Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

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Making & Mending

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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.

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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.