Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

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Picking Up The Pieces

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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.

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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.