gildor said darkly, his eyes flickering to Tyelpë before returning to Curufinwë. “Uncle, how are your people? Can they manage a stern march? Or do you have wounded?”

“A fair few,” Curufinwë replied as his older brother joined them. “But they’ve managed this far. I daresay we can get them however much further you think necessary before we call a halt.”

“I think it best you press on until we reach the safety of the stronghold,” Gildor told him grimly, nodding to Tyelko as he joined them. “Keep your people moving.”

“You don’t trust even your southern borders?” Tyelko asked, letting out a low whistle.

Perhaps the situation was more dire than they had feared. They hadn’t stopped long enough anywhere for word of their position to reach anyone else, let alone for messengers to catch up with them. (Thingol probably knew where they were, but he should be the only one.) Rest breaks were as infrequent and short as he’d dared make them. The healers had words for him more than once, but he had always told them that stopping anywhere short of another Noldorin position put everyone in danger, not merely the worst among their wounded.

Terenë was unlikely to forgive him the deaths. He could only hope that with time, she would see that he had tried to save as many as possible. Otherwise he was going to have to find a new head healer in addition to the other vacancies that needed filling.

“Unless everyone behind you is a fighter and ready to man those borders immediately, my answer must regretfully be no,” Gildor replied.

And that does not look to be the case.

“Things are that dire?” Curufinwë asked in a tight undertone.

“I won’t trouble you with the news from the north just yet,” Gildor said, equally quiet. “It’s plain you’ve ill tidings enough of your own.”

“Best not to speak of it here, boy,” Tyelko cautioned.

“I didn’t intend to,”  Gildor said briskly. “We don’t time for catching up right now – I want you all inside the walls by dark, or at least as close to the stronghold as we can manage. I can call out reinforcements if need be, but I’d just as soon not if we can avoid it. Everyone is nervous enough as it is.”

Gildor turned to his own people.

“Send messages on ahead,” he commanded. “Warn the healers to prepare for more folk who need their attention. And the kitchens. They’re all going to want hot meals. We can worry about finding space for everyone after that.”

There was a rustle of branches, and some bird noises that anyone unaware of how the Sindar conducted sorties would not have thought twice about. Curufinwë knew enough now to understand it meant word was going before them.

“Move out, Uncles,” Gildor said, sounding slightly weary under the forced good cheer. “I’m afraid the journey will be rather less cheerful than the last time, but at least there’s the promise of a hot supper and a clean bed at the end of it. I trust you remember the way?”

Tyelko nodded.

“Not going to lead us yourself?” Curufinwë asked.

“I’m going to make sure there’s nothing worse on your heels than a few nosy crows.”

“Maligning the poor crows-”

“Quite a few of them are spies for the Enemy, Uncle, or hadn’t you noticed?”

Tyelko’s mouth shut with an audible snap.  

“Perhaps you should have listened to your neighbors,” Gildor muttered.

Tyelko looked like he might have fired up at that, but Curufinwë held up a hand.

“Add that to the topics of discussion once we’re safely inside the stronghold,” he ordered curtly. “Gildor, about your business. Tyelko, lead the way. You bloody well remember it.”

Tyelko shot them both a sour look, but did as he was told, steering Tyelpë with him.

“Come on, boy, no sense getting Daddikins’ back up.”

“Daddikins?” Gildor asked in bemusement.

“Get going,” Curufinwë snapped, sounding harsher than he’d intended.

The boy did, with a laugh that promised his detested nickname wasn’t going to be forgotten.

Curufinwë took his own advice and pressed on. When he reached the river, he found that his initial impression that it was running higher and faster than before seemed to be mistaken.

Not really.

It took several minutes, but Gildor reappeared at his side.

“I’ve asked the river to make the ford a bit easier for you,” he said quietly. “Once the last of your people are across, it will secure our retreat.”

“I thought you said you had things to do?”

“I’m doing them. I can watch for stragglers and spies from here.”

“You were serious about the birds?”

“Yes. We don’t believe the Enemy has discovered the location of the stronghold yet, and Atto’s last order was to see that it remains so.”

Curufinwë’s mind was racing. He’d thought Ingo was still here, but by the way the boy spoke, he was in command.

“Are you supposed to be out here?” he asked suspiciously. “Surely it gets harder to conceal your location if you keep coming and going?”

“Just as well for you that I was, isn’t it?” Gildor shrugged. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said the others wouldn’t have recognized you – and I’m not too sure they would have let you pass even if they did.”

“They’d have left other elves out here unprotected?”

“People are shaken and upset,” Gildor told him, as serious as he’d ever heard the boy. “And more than a few of them are scared.”

“What are they doing out here if they’re so scared?” Curufinwë asked – but without any acid in his tone. He had a feeling that whether he cared to admit to it or not, Gildor numbered among the scared.

“Protecting Nargothrond,” Gildor replied. “And doing what we can to help. You’re not the first group of strays we’ve picked up, though you are the largest. But the previous ones were Sindar known to most of us. Not many here recognize you or Uncle Tyelko, and none of them would know your people save by report.”

Curufinwë decided that the divergence from Ingo’s command was equal parts bravado, Gildor not doing better with being cooped up than any other Finwion, and genuine need.

“You don’t have to wait here,” Gildor added after a few minutes of not quite awkward silence as they watched his people crossing.

“Ingo taught you a thing or two about command, didn’t he?”

Gildor nodded.

“Would you go on ahead if it was your people?”

That got a familiar glare. He’d have to tell Artanis the next time he saw her. If he saw her. Thingol was loathe to let his younger kin out of his sight at the best of times. He doubted Ingo was the only one to have commanded his people to get inside and close the doors.

After that, there was no more talk of not waiting. Actually, there wasn’t really much talk. Gildor probably wanted to, but he was keeping to his word about out here not being the place for it.

Curufinwë dearly wanted to put an arm around his son, but he didn’t dare give Ingo’s people or his own the idea the boy wasn’t a competent commander.

They didn’t move until the last of the column was across the river.

The second they reached the west bank, the river rose in full spate.

“Ulmo’s protection still holds here,” Gildor explained in an undertone. “It’s strongest closest to the water. We don’t dare venture too far beyond Sirion.”

“Yet you came looking for us.”

“Several hawks reported your people. They know orcs from elves.”

“You’re using birds as scouts?”

“The birds not already in league with the Enemy tell us things because they prefer us to the orcs,” Gildor shrugged. “They also warn us which of their kind are not to be trusted - mostly the carrion birds. Morgoth offers them far more than we can. They’re feasting in the north.”

He gave another bird call. This time several of his guards emerged from the trees. One of them handed over a leaf-wrapped packet.

“You should have some lembas, Uncle,” Gildor suggested. “It’s still several hours to the stronghold.”

It’s Ammë’s, he added silently.

Curufinwë wouldn’t have refused even before that addendum. He’d been on short rations as the food situation got tighter.

---

When they reached the gates, Finduilas came pelting out, seizing Gildor to make sure he was undamaged.

She turned to Curufinwë, flushing slightly, no doubt realizing her welcome wasn’t quite what the Noldor would expect from one of their princes.

“Uncle! It’s good to see you safe! And we’ve finally met Tyelperinquar…”

Curufinwë might have laughed at the way she trailed off, had it not sounded like she was close to tears.

“It’s not quite the way we imagined it,” Gildor added, trying to salvage the moment. “But at least he’s here.”

Curufinwë was relieved to find that everyone else was already inside. Once they were in themselves, Finduilas gestured at the gate guards, and the great doors swung closed to be barred behind them. He was slightly surprised – he hadn’t imagined sweet little Findë had it in her to be so very in charge.

She was all smiles and encouragement for both his people and Ingo’s as they went, and snagged Tyelko and Tyelpë effortlessly.  

“Your people are all being looked after, worry not on that score.”

It wasn’t until they were safely in Ingo’s private rooms – which looked to now be Gildor’s for the duration – that she rounded on Gildor.

“You are not going out there again!” she informed him flatly, poking him in the chest for emphasis, with more menace than Curufinwë had ever heard in an Arafinwion. Maybe that was the Sindarin side? She certainly didn’t get that spine from Resto…

“It worked out fine!” Gildor protested.

Curufinwë opened his mouth to intervene, but Tyelko pushed him into a chair and shook his head.

“You were supposed to stay inside. That’s what Uncle Ingo told you to do! Crossing Sirion is not by any stretch of the imagination inside!”

“I barely went beyond the eastern bank. And I brought back our uncles! And Tyelperinquar! They weren’t getting across the river otherwise!”

“You got lucky,” Finduilas informed him frostily, folding her arms and pinning him with a glare marginally warmer than a northern winter. “Don’t even think of doing it again.”

Gildor started to answer out loud, changed his mind, and definitely said something silently. Whatever Finduilas’ rejoinder was visibly shook him.

“Has there been any word of Atto?” he asked hoarsely, looking so close to collapse that Tyelpë sprang up to help.

“None,” Finduilas admitted quietly. “I don’t know, Gilya. And I don’t like it.”

“Care to share the news with the rest of us?” Tyelko asked sharply.

“Which parts do you already know?” Gildor asked wearily, shrugging off Tyelpë’s hand and throwing himself into what looked to be his favorite chair.

“Not much,” Curufinwë answered before his brother could say anything. “We failed to hold Aglon, and didn’t dare make for Amon Ereb without knowing how everyone else was faring.”

“Wise of you,” Finduilas sighed.

She paused as one of the staff brought in a tureen of the same hearty stew they’d seen being dished up to their people.

“What we know is patchy,” Gildor explained. “Most of it comes to us via Brethil and Region. We don’t know if there have been other messengers from further afield who haven’t gotten through. But what they’ve been able to tell us is bad enough. Uncle Makalaurë wasn’t able to hold the Gap. We’re pretty sure Uncle Ambarussa and his people are safe at Amon Ereb. We haven’t had any word from him, but the orcs haven’t gone that far south that we know of.”

“We think Uncle Makalaurë was able to retreat to Himring,” Finduilas added. “Aunt Nimmy is watching from Nan Elmoth, and she sent news that Himring is still holding out, so we know that much for certain. We haven’t heard anything about Uncle Moryo and his folk. Even the best far-sighted eyes in Nan Elmoth can’t see that far with all the smoke and darkness. And we haven’t had any messages from your brothers directly. We’ve been hoping Uncle Ambarussa might get a messenger through.”

She wasn’t quite shredding the swatch of fabric in her hands, but it was plain she’d picked it up to avoid absentlymindedly doing worse during the recitation of disaster.

“Communication between east Beleriand and west Beleriand was cut off when Dorthonion fell,” Gildor continued grimly as Finduilas contemplated the ceiling. “Mithrim is holding, and at least they have a clear path to the sea if Morgoth manages to cross the mountains. The last we heard, Uncle Nolo was trying to link up with what’s left of Dorthonion, with Uncle Finno keeping a clear path to the mountain fortresses in case they needed to retreat. But it’s a bit late for most. Uncle Ango and Uncle Aiko are dead.”

There was a strangled noise from Tyelpë. Curufinwë couldn’t say anything, though, because while he’d certainly suspected things were going badly for his cousins, it was still a gut punch to hear it confirmed.

“Cousin Resto was at Tol Sirion when the assault started, and we believe he’s still there,” Gildor continued. “Atto marched north with the best part of our strength to try to aid his brothers. The last word we had from Brethil is that there was stiff fighting in the north of the Pass of Sirion, and it looked like it would go against us.”

Tyelko winced.

Their summary of the current situation also more than explained why both kids were on edge.

“And how are you two holding up?” he asked.

That got a trenchant look from Finduilas and an immediate and patently false ‘fine’ from Gildor.

Finduilas glared at him and Gildor in equal measure.

“You’re a pair of idiots,” she informed them tartly. “We are not fine any more than you are, and you knew that before you asked.”

