Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

See How They Grow

Between everyone trying to catch up with Finno, Curufinwë’s brothers catching up with Artë and Aiko – Pityo in particular was keen to spend time with Artanis, something that was equal parts relief and concern for everyone other than the pair of them – and the need to keep an eye on Tyelko, Curufinwë had to wait until the next morning to find Ingo in the hopes of a private chat and tour.

He and Moryo had spent the rest of the evening making sure Tyelko wasn’t about to do anything that would embarrass Ingo or result in Maitimo deciding none of them could be trusted to visit their cousins anymore. (There was considerable, but not complete overlap between the two categories. Curufinwë had caught Ingo trying not to laugh on several occasions, and more to the point doing nothing whatsoever to help.)

Tyelko was inordinately pleased with himself, all the more so after he managed to evade his brothers and wrangle a seat next to Nimloth at dinner. Oropher had contented himself with a single mild glare, but the other Iathrin princes shot baleful glances at them all through dinner.

The unlikely pair mostly kept to polite conversation – though Curufinwë had been exasperated to note that Nimloth was as likely to introduce the less discreet topics as his brother was. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was in on his brother’s apparent mission to wind everyone up. Either way, he suspected he wasn’t the only one itching to have words with his kinsperson by the end of dinner.

Happily, despite flirting outrageously, Tyelko had just enough sense to carry it no further, and spent the night in his own room - alone. Curufinwë and Moryo made sure of it. It would have been bloody helpful if Kano had been able to come. Curufinwë didn’t fully trust that Tyelko would heed them the way he would his elder brothers.

As much as he’d indulged, it was a safe bet that Tyelko would sleep in. Pityo had been tasked with making sure he didn’t cause any diplomatic incidents before lunch.

In practice, that meant Artanis would also be on the case. No one seriously expected that Pityo alone would be sufficient. With only half of the Fearsome Foursome present, one of them now married with a reputation to think of, the idea that Artë and Pityo would cause chaos or uproar of their own was less a concern than it would have been back home. (Curufinwë did spare a moment to think of the reactions of his elders to the idea that Artë was suddenly the voice of mature reason.)

That left Curufinwë free to slip over to Ingo’s apartments, take breakfast in peace, and point out that he hadn’t seen Ingo’s halls in their full splendor yet.

He was dismayed to discover someone less encumbered by idiot brothers than he was had already beaten him to Ingo’s rooms.

“Curvo!” Ingo beamed. “What good fortune, I thought you were eating with your brothers and didn’t want to disturb you. Have a seat, and be known to my cousin Eöl. The two of you should get along splendidly, both being such talented smiths.”

Curufinwë would have been more irritated with Ingo had Eöl not looked as taken aback as he felt to be sharing a table.

“Cousin?” he asked, aiming a raised eyebrow at Ingo.

“The son of Thingol’s sister. Unfortunately, we were not in time to meet our great-aunt.”

Ingo’s smile dimmed a bit, and Curufinwë hoped dearly that Eöl would not take it as an insult that his parentage had not been known, much less that his mother was among the lost. Then again, Ingo did generally manage to get away with saying such things…

“My apologies, Prince Eöl,” he said with a slight bow before taking the seat Ingo had waved him toward.

“Your apologies are unnecessary,” Eöl replied brusquely. “I can hardly fault you not knowing what you have not been told. And as you will not have been told this either, I am no prince.”

“But surely if you are King Elwë’s nephew…”

“I am happy to leave the titles – and the cumbersome responsibilities that go with them – to my cousins. I mind our eastern borders, which  is more than enough. And from what Finrod tells us, I think we are less formal than your people in any case. Most of you, that is.”

“Tyelko is… unique,” Ingo offered wryly.

That was one way of putting it. Curufinwë didn’t dare ask if the expression on his face meant Eöl had actually found Tyelko’s antics the previous evening amusing. He doubted it.

“You needn’t worry so about your brother,” Eöl snorted. “Nimloth is unlikely to egg him on beyond what she already has, no matter how funny she found it to shock the rest of us.”

“Is this her first time outside the Girdle?” Ingo asked, doctoring a slice of bread with a generous amount of jam.

“Hardly,” Eöl replied – slightly patronizingly, Curufinwë thought. “She’s been to Mithrim before, and the Falas. But it is her first time meeting your cousins. And I hear she’s been irritated by Oropher’s attitude of late.”

