Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

Breaking Point

Ingo made a very creditable apology to Merilin over breakfast the next morning, offering to let her go north to Tol Sirion to retrieve Resto herself.  Finduilas looked nervous at that, but Merilin played her part well, demurring on the grounds that Gil-galad couldn’t be left with no parent present and her husband was as stubborn as any other prince of the Noldor.

Curufinwë managed not to spoil the effect by laughing, but only barely. Tyelko excused himself suspiciously quickly, probably so he could go laugh elsewhere. Huan stayed put, and what’s more, kept the kids in the room by the simple expedient of deciding that Findë’s lap was an excellent pillow. With his head resting on her legs, she was stuck, and Gildor wasn’t about to abandon her.

That meant all three older kids had little choice but to listen attentively as Ingo laid out his new plan for royal responsibilities in Nargothrond – and the royal privileges that would be curtailed if those responsibilities weren’t carried out conscientiously. (Without requiring parental or avuncular prompting, Tyelperinquar. And without switching with your cousin – either of them – without informing anyone, Gildor and Finduilas.) Better yet, all three managed to actually put it into practice, needing no reminders over the course of the next week.

With their leaders setting the example, Nargothrond discovered it was somehow possible for life to go on despite the devastation in the North. Regular dispatches began arriving from Sirion. Resto was doing that much right, at least. Communication with Mithrim remained tenuous – the messengers picking their way through the mountains had to go carefully, and it was safest if they came through Dor-Lomin and followed the Narog rather than take a more direct route using the north-south road.

Ingo kept all but the trained scouts and fighters inside, which provoked some quiet grumbling, but not very much. Curufinwë got the impression most people were sensible enough to want to stay inside while the situation was still so unstable. Happily, any who didn’t were sensible enough to know malcontent wouldn’t get far with the united front the princes were presenting.

No large hosts came sweeping down onto them, but where it once had been unusual to see more than the odd small scouting party that had picked their way down the coast, orc bands began to be spotted more and more regularly from Nargothrond’s network of concealed watch-posts. The scouts were keeping sharp, determined to spot any incursions well before they came near the fortress. The warriors were equally determined, and there were few among them now who had no scores to settle with the enemy’s creatures.

The healers of Nargothrond were equally busy, doing their utmost for those who had been injured, whether by the flames or in battle. They fought as doggedly as the warriors, counting each life saved and each recovery as a small victory. None were more determined than the handful of healers who had survived the fall of Dorthonion – every last one of whom had scars to show for it.

As the days slipped by, somehow the atmosphere calmed and this all became normal.

Curufinwë had known on some level that it would – life went on, and they weren’t under siege yet. But it still surprised him to discover it was possible to enjoy quiet afternoons around the fire on a rest day in Ingo’s rooms or his own, or even that his chats with Merilin of an evening might continue.

He asked her, one of those evenings, if she had given any more thought to taking her young son to Círdan’s havens.

“The situation is no longer so desperate,” she replied thoughtfully, her gaze more on the fire than on him.

“No, but we would be fools to wait until an army is bearing down on us to send the children to safety. Círdan has a retreat open to him that we do not – one can’t take to the sea from here.”

“You won’t convince Gildor or Finduilas to abandon Nargothrond now,” Merilin sighed. “And I suspect your son is firm enough friends with both not to want to leave them, if you were thinking on sending him away.”

He was, as it happened, but Curufinwë could see the sense in her words.

Gildor and Finduilas had been a set from the moment they first laid eyes on each other. They had grown up together as siblings. Since arriving from Aglon, Tyelpë and Gildor had grown as close as Curufinwë could have hoped given that he couldn’t tell them all.  Finduilas had a soft spot for Tyelpë and could coax him into just about anything she took it into her head he ought to do.

Thankfully, her notions were mainly sensible, such as wearing appropriate clothing befitting a prince when dining at the high table, or remembering to not work all through the night without sleeping. Unfortunately, Tyelpë was equally amenable to the few notions that weren’t so sensible, such as doing his hair in Sindarin fashion for midsummer.

Yes, the three of them had to go as a group or not at all.