“Yes, but he wanted you to say it,” Tyelko sighed. “It’s one of his more annoying quirks. Tyelpë is used to it, but Curvo hasn’t been around you two as much.”

Tyelpë, for his part, gave Tyelko a look that suggested he was making even less sense than normal.

“Atto isn’t the only one concerned for you,” he offered in his quiet way. “Uncle Tyelko is too. And me.”

Finduilas favored him with a small smile.

“We know, Tyelperinquar.”

“At least you’re finally visiting,” Gildor said wryly. “We were starting to think it would never happen.”

“We’re happy to see you, really,” Finduilas said, trying her best to sound like she meant it wholeheartedly.

“Particularly happy to see you alive,” Gildor muttered.

“Yes, well, now that they’re here, we should be better hosts,” Finduilas sighed. “Where shall we put them up?”

Curufinwë suspected the only reason he caught the instant not Ammë’s rooms was his connection to Gildor. It certainly hadn’t been meant for him to hear – or the wild hope that perhaps she might turn up that went with it.

“The rooms for visiting family,” Gildor replied. “The suite Uncle Finno had on his last visit has enough space for Uncle Curvo and Tyelperinquar.”

“Tyelpë, please,” his son clarified, looking dismayed at his full name being used constantly by younger kin.

“And Uncle Tyelko can have his usual room.”

“Any chance you might persuade your aunt to come visit?” Tyelko asked with a grin. “She really adds to the experience.”

“We’ve troubles enough without whatever it is the two of you get up to,” Finduilas sniffed, sounding remarkably like Aunt Eärwen. “If Great-Uncle Elu ever hears about any of that, you can kiss all hope of him ever thawing toward you lot goodbye.”

“You mean he hasn’t heard of it already?” Curufinwë asked in some surprise. “Surely one of your uncles…”

The two didn’t see each other often, but he knew perfectly well they’d met up near the borders of Thingol’s lands or Nan Elmoth on occasion. If they did more than flirt outrageously when they did, Curufinwë didn’t care to know. By the sound of it, Finduilas didn’t either.

“No one wanted to be there for the reaction,” Gildor chuckled.

Curufinwë suspected Irissë might have dared it had she known. She would probably have thought it funny to see Thingol blow his top at someone other than her or Artë.

He wondered if Turvo was still standing. If he was in the North, the situation must be fairly grim for him as well… Then again, Morgoth would surely have wanted to rub it in if his realm had been destroyed with Ango and Aiko’s. Or was he somewhere further west? If Ingo had hidden on the Narog, could Turvo be on the Nenning or Brithon?

“I’ll make sure Uncle Tyelko’s room is ready,” Finduilas sighed. “Huan? With me? Enedrion is making sure all your people are housed, Uncles. There was a time when that might have been more difficult, but we’ve more rooms free than we used to…”

Curufinwë was startled to hear Ingo had left his most trusted retainer behind. Then again, he supposed that made sense. If the worst should happen, someone had to make sure the two kids made it to the Falas alive. By the sounds of it, Finduilas’ good sense might get her there, but Gildor’s was questionable.

“We’re a bit easier to house than we used to be as well,” he said ruefully. “Would you prefer to wait until the morning for our report, or hear it now?”

“I’ve no stomach for any more bad news tonight,” Finduilas replied quietly. “There’s been enough of it already.”

“I’ll see Uncle Curvo and Tyelpë to their rooms,” Gildor said, heaving himself back to his feet. “I don’t think it can hurt anything to wait until you’ve slept before you tell us how it went at Aglon.”

“I thought you said you were doing fine?” Tyelko said smoothly.

“Yes, staying inside and keeping the doors closed so we stay hidden isn’t exactly difficult,” Finduilas sniffed. “At least not for most of us.”

“I’m inside!” Gildor protested, dodging a not entirely earnest elbow as the pair made their way to the door. “And look! Family visiting! That’s a good thing!”

“Are they always like this?” Tyelpë whispered.

Curufinwë sighed and steered his older son out the door in the younger’s wake.  He hoped he wouldn’t live to regret his decision to come to Nargothrond.

The Morning After

Read The Morning After

It took Curufinwë a moment in to remember where he was. The trek to Nargothrond had blended seamlessly into his nightmares of fire and death.

A soft chiming from the outer room informed him that it was technically still morning, though only just. At least he felt somewhat rested.

When he pulled on a clean tunic – not his own, he hadn’t even bothered trying to throw together anything of his own before evacuating, but the right size for him at least – and strode into the sitting room, he found Finduilas in a chair by the fire, legs pulled up to her chest, staring into the flames.

She brightened at the sight of him, which surprised him slightly.

Then he realized with a sinking sensation that he was the closest to a parental figure present. He’d have brightened if Uncle Nolo came walking in the door, too. On some level, it was reassuring to have someone you thought of as a proper grownup around. It felt a little less like the world was falling apart.

“You woke sooner than I expected. Tyelpë’s still asleep,” Finduilas informed him quietly. “I believe Uncle Tyelko is, too. Shall I bring breakfast in for you?”

“I’m not ready for food just yet, but thank you all the same,” he told her. “Also, you needn’t whisper. I doubt anything short of an earthquake would wake my son just now. Did we hear all the news last night, or was there more?”

“No, and nothing’s come in this morning,” Finduilas said fretfully, hugging her legs. “Unless you count sympathy from the Falas. All’s still clear there.”

So they still had somewhere to retreat to, at least. Though if it came to retreat this far south…

“You said Resto’s at Tol Sirion. Where’s Merilin?”

He would have expected her to be here, keeping a vigilant eye on daughter and nephew alike.

“Nana was visiting Menegroth when it all happened. Uncle wouldn’t grant her permission to depart. He didn’t want her caught out on the road if Tol Sirion fell and the Enemy swept further south.”

And of course it hadn’t occurred to Thingol the useless that he was asking risks of his messengers he thought too great for his own kin, setting a terrible example. Nor did he apparently care it also meant leaving two kids to manage the emergency on their own. Not that Curufinwë could say that out loud. It would only make the girl feel worse than she already did.

“She’s probably on the southern border, looking toward the Ramdal and Amon Ereb. We’re hoping she’ll find out what’s happening with Uncle Ambarussa…”

There was that, even if it smacked of the girl grasping for a bright side.

“Pityo’s fine,” he said firmly. “Don’t fret about him. His people have sense even if he sometimes doesn’t. They’ll have pulled everything they can inside the walls and closed the gates. That fortress can hold out for months if need be. Pityo wouldn’t want you to worry on his account. Nor would your mother. She’s safe enough where she is. I’m sure she’ll be here as soon as she can.”

Finduilas gave him a small smile, and relaxed her grip ever so slightly.

“Things are still pretty bad for all that,” she said soberly.

“True, but that’s no reason to lose heart. It’s darkest before the dawn, you know.”

At least, he hoped that was the case. It was possible it was only just gone midnight and they didn’t realize it yet.

“Where’s Gildor?” he asked, knowing she’d be better for his company.

“Still sleeping,” she sniffed. “I dosed him last night after you all turned in, it looked like he was going to stay up again. He’ll yell about it when he wakes up, but he needed to rest properly. He hasn’t since Uncle Finrod marched.”

The more he saw of her, the better Curufinwë thought of the girl’s good sense.

“How long has it been since Ingo went north?”

“Ten days.”

Curufinwë totted up times and distances. Ingo would have needed most of that time just to reach Tol Sirion, let alone move further forward to try to relieve (or retrieve) whatever remained of Ango and Aiko’s people. And of course it would have taken some time for the news to reach him in the first place…

“I always thought Grandfather was being overcautious not letting me north very often,” Finduilas said mournfully. “He didn’t even much approve of Gildor going up there. But he wasn’t, was he? We might just as easily have been in Dorthonion when the fires came.”

“Not if Ango had anything to say about it,” Curufinwë snorted. “If by some odd chance you had been there, you’d have been sent away at once. He might have soothed your dignity by telling you you’d be leading children and other non-combatants to safety, but you’d have been gotten out of the way of danger as quickly as possible.”

Ango might have been a pain in the ass, but he’d had his head on right when it came to the younger generations. He hadn’t even much liked his son taking his turns at Tol Sirion, and had flatly barred his granddaughter.

Curufinwë was starting to feel he’d been damn lucky keeping Tyelpë close hadn’t ended worse.

“How did Gildor take the news?”

Finduilas frowned, deliberating whether or not to tell him.

Yes, definitely shades of Aunt Eärwen there. Curufinwë spared a thought for what she’d say to all this.

“You might as well be honest,” he advised. “My brother and I are here for the duration, I’ll find out eventually anyway.”

“He got filthy drunk,” she admitted. “I managed to get him back to Uncle’s rooms before he could completely embarrass himself. Not that he was the only one. Everyone used to think taking their turns up north was great fun. No one who was up there when the battle started is coming back. And Uncle Finrod was careful not to take all children from any one family when he went North. I’m not sure he expected to come back either.”

She sounded remarkably matter-of-fact about it, but this must have been as great a shock to the children of the now-shattered peace as the Darkening had been to his generation.

“What happened at Aglon?”

Curufinwë sighed. He’d meant to tell them both – and hopefully Ingo into the bargain. But given how things were going…

“One moment all was well, the next the entire northern horizon was smoke and fire. We saw what looked like every orc in the world coming at us, realized there must be more of them elsewhere if Morgoth could spare so many on a well-fortified position, and understood we had no hope of holding the pass for long. Tyelko took the defense, I took the retreat, and the orcs took the hindmost.”

He was privately furious with his brother for his conduct of the last gasp defense that had bought the time for the complete destruction of the fortress and bringing down enough rock between them and the orcs to make safe the retreat.  

He’d understood they’d have to sacrifice a few people. But allowing not only some of their best fighters to remain behind, but Maikindo to lead the volunteers who had stayed to the last? They couldn’t afford to lose their best officers! Fully half the Noldor could manage logistics if need be, but people who could predict the Enemy’s moves and counter them were rarer.

He’d have words with Tyelko now that he’d had time to calm down, but they couldn’t take many such losses, now more than ever. Given the ongoing disaster in the north, veterans with experience of not only fighting but winning were too valuable to waste.

“Is there someone in particular you’re worried about up north? Aside from your father and Ingo?”

Finduilas sighed.

“My betrothed went with Uncle. I think you met Gwindor? His brother was already at Tol Sirion, and he wanted to go, so Uncle didn’t order him to remain even though by rights he should have. His father went, too.”

By the sounds of it, she was worrying the loss was going to be total.

“I’m sorry,” Curufinwë said. “Though I don’t think you need give up hope just yet. So long as Finno and Uncle Nolo are still in the field, the Enemy doesn’t have a free hand. Tol Sirion also has the river – more than just Nargothrond falls under Ulmo’s protection. Minas Tirith should hold, or at least be able to manage an orderly retreat.”

Finduilas rested her chin on her knees for a time, staring into the fire.

Curufinwë waited, sure there was at least one more question bothering her.

“What happened to Tyelpë’s mother?” she asked at last, still watching the fire rather than him.

“Nothing happened to her as far as I know,” Curufinwë replied. “She remained in Tirion when we left. I’ve every hope she’s in good health and as happy as she can be when her only child is over here.”

He only hoped she had no idea what was currently happening in Beleriand. This was the rare case where ignorance would truly be bliss.

“How could she bear to be parted from you for so long? If she loved you?”

The question was guileless, but echoed one he’d thrown at Silmë himself in the fight the night before they’d left.

“You could as easily ask how I could bear to leave without her,” Curufinwë pointed out, giving her Silmë’s answer. He’d scoffed then, but now he knew her justified. “Love is not forcing another to bend to your will. Were that the case, our Enemy in the North loves us better than all the other Valar put together.”

Finduilas made a rather rude sound, but at least now she was looking at him rather than the fire.

