Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

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Inglorion

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Curufinwë had to smother a smile as he entered his cousin’s office to find Ingo trying to read through some document or other while holding Gildor – especially since it was plain to any who knew him as well as Curufinwë did that Ingo was sorely tempted to toss the reading aside in favor of playing with the baby.

Gildor was doing his best to encourage Ingo to abandon duty with a series of ‘comments’ that weren’t quite words yet, but very close to it. Curufinwë was amused to note that the sound was definitely Noldorin, not Thingol’s tongue. He wasn’t sure if it was just the boy mimicking what he heard most often as children that age did, or if it was a sign that Gildor had inherited the same obstinacy as both his parents.

Ingo had always been good with children – as a rule, he liked them every bit as much as they liked him – so it was really no surprise that the son of his favorite sister and his favorite cousin adored him.  (At least, Curufinwë flattered himself he was Ingo’s favorite cousin.)

He couldn’t hope for a better foster father, really, given that Celeborn was out of the question. What’s more, the announcement that Ingo would adopt the boy had been met with rapture. Although his residency was still numbered in weeks, the littlest prince of Nargothrond was already a firm favorite with his people.

Ingo caught sight of Curufinwë and waved him in – or tried to, but found Gildor now had firm control of the hand that wasn’t holding him.

Maybe he should start hoping Ingo would be able to manage anything like parental sternness – by the looks of it, little Gildor was well on the way to having his foster father wrapped firmly around his little finger. Easygoing as Uncle Ara had been, he had still known how to put his foot down when the occasion called for it, even when it came to his beloved daughter. In fact, particularly when it came to his beloved daughter. (Uncle Nolo had been the polar opposite. The idea of Gildor getting away with as much as Irissë had was more than a little terrifying.)

“Curvo, just the person I was hoping to see.”

“Oh?” Curufinwë asked. “What mad scheme do you have in mind now?”

Ingo grinned.  As boys back home, all manner of mischief on their part had started with either those very words or something remarkably close.

“I have been thinking,” Ingo began, one finger caught in Gildor’s mouth as the baby gummed it gleefully. “Celeborn tells me that it is usual for adoptive fathers to give their sons the ionessë they would give their own children. But most adoptive fathers are already married.”

Curufinwë nodded, and tried to distract Gildor from Ingo’s fingers with a small jewel on a brightly colored string – though not so small as to be a choking hazard. As he’d expected, the boy cooed with interest and dropped what he’d been holding, allowing a grateful Ingo to extract his now slobber-coated finger and wipe it on a cloth at hand for just for that purpose.

“I hope, of course, that Amarië waits for me yet, and I wish to give her no cause to reproach me…”

Ingo’s distress at the rumors that were already making the rounds at Mithrim had been no less for Curufinwë’s warning to expect them. His sole consolation was that there was no way his beloved could possibly hear of them. If not even the echo of your lamentation reached Aman, ridiculous gossip certainly didn’t.

“Ingo, set your heart at ease,” Curufinwë told his cousin. “Any and all in Nargothrond will happily tell her of your sister’s foundling, and how noble it was of you to adopt the boy when she was so anxious about him.”

Assuming, of course, that she truly waited for him – they had all been promised tears unnumbered, even the sons and daughter of Arafinwë. If Artë hadn’t been spared, Curufinwë doubted Ingo would be either. But he wasn’t about to let Ingo hear such depressing thoughts. He was the natural optimist among Finwë’s grandchildren. If Ingo gave up hope, the rest of them might as well try to swim home.

“Yes, I know, but I cannot consult with her what ionessë Gildor should have,” Ingo said helplessly. “She should have some say, do you not think?”

Curufinwë stifled a groan.

The patronymic and matronymic of a child were normally decided on by the parents together, for each of them might have several names to choose from, and their own preferred name might not flow well with the names given to their child. (His own mother had vetoed Curufinwion for her sons once Maitimo’s father-name had been given, and thank the Valar for it, else he himself would have been Curufinwë Curufinwion. His father had been a man of many talents, but no one had ever claimed naming sons had been one of them.)

“Were you both on the same side of the Sea, it would be quite natural,” Curufinwë agreed easily. “But I do not see how you can possibly ask her under the circumstances. And should you confess to having some way of communicating with our loved ones in Aman that you have not shared until now, I imagine everyone will be remarkably cross with you, myself not the least.”

Gildor, not to be distracted by all this talking, made a grab at the gem, and gave his true father a remarkably good miniature version of Artanis’ glare when it was pulled just out of his reach.

“Yes, well, I thought perhaps I might give him an ionessë based on one of the names the Sindar here in Nargothrond call me.”

Curufinwë considered this a moment.

“You mean rather than Finderation or Ingoldion or Artafindion? It seems to me you already have names enough to choose from. Please say you don’t intend to go with Finrodion!”

The last one might sound acceptable to Sindarin ears, but not to Noldorin ones.

 “It really doesn’t sound so terrible as to warrant that face!” Ingo laughed. “But no, I was not thinking Finrodion. I had in mind a name which is actually quite close to what you and the rest of my close kin call me, which is why I am drawn to it. And I thought it better suited, for it not only rolls off the tongue more smoothly, I rather like the meaning and think it would do well for a child. Not just for Gildor, but should Amarië and I ever be blessed with other children…”

It took no genius to recognize that it being impossible to ask Amarië what she thought of the name, Ingo was trying to consult someone whose opinion he respected, who might moreover have some idea of what his beloved would say to it.

“That being?” Curufinwë prompted.

“Inglor,” he replied. “That would make the little one Gildor Inglorion. It is a good name, do you not think?”

Curufinwë considered it for a moment.