“Perhaps not the older children, but the little boy ought to be as safe as we can make him.”

Merilin thought on that for several minutes before replying.

“You said once before ‘if the news from the North is not good’. I say it now. If Orodreth is wounded or…” Curufinwë was unsuprised she did not wish to voice the thought that was at the back of all their minds. “That is to say, if it does not go well, then I will take Gil-Galad to the Falas myself. But so long as Tol Sirion holds, I would prefer to wait for my husband. I fear if I leave, our separation could too easily become permanent.”

Curufinwë did not ask if that was mere fear, or foresight. These days it might be either.

“I do not wish to meddle in your marriage, only to keep the children safe,” he assured her. “All of them.”

“I know. But we have come to a point where all choices may go ill. If you believe I hesitate when the time has come to act swiftly, tell me so plainly. Otherwise, I will keep my son and await my mate here.”

“You should stay with the boy in any case,” Curufinwë said quietly. “He is far too young to be on his own.”

“I am a child of the forest, not the Falas,” Merilin said sadly. “But I will go if there is no other way. Do you press your cousin similarly?”

“I hope Finrod will be sensible if the time comes when it is no longer possible to hold out here,” Curufinwë replied. “Rest assured that if I need to press him I can be a good deal blunter.”

In truth, he expected Ingo would not make any difficulties.

Among the conversations they’d had during the long evenings drinking and talking in Ingo’s study had been a rather remarkable one in which Ingo finally told him the whole story of how he’d founded his kingdom.

They’d been several glasses in before Ingo brought it up.

“I haven’t told anyone about this, not even Artë,” he mused. “It was after the Feast of Reuniting, when Minas Tirith was not entirely complete, but close enough. Turvo had come to visit, and we went riding down Sirion. It was safe enough back then, and we kept close to the river.”

Hearing him speak so, Curufinwë could understand why Artanis had been overly confident of her own safety when she left Mithrim. Others had gone on similar wanderings with no ill effect.

“We didn’t go all the way down to the Sea, but we did make it to the Aelin-uial. We found the nicest little glade, as beautiful as anywhere we’d seen even back home. It had a little spring gushing up and trickling down to join the river, and it was just gone summer so everything was green as could be. It was so beautiful we thought we’d stay a day or two. You know one can’t really talk much with brothers underfoot!”

“I’d have thought you two would have been more worried about sisters underfoot,” Curufinwë snorted.

“Artanis was already in Doriath,” Ingo chuckled, “not entirely to her displeasure, and Irissë wasn’t allowed beyond Mithrim. Uncle feared she’d go haring off and that would be the last anyone saw of her.”

Curufinwë had his own thoughts on where Irissë would have gone if she’d had free rein at that point. He wasn’t entirely sure Ingo knew what the girls had gotten up to at the Feast of Reuniting, or with whom. Nor was he about to ask – not least because then Ingo might press him on how he knew about it. Artanis would not thank him for revealing any confidences shared over that year of seclusion.

But he was aware Irissë wouldn’t have minded a jaunt in the general direction of Doriath.  Whether that would have resulted in her married sooner or not was an open question. (Whether it would have been Eöl she’d have married at that point was another.)

“At any rate, we spent a merry afternoon eating, drinking, and talking over what we thought of Beleriand, our plans for the future…”

“And the trials and tribulations of keeping your little sisters from doing anything overly foolish?” Curufinwë suggested.

“Turvo did have a complaint or two on that score. Uncle was still hoping I might find a way to have Irissë invited to Doriath, seeing as Uncle Elu and Aunt Melian looking after Artanis was working so well.”

“Yes, that would have gone wonderfully. I’m sure those occasional meet-ups with Pityo would have remained occasional and peaceful. Though I suppose aside from Irissë’s fondness for my little brother there wouldn’t have been much chance of her scandalizing the Sindar.”

Ingo laughed.

“I hadn’t thought of that. At any rate, we talked into the night, until we fell asleep. So far as I know, Turvo slept soundly. But I had dream, in which Ulmo warned me of evil days ahead. Not so immediate that there was no time to prepare for them, you understand. But coming to us eventually, do what we would. I woke with the firm idea that I must make ready for that time, and build a secret stronghold, where we would be safe.”