“It’s not really Silmë you’re wondering about, is it?” he asked, putting it together as he spoke. “You’re curious about Lótë.”

“Of course I am,” Finduilas frowned. “She’s the only grandparent I have left. At least, I hope she is. She might have faded without Grandfather and Atto. Do people fade, in Aman?”

“My grandmother seems to have managed something like it,” Curufinwë replied. “But that was under very different circumstances. Yours has far too much mettle to fade over this. I’d sooner lay odds on her waiting for Ango at the gates of Mandos to tell him off for being such a stubborn, hardheaded idiot.”

That got a small smile.

“You’ve shown more than a bit of her sort of backbone since we arrived.”

The smile grew somewhat.

“Chin up, little one. All’s not lost just yet. I’m not giving up hope you’ll meet your grandmother in Alqualondë. And neither should you.”

That got a fullblown smile, if still with a touch of grief.

“I suppose if you’re not ready to give up, having just seen what you thought was all the orcs in the world, I can’t either. Breakfast, Uncle?”

“Yes, we’d better. An empty stomach won’t improve anyone’s mood.”

---

Gildor arrived to glare at Finduilas, his hair still a mess, around the time Tyelpë was finishing up his ‘breakfast’ late that afternoon. Finduilas was lounging in front of the fire with Huan, chuckling at a story of one of Tyelpë’s experiments gone wrong.

“That was uncalled for,” Gildor said with greater dignity than Curufinwë would have expected from someone whose hair was sticking up in half a dozen different directions. It wasn’t quite the magnificence of Ingo’s bedhead, but it certainly came close.

“Says you,” Finduilas retorted, unrepentant. Next to her, Huan whuffed his agreement. “There’s still tea and apple pastries, but you might as well wait until dinner for anything more, it’s only another hour anyway.”

Gildor opened his mouth to complain, but closed it again at Curufinwë’s raised eyebrow.

“Eating and making sure you’re properly awake before saying whatever you currently think sounds clever would be a good plan,” Curufinwë advised lightly.

That got him the stinkeye, but Curufinwë had seen worse from his brothers. Gildor had nothing on Kano in sour mood.

“Shouldn’t you be checking on your people?” Gildor demanded.

“You’d sound so much more cutting if you didn’t still have pillow marks on your face,” Tyelko chuckled. “Seeing as you’re the last one awake, the rest of us have already had plenty of time for our chores.”

“Most of our people are still resting, too. The few who aren’t are craftspeople like healers or cooks, who won’t thank us for getting underfoot when they’re busy,” Curufinwë told him briskly, setting some of the aforementioned pastries in front of the boy. “Tomorrow will be time enough to worry about organizing the rest of them and trying to decide what to do next. Eat!”

He tried not to laugh as Gildor visibly considered a slightly more adult version of ‘you’re not the boss of me’ before realizing how ridiculous he’d sound.

“You’re also not going to be the prince of Nargothrond you want anyone to remember if you’re stupid from not sleeping and cranky from not eating,” Curufinwë continued as he poured Gildor a cup of tea. “You were left in charge. I’m sure Ingo thought you able for it. Part of being in charge means taking adequate care of yourself so that your people don’t have to pick up the slack or absorb your bad moods.”

“More to the point, boy, there’s no upside to not eating when there’s plenty of food,” Tyelko added. “If things get worse, there will be enough time to show off how well you do at not eating if we run short on rations. Nor is staying awake for days here going to change what’s happening up there. And I’m not minded to coddle your nonsense. The time for juvenile antics is over.”

Gildor stuck his tongue out, drawing a giggle from Finduilas. He glared at her, but everyone could tell it was half-hearted.

“He has a point,” she said, without any trace of apology. “And you weren’t listening when Uncle Curvo said it nicely.”

“Tyelko neglects to mention he also learned those lessons the hard way,” Curufinwë said smoothly. “Only he was in far worse temper before he was shouted at and made to both eat and sleep.”

Now it was his brother glaring at him. Curufinwë was tempted to blow him a kiss. He still owed him one for ‘Daddikins’ in front of the boy – and he knew better than to think that had been forgotten. Gildor just had better sense to bring it up at the moment.

“Learn from example,” Tyelko growled, equally annoyed with both of them. “From what this one says, you’ve already embarrassed yourself sufficiently.”

Both Gildor and Finduilas flushed, and he ducked his head to eat immediately.

“And no drinking contests,” Curufinwë added, looking to lighten the moment. “Even if it does sound like the pair of you may be an even match.”

Huan barked sharply, having seen the results of too many of those over the years.

“Please, I have some sense,” Gildor sniffed.

Finduilas pounced at once.

“So you’ll be staying inside?” she asked.

“Someone has to go out – we should at least scout the seaward side, in case there’s anyone coming down from Nevrast,” Gildor replied.

Someone doesn’t have to mean you,” she said sharply. “Uncle Tyelko could lead a patrol just as well.”

Probably better, but Curufinwë wasn’t about to say it.

“And let our people think I’m a coward?” Gildor protested indignantly.

“And let them think you have sense enough to use all the tools at your disposal,” Tyelko snorted. “You’re Ingo’s heir. With multiple brothers both older and younger, not to mention a nephew, I’m expendable.”

By the alarmed look on their faces, both young ones thought otherwise.

“Unpleasant as it is to consider, he’s correct,” Curufinwë put in. “Not to mention, it’s as well for you to have your people see him accepting you as ruler than to believe there’s any clash of authority.”

The politics threatened to get thorny enough if Ingo didn’t come back, no sense making it any harder than it had to be.

“Assuming, of course, you intend to do as you see fit rather than keep everyone inside as Ingo ordered?” Curufinwë finished.

“We should send some small groups out,” Gildor said firmly. “More west than north. If we’re careful about using the alternate gates – the ones meant for going out, not in, we should be able to screen our movements well enough. If we hunker down within the walls and don’t send anyone out, all of Mithrim could be fleeing down the western coast and we wouldn’t know it until Círdan sent us word that they’d either arrived or been destroyed in detail.”

Curufinwë had to admit that was a fair point. He frowned as he weighed the possibilities.

“How does news come in now that you’ve sealed the gates?”

“Birds,” Finduilas answered. “There are ways for them to get in to a few of the watchposts – but only ones we already know and trust. Most will be coming from Doriath and Brethil, but the Falas can get word to us if there’s need. But we relied on post from Mithrim and Hithlum, not birds.”

Another thing they hadn’t thought carefully enough about, during the peace. But crying about it now was of no use.

If the two of you believe the scouts can get out and back in again without compromising your security, it is sense to make sure we’re not missing anything to the west. You speak of our allies, but I worry about our Enemy.”

“I’m less concerned about that,” Gildor said, waving what remained of his pastry dismissively. “They’d have to have either routed Uncle Nolo and his people entirely, or gone all the way around and come down the coast. We’d hear about the former one way or another. As for the latter, I don’t see Morgoth wanting to waste his armies that way. A few good waves and they’d all be gone.”

“I’m not quite so ready to discount ‘routed them entirely’,” Curufinwë replied grimly. “But as you said – better to have eyes and ears abroad to know. If your path to the Falas is about to be cut off, you’ll want to know about it before it happens, not after.”

“What do we do if that happens?” Tyelpë asked nervously.

He clearly didn’t relish the idea of another headlong retreat.

Gildor and Finduilas traded a troubled look.

“In that case, I suppose if it’s no longer safe to stay put, we’d have no choice but to follow the Narog down to Sirion and hope Ulmo likes us well enough to see us to the Sea,” Gildor said slowly.

“I don’t think Uncle Finrod thought it would come to that,” Finduilas added softly. “But if we’re so thoroughly cut off to the west, throwing ourselves on Uncle Elu’s mercy wouldn’t be any use, would it? They’d be just as beleaguered.”

“Atto never said anything about running to Doriath,” Gildor said firmly. “It’s impractical. You know as well as I do the Noldor wouldn’t be welcome there, and if things are dire enough to abandon Nargothrond, they’d be bad enough that we’d need to stick together, not split our people up. Follow the river down to the Sea, and if the marshes aren’t protection enough, Lord Círdan and his people should be able to evacuate us to the Isle of Balar.”

“Maps?” Curufinwë demanded.

Gildor started to get up, but Finduilas froze him in place with a pointed glare before stepping over to one of the cabinets herself to come up with a serviceable map while he dutifully finished eating.

Looking at the map, Curufinwë judged it to be slightly shorter than the trek his people had just completed. The drawback was that there would be no one at hand protecting their flank or rear if they had to take that route – at least his people had had the comfort of knowing Doriath was there. They might not come out to help, but their presence had still been a bulwark.

“You’d better draw up your plans now,” he advised. “I can tell you what we learned the hard way. Though you’d have Tyelpë with you in any case.”

That got three startled looks.

“But, Atto-”

“If things come to such a pass that Ingo’s kingdom has to run, Tyelperinquar, they will be dire enough that your uncles and I are unlikely to survive. I have no intention of allowing you to throw your life away in a hopeless cause. If they evacuate, you’ll go with them.”

Uneasy Equilibrium

Read Uneasy Equilibrium

Curufinwë wasn’t thrilled when Gildor announced they would all dine in the Great Hall that night. But he’d given in quickly and with as much grace as he could muster. He could see the logic in it even if he didn’t much like it.

Tyelpë was curious to see more of his new home, and Tyelko agreed with the two youngest that it would be good for the people of Nargothrond to see with their own eyes that the princes were standing united. Curufinwë know any rejoinder he could make to that would sound far too cynical to the younger generation, so he held his tongue and asked humbly if there were any tunics of Ingo’s he might wear to look acceptable.

That was when he discovered that while he hadn’t bothered to salvage any personal possessions, Tyelpë had. Not many, it was true, but enough. Curufinwë would have scolded, but to his astonishment everyone else sympathized with Tyelpë’s excuse that he had seen no point to not dart to their quarters to pack a few changes of clothes and small keepsakes.

“Nearly everyone else did the same,” Tyelpë said, shifting uncomfortably in the face of his father’s open disapproval. “And anyway, if we didn’t have so much as a change of clothes to call our own, we’d burden our people needing to borrow from them! How would that have looked?”

“Just how,” Curufinwë demanded icily, “did ‘everyone’ manage to slip off to their own quarters as busy as we all needed to be?”

“Probably the same way I did,” Tyelpë snorted. “By making sure they were pulling their weight, and picking their moment. When everyone around them was at their tasks, saying they’d be back in a quarter of an hour at most, then keeping to that and covering for their fellows so they could do the same in turn. You’d have a lot more trouble on your hands if people had left everything behind except whatever the quartermaster and master at arms assigned them!”

Tyelko was making a ‘leave it’ gesture behind the kids’ backs, so Curufinwë – against his better judgement – did.

“You’re welcome to make a show of appearing in my clothes if you prefer,” Gildor offered wryly. “We’re near enough the same height and build that they should fit you. But I don’t see the point. Tyelpë didn’t grab you any finery, just sensible workaday clothes. No one can possibly argue with that. Findë and I won’t be wearing anything fancy, so we won’t make you look shabby by comparison.”

“Maybe we should quietly let our people know they should keep their most needful things ready to grab up at a moment’s notice?” Finduilas mused, looking troubled. “Aglon had several hours’ notice, but by the sound of it, you also had a much wider view and could see the danger coming a long way off. Even our highest watchpoints don’t see that far. If all this storm and darkness continue, we may not know it’s time to go until the enemy is nearly upon us.”

“You’re like as not to frighten your people, saying things like that,” Tyelko warned.

“Our people are talking to yours. If hearing that will frighten them, odds are they’re already scared,” Finduilas shot back. “Besides, they should see the sense in it. How far do you think we would get with nothing but the clothes on our backs and whatever happens to be close at hand when we run for it? Ulmo’s protection or not, I doubt we’d make Nan Tathren, never mind the Bay of Balar. And that’s where we’d need to reach to be safe.”

