Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

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Hiding The Truth

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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?”