Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

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This Hard Land

I'd say this chapter hits Curses, Consequences, and Murder on the bingo board. (Or is murder reserved for non-Kinslaying killing?)

 

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Journeying with Artanis turned out to be surprisingly restful. Unlike Tyelko, his usual travelling companion, Artë could simply amble along quietly or carry on a conversation when they both were in a mood to talk- and she would not push him to talk if he was in no such mood. She had no desire to go barreling off chasing game or speaking to every animal that crossed her path.

He also noted that she had picked up enough experience of Beleriand in her time with the Sindar that her claim that she could look after herself was no idle boast. Indeed, she was probably safer on her own than Findekano, from what Curufinwë had seen. He had only needed once to be told verbally to stop talking when she’d gone suddenly quiet and listened intently, relaxing only once whatever subtle sign he’d missed had either stopped or revealed itself as something harmless.

Most of the time when she struck that pose, it turned out to be harmless. The fifth time, though, it had not been – they had stumbled onto a small band of orcs, and were it not for Artë’s silent warning, he would have blundered right into them.  As it was, they had been able to take the foul creatures unaware and eliminate them before there was any real danger.

Despite that, Curufinwë still felt certain his baby cousin should not be left alone. The Artanis he knew would not have wept silently in the night when she thought he was asleep.

Rather than make for the southeast track that would take them through the mountains and lead them to the north-south road by Tol Sirion, she steered them toward the pass due south of the lake. It would mean travelling in the mountains longer – and a higher risk of encountering the orcs she claimed were no trouble every step of the way – but it would bring them out either by Taeglin or Narog, shortening the remaining journey.

Or so Artë said, at any rate. For all Curufinwë knew, she was taking a circuitous route to throw off any pursuit their uncle might send after her. Or maybe just to see if he’d notice…

“I am not taking you out of the way merely to see if you can remember the route,” she said at last. “Or guess at our destination.”

Blast. He’d forgotten that she had been fairly talented with osanwë to begin with, and been tutored by a maia for the past few decades.

“Oh? There is some reason to your path?”

“I would rather travel directly to the Narog and avoid the crossings of Taeglin – Thingol’s sentries still keep watch there though Brethil itself is outside the Girdle,” she sniffed. “I do not feel my comings and goings are any of his concern at present.”

For the first time, he caught a hint of the fury still raging beneath her apparent cool. Not so resigned to her mistreatment, then – and unlike Irissë who generally wore her heart on her sleeve, Arafinwë’s little girl had always been at her most dangerous when she seemed calm. If you’d crossed Artanis, you were safer if she was raging at you, because that meant she wasn’t channeling her anger into planning your humiliation, comeuppance, or complete destruction.

Morgoth definitely fell into the last category. Thingol had best hope he was still deemed a lesser vexation. Even his wife might not be enough to save him.

“It bothers me not in the least,” Curufinwë shrugged. “Will we pass by Ivrin?”

“We could come down through that vale if you wish it,” she said after a moment. “I had thought to skirt the foothills through Nuath until we reached the source of the Ginglith, but we could just as easily come out of the mountains there and follow the Narog down from its source…”

She paused, and he guessed from the similarity of her expression to one he’d often seen on Finderato that she was mentally calculating possible routes, and choosing the one that seemed best.

“I have fond memories of the family reunion,” he confessed. “Such good memories are rare in these lands.”

She laughed softly, though there was little merriment in it.

“True enough. Very well, we make for Eithel Ivrin.”

It was several days more before he judged it safe to attempt to get her talking about what was bothering her.

“Tell me of Menegroth,” he suggested casually late one afternoon.

They had been speaking of the various elven strongholds, both those already completed and those under construction, and once again playing the guessing game so popular among what remained of their family, “where is Turukano hiding?”

She quieted at once.

“It is a wonder,” she said soberly. “One can hardly believe that it was made by elves and dwarves rather than the Valar and ainur, for it is a living forest of stone and rock, and filled with light even without the sun or moon. It is easy enough to understand why it captured Ingo’s imagination to the point that he decided he too must have the dwarrows’ aid in building his stronghold. It is also the safest place I know in these lands – Melian protects all Doriath, but her protections are strongest there, and none may enter save by her leave.”

“What said Thingol’s queen to Alqualondë?” he asked shrewdly.

The Grey King could make all the fuss he liked, but if his wife was not angry in a like degree, Artanis would soon be forgiven. And surely the maia must see how pointlessly cruel it was to separate a wedded pair… especially since it was likely that Artanis’ husband was suffering just as badly. Thingol could ignore the distress of one he deemed kinslayer easily enough, but surely his other kinsmen would point out the hypocrisy of ignoring his own nephew’s pain.

“She was disappointed that I did not speak sooner,” Artë replied quietly. “And puzzled that I had held so much back.”

“Why did you?” he asked.

This is the part he had not understood. Artanis had been furious with them for Alqualondë.