“We don’t need to decide anything tonight,” Gildor said quickly, before it could become a true argument. “We have at least a few days breathing space. Morgoth can whip his orcs as hard as he likes, unless he gives them all wings, there’s no way they can cover the distance from Tol Sirion or Mithrim to here in only a day or two.”

“Enough,” Curufinwë sighed before Tyelko could take exception. “We can think more on the details of potential retreat routes after dinner. The boy is right, we have at least a few days to pull ourselves together and come up with a plan. For tonight, the task is to present a unified public front. That will be easier if we’re not already arguing amongst ourselves.”

He might not agree with all their ideas, but at least the kids were proving to have solid, sensible heads on their shoulders.

He discovered at dinner that Gildor had more than that. The boy had learned a fair bit from Ingo. The speech he gave in the Great Hall hit all the right notes, presenting the arrival of the refugees from Aglon as an unlooked for blessing, ‘bolstering our strength in this trying time’. He also played on the pride of his people, intimating that the people of Aglon and Himlad  had chosen to come to Nargothrond as the safest place they knew.

From what Curufinwë could see, it went over well. So did Tyelpë, who Gildor introduced enthusiastically. Nargothrond might be slightly less sure what to make of him and Tyelko – it had been one thing when Ingo was here, but in his absence his people were less certain. But both Gildor and Finduilas were clearly fond of Tyelpë, and Nargothrond took their cue from them. His older son’s slight bashfulness in the face of so much attention made him look modest and unassuming, which would hopefully reassure any of Ingo’s people inclined to worry about the arrival of three princes from the senior branch of the House of Finwë.

That his son answered readily to ‘Celebrimbor’ also helped.

When he and his brother circulated among the others dining in the hall after Gildor’s speech, speaking to both their own people and to Ingo’s, Curufinwë found more than one group eager to hear anything he could tell them of the war. He had to disappoint the folk of Nargothrond with the admission that he knew little more than his own part in it, and had learned a good deal from Gildor and Finduilas on arrival.

What he could share would not quiet all fears, but he did try to dispel rumors where he could. No, so far as he knew Himring had not fallen. He would not believe that Ambarussa had been caught out on the plains unless he heard reliable reports to the contrary. ‘Caranthir’ was a fool if he hadn’t fled either over the mountains or south to Amon Ereb – he was far too canny to have been penned in at Helevorn.

He did not tell them about his brother’s beacon system, which should have meant Moryo had news that Angband was on the move nearly as fast as Kano or Maitimo did. In retrospect, it might have been wiser had the rest of them imitated him instead of scoffing. If they had known the full extent of the assault within an hour, instead of guessing!

He wondered if there was any practical way to implement a similar early warning system for Nargothrond. The problem, of course, would be how to spread the beacons across the plains without either exposing the watchers to unreasonable risk or revealing where their signals were intended to converge… Perhaps if they kept the beacons going all the way down Andram, making it look as if they were intended for the benefit of Amon Ereb?

He also found it heartening that his people and Tyelko’s were mingling easily with Ingo’s. Noldor or not, their presence seemed to hearten Nargothrond. He couldn’t tell if it was the boost from feeling themselves to be doing a good thing by taking in refugees, the flattery Gildor had laid on in implying this was such a place of safety it had been their first choice, the reassurance of extra personnel who could help with everything from manning the ranks should it come to a fight to helping fill craft rosters left emptier than they should be by all who had marched out with Ingo, or some combination.

Judging by how well some people seemed to be getting on, there might even be a marriage or two in the making. He supposed there were worse things.

“I think it’s sweet!” Finduilas exclaimed when he mentioned it in the family quarters afterward. “People finding the mate meant for them when they’ve been on opposite sides of Beleriand all these years.”

Gildor’s expression indicated he was already well familiar with his best friend’s romantic side and knew better than to argue. Curufinwë decided it was best not to say he agreed with her. (Though if forced to admit it, he would cover with more practical reasons.)

“I’ll want to check over your armor tomorrow, both of you,” he said briskly, looking for a good change in subject. “I don’t expect you’ll need it anytime soon, but better to be prepared.”

Gildor nodded as if this was no surprise to him. Finduilas looked bemused.

“I don’t have armor,” she told him.

Both her uncles and Tyelpë stared at her in astonishment.

“But… surely Ango,” Tyelko began before Finduilas’ wobbly lip and Curufinwë’s sharp elbow reminded him it was neither wise nor tactful to speak of their younger cousin in front of his granddaughter just yet.

“You’ll be getting armor, then,” Curufinwë said flatly. “Tyelpë, see to it. First thing tomorrow morning get her measurements and draw up the designs.”

Finduilas looked alarmed.

“It won’t be finished tomorrow,” Tyelpë hastened to assure her. “I’ll just be getting started. Once you show me where I can set up to work.”

“I won’t be doing any fighting,” Finduilas protested. “I don’t even know how!”

“Really?” Curufinwë asked curiously. “I’d have thought your mother…”

“Nana let Atto and Grandfather have their way even though she thought it was stupid. She said she has to pick her battles.”

“Don’t we all,” Tyelko muttered.

Curufinwë frowned. He’d have thought that one worth fighting in Merilin’s place.

“Well, we can talk it over with her should she turn up, but in your parents’ absence, Tyelko and I are your nearest elder kin, and we say you’re learning at least some basics as soon as may be. Tyelpë, make sure she gets a sword as well.”

“Make it a smaller one,” Tyelko advised, eyeing her. “And a knife or two for close in or throwing as needed.”

“Anything else?” Tyelpë sighed, clearly expecting there would be more. He was well acquainted with Tyelko’s belief that you could never have too many options when it came to weapons. “Bow, arrows, perhaps a spear?”

“Don’t get carried away, boy,” Tyelko said firmly. “We’re not looking to make her a front line fighter, just to equip her to make it out alive if she winds up in an ambush. You could probably stand to brush up on your skills as well, come to that.”

Gildor snickered. Finduilas looked delighted.

“All three of you will take this seriously,” Curufinwë warned them sternly. “The time for treating defense as a lark is over.”

As was Curufinwë having any patience with courtly Tirion nonsense about what nissi could or could not do. Tyelko knew enough dirty tricks to train Finduilas to do whatever it took to survive. He felt sure he’d have an ally in Artanis if she could extract herself from Doriath, and likely Merilin as well.

“Am I doing this before or after the scouting trip west?” Tyelko asked.

“I don’t think that should be put off,” Gildor said. “I could always –”

“NO.”

Curufinwë was pleased to find his older brother of one mind with him on that.

“Tyelko can spare half a day to teach Finduilas a few fundamentals before he sets out,” he decided. “By the time he gets back, Tyelpë should have at least her sword and knives ready if not the armor. Until then, I will supervise and she can use whatever practice swords your master-at-arms has available for her. You and Tyelpë can practice as well.”

“I can’t lead from behind,” Gildor protested. “How will it look if I send Uncle out instead of me?”

“It will look like you understand that as Ingo’s regent, you are supposed to stay in the stronghold while those of us who are expendable go do the risky bits,” Tyelko sighed. “I’ll keep repeating that as often as needed until it sinks in, shall I?”

“You’re not expendable, Uncle!”

“I am, in fact. Far more than you are, boy,” Tyelko snorted. “In addition to all those brothers I have, you two are kin to Thingol – meaning you have some chance of diplomacy or at least shelter with him if it all goes sideways here. Besides, it would be cold comfort to me to outlive you kids.”

Gildor’s mouth worked soundlessly for a second, but Finduilas’ restraining hand on his shoulder kept him from rising to shout whatever it was he’d had in mind.

“Matters are that serious now,” Curufinwë added bluntly. “In terms of the survival of Nargothrond and your people, the two of you are more important than we are. Though I’ll be grateful if you could contrive to keep Tyelpë alive into the bargain.”

“Atto!”

“You’re not entangled in the Oath, Tyelperinquar,” he said quietly. “I’ve managed that much at least. So if it comes to that, you’ll evacuate with your cousins.”

“It hasn’t come to that yet,” Gildor said. His voice was firm even if he’d gone a bit pale. “And I’ve every hope we can keep it from coming to that. But if it should, I believe you had some fatal traps laid at Aglon, Uncle Curvo, to keep orcs from pursuing you too closely?”

Curufinwë nodded.

“Is there any chance you could set up something similar here? I know there isn’t much time, but I want us to have any advantage we can. If we retreat, it won’t be by the main gate. I’ve reviewed Atto’s designs, and I believe if the fortress is compromised, he meant to lure them in and neutralize as many as possible inside while we use the back doors to escape. If we can safely seal those tunnels behind us so that they can’t get through after us, and have other traps arranged outside to cut them off…”

That was sensible.

“Show me whatever drawings Ingo has first. Let’s make sure you’re not misreading them before I agree to anything,” Curufinwë said slowly.

If need be, he could probably bring the whole damn hill down. But that would do no good if it killed everyone trying to escape.

He managed to send everyone – Tyelko included – off to bed at a reasonable hour, pointing out that they had plenty to do the next day, not to mention an example to set of getting back to as much of a normal schedule as could be managed under the circumstances.

---

The children were almost cheerful at breakfast. Curufinwë suspected doing something that felt as normal as sitting down to eat with family made them feel less like the world had flown out of control. All of them actually getting a good night’s sleep also helped.

After the meal, Tyelko took Finduilas off to the small hall, which he intended to have cleared to create a private practice space for her. No sense letting the rest of Nargothrond see how unprepared their princess currently was. She could practice in the usual spaces later, once she had some basic proficiency and wouldn’t embarrass herself.

Curufinwë and Tyelpë were off to the workshops with Gildor – the boy wasn’t a smith himself, but he did know where they might both claim space without creating havoc or sparking quarrels.

Curufinwë found the other smiths surprisingly agreeable, though somewhat subdued.

Then he realized why – they were already in the process of clearing the workshop that he was to have, as its former occupant had been killed in the north.

The atmosphere improved slightly after Curufinwë sent for a bottle of wine from Ingo’s private cellar and poured glasses so all present could drink to the memory of Linhir, who had clearly been well esteemed by his peers. After a bit of reminiscing, they were ready enough to help Curufinwë rearrange the workshop to his preferences.

When he retrieved his son shortly before midday, Tyelpë had a similar story, though without the wine.  He was concerned at the idea of what he’d heard the Sindar term ‘stepping into dead man’s shoes’. Curufinwë wasn’t about to suggest he raid Ingo’s cellar, but he did give him a few tips on how best to break the ice. The boy needed to reach a good working relationship with the other craftsmen here, not be thought to be elbowing anyone aside or trading on his royal status.

They joined the others in the small hall for lunch, where they found Gildor doing a less than acceptable job of not laughing at Finduilas’ difficulties.

“You’re not going to learn if you’re worried about hitting him!” he was giggling as they entered. “That’s the whole point!”

“But I don’t want to hurt him!” Finduilas protested. “Stop – laughing – you’re – not – helping!”

Each word in the last sentence was punctuated by her aiming a smack at Gildor with the wooden sword she was using. He did a good job of dodging, but two of them did connect, and with some force judging by his winces.

“Maybe you should let the boy serve as her training dummy, she’s willing enough to hit him,” Curufinwë suggested to his brother.

Finduilas stopped at once, looking guilty.

“No, that was good!” Tyelko told her. “In a fight, you’ll need to hit your enemy like you mean it. Be nice to orcs and they’ll get ideas you will definitely not like.”

Enedrion coughed discreetly from the doorway.

“My prince,” he said. “Your pardon.”

Gildor raised an eyebrow.