His tone suggested to Curufinwë that Eöl had heard it directly from the source.

Eöl rose.

“As to cousins – I greatly doubt it was my company your cousin was seeking here at this hour of the morning. I bid you good day, Finrod. No, don’t bother. With so many kin visiting, it will be difficult enough to make time for us all without any of us getting difficult about it. I’ll find the workshops well enough on my own. Or I can always ask that charming boy of yours. Uncle wouldn’t mind a visit from him, you know.”

Curufinwë kept his face neutral, but he’d be making sure that didn’t happen. He’d enlist Artanis to quash the notion if need be.

“I hope he won’t be offended to hear there’s a considerable queue forming for that privilege,” Ingo sighed. “I’ve heard the same from every other relative present. And from my uncle the High King, delivered via his son.”

Eöl laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You should have thought on that before you invited everyone!”

“Probably should have drawn up a timetable,” Curufinwë added.

The man might not like him, but it wouldn’t hurt to attempt to break the ice.

“Ah, this one would be the clever cousin,” Eöl chuckled.

“Not necessarily clever, just a bit more experienced at fatherhood,” Curufinwë demurred.

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch which one of the young fry was yours,” Eöl said apologetically.

“My son begged to be excused the trip – he’s in the midst of a project. It’s to be devoutly hoped my steward is succeeding prying him out of the workshop for regular meals.”

“A lad after my own heart,” Eöl chuckled. “Curufin, was it?”

Curufinwë nodded, keeping his face pleasant.

“I’m sure we’ll speak again. Until later, gentlemen.”

“That went rather well,” Ingo said once the door had closed behind Eöl. “Perhaps if I throw the two of you together a bit more in short doses…”

“We’ll both grow to enjoy taking our medicine?” Curufinwë asked sardonically, reaching for the fruit basket.

“He’s lord of Nan Elmoth,” Ingo replied. “It couldn’t hurt if you were at least on polite terms.”

“I don’t suppose you thought to warn them we’d be here?”

“I did, as a matter of fact. They chose to come, despite the risk of having to deal with… what’s that charming word they have?”

“Kinslayers? Curufinwë asked acidly. “I’ve heard it quite a bit, thank you.”

“No,” Ingo said impatiently. “Ship-thieves, I think it is.”

“Still accurate and only marginally less inflammatory. I salute them.”

“Shame you couldn’t convince Tylpë to come. Eöl’s a bit standoffish with you, but I suspect he’d like him. He’s good with young folk, you know. His apprentices all adore him.”

“I’m just as happy not to expose my son to Sindarin attitudes about us.”

“Try to look at it from a diplomatic point of view,” Ingo sighed. “Tylpë wasn’t involved in any kinslaying, and while he may have sailed, he was a child at the time – unlike the rest of us, the Sindar hold him blameless. Eöl might have been amenable to taking him as an apprentice for a time.”

Curufinwë bit back a sharp comment about the likelihood of such diplomacy succeeding. No need to give offense, even if he thought Ingo was almost dangerously naïve about how deeply Sindarin anger at the kinslaying ran – and possibly more naïve still about Noldorin anger at the Ban. He spent too much time cocooned in his own kingdom.

But Ingo was partially right. It was a shame Tyelpë hadn’t come. If this Eöl was a competent craftsman, the boy might well have learned something just in speaking with him…

“Done is done,” he shrugged. “He’s old enough now that I don’t want to order him about unless it’s truly necessary. He needs to learn to manage his time himself. Such a missed opportunity might make him think harder next time there’s such a gathering. Though I note you didn’t warn us to expect Thingol’s folk.”

“Did I need to?” Ingo asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “You knew we were celebrating for both Gildor and Findë. Did you really suppose her mother’s kin would stay away?”

“I supposed they would send their regrets when they heard we were expected,” Curufinwë snorted. “They won’t so much as give us the time of day when we pass by their northern borders.”

“Maybe if Thingol were here himself, but he’s not,” Ingo shrugged.

It sounded as if there was a silent ‘thankfully’ on that.

“I take it you’re still not welcome in Menegroth?”

“Oh, I probably am, but I’ve been quite busy,” Ingo grinned. “Far too much to do without throwing in any travel. And as she’s been there some years, Artanis is unlikely to be in any great hurry to return. I’ve a notion she may attach herself to the group going up to Mithrim after this.”