Inglor would mean something like goldenheart in Sindarin, if he understood it correctly, and the gold referenced the rare quality of the heart in question. Yes, that would do. With such a name, it would be utterly impossible that even the most suspicious Sinda would ever connect the boy with the cursed House of Fëanor, much less with the Fëanorion known to all to be most like his father. Now that the kinslaying was known, most of the Sindar thought his father little better than Morgoth.

Equally importantly, he suspected that Amarië would be thrilled to give her children such a lovely name, even before the full meaning of the Sindarin was explained to her.

“Yes, Ingo, I think it is a very good name. Amarië will surely approve,” Curufinwë told him. Turning his attention to the baby, he added, “Gildor Inglorion you shall be, little one.”

Ingo’s reproachful look lacked any true anger at Curufinwë usurping his privilege as father to be the first to tell the child his full name, not that Curufinwë would have cared in the least if it had. He would miss so much about his son’s life that he wanted to have this if nothing else.

“And no, Gildor, you may not have the pretty gem to chew on,” he continued. “I mean to set it in a circlet for you to wear when you are old enough for such things.”

Ingo groaned, and while part of it was surely theatrics, there was a core of genuine emotion in it.

“Curvo! I may realize that’s an honor for the boy, but it is likely to be many years before he sees it as such – and if he has absorbed any of Artë’s attitudes, you are condemning me to a good many treasure hunts for the wretched thing!”

Curufinwë smirked.

Artanis and Irissë had been notorious for hiding their circlets as children, and Ambarussa had been perfectly happy to join in the game given the opportunity. He was fairly sure at least one of Irissë’s was still stuck in her grandmother’s prize rosebushes – at least, he knew for a fact that it had been when they left Tirion. As far as he was aware, Artanis had eventually retrieved all the ones she had hidden. But she had also been the most creative by far with her hiding places.

“Think what fun you’ll have, Ingo! It will be just like old times, scrambling madly around the palace trying to work out where the little imps stashed them this time.”

After the first few dozen times, their fathers had assigned retrieval of the missing accessories to him, Ingo, and Turvo as the ones most likely to worm clues out of the culprits and left it at that until the youngest four outgrew that particular maddening habit. (At which point they developed other maddening habits.)

“Yes, because that was such fun then,” Ingo snorted. “I can just imagine how well it will go here. If he takes to hiding the dratted thing down some of the lower corridors, we may never find it at all! But why a red gem? Shouldn’t it be green for my house? Red was your father’s color.”

Curufinwë shrugged.

“I am trying to make your predicted treasure hunts a bit less likely,” he said, the story coming to him easily enough. “I’ve used a different stone every time I needed to catch his attention. He liked the red one best. There will be time enough for his proper colors when he’s old enough not to try to outdo Artë and the twins.”

“Let’s hope you won’t prove to be as contrary as your Ammë,” Ingo told Gildor fondly, nuzzling his tummy and drawing a delighted gurgle from the baby. “Though I will not complain if you are also as kind-hearted as she is, little Gilya.”

“Perhaps I should make one sized for an adult now as well,” Curufinwë mused. “It is not as if I can be certain of being around by the time he will need it.”

“You are always so cheerful,” Ingo sighed, looking reproachfully at him.

“Kindly remember you’re the optimist here,” Curufinwë shrugged.

There was only so far he could coddle Ingo, and what he’d said was simple truth. He estimated it at even odds whether he would be alive by the time his son was of age.

Ingo sighed. Then his expression changed, appearing rather torn, and slightly nervous.

“If you truly fear you will not be around to make him one when he is grown... I am sure it will mean much to him to wear his uncle’s work rather than that of some other craftsman who is nothing in particular to us. I would certainly prefer it.”

It was plain that Ingo did not want to ask too closely – while the Arafinwions were more given to foresight than their Fëanorion cousins, it could not be completely ruled out in any of Finwë’s grandchildren.

Almost no one spoke of it, but Curufinwë suspected that none of them were particularly keen to discover what form their own personal doom would take, much less the doom of well-loved kin whose ends they might yet witness. Artanis had as good as admitted she tried not to see such things.

“I will make both now,” Curufinwë assured him. “I can use my best guess at the proper size for the adult version. You can always have someone else adjust it later should it prove necessary. I’ll use a design that lends itself easily to such adjustments. It’s not as if it’s a particularly difficult procedure, any competent smith should be able to manage it.”

Though hopefully it would not be necessary – he planned to use his own head to size the adult circlet. His head and his father’s were within half a finger width of each other in size, as were all his brothers’ save Tyelko, who despite giving the impression of being larger than any of them save Maitimo actually had a smaller, more delicate shape to his skull. (The thickness of said skull was anything but delicate, which was fortunate, given how many accidents he’d had over the years.)

“I suppose you need something to keep you busy over the winter,” Ingo sighed. “I knew the maps wouldn’t occupy you very long.”

“Neither will a pair of circlets,” Curufinwë snorted. “I imagine you’ll end up with some new pieces, and Artanis as well. I should probably make something for Celeborn as a belated wedding gift. But never fear, I’ll be out of your hair before Ango arrives in the spring.”

Ingo sighed again.

“It won’t kill him to be civil to you or your brothers. In fact, it would be good practice. I’m sure we’ll all gather again at some point.”

“Oh?” Curufinwë asked, raising a single dubious eyebrow. “When do you suppose that will be? Not that it matters. By the time the weather is good enough for Ango to travel, Tyelko will be fuming at how long my ‘short’ visit to Mithrim has stretched. I wouldn’t dare linger once the passes are free of snow even if I were on better terms with your brother.”

“Did you have any idea how exactly you mean to make your way back?” Ingo asked, pushing a map across his desk, and rescuing a second from the baby’s attempt to claim it. “No, Gildor, maps are not for chewing on, and particularly not that one.”