“We have opened the front gate briefly to allow a group of Iathrim to enter. I judged you would not want the princess’ mother and brother to be left waiting on the doorstep. If I erred, I ask your pardon. The gate will not be opened again save at your command or your father’s return.”

Curufinwë’s jaw dropped. Brother? What news had they missed in the North?

“I could have told them myself,” a tart voice said from the corridor.

Merilin strode into the room, looking irritated with Enedrion, or possibly just with Noldorin ways in general. A small boy was trailing after her, and at the sight of Tyelko, hid behind her in a fit of shyness.

Finduilas did not bother with dignity, flying into her mother’s arms. By Merilin’s grip on her daughter, she had been equally worried. Gildor scooped up the little one with a grin.

Enedrion took that as his cue to make himself scarce before Gildor remembered he might have grounds to be annoyed with him. (If the man was clever, the food for the midday meal would appear promptly – and be delivered by someone else.)

Only after she’d seen Finduilas and given Gildor an equally careful once-over while Finduilas covered her little brother in kisses did Merilin notice the presence of anyone else.

“Well met,” Curufinwë said wryly. “I’m a bit taken aback we come as a surprise to you. I was sure your people had spotted us making our way south and west.”

“We did, but thought you were making for the sea or the Falas, not here,” Merilin replied. “Though I suppose under the circumstances, the extra strength is nothing to sniff at.”

“We weren’t sure you’d come,” Gildor said, sparing Finduilas from needing to speak.

“I had to argue rather hard with Uncle Elu, but I had an ally – Galadriel told him he could only keep one of us there, so he’d best take his pick while he still had the choice. I think he surprised us all when he chose her.”

“Count me among the surprised,” Curufinwë said sharply. “He let you travel with a small child instead? I never had the impression he was that fond of my cousin.”

Merilin shot him a quelling look – she did not appreciate him speaking so bluntly in front of the younger generation.

“My husband is in the north and my daughter here. He could see how upset I was to be so far from them with everything going on, enough so to let me to go even with little Gil to think of. Besides, allowing Galadriel to depart would have meant losing Celeborn also. They weren’t about to be parted at a time like this. If it comes to fighting on the norther border, Uncle will need him.”

“Or he kept her for spite,” Tyelko muttered.

“It could have been both,” Gildor suggested, sounding more himself by the moment. He’d swung the child up onto his shoulders, and the little one was chattering away in Sindarin, telling his older sister and cousin all about the marvelous things he’d seen and done in Menegroth.

Tyelpë looked fascinated by the little one. Curufinwë wondered if the child understood Noldorin. By the sound of it, he’d spent most of his short life so far in Doriath – the one place they knew the Ban was strictly followed.

“He is your kinsman, too, Gilya, and genuinely concerned for all of us,” Merlin said reproachfully. “He’d have brought you two to Menegroth if he could.”

“We’re in less danger than Cousin Resto,” Gildor snorted.

“We’ll speak on that later. I suppose the real question is who’s in charge here,” Merilin said, looking keenly at Curufinwë and his brother as she did.

“This is Ingo’s kingdom, we are only guests,” Curufinwë replied at once. “And very grateful for the hospitality.”

“No one in their right mind would put me in charge,” Tyelko chuckled. “Though I might be of some use if the orcs make it this far south. I don’t think any of us like the idea of this one leading the van. We keep having to explain to him that I’m the expendable one.”

Merilin had started to roll her eyes, but the second half of Tyelko’s speech drew a sharper look from her.

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that. The latest from Brethil reported Tol Sirion reinforced and well-prepared for the next onslaught.”

“They do expect further waves, then?” Curufinwë asked in concern.

Merilin nodded, her lips compressed to a thin, worried line.

“It is far from over,” she said. “There’s some doubt we’ve even seen the end of the beginning.”

“Resto will make it back to you,” Tyelko reassured her. “The boy knows how to look after himself.”

“He’s usually more concerned with looking after his people,” Merilin replied crisply. “Also, I believe we’ve reached a point where ‘the boy’ should mean my son, not my husband? Gildor, have you bothered to do introductions?”

“They’re all boys to me,” Tyelko shrugged. “It’s not like they’re going to catch me up.”

A fleeting frown crossed his brother’s face, but Curufinwë didn’t think it the time to ask.

“At any rate, on that boy’s orders,” Tyelko continued, with a careless wave in Gildor’s direction, “I’m to lead a scouting party west. I delayed only to start this one learning a few needful things now that Ango’s not around to fuss worse than his grandmother about it. I trust I can leave that to you now?”

“Findë’s having a dreadful time learning self-defense, Auntie,” Gildor smirked. “She doesn’t want to hit anyone she knows.”

Finduilas promptly put the lie to that statement by socking him.

“Except you,” Tyelpë smirked. “Particularly if you keep needling her.”

Merilin looked from one boy to the other, and then to her daughter, before turning to Tyelko.

“I’ve a better idea,” she said. “I know the country to the west better than you do. I’ll ride with you. More eyes can do no harm, and I’ll likely spot any changes that warn of enemies sooner than you will. Surely between the two of them the older boys should be able to handle the basics?”

“What of the little one?” Tyelko asked.

“I believe I can trust Curufin to look after Gil-galad,” Merilin said slowly. “Celebrimbor seems to have survived childhood.”

Curufinwë did his best to cover his shock. They weren’t particularly close, and while she and Artë might get on, he knew perfectly well he still counted as Kinslayer to Merilin. So to hear she was willing to leave her very young son in his care…

Tyelko grinned.

“No objections here. How long before you can be ready?”

“Nana!” Finduilas protested. “You just arrived!”

“We all need to do our part, my dove,” Merilin said firmly. “Do you think your father or grandfather would expect you to be unable to manage without me?”

Finduilas was still not happy, but unable to argue further.

“Gilya, Findë, help me carry my things to my rooms. That should give us just enough time to catch up on anything needful before I’m off again.”

Curufinwë raised an eyebrow at his brother as she effortless shepherded the three youngest out ahead of her.

“Don’t you fret either,” Tyelko said as they went. “I’ll behave. And who knows, maybe I’ll learn a thing or two besides whether or not the Enemy is trying to sneak up on us again.”

Waiting

Read Waiting

Before her name was Galadriel, Artanis had thought nothing could be worse than the Ice.

As in so many other things, she had been wrong.

Fire was worse. Fire – and what came after. She already knew two brothers were lost to her, and most of their people with them. She’d woken choking on the fumes and feeling the unbearable heat. She had not screamed. What would have been the point? They were already gone.

It was almost as though the Doomsman was laughing at them - they had never wanted to be cold again.

Waiting for the hammer to fall on her remaining brother and her nephew was slow torture, and it was not helped by the mockery of sympathy from her grandfather’s brother.

It was just as well that Celeborn had been the one to name her Galadriel, and the name had been offered well before Thingol’s ban. Right now every reminder that she was denied her cradle-tongue and her brothers their given names at his decree sparked anger in her, a soul-deep rage she knew could do no one any good but flared unbidden nonetheless.

She had been refusing to see her great-uncle since she felt the death-blows in the north. She did not want anything of him right now but permission to depart for Nargothrond to mourn her own among her own. As he would not allow her that, she could not avoid him entirely. But she did her best.

She had been blunt as a hammer with Aunt Melian when she pressed the issue, trying to coax her out ‘at least among family’.

“He drove us from his kingdom when his grief and anger were fresh to him. Now that my own are fresh, I would leave of my own volition.”

“You know that cannot be, my cygnet. He worries for your safety, now more than ever. You frightened him badly when you disappeared.”

“He worries for Celeborn’s safety, you mean. My death would not discomfit him in the least did he not fear it might wound my husband to the quick.”

“You are blinded by your grief, young one,” Melian replied reproachfully. “Elu cares about all his younger kin.”

You included was implied, but she knew perfectly well in Thingol’s mind the formulation would be ‘even you’.

Galadriel laughed without any mirth whatsoever.

“Kin, you say? Since he learned of the kinslaying, we have only grudgingly been allowed kinship with him. He punished us for deaths we were blameless in and saw with our own eyes.”

Deaths she had tried to prevent. She would love to know what the so-called King of the Lindar would have done had he been there.

“If you believe so, you err,” Melian said quietly.

“Do I? Perhaps it is you who err,” Galadriel shot back ruthlessly. “I may be blinded by grief, but I am not blinded by love of him. I understand well enough it is not kin whose loss in the north he regrets, but the falling of a barrier between his borders and Morgoth. If he wants to pretend that he mourns my brothers more deeply than I do, as he did for my uncles, let him do it out of my sight and hearing. I will keep to my rooms until he is ready to cast me out again.”

Melian’s disapproval hung over her like a wet blanket.

“You will not persuade him to change his mind thus.”

“I was not the one who worried about changing his mind,” Galadriel said, doing her best not to snarl. “That was Ingo. I’m sure Elu will be rid of him soon enough as well.”

“Speak no words of ill-omen,” Melian cautioned sternly.

“That was no omen, it was plain common sense,” Galadriel sniffed. “Finrod is in the worst of the fighting, and there is little hope Fingon will force a path to him.”

She did not speak their true names, but her feä practically screamed Ingo and Finno as she said the words, and she knew Melian would have heard.

“He cannot undo the past,” Melian said softly.

“Nor can I,” Galadriel said, with finality in her tone. “And I have had enough of conditional kin and their demands. Leave me to mourn my brothers in as close to peace as there is in Beleriand.”

Melian’s presence withdrew, but Galadriel knew better than to expect she would actually be let alone. If Thingol was agitated about her refusal to leave her rooms, Lúthien or Daeron would be next. At least after that she might have solitude. Oropher would know from Celeborn that it was no use. Belthil was away on the northwestern borders, and Merilin had drawn the lucky straw and gotten to depart for Nargothrond with her son. Nimloth had better sense than to interfere.

She didn’t even know if Gildor was safe. He was a prince of Nargothrond, Ingo might have taken him north as well…

He has too much sense for that, my love.

She looked up to find Celeborn looking at her wearily. She’d been so deep in thought – and misery – that she hadn’t heard him enter their rooms.

“What was the point of training the boy to serve as his regent, and successor if need be, if he drags him into a crisis at his side? Besides which, he is like every other parent and wants to see his son safe.”

“Celeborn the Wise,” she murmured.

He sighed, and she reached out to soothe his spirit as best she could with her own so roiled. His logic was sound. But the fear in her stomach was as deep as the bottomless sea beneath the Ice.

“Sooner or later, Uncle will relent,” Celeborn sighed into her hair as she stepped into his embrace. “He did before. He will again. You will get to see for yourself the boy is safe.”

“Not in time,” she predicted dolefully. “Nargothrond’s fate may already be sealed. I do not think I will see it again.”

As she said it, she was suddenly certain she would not.

Nebulous foresight taunted her. Darkness and death hovered just out of sight, far enough that though she could recognize the outlines of doom, she could not see what it was she most desperately wanted to be sure of. Nargothrond could fall if it must, just so long Gildor lived…

One can go mad chasing visions of the future, Celeborn reminded her. Come back to the present, my lady of light?

“Madness might be less painful.”

“I’ve never known you a coward before, my heart, and now is no time to begin. It needs no foresight to know that the situation may be grimmer still before the light returns.”

---

If the ‘kids’ – and he knew he really shouldn’t be thinking of the older three as such, they were adults now – were on edge for the next few days, Curufinwë supposed that was no surprise.

He did his best to keep them all busy. Busy hands had no time for mischief. Busy minds weren’t fretting about the worst that could happen. (At least, not much.) But not too busy – he didn’t want them so tired that tempers frayed or they made foolish mistakes.

He set Gildor to teaching Finduilas basic self-defense in Tyelko’s absence – the sort the Noldor hadn’t ever thought necessary for nissi. He had the two of them work at that for a few hours after breakfast, and the two hours before dinner. Gildor protested indignantly after the first day that it was unfair Tyelpë wasn’t being used as a practice victim, but Finduilas pointed out smugly that he couldn’t very well make her armor if he was there with them.

