Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

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Arrival at Nargothrond

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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.