Curufinwë wasn’t so sure it would be Mithrim, but he agreed she would not be scurrying right back to Menegroth. If she did go up to Mithrim, she’d probably find an excuse to either visit her brothers in the north or come back to Ingo’s kingdom again after that. Possibly even both.

“I’m surprised she wasn’t here before me,” he observed.

“She and Pityo have plans of their own today,” Ingo laughed. “Which is just as well – they’d be bored to sobs with as thorough a tour of the place as I expect you want. Artë has already seen it all, and Pityo would prefer to be outdoors. Eat up! Once you’re done, we’ll get going. Maybe we can wind up in the workshops while Eöl’s still there. Wouldn’t hurt to dangle the notion of your son needing a change of scenery and a mentor who hasn’t known him all his life…”

“All right, all right, I yield,” Curufinwë sighed. “If only because I know Maitimo would agree were he here to listen in. But the diplomacy is on you. I suspect Eöl will like me better the less I have to say.”

Ingo was a cheerful a host as ever, despite the fact that he was hosting what just might be the most fraught family gathering since the one immediately after Father had pulled a sword on Uncle Nolo. Even the bust-ups in Mithrim had the underlying assumption that no one would kill anyone. (If only because they trusted someone else would prevent it.) With the Sindar, Curufinwë felt like that wasn’t necessarily the case.

More annoyingly, he seemed to have assembled a talented kitchen staff of both Noldor and Sindar who had put together a breakfast spread Curufinwë was going to miss when he returned to his own stronghold. Maybe if Ingo put in a good word he could tempt a Sindarin baker north?

Ingo had the decency to keep the talk inconsequential until they finished eating – well, until Curufinwë finished eating, really. Ingo was merely picking at a sweet pastry out of politeness. He’d already eaten with Eöl.

Curufinwë could practically feel Ingo itching to talk politics, and deliberately took his time finishing. It was nice to pretend, just for a little while, that they were something like a normal family again.

He was surprised to get a reprieve in the form of Finno.

“Ah! Good, I caught you before the pair of you could sneak off!”

“Sneak?” Curufinwë asked indignantly.

“I don’t sneak,” Ingo informed him with a lazy wave.

“Everyone knows that,” Curufinwë added dryly.

“And even if I did,” Ingo continued, “this is my stronghold. No need to sneak. I can go where I like, when I like.”

Finno rolled his eyes at the pair of them.

“So if I’d been a bit later, the two of you wouldn’t be hiding out somewhere enthusing about architecture, your latest projects, or some mad scheme?”

He seated himself as Curufinwë glared.

He’s trying to get a rise, don’t fall for it, Ingo warned, once again affecting great interest in the pastries.

“I’m mostly here for the festivities, of course,” Finno told them. “But as I’ve managed to catch you both privately – Father would like an update on the situation here and in Himlad.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking Tyelko?” Curufinwë asked. “He’s the elder.”

“Yes, I’m sure I’ll get a sensible readout of both the military and the political situation from Tyelko,” Finno snorted, helping himself to bread and jam without waiting for Ingo to offer. “Assuming, of course, he’ll deign to take time out from needling Ingo’s other cousins with his antics.”

He paused.

“He will stay on the right side of scandal, won’t he?”

“No promises,” Curufinwë muttered. “Actually it might help if you-”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” Finno laughed. “I’m younger than he is, he’s not about to listen to anything I have to say about his private pursuits.”

“You’re the Crown Prince!” Curufinwë snapped. “Stop being so bloody useless.”

“As if titles are going to make any difference to your brother!” Finno laughed.

“I have the oddest feeling Maitimo will be reading your letters before mine,” Curufinwë shot back.

“You could at least try to help,” Ingo pointed out, before any real quarrel could develop. “I think it’s been a combined effort so far.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Finno shrugged. “But while I appreciate your confidence, I doubt I can stop him doing anything he decides he really wants to do.”

---

It was nearly lunchtime before they were able to shake Finno off. He might chalk it up to Uncle Nolo wanting to a report, but it was clear that despite his pose of casual indifference, Finno himself was just as keen to hear what was passing in Himlad and Nargothrond. Curufinwë would believe some of the questions were straight from Uncle, and a few sounded more like Maitimo, but the bulk were clearly Finno’s own.

By the end, Curufinwë was downright surly and even Ingo’s cheerfulness was turning brittle.

“His bloody highness the Crown Prince,” Curufinwë muttered as Finno finally left them to themselves.

