Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

Mithrim

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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.