Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

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Brothers and Sons

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The sun was just kissing the tops of the western peaks when Curufinwë entered the Pass of Aglon and dismissed his guard.

The trip back had been uneventful – relatively speaking, at least. No journey through unknown parts of Beleriand could be honestly said to be entirely uneventful.

There had been some slogging through swamps, and a misunderstanding about where exactly Doriath believed their eastern border to be in the triangle between the rivers Aros and Celon. (Apparently in Thingol’s opinion, the woods were all his, regardless of which side of the river they were on – or which river, for that matter. In the interests of not having to have that particular argument a second time, Nan Elmoth would henceforth be left alone.) But overall it had been markedly less eventful than the trip from Mithrim to Nargothrond, and for that he was sincerely thankful.

Ingo had insisted on sending a detachment of guards with him, not that Curufinwë had argued against it for very long. He would never again make the mistake of thinking that distance from Angband meant safety. Though unable to persuade any of his Sindarin followers to act as guides, Ingo had managed to scare up a handful of Noldor volunteers willing to undertake the journey with him. They had been his companions until they reached the borders of Himlad, at which point they had left him to his own people and turned to follow the Aros back south.

He had offered to put them up for a week or so if they were willing to come all the way north to Aglon, to allow them to rest properly and eat well in return for their troubles. He’d hoped to persuade them to remain long enough for him to copy out fair versions of his charts and notes to send to Ingo. He hadn’t been entirely surprised that they refused, nor was he inclined to take it as a slight or insult as they seemed to fear he might.

He understood their haste to be off again well enough. He knew perfectly well most of the Arafinwions’ followers would rather not encounter Tyelko if they could help it – the full details of the ugly incident with Artë might not be widely known, thank Nienna for small mercies, but how enthusiastic Tyelko had been at Alqualondë certainly was. And even aside from that, he could see plenty of practical reasons they would not wish to delay. The return trip would no doubt go swifter now that they knew a safe path through the fens of Sirion. Barring anything dramatic, they could reasonably expect to be back with their own folk by autumn, well before the weather turned cold.

He’d have to send the maps and notes to Ingo some other way. Via Mithrim, if need be, though he couldn’t see where their uncle would have much use for information on routes between Nargothrond and Fëanorion territory. Maybe it would reassure him all the same. It had to help a little to know his nephews were taking the defense of Beleriand seriously, and working together instead of quarreling among themselves. Didn’t it?

He decided he’d rather not think too hard on the answer to that. But considering what a bind he and Artë had unintentionally put Resto and his Sindarin wife in, Curufinwë was willing to play nice if it helped his cousins arrange matters more to their liking. The maps could go via Mithrim, with a copy for Uncle into the bargain. That might give young Resto the pretext he needed to travel to Nargothrond...

It was as well that the notion of being able to help Resto put him in good frame of mind, because he found his older brother waiting for him at the gates. While Tyelko was somewhat less displeased than he had been the time someone failed to keep a proper eye on Tyelpë at Losgar, he was emphatically not happy.

“Remembered where you’re supposed to be at last, have you?”

The belligerent stance and arms crossed in front of his chest were unnecessary, not when Tyelko’s face made plain that he was furious.

“I hadn’t forgotten,” Curufinwë retorted, trying not to roll his eyes. “I’m glad to see you too, dearest brother.”

“If you didn’t forget, perhaps you could clarify how ‘a month or two, three at most’ turned into ‘a bit over two years’,” Tyelko suggested silkily, his voice reminiscent of Atto at his worst. “And the answer had best not be ‘I was bored and felt like visiting Ingo’!”

The qualifier, on the other hand, was all Ammë. One of these days, Curufinwë would settle to his satisfaction just how it was that the son who looked the least like either of their parents could channel both of them so effectively when he was hacked off. It was remarkably unfair.

“I admit that it did involve visiting Ingo, but-”

“This is not like home,” Tyelko snarled. “For a start, you are a father!”

 

“So is Ingo,” Curufinwë replied mildly, and watched in delight as Tyelko abruptly deflated from ‘spoiling for a fight’ to ‘total confusion’.

“What?” he demanded. “Curvo, if this is one of your ridiculous pranks…”

“It’s not, as it happens. Artë found a child, an infant actually, presumably orphaned, and she fussed so much over not being able to keep him herself that Ingo adopted the boy. You should most definitely congratulate him next time you write.”