“You’d be just as persistent if Maitimo had told you to find out everything,” Ingo pointed out with a sigh.

“You didn’t enjoy that any more than I did,” Curufinwë grumbled.

“No, but needling him about it didn’t make it go any faster, did it?”

Curufinwë hated it when Ingo got so logical.

“Besides, having tolerated him so long, he more or less has to stay out of our hair – or mine, at least, as host – for the rest of the day,” Ingo concluded. “Which gives us plenty of time for a proper tour, and maybe even some time in my workshop.”

“Optimist,” Curufinwë snorted, but without any real bite.

He knew as well as Ingo did that with the formal dinner that evening, the odds of them getting anything like uninterrupted time grew slimmer with every passing minute.

He hadn’t, however, reckoned with Ingo having designed his workshop with the need for privacy in mind. First one had to know where the workshop was. Then one had to actually get inside – no easy matter if Ingo closed the very solidly built door and didn’t want to hear you knocking.

Consequently, they did actually manage a few hours of quiet conversation after the very comprehensive tour – and Curufinwë had a suspicion it was no accident Ingo managed to run into so very many kin on both sides during the tour. Having had a few minutes of his time, they were in no position to demand more when he was so clearly busy...

But neither Artanis nor Pityo were daunted by the workshop door, and Artë clearly knew all too well where to find her brother.

We’re not going away until you open the door, she informed them loudly.

Curufinwë was at the door before Ingo could protest.

“You know as well as I do she means it, and with two of them, she can cover whatever non-obvious alternate exit you thought she didn’t know about,” he pointed out.

“Come on, you two. You can lock yourselves away again after most of the guests have gone,” Artanis informed them.

“We’re not wrangling Tyelko at dinner,” Pityo added flatly. “All morning and most of the afternoon was more than enough.”

“He has firm plans to dance with Nimloth,” Artë added.

“Joy,” Curufinwë muttered. “Is there really no other woman in this blasted kingdom who can distract him?”

“He doesn’t want to be distracted, he’s enjoying upsetting the Sindar far too much,” Ingo snorted. “Come on, we’d better both get changed for dinner.”

“I might be able to get away with what I’m wearing now,” Curufinwë said, more to get a rise out of Ingo than anything else.

“Not if you want to convince Tyelko to behave,” Pityo sniffed. “And I think a screaming match between her uncles might ruin the party for young Finduilas.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tyelko won’t scream,” Artë sniffed. “As much fun as he’s having winding them up, he’ll sit there and smirk while Oropher loses his temper.”

“We’re going, we’re going!” Curufinwë sighed.

By the time they made it to dinner, his patience was wearing thin.

Tyelko’s behavior might not be scandalous according to Sindar norms, but it didn't need to be when he was. By Noldorin lights, if he wasn’t making Nimloth an offer of marriage, his conduct was nothing but scandal. (If he actually proposed, Curufinwë wasn’t sure who would try to kill him first, Moryo or Oropher, but it would definitely be the end of him.)

“Cheer up, Curvo, anyone would think you weren’t having a good time!” Tyelko grinned as they took their places at table. Nimloth slid into the seat to Tyelko’s right.

Curufinwë fought the urge to clout his brother. It was rare for him and Moryo to be of the same mind on anything, but he shot a slightly desperate glance at the more sensible of his older brothers present.

Unfortunately, Moryo looked to be about the same blend of exasperated and tempted to smack Tyelko. Seated as he was at the far end of the table, there was no hope of either of them banging any sense into the one most likely to get them all in trouble. Maitimo was going to be furious.

Ingo sized up the situation at a glance.

“I’m going to invoke Grandmother’s rule about no quarreling at table,” Ingo sighed.

“At that rate, some of us will never eat,” Moryo snorted, pinning his older brother with a filthy glare.

“You’re not going to feed me?” Tyelko protested, all wounded innocence.

“You, possibly not,” Ingo laughed. “But never fear, Huan will have his fill.”

All eyes turned to the ‘children’s table’ where Huan was being fussed over by Gildor, Finduilas, and their set. With dinner only just starting, and restricted largely to family and close friends, none of them saw the need to be formal just yet. The public ceremony later would be a different matter.

Both Gildor and Finduilas were dressed in Arafinwean colors, though Finduilas’s outfit had more Sindarin accents. Gildor on the other hand looked the very picture of a prince of the Noldor.

Huan was happily sitting between the two at the center of the table, probably the only creature in Nargothrond who could have managed it.