She and Tyelkormo had come frighteningly close to killing each other there – though Curufinwë happened to know Artë had been fighting to disarm, to wound rather than to kill before his brother and his retainers had attacked her in earnest. After that, she had quickly proved herself just as deadly as any of them. It had taken him, Nelyo, and Ambarussa working together to disarm her and drag her bodily out of the fray before she could do irreparable injury to any of her cousins – particularly Tyelko, whose temper had not been improved by the loss of two of his most loyal swordsmen.

Nelyo had solved the problem of how to keep her from throwing herself back into the fight by putting her on the nearest ship and commanding the retainers they had hastily dragooned into crewing it to cast off, with Ambarussa under orders to do whatever it took to keep her on the bloody boat. They’d had to knock her down and sit on her. He’d never been so thankful his younger brothers were twins.

Artanis had capped it all off by having a blazing row with Fëanaro once the ships were out to sea that evening. It had been serious enough that Curufinwë was still surprised Fëanaro had not answered with his sword.  He would like to think that his father had realized that such literal kinslaying would be a step too far, but given the High King’s state of mind at the time, he had his doubts that there had been any rational thought involved.

Curufinwë sometimes wondered if his father had been thinking specifically of Artanis when he burned the boats, or if it had genuinely been solely about Nolofinwë. (He would never say so to her, of course.)

Given all that, the idea that Artanis would hold her tongue to protect them – to protect Tyelko – was ludicrous.

She shrugged.

“How was I to explain it? Yes, my cousins murdered my other cousins and robbed my grandfather, but they were not in their right minds because my other grandfather had just been murdered, and anyway we are all friends again now?” she asked. “Or perhaps that I had come to Beleriand ostensibly following the uncle who threatened to throw me overboard for questioning him?”

Curufinwë blinked. That part of the fight he hadn’t heard.

“You can swim,” he murmured, not sure if he’s protesting the faulty logic or trying to apologize half-heartedly and decades late for the threat.

“I believe the plan was to chain my feet first,” Artanis replied gravely. “Or perhaps my overly free Telerin mouth. I’m not quite clear on that point. At any rate, the only rebellion he intended to tolerate was his own.”

No wonder Nelyo had looked so relieved to hand her off to her father when the ships put into shore later that night. She had stomped off with Irissë and to the best of his knowledge, it was the last time either of them had spoken to Tyelko. (Though he supposed Irissë also had grievances of her own to add to the list of his brother’s crimes. Artanis wasn’t the only one they’d left behind, and Irissë had adored Elenwë.)

“Why did you come?” he asked. “It wasn’t because you thought following Father was a good idea.”

She snorted.

“Going back wasn’t really an option. And at the time, I was angry enough that I intended to follow through on beating your brother to death when next I saw him, no matter how many miles of ice I had to cross to do it.”

He’s fairly sure she was serious, and thankful that she and Tyelko had not come face to face before Findarato sent her to Doriath, where she has been ever since.

“It’s as well I did,” she continued thoughtfully. “We all needed something to keep us going on the Ice. If you had no reason to keep going, sooner or later you gave up. Hating Tyelko worked.”

“Do you still intend to kill him?” he asked, trying to work out how worried he should be about a possible meeting of the two.

“Only if he tries to kill me,” she replied. “I have seen enough since to know that his doom will be worse than any punishment I can devise.”

There was neither malice nor anger in her voice as she spoke, and though Curufinwë felt he ought to be offended for Tyelko’s sake, he could hear the ring of truth in her words. And the faint sorrow, for underneath it all, they were still family. Tyelko had taught Artë to shoot a bow and given her her first riding lessons as a small child. He might yet be her heart-sister Irissë’s beloved. Such ties were difficult to sever, try though they all might.

“And my doom?” he asked lightly, knowing that if she had seen the shape of Tyelko’s, she must have a guess at his as well.

The eyes that meet his are mournful.

“Do you suppose we can change the Doom?” she asked.

That she prevaricated was enough to tell him he did not truly wish to know. But at the same time, he has never lied to her before.

“I do not see how,” he told her resignedly. “You may yet be able to beg pardon of the West, but we swore by the One himself, with Manwë and Varda as witnesses.”

“I do not want you to go into the Void,” came the quiet reply, with all the mulishness of a wayward toddler.

“I do not much want to go there myself,” he said. “I suppose that means we shall just have to get the blasted jewels back.”

Artanis looked away and did not answer.

His heart sank. Tears unnumbered was not all they had been promised. Vala he is.

Artë was miserable enough without being reminded that any joy in this hard land could only ever be fleeting, and that in the end, all hope would fail. As, he realized tiredly, was he.

Would that I had not brought my son with me. He should have been left with his mother. Selfish. Selfish and stupid. You knew no good could come of Father’s course, so why did you commit Tyelpë to it?

But it was too late to change that. All he could do was do what small good was in his power. Right now, that meant taking care of his baby cousin, and hoping deep down in his tainted soul that maybe the Doom might miss her.