His older brother was ordinarily a dilatory correspondent at best, but for a young relative, he’d make an effort.

“Ingo…but he can’t have a child, he isn’t even wed!” Tyelko protested.

Curufinwë couldn’t help the laugh, because that wasn’t either of their parents – that was Indis.

“Oh, your face,” he snickered. “At any rate, I admit I did take longer than I should have, and much longer than I intended. But even before Ingo took up fatherhood, Artanis snuck out of Mithrim alone, and it seemed the better part of wisdom that she should have an older kinsman watching out for her if she was set on wandering around Beleriand. Thingol tossed our cousins from his kingdom without regard for kith or kin, much less newly-wed spouses.”

Tyelko was straight back to spluttering as the import of his words sunk in.

“Artë married?” he demanded in disbelief. “First you tell me Ingo has a son, now you tell me Artë married?”

“Yes, we seem to be a bit behind on the news up here in the North,” Curufinwë shrugged. “Though it looked to me as if it came as a surprise to Uncle as well. She wed Celeborn, who is either a nephew or grandnephew to Thingol. I’m not entirely certain, given how freely the Sindar rearrange their family trees, but I think he’s properly a grandnephew. And as I get to tell our brothers all this as well, your reaction does not bode well for me being believed – stop laughing.”

“Better you than me, little brother,” Tyelko snorted. “But don’t think this talk of Artë’s marriage and Ingo’s boy has completely distracted me. Your son has been worried about you. You didn’t prepare him for such an absence any more than you warned me. That message you sent from Mithrim that ‘it may be a little longer’ gave us no grounds to expect you would be this long.”

His glare was not as fierce, though, and he was still chortling as he threw a companionable arm about his younger brother’s shoulders to steer him toward the fortress – and hopefully a hot bath, a good dinner, and a comfortable bed. After so many weeks travelling, and arguing with another of Thingol’s nephews into the bargain, Curufinwë didn’t even particularly care if the bed was his own or not.

“I didn’t know at the time that it would be,” Curufinwë said patiently. “I sent that message just before sneaking off with Artë. And I should add that went much worse than I expected.”

“Yes, you’ve always been far too fond of her to notice she’s as devious as you are and has no compunction about using you to keep herself out of trouble,” Tyelko said, almost cheerfully. “Though I think it only fair, given it’s pretty much what you used to do to the rest of us! So what has she done this time?”

“Nothing, actually. Mostly just moped until her husband joined us. She was in a fairly bad way at being separated from him.”

“I would expect so, if they were only just married,” Tyelko shrugged. “But you would know better than I would.”

“It didn’t improve my opinion of Thingol any, if that’s what you’re asking,” Curufinwë replied sourly. “Or hers.”

Tyelko’s smile was downright wolfish.

“Excellent, that gives her someone else to be furious at,” he chuckled. “I wish Thingol joy of his new feud. He certainly has a talent for irritating people. And unlike Nelyo, he’s got to let her back into his kingdom sooner or later if she’s married one of his nephews. Perhaps he’ll be willing to make an alliance with us just to restore the peace and get her off his hands.”

“That reminds me,” Curufinwë said, reaching into his pack. “Here, with her compliments.”

He handed Tyelko the bottle reserved for him, which amazingly he’d managed to remember not to drink with Ingo. (Given how many winter nights they’d stayed up plotting and drinking in Ingo’s study – not necessarily in that order – he felt it was something of an accomplishment.)

“A bottle from grandfather’s vinyards?” Tyelko sputtered. “How under the stars did she manage to haul this over the Ice?”

“She didn’t,” Curufinwë said, not entirely keeping the sourness out of his voice. “She appropriated it from me, and said to tell you to enjoy the hangover with her compliments, she’s changed her mind about killing you.”

“Kind of her,” Tyelko chuckled. “I absolutely will. Was this change of heart before or after she got all maternal? Speaking of which, does that mean I can expect another nephew or niece in short order?”

“Before, no, and before you ask what mellowed her, we were drinking the other 2 bottles.”

At that his brother’s chuckle turned into full blown laughter.