“He may be tempted to stay,” Curufinwë suggested.

Tyelko’s mock outrage faded into something slightly more genuine.

“Stop trying to give my dog away!”

“If you’re going to let Huan go with someone else, I volunteer,” Nimloth offered with a smile, laying a hand on Tyelko’s. “He’s such a sweetheart.”

The motion of her hand, tone of her voice, and look that went with it suggested she wasn’t actually talking or thinking about Huan. It would have been a scandal in Tirion.

Her diversion might have prevented any further protests on Tyelko’s part, but it looked to be inspiring them from the Sindarin contigent. Oropher was turning an interesting color. (Though Curufinwë noted Eöl appeared to be trying not to laugh.)

Tyelko grinned, and Curufinwë knew whatever he said next was going to make things worse. Fortunately, he didn’t get the chance.

“Her uncle will no more welcome your dog within the borders of Doriath than he would you,” Pityo snorted, breaking the tension. “Besides, Findellë and Gilya would claim first dibs.”

Curufinwë privately resolved that if they made it through the rest of the evening without anyone but him and Moryo wanting to strangle Tyelko, Pityo could have whatever he wanted as a reward.

Fortunately, Artanis scented danger.

“Will there be an engagement announced this evening, Merilin?” she asked lightly.

Curufinwë breathed a sigh of relief as the conversation moved on to center on Finduilas, and her suitor, the son of some retainer of Ingo’s. It sounded as though Merilin might have preferred a Sindarin lad, but she wasn’t going to argue with her daughter’s preference. Whether the engagement was formal yet or not, it sounded as if it were settled as far as the young couple were concerned.

Conversation moved on, and despite some mild flirting, Tyelko managed not to start further trouble until the meal was winding down and discussion turned to plans for the two newly-minted adults’ future plans. Curufinwë had been foolish enough to let his guard down and was talking with Artanis and Eöl when he realized that things in Tyelko’s vicinity seemed a bit frosty.

Oropher struck back, pressing Ingo to let Gildor go to Menegroth with them when they return, Artë informed him silently.

Curufinwë hadn’t the faintest idea how his brother had concluded that would not be a welcome move, but he must have. If it weren’t for his ongoing flirtation with Nimloth, he would have said something far more disdainful about Thingol’s kingdom by now…

“Goodness, the pair of you are arguing as if it’s up to us to decide,” Ingo cut in smoothly. “They’re adults now, that’s the entire point of the evening! It will be up to them – and they have a good many options.”

He waved the two young people in question over.

“Gilya, there’s been many invitations issued to you, and a few to Findë also – now that you’re of age, quite a few people would like you to come visit. It seems half your gathered relatives are eager to hear when they can expect you...”

Curufinwë managed to keep his face calm, but he dearly wanted to demand just what under the stars Ingo was thinking.

Fortunately, most of the rest of the table, Tyelko included, had seized the opportunity to talk up the virtues of their invitation, and both his son and young Finduilas were delightedly listening. The ensuing babble gave him time to calm down.

Once he did, he listened and watched.

Finduilas was more excited at the prospect of Menegroth, producing some rather smug looks from Oropher and Celeborn. Artanis was putting on a good show of amusement, but Curufinwë doubted she was any better pleased at the prospect of Gildor anywhere near Thingol and Melian than he was.

“Don’t get too excited just yet, Gilya. Uncle Elu may well carry the honors with Findë,” Artanis broke in. “But I suspect Uncle Nolo will insist you come to him first – he’s not seen you yet. And you are a prince of the Noldor, my no longer so little love…”

Gildor looked at Finduilas, and Curufinwë was certain there was a silent conversation going on.

Findë sighed slightly, then brightened.

“That’s fine,” she announced. “We’ll go to Mithrim first. We can decide where to go next when we’re tired of being there!”

The uproar was instant, with everyone but Finno, Artë, and Ingo expressing some combination of disappointment, protest, outrage, or all of the above. Even Nimloth was pouting – though Curufinwë noted she was also gauging the effect of her pout on Tyelko. He and Moryo were going to need to make sure Tyelko ended up in his own room again tonight.

Gildor let it go for a few seconds before he laughed.

“Cheer up, uncles, we’re only going to Mithrim, not to the front lines! And it’s not as if we won’t write. Now come, if you keep up this fuss, we’ll be late for the dancing in the Great Hall!”