She at least seemed to be somewhat enjoying the change in circumstances. From what Curufinwë observed, she’d really only needed competent instruction and practice. Her progress was as rapid as he could realistically wish, and better than he’d hoped. (He privately suspected the girl hadn’t been as much a novice as they’d supposed, at least not in the theoretical aspects. But it was clearly the first time she’d had a chance to put anything into practice.)

Curufinwë also had the little boy to look after. Young Gil-galad had gone very solemn and quiet once his mother left. Everyone had assured him that his big sister, Gildor, cousin Tyelpë, and new-met uncle would look after him. He had expected the boy to prefer his sister and Gildor, and would not have been surprised if the little one had been trying to hide from him. At his tender age, new met kin of kin wasn’t at all the same as kin you knew.

Instead, the first evening, he’d arrived to make sure Gil-Galad was put to bed at a reasonable hour for a child of his age to find his older son assuring the boy in a whisper that ‘Uncle Curufin’ told the best bedtime stories, all he had to do was ask nicely. One only slightly embroidered tale about how Uncle Ara had met Aunt Eärwen later, the little one was charmed and falling asleep.

After that, he’d found himself firmly on the short list of people the boy didn’t want to let out of his sight. They rapidly discovered that Gil-galad with his older sister, Gildor, or Curufinwë present was a solemn but calm child. Gil-galad without any of the above proved to be a screaming, teary, snotty mess. (Tyelpë was an acceptable stopgap, but only in the sense that in his company, the little one would cling to him and cry quietly.)

Curufinwë kept the boy with him during the daytime, going about his meetings or reviewing papers with the child on his hip or his lap. It might not do wonders for his dignity, but it couldn’t be helped. Any of Ingo’s remaining council inclined to amusement at the sight swiftly learned to stifle the impulse. He’d do what was needful to keep the boy as calm and at ease as possible. The older kids adored little Gil, but none of them had any experience of parenthood and they all had other duties to attend.

A seven-year-old was entirely too young for any of this. Curufinwë was privately appalled at the necessity of a mother leaving a child of such tender years, even on what should be a relatively safe scouting trip. It was the first time the thought had ever crossed his mind that Thingol had not been cautious enough. (Surely that was statement enough on the desperate times they found themselves in.)

He quickly discovered that little Gil didn’t know a word of Quenya of any sort. So he’d started teaching the child simple words and singing nursery songs to him when they weren’t in public. He also started him learning tengwar, with the promise of a book bound just for him once he could read his own name. The boy was the right age for it, and having something new and interesting helped take his mind off of the absence of both parents and charged atmosphere.

He also insisted all three of the older kids reserve time to mingle a few hours each morning and afternoon to make sure they got to know what was now effectively one people. Any distinction as to who had originally been a resident of Aglon, Himlad, or Nargothrond was rapidly eroding, and Curufinwë saw no good reason to fight it. The requirement to socialize drew a few half-hearted protests from the boys, Tyelpë in particular. (Findë, being a natural people person, was perfectly happy, not to mention sensible enough to include her little brother.) But he’d squelched their notions by pointing out that princes had to know and be known to their followers.

Curufinwë didn’t tell them that the fusion of their peoples might well be permanent. Amon Ereb would still be the fallback point for the rest of his brothers, but leaving western Beleriand understrength was not a sensible plan. It was inevitable that Ingo would lose people in the north – the only question was how many. He hadn’t had time to discuss it with Tyelko, but leaving some of their people with Ingo a practical solution. For his part, he didn’t see much point to taking any but the fighters to Amon Ereb. Between his brothers, there should be sufficient support craftfolk as it was.

That still left the problem of communicating with Amon Ereb. While he had no intention of making his way there immediately, Curufinwë needed to know who was there and in what condition. More than that, Nargothrond needed reliable news of what had played out in East Beleriand before they could make any plan for the future, regardless of what happened in the north with Ingo, Resto, Uncle Nolo, and Finno.

To that end, he called one evening for volunteers to attempt a message run to his little brother’s fortress. He was frank in his announcement – both about the need, and that with Gildor’s permission, he would take anyone willing to risk the journey, regardless who they’d originally answered to. The response was much better than he’d expected, to the point that he could afford to be choosy and still have an adequate party.

He had Tyelpë, Gildor, and Finduilas review the volunteers with him when he drew up the list of who would go a few days later. Some people would be just itching for action – or verging on reckless, in a few cases. He wanted to know he was sending steady, reliable people who would keep to their mission. But he also wanted it to be  a mixed group, not disproportionately his own people and Tyelko’s. He wanted the way known to all, and to demonstrate to everyone at both ends that the Noldor had not fallen apart but were regrouping.

Gildor nixed two of the Nargothrond volunteers – one was too important to risk, as he’d been closely involved in the building of the ‘back doors’. The other he was concerned might take unnecessary risks, as she’d just lost a brother in the north. Finduilas vetoed a third as likely to go to pieces in an emergency, not something she thought a good qualification for a trip that faced both the prospect of picking a new route through rough terrain and the possibility of ambush at any time.

Curufinwë was pleased to see Tyelpë becoming more assertive after a few days in Gildor and Finduilas’ company. After quietly observing how freely and frankly his cousins spoke out, he offered tentatively that he thought one of the volunteers originally from Aglon was unlikely to return from Amon Ereb once she arrived there.

“I believe Alyamë volunteered only because she hopes to find news of her kin from Thargelion. But she is unlikely to want to dare the return journey whether she finds her cousins at Amon Ereb or not.”

Curufinwë frowned, then tossed the decision to Gildor.

“You’re the prince regent,” he said lightly. “What do you think?”

Gildor blinked, having not expected that Curufinwë would want his opinion on someone who was after all Curufinwë’s follower. (Well, technically Tyelko’s. But at this point, it was all but impossible to distinguish between the two unless you stopped to think on who had originally marched with who from Tirion.)

“The woman we’re speaking of is a baker, is she not?” he asked. “We are grateful for the extra hands, but not so pressed for kitchen staff that I need to keep her here if she would rather make her home elsewhere. Wanting to be closer to what kin she has left to her – at least, we hope she has left – is understandable. Let’s just make sure there are enough others expected to return that her absence won’t create problems or increase danger for those coming back.”

He paused.

“She won’t be the only one who will want to shift to Amon Ereb, will she, Uncle? How are we to manage that?”

Curufinwë was pleased to see the lad hit on that without having to be led to the idea.

“For the time being, everyone else will have to content themselves here in Nargothrond,” Curufinwë replied. “From what I’ve seen, most are ready enough to do so. Once we know the situation to be calmer, we can see about rearranging who is assigned where. It’s neither safe nor practical at the moment.”

If the situation becomes calmer,” Finduilas said soberly. “Supposing it doesn’t?”

Score another one for the kids, Curufinwë reflected grimly. They were facing the facts head on, better than many adults.

“Then everyone is stuck here, or retreating to the Falas, Sirion, or Balar, as the case may be,” Curufinwë shrugged. “If it comes to that, we have to deal with whatever is given us, not waste effort wishing it otherwise.”

“I think many of our people will be content here,” Tyelpë said thoughtfully. “I have heard plenty who are happy to not be on the front line any longer, particularly after what just happened.”

“Let’s hope we’re not the next front line,” Gildor muttered.

Curufinwë regretted the sober turn the mood had taken, but it was better for all of them that the younger generation accepted the reality. They’d had a sharp shock. Unfortunate as that might be, he was pleased to see they were clever enough to recognize without being told that there was no good reason to expect a return to the deceptive peace they had known until now.

Gildor took an active hand in preparing both the party for Amon Ereb and another party heading for the Falas. Finduilas nearly fretted herself sick about her part – it was the first time she’d ever found herself wholly in charge of preparing waybread for anyone other than close kin.

Half of the Falas group were to remain there, but the others were to attempt the return with any news Círdan had to share – and hopefully with a few of Ingo’s people who had been caught there when the fighting began. Sending them had been Gildor’s notion, and Curufinwë had seen enough sense in it not to attempt to talk him out of it.

Curufinwë was as proud of him the day they sent both parties off as he had been of Tyelpë’s masterwork. Ingo was due most of the credit, of course, but the boy wasn’t just competent, he was good – a prince his people would follow.

“I haven’t just sent them off to die, have I, Uncle?” Gildor asked quietly as they reached the sanctuary of the family rooms, where Finduilas was playing with her younger brother.

“I don’t think so,” Curufinwë replied. “But even if it should prove so, it was necessary. You can’t make good decisions for your people knowing nothing but what’s right in front of your gates. Take heart – should it go ill for them, you can always put the blame on me.”

Ingo’s people, at least, would happily accept that. Far easier to blame an outsider than their own king or prince, who they knew to want the best for them.

Gildor shook his head.

“I had the final say, their fates are on me, not you. I suppose this is something I’ll get used to, in time?”

“No,” Curufinwë told him soberly. “You won’t. It doesn’t get easier. And the day may come when you have to give orders you know will result in deaths, but there will be no better way open to you. If you ever find that comfortable, distrust your own judgement.”

Gildor gazed into the fireplace, his eyes as intense as Artanis’ had been years ago when she spoke of the Ice.

“How do you bear it?”

“You bear it because there is no other choice as a prince in Beleriand. I suppose I should apologize to you – unlike those of us who came here by choice, you were born into this mess.”

“That was not your doing,” Gildor snorted. “Clearly you share the common Noldorin idea that this is no place or time for children. Not only has Tyelpë remained an only child, I note my uncles haven’t taken wives or begotten children. Which is all the more remarkable given I’ve seen how you look at little Gil when you think none of us notice.”

“We Noldor are odd in that way,” Curufinwë shrugged, forcing himself not to react to the casual comment and give it all away. “We believe children are to be treasured and kept safe, not risked against Morgoth and his creatures. I worry for the little one, it would be very hard to lose a parent at his age. I suppose his parents thought it safe enough. Things worked out nicely enough with Finduilas. They could not help the misfortune of timing. As for having more children myself, I left my wife in Aman. I know her well enough to be certain she’d object to Tyelpë acquiring siblings with no reference to her.”

That drew a rueful laugh from Gildor.

“My apologies! It’s so easy to forget the kin on the other side of the Sea are real. It’s like something out of a song.”

That didn’t sit well with Curufinwë.

“I’ll tell you what I already told your crony Findë – I’ve every hope you’ll meet your grandmother in Alqualondë, your grandfather in Tirion, and maybe even my Silmë. When you do, be a good lad and convey my apologies.”

Gildor’s laugh at that was genuine.

“Of course, if you think you won’t be there yourself. Or were you planning on sending us off the ship first to look cute?”

“You’ll see them long before I will,” Curufinwë sighed. If I ever do.

The boy must have heard that, for he looked up, and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll be there too, someday, Uncle. The Valar can’t be that hardhearted. If they won’t allow you back for your own sake, they’ll have to do it for their own peace and quiet – Findë, Tyelpë, Gil, and I will pester them ceaselessly otherwise.”

Gildor smothered a small chuckle that seemed out of place.

Curufinwë raised an eyebrow.

“The foresight came and went too swiftly for me to be certain of much, but I think we’ll have allies. There will be enough of us that we can’t be ignored! I think that bodes well for peace eventually breaking out, don’t you?”

Deep Breaths

Read Deep Breaths

Several days of relative quiet followed, for which Curufinwë was privately grateful. The atmosphere had an undercurrent of tension. People could not quite decide if they should take advantage of the relative calm, or if they ought to prepare for worse. The result was an almost frenetic appearance of normality, which must be all the more jarring to those who knew Nargothrond as it had been.

