Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

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Two Truths

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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.