“So she knows whereof she speaks when she talks about the hangover? Even better. I’m proud of her! Do you know how much longer she intends to stay with Ingo? I should thank her in person. And unlike some, I won’t be leaving a son here to worry himself sick if I go visiting.”

Curufinwë tried – and failed – to picture the general reaction of Nargothrond to Tyelko showing up.

“Am I going to stop hearing about this anytime soon?” he asked resignedly, knowing perfectly well the answer was ‘no’.

“Oh, maybe in another yen or so,” Tyelko shrugged. “Or whenever Tyelpë gets over it. Whichever takes longer.”

“Tyelpë was not alone, and he’s not a young child anymore-”

“You are a father, your first responsibility is to your son,” Tyelko said sternly. “You said you meant to do a better job than Atar did – staying away for so long with no word is not better. He nearly worried himself sick. He knows perfectly well that terrible things can happen to elves travelling in Beleriand.”

Curufinwë had to both bite his tongue and count ten to prevent him snapping at his older brother that looking after his responsibility was exactly what he’d been doing. Only the thought that Artanis would skin him alive and use him for orc bait if he spilled their secret so quickly – and to the older brother least likely to keep it from anyone who shouldn’t know – kept him silent.

It didn’t help that he would have to find a reasonable sounding explanation for his eldest son that did not include the words ‘you have a brother’. He had somehow managed to avoid dwelling on that up until now. Artanis had her own heartaches at the thought of leaving Gildor with Ingo; his included not only the painful knowledge that he would see his younger son only rarely, but the added pain that his sons would not know each other for years, if ever.

He would miss his son’s childhood, but Tyelpë would miss the joy of having a baby brother, and Gildor would not have his older brother there for him as he should. It was not fair to either of them, and yet what was there to do? Not for all his thinking in Nargothrond had he been able to come up with a good excuse to send Tyelpë to visit, nor was he even sure it was advisable – if the boys were drawn to each other as most siblings would be, it might set more than just Ingo wondering.

Perhaps Tyelko could carry a letter. With his fondness for his younger kin, it was all but certain he’d find an excuse to turn up in Nargothrond before long – and faster still if little Finduilas ended up there as well.

Or maybe…

“Atto!”

Tyelpë was old enough that it surprised his father slightly that he’d still show such boyish enthusiasm, much less use such an informal address where others could hear.  But he was glad of it as his son raced across the hall to give him a heartfelt bear hug.

“I am so glad to see you again at last! I… was starting to think my party would have to be put off, my begetting day is nearly here.”

That wasn’t what the boy had started to say, but Curufinwë knew it would not help to try to tease the initial thought out of him here. Besides, what he’d changed it to was hardly less honest. His firstborn’s begetting day was only slightly more than a month away.

It was a bit challenging to figure Tyelperinquar’s age precisely. Not only was there some debate on how many sun-years a Tree-year had been, there was widespread concern among the Noldor scholars who kept track of such things that the time-keeping during the Dark years had been inaccurate, and that the years 1498, 1499, and 1500 had been reckoned incorrectly, with two of them shorter than they should have been (the last one substantially so, as it had been brought to an early close by the first rising of the sun) and one longer.

Curufinwë had consulted with his elder brothers before his ill-fated trip to Mithrim and decided to celebrate Tyelpë’s coming of age this year. The boy was certainly over one hundred sun-years in age by now. That seemed to be about the time the elves of Beleriand considered a young one an adult, even if it were slightly sooner than the Noldor would have deemed their children adults in Aman.

All his brothers were invited; Pityo would certainly come, as would Kano and Nelyo, and even Moryo would hopefully be permitted a reprieve from his eastern exile. (And perhaps that feud could be laid to rest, since it wasn’t only Artanis who had someone better to be angry at now… He would wager Ango and Aiko’s irritation at Moryo putting his foot in his mouth several years back was the palest of noonday shadows in comparison to Ango’s current thoughts on Thingol.) If Tyelko had not heard anything for certain, it would probably be a good idea to poke Nelyo on the subject now if Moryo was to have any hope of arriving in time.

And if they were all there, he could tell them the joyous news about Artë and Ingo in person…

“Not a chance, Tyelpë,” he reassured his son. “I would not miss my son’s coming of age for the world! I am very sorry that I was kept so much longer than I had intended. Come, let’s find some dinner and I can tell you all about it.”

At least, all that he could safely tell.