The worst Gildor had to cope with was the handful of people who dealt with their nerves by trying to drink them away. Fortunately, nearly all had proved to be merry rather than maudlin drunks. (Overly merry, in the case of the one who had been singing at the top of his lungs in the darkest hours of the night. It was just as well for the offender that it was Gildor, not Curufinwë, who dealt with him.)

The continued lack of news from the north wasn’t heartening. But in this case, Curufinwë felt sure no news was more likely to be good news. There was no chance whatsoever of a swift victory; the only news that could have come quickly would have been the worst kind.

Tyelko and Merilin returned the seventh day after they’d ridden out, with all scouts uninjured and bearing good tidings. Mithrim might be hard put – there was no definite word yet – but appeared to be holding. No orcs were coming down the coast or through the mountains from Nevrast. Nargothrond still had a secure retreat to the Falas should it be needed.

That meant for the time being, their best course of action was to do as Ingo had said and hunker down to wait out the uncertainty. As that filtered through the fortress, an expectant, almost sullen, air set in as everyone braced themselves, unsure if it was good news or bad news they were awaiting.

Gildor didn’t need to be told that the best way to deal with it was to keep everyone busy. The armories were inspected, the guards abjured to keep their eyes sharp and their arms ready, the kitchens asked to produce hearty comfort fare, the smithies and workshops all set to restocking what had been sent north with Ingo. (If any of the craftfolk believed they were being asked to replace expected losses, they had the sense to keep their thoughts to themselves.)

The sense of watchful waiting was only somewhat relieved by the unexpected arrival of messengers from Amon Ereb. Moryo had also had the same thought Curufinwë did, but in reverse. Their parties must have passed each other underway but not been close enough to spot each other.

The leader of Moryo’s messengers took that as cause for amusement rather than worry, and was inclined stay to hear some fresh news from the north before starting back.  Curufinwë hoped the Nargothrond group would have the sense to do the same. 

“At least this way I’ll have something to report besides the simple fact that we made it,” the woman sighed philosophically.

The tidings she carried were not as bad as they might have been, but grim enough.

Pityo and Moryo were safely holed up in Amon Ereb with nearly all their people, and prepared for a siege that so far had not materialized. Moryo had taken some casualties, but nowhere near as bad as might have been feared given the distance he had to cover on his retreat. Kano or Maitimo must have gotten a warning to him in time – there was no way he could have managed as he did if Helevorn had been taken unaware.

The Gap had fallen. Kano had been able to fall back to Himring in some semblance of order, but unlike Moryo he had taken heavy losses. He and Maitimo were now almost completely surrounded. Himring had recognized their peril in the nick of time and hurriedly prepared for the assault and ensuing siege. So far as anyone knew, they hadn’t been hit as hard as the Gap or Aglon had – but there had been no fresh word from them. They were entirely cut off.

Curufinwë swore under his breath as he regarded the map. It was a fool’s errand to attempt to reinforce Himring from the south – too many leagues of open plain where the Enemy could track their movements and pick the best place to ambush them, coming on them from any of the mountains, or possibly even from out of Nan Elmoth. Nothing they had heard from Doriath had mentioned the fate of what had been Eöl’s domain. Perhaps, with some deft prompting, Merilin might find out more.

Himring’s best defense right now was how damned difficult it was to assault. Even a proper siege would be tricky to maintain for very long. That would do for now, but depending on how things were going with Mithrim and the northern reaches of Sirion…

Ingo and Finno had to hold.

Curufinwë said nothing of that conclusion aloud, though. Too many people – two princes and a princess included – might take their cue from him. It was small consolation that the only place currently safer than Nargothrond was the Falas.

He managed to catch Merilin privately before dinner.

“I want to say this while there’s no audience about,” he warned her quietly. “If whatever news from the north reaches us next isn’t good, I want you and the little boy off to the Falas without delay. Your daughter as well, if you think it can be managed without touching off a panic.”

“You think the situation that dire?” she sighed.

“If either of the northwestern positions fall, Morgoth can sweep down and engulf us and Doriath. If Himring falls, we will still have some time, but Doriath will be the front line. Much as I respect your royal aunt, I don’t believe she’ll have the upper hand should it come to her pitted directly against Morgoth and Sauron. She may hold the borders she’s drawn for a time, but not indefinitely. We’d also do well enough under siege for a time, but once our supplies run short... Better to run before we’re besieged, while we still have somewhere left to go.”

Merilin shuddered.

“Then you’d best pray the news from the north is good,” she replied grimly. “I doubt you’ll persuade Gildor or Finduilas to leave. Nor do I see either leaving without the other.”

“If things get bad enough, I’ll truss them up and toss them over the back of a horse myself,” Curufinwë snorted. “If they must make a last desperate stand, this is not the place for it.”

Merilin’s lips quirked, though he couldn’t tell if she meant to smile or frown before she caught herself.

“It shouldn’t be just Gilya you send away if you believe it is too dangerous to stay,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ll take all the children. We might even persuade my daughter that leading them to safety is an honorable task, not merely a Noldorin excuse to send the lone princess away.”

Curufinwë nodded, for there was sense in that. Letting the girl be the leader and protector of the group evacuating the children would be far more palatable than being forced to leave under guard with her mother and baby brother.

“What of the rest of Nargothrond?” Merilin said sharply. “It’s all well and good to say run, but moving so many people is no small undertaking. And much as I love the boy, that’s a lot to ask of Gildor. He’s not much more than a child himself.”

He did not bristle, though he wanted to. The boy had been trained well, and was handling himself and the situation better than some Curufinwë could think of who did not have the excuse of youth.

“I’ll assist Gildor in organizing the full evacuation. I’ve had some recent practice. I’ll insist he lead it out, and my brother and I will play rearguard. If anyone has to stay behind, it’ll be our people, not his. ”

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that. Finrod may yet prevail.”

“Pray any Vala that cares to listen he does,” Curufinwë replied grimly.

“You might try that as well,” she suggested with a smile. “What can it hurt?”

He preferred not to answer that, for he feared the honest answer was probably ‘everything’.

“I have it on good authority they don’t listen to us,” he snorted. “You’ll do far more good than I can.”

---

It was as well for everyone’s peace of mind that word came down by bird several days later that Ingo was alive and retreating to Tol Sirion. If Curufinwë found it suspicious that the message led with Ingo being alive, he was apparently the only one who did.

The messenger that arrived the next day was able to elaborate. He’d been riding hard to reach them quickly, and came in for quite the harangue from the stable master about the state of his horse. The animal would not need to be put down, but it wouldn’t be fit for long journeys again anytime soon.

Ingo was indeed alive, but through purest luck. He and his personal guard had been cut off from his main force, stranded between Sirion and Rivil and forced to take refuge in the wetlands as a last resort. Curufinwë didn’t know the area well, but Tyelko did – he’d driven a fair number of orcs into the same spot in one of the first battles. Few orc had survived the experience.  

“Damn fool would have done better to stand and fight than try to elude pursuit in there,” was the mildest of his older brother’s comments. “Unless he knows it well, he’s as like to drown himself as find cover. Those marshes are treacherous.”

Curufinwë bluntly ordered him out of the room before he scared the kids. Tyelko could rant and rage later, when it was just the two of them. Not even Tyelpë needed to hear his unvarnished thoughts on the near-disaster at Serech.

Fortunately for all of them, and for Ingo in particular, a captain Men who had been driven out of Dorthonion and were helping hold the Pass of Sirion had seen the danger and hastened to the rescue with a hand-picked company. They’d managed to save Ingo and what was left of his guard, though at the price of heavy losses of their own. 

Curufinwë wasn’t entirely clear what counted as heavy losses for Men. He hadn’t dealt much with them, as none had settled in his lands. Most of his knowledge was secondhand through Ingo or Moryo. He was told they multiplied shockingly quickly and had been numerous in the part of Dorthonion that bordered Aglon. But he didn’t know whether to understand ‘dozens’, ‘hundreds’, or possibly even ‘thousands’ from the messenger’s account.

He hoped they would not be wiped out entirely, if only for Ingo’s sake. Men or not, they looked to him, and had evidently thought highly enough of Ingo to risk their own short-lived skins on his account.

That was news enough for him to send Moryo’s people on their way. His brothers needed to hear the latest as soon as might be. He penned a short note, assuring them of his, Tyelko’s, and Tyelpë’s continued good health in addition to Ingo’s survival and promising more news as soon as it reached him.

He also dispatched a fresh cipher with the messenger, on strict instructions that if her party looked likely to be captured, it must be destroyed. He provided a small, secure container of acid for the purpose. It would need only a minute to make it illegible, three to completely dissolve the thin paper. Curufinwë doubted orcs could successfully open the locks on the letter without rendering it impossible to read properly, but he was taking no chances.

He could not be certain the enemy didn’t have the ones that had been in use before, and they would all have little choice but to put far more into writing now. Direct communication between Himring and Hithlum had fallen with Dorthonion. There was no road between Nargothrond and Amon Ereb, nor did Curufinwë think it advisable to make one. Ingo might not be as strict about it as Turvo, but secrecy might yet prove Nargothrond’s best defense. But it meant that getting messages would be a dangerous undertaking, now and likely for some time to come.

---

It was nearly a month before Ingo himself turned up, a tense time in which Gildor was not the only one to oscillate between an air of complete confident and a wreck of shredded nerves.

Curufinwë was more thankful than ever that Merilin had managed to get away from Doriath. True, it meant the worry of trying to keep things as normal as possible for the little boy, but the added parental figure was helpful in the effort to keep the older children from losing their nerve or their heads.

In turn, Curufinwë served as her pressure relief. The children overlooked that though she was keeping a calm and even facade, she was as worried about her husband as anyone else who had sent a mate off to the north. They had never been close, nor would he say they truly were now, but needs must. He sat with her evenings, ostensibly helping little Gilya ‘write’ a book to give to his father on his return. But he also let Merilin unburden herself of her worries once the boy was off to sleep. The news had been clear enough about Ingo but hadn’t said a word about Artaresto, and she was at her wit’s end.

They only found out why when Ingo marched in, with but a third of the force he’d taken north.

Curufinwë might not have been there to see the departure, but the atmosphere when Ingo’s column was sighted made it clear enough that Nargothrond had expected more to return. No one said ‘so few’, but it was plain enough that was what everyone was thinking.

It’s not as bad as it looks, I left half to man Tol Sirion, Ingo assured him privately the moment he spotted him.

Artaresto was not among those that had returned. Merilin lost all color when she realized he was nowhere in sight. Tyelko silently slipped in behind her to take Gilya away before he could catch too much of her fear, plopping the little one down for a ride on Huan.

Curufinwë waited until the trio were well away to suggest that Merilin go to the family rooms to wait for Ingo, but she shook off the suggestion, hissing that she knew her duty, thank you!

Ingo said a few words of thanks before dismissing his people. He was intelligent enough to know that those who had returned with him really wanted to hurry to their own homes and their own people. He looked years older than the last time Curufinwë had seen him, and terribly exhausted.

That impression was confirmed when he all but collapsed once the door to the family wing shut behind them.

Merilin chose that moment to round on him.

“How could you leave Orodreth in the north?” she demanded fiercely. “He’s no general!”

“Have some faith in him,” Ingo said wearily. “And I did not leave him, he demanded command of the garrison at Tol Sirion. His anger over his father’s death is fierce, and he desired to stay in the north to avenge him.”

“Ridiculous!” Merilin snapped. “There’s no avenging anything when Bauglir has the advantage in numbers, terrain, and just about everything else!”

“Now is perhaps not the time,” Curufinwë murmured, casting a glance at the wide eyes of not only Gilya, but Findë, Gildor, and Tyelpë in the doorway of what had become the family common room.

Finrod and Merilin ignored him, and he had the distinct impression the fight was continuing silently, all but confirmed when Gildor’s eyes suddenly blazed with anger.

Happily, Tyelko took the hint and hustled Tyelpë off in the direction of their rooms. Findë hesitated, but Huan headbutted her gently, then leaned into her side sympathetically, herding her in the same direction.

Curufinwë picked Gilya up to carry to his nursery. A child that young didn’t need to be in the middle of what threatened to be a nasty fight between his mother and great-uncle.

“What say we go work on that book of yours some more, little man?” he murmured soothingly. “We have a bit more time to get it just right before your Ada arrives.”

Gildor, however, planted himself next to Ingo.

“Gildor,” Curufinwë said firmly. “Gilya and I could do with some help. You know more of the local flora than I do.”

Gildor scowled, an expression Curufinwë recognized only too well.

“Now is not the time, boy,” Curufinwë murmured. “Come along.”

He could feel Gildor’s eyes burning a hole in his back – but to his relief, he could also hear him following.

He would have spoken to him silently, but he was carrying the littlest Arafinwion, and there was every chance the child’s hearing was as sharp as anyone else’s in Uncle Ara’s line.

Gildor didn’t stomp or make his anger plain, but it was clear his attention wasn’t really on the little picture book about the flowers of Nargothrond, and certainly not on the somewhat hurried lullaby as they put the little one to bed early – though Curufinwë suspected the boy’s singing had more to do with how fast Gil-galad dropped off to sleep than his own did.

Curufinwë pulled Gildor out of the room, leaving the door ajar behind them so they’d hear if the little one awoke. They retreated to what was nominally Merilin and Resto’s sitting room to await her return, Curufinwë dropping into one of the chairs by the fire in weary relief that at least they’d kept the baby away from the latest family feud.

Only then did Gildor ask the question that had obviously been on his mind.

“You know full well Atto wouldn’t make Uncle Resto come back if he didn’t want to, why didn’t you want me saying so to Aunt Merilin?”

Curufinwë gave him a long look and waited until Gildor threw himself down into a chair instead of pacing angrily.

“First, Resto is your cousin, not your uncle. You really ought to get used to thinking of him that way. He’s also not old enough to have much more experience with war than you do – I don’t think he’s seen so much as a day’s fighting before this wave of battle broke out.”

“So?”

“So Merilin is correct that he’s unlikely to avenge much. He hasn’t the temperament, and since Ango was so adamant about keeping him safe, he hasn’t the training either. He’s unlikely to accomplish much. Ingo would have been wiser to send him back and stay at Tol Sirion himself. As it is, our best hope is that Resto has the sense to recognize when it’s time to retreat. It won’t help anything if he gets himself killed trying to hold the Pass.”

“Why shouldn’t he hold the Pass?” Gildor snapped. “If we lose the Pass, Mogoth controls the Vale of Sirion!”

“Resto doesn’t have the numbers, boy,” Curufinwë said sharply. “He’s on an island, which may grant him some protection. But he has limited supplies, and not enough people to mount any effective counterattack. Mithrim is still holding the line to his west, at least so far. But with Dorthonion taken by the Enemy, the attack from the east bank will be relentless. Morgoth wants the Pass – he needs it to cut off Mithrim and given him a path to Doriath and us. And there are no reinforcements coming. Ingo left as many as he dared, and Mithrim can’t spare anyone.”

Gildor glared at him, then seemed to realize it wasn’t his fault either, so switched to glaring at the blameless carpet as though it were an agent of the Enemy.

“Your father’s a grown man and more than capable of fighting his own battles. Let Merilin work her anger out at him and don’t make it any worse. He’s going to need us united in the coming days, not at each other’s throats, sulking, or holding grudges.”

“I do not sulk,” Gildor informed him icily, sounding all for the world like his mother.

“Of course you don’t,” Curufinwë agreed amiably. “All the same, you’re staying out of it, and helping me smooth things over in the morning.”


Comments

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<i> not to mention before Tyelko had pitched such a fit about not knowing where Irissë was that Nelyo had banned him from returning to their uncle’s halls<i>

Now this is an interesting concept. It has always bothered me that they just isolated and there is no record in canon of anyone complaining about it, except from the inside looking out in the case of Aredhel wanting to visit her cousins from Gondolin.

I am quite sure that the discussions about the ban on speaking their own language were heated.

Thank you!

I have come to view the Silmarillion as a sanitized version of the history of the elves - clearly it's eliding or skipping over quite a bit. So the idea that everyone just shrugged and got on with their lives when Turgon and his people disappeared seems like one of those things that got skipped. Similarly, I can't imagine the Noldor didn't complain about Thingol's ban - I just figured all the complaining got edited out. (Not by Tolkien, by his fictional chroniclers.)

I'm enjoying this story so much so far! It's always bothered me that the Silmarillion sort of depicts it as if the Noldor more or less just meekly accepted Thingol's orders, so it was extremely satisfying to read the heated debate you wrote for them! I also enjoyed reading Finarfin's offspring as less passive than usual. Galadriel's a favourite anyway. I found it very interesting to think about the immediate consequences Thingol's ban would have on her marriage, and I really liked the... not quite friendship, but reasonably close relationship she has with Curufin. You made him very human and believable (in his own arrogant way ;)), and that, too, has made this a great read! Looking forward to further chapters.

Thank you!

Yes, I can't see any people being happy about being forced to give up their native language, so the Noldor meekly accepting was never going to happen. I imagine that even for the Finarfinions, after Thingol's decree, taking up Sindarin was grudging at best.  

Curufin may have a soft spot for his little cousin Artanis, but he wouldn't be Curufin if he wasn't an arrogant bastard...

I wouldn't, usually, think it likely that Curufin and Galadriel might have a special relationship or particular affinity, but you make it work really well here.

That you've adopted the idea that Galadriel also killed at Alqualonde, but on the other side,t, certainly lends all this an extra angle, too.

It will be interesting to see what Celeborn's angle on this is--that is, assuming we get to see him, which I gather we might.

 

It occurred to me that Curufin and Galadriel, while they might seem like an odd friendship, would probably work really well - he's Fëanor but less crazy, and she's curious about many things and marching to her own drum. Aside from being on different sides of the Kinslaying (and her thinking the Oath was a terrible idea), they don't really have a quarrel. Not that those are small things...

Celeborn will be appearing, just not immediately. 

Yay for Curufin! He is a very interesting character to write - his relationship with his cousins was superb, and I like the friendship he enjoys with Galadriel.

I particularly enjoyed the part where he pretended not to speak Sindarin - it was hilarious! (Fair warinig: I lways like the sarcastic bastards ^^)

Can't wait for the next chapter!

I've enjoyed these chapters and this look at how members of the House of Finwë reacted to Thingol's ban. I like the complicated family relationships, where they can be angry at each other and even hate each other but still love each other also -- that rings true to me. And I like your more sympathetic Curufin, having some protective feelings toward his remaining family while still having that sardonic inner voice.

Thank you! It's been my experience that large families are complicated (if for no other reason than by virtue of having so many people involved) and the House of Finwë seems like that would be especially true. Curufin here is still much as I imagine he was in Valinor - he gets some flak for arrogance and sarcasm, but he's just as much part of the family as anyone else, and used to looking out for his brothers and cousins, particularly the younger ones. The years, the Oath, and the Doom haven't taken their toll on him yet.

I really like the way you contrasted the Valinorean customs with those of the Sindar. I think it's so important to remember that the LaCE (if one follows them at all) apply only to one branch of Elves, not all of them equally, so this discussion between Curufin and Galadriel was so satisfying to read! I should probably be sad about her difficulties in conveying these cultural differences to her husband and to Thingol, and sad about Celebrimbor's lack of playfellows, and worried about the amount of wine Galadriel has downed... but I have to admit that I'm so excited about the joining/binding discussion that these emotions have to take a back seat. For now.
Anyway, thank you for writing!

Thank you!

I see LaCE as something that applied to the High Elves, with the Vanyar being the strictest about it, the Teleri more lax, and the Noldor falling somewhere in between. (And even in Aman, some knowledge of older, non LaCE ways of doing things survived, although it's not widely talked about.) Needless to say, the elves of Beleriand continue with customs that developed without influence from the Valar...

No wonder it took you some time to gather the strength to write this chapter! It's quite a lot to deal with. Poor Galadriel. Poor Curufin. Poor unborn little thing! I shudder to think what will happen to him. I shudder to imagine Sauron messing with these two, also! I wonder how he managed to worm his way into Galadriel's dream. Was it the drink? Or is it just one of the perils of sleeping out in the wild? I guess if Ulmo can put dreams into Finrod's or Turgon's minds, it isn't beyond Sauron either. Either way, what a mess. Kudos to you for managing to write it, though! Hope you're feeling better now that you've excorcised this chapter. ;)

Thank you. I'm doing better now - my only challenge now is getting everything written down that's coming into my head since I'm no longer hung up on that unpleasant section!

Sauron was able to take advantage of both Galadriel and Curufin being at a relative low point, with their guard down, and the worse for too much wine. Galadriel was also uniquely vulnerable between her unusual separation from Celeborn at a time when a newly married couple would normally not be parted and this being the first time she's been outside of the Girdle in some years. It was really a perfect storm from Sauron's perspective, and he didn't waste the opportunity.

Just starting this! I didn't realize it had grown so large and was so plotty. I read the new chapter first and then realized it was a mistake that it is actually kind of a novel or novella and not a series of stories. It's fascinating so far. (Good thing I do mind spoilers--I am as likely as not to hop forward and look for them as avoid them.)

Big story! I love stories about Curufin especially if they do not cast him as a unremittingly evil character.

“Who would have thought his judgement would align so closely with the Valar’s?” Curufinwë mused.

It is interesting and always gave me pause. He did, of course, go to Aman and meet the Valar, but did not after returning to Middle-earth seem in any hurry to get back there!

I am loving the whole scene with the messengers--seeing variations on how different individuals react. Love the characterization of Galadriel and Curufin.

I do love him acting like he can't speak Sindarin. I have been known to do that myself with Spanish when having to deal with particularly annoying and obtuse Mexican bureaucrats over issues of customs and immigration.

Thingol puzzles me greatly! He came back all fired up to go to Aman, then he meets Melian and doesn't care anymore? It makes no sense. Then the whole overreaction about the Kinslaying...

Curufin acting like he can't speak Sindarin has real life inspiration. (I haven't deliberately mangled a language like he does, but I have on occasion been known to play innocent about how much I understand of what's being said in non-English languages...or sometimes vice-versa!)

 

"Nelyo will no longer go to Mithrim."

Hmmmmmmm is there some kind of mystery there?

 

"Curufinwë preferred his father name, but from his father’s half-siblings, he answered without complaint to the name his mother had bestowed on him, understanding that it was strange for them to use Fëanaro’s father name for him. Especially since Losgar, family relations ran smoother if his aunt and uncle spoke to Atarinkë rather than Curufinwë."

Can I say that I love the name-drama in this, because it's 100% elvish and 100% the kind of drama such a family can have.

Though tbh, calling Curufin "Little Father" will also remind everyone he is Fëanor's son, so there is no good option there!

 

Artanis fighting in Alqualondë! <3 Irimë in council <3 Yay for females characters actually existing (and having attempted to flesh them out myself: it's work, way more work than for the male characters, so every author who actually does that deserves the kudos for the extra work).

 

"“My cousin would be Curufin were his name Sindarized,” Laurefindil said with a smirk. “Which his father never used, and though not his preferred name, would probably be more to his liking than Atarinkë.”"

He does have a point here !

 

So! First chapter review!

1) Family drama! Everywhere! The amount of it shows just how much thoughts you gave to all of them and everything going on prior to the story.

2) Language drama! Name drama! So elvish <3

3) Some well deserved in world Thingol bashing, yet not gratuitous, always much appreciated.

 

PS: I often do not get notifications for answers to reviews on SWG so don't be afraid to poke me on discord <3