“Did Turvo get a similar message?”

“If he did, he said nothing of it to me. Though, to be fair, I also said nothing of my dream to him. I suppose if he was given a similar message, it might explain his disappearance. Though I would think he might have let us know in a general way where he is!”

“Turvo is less trusting than you, Ingo. He was always more cautious to begin with, and since Elenwë’s death, he confides in only a chosen few.”

“Not even his own father? Uncle doesn’t know where he is any more than the rest of us do. If he did, he’d have demanded Irissë’s return.”

“Bit late for that now,” Curufinwë snorted. “She’s married and someone else’s problem. Though they disappeared from Nan Elmoth some years ago. I got a confused tale from my guard about them returning to Turvo’s city.”

“Really? I can’t see why she would,” Ingo said in bemusement. “The times I saw her in Doriath, she was adamant she wouldn’t be cooped up again.”

“Couldn’t say,” Curufinwë shrugged. “I didn’t actually see her or her husband. I was on the way back from Helevorn, Tyelpë had been visiting Moryo. Tyelko was off on one of his hunting trips. So I’ve only what the guards said, which didn’t make much sense, then or now. But there must be something to it, Merilin says Doriath hasn’t heard a peep from either of them since.”

In truth, he was rather put out about having missed a chance to see Irissë and meet her son. He knew of the boy’s existence, but no more. Even his name hadn’t filtered through to Aglon, so little contact did they have with Nan Elmoth. He’d only heard the boys names here.

“At any rate,” Ingo continued, “I sounded out Uncle Elu, on the theory he’d know any likely spots, and he told me of these caves. I set out almost at once, and started laying my plans as soon as I saw they were exactly what I needed.”

“Your secret stronghold is a bit less secret than Turvo’s, if that is in fact what he’s done.”

Ingo shrugged.

“I trust to Ulmo’s protection,” he said. “If he didn’t mean to help us, he wouldn’t have bothered sending the dream in the first place. And I believe he meant me to protect all that I could.”

“Does Ulmo also mean to warn you when it’s time to go?” Curufinwë asked, contemplating the wine in his glass.

It really was a fine vintage. A shame there would be no more. Now that everyone was keeping to the stronghold, there was no tending the vines or harvesting grapes – the vineyards were scattered around further away from the stronghold, so that they couldn’t be used to locate it.  They’d been left to grow wild this season, and unless the situation improved that would not change.

“I believe he does,” Ingo replied slowly. “A sense has been coming on me that it is not time to go just yet, but it will be soon. I hope we’ll be given some clear sign when it is time.”

The pensive look on his face hinted that there was more he wasn’t sharing, but Curufinwë knew better than to push.

“Mind you heed that sign when it comes, then,” Curufinwë advised.

“I will miss this place when I have to leave it,” Ingo admitted with a sigh. “But I’m not so enamored with my own work that I’d risk my people’s safety. I’ve commissioned some of our artists to make a series of drawings of the halls and some of the finer works of art in them. I’ll be able to take that much with me, at least.”

---

Several days after his conversation with Merilin, Curufinwë found himself in Ingo’s sitting room at the end of the day.

It had been a fairly good one as their days went now – no disasters, and the children all had minor achievements to report. (Gilya: wrote a whole page in his book on his own with no mistakes; Tyelpë: a breakthrough in his efforts to refine the Sindarin method for making swords that warned when orcs were near so that they’d give warning even sooner; Gildor: mediated an ongoing dispute in the healing hall; Findë: led the small expedition to harvest the herbs urgently needed by the healers.)

Messengers had arrived that afternoon from both Tol Sirion and Mithrim. Granted, the messenger from Mithrim had reached the fortress only because the messenger coming down from Tol Sirion had chanced on her wandering around in confusion without any escort.

The poor woman had been in such a state of exhaustion that Ingo had relived her of her packet and had her carried directly to the healing hall. She’d lost consciousness on the way. Findë brought news that she was dehydrated and severely exhausted, but the healers expected she would recover.

They were settled in for another cosy evening when Ingo finally reached for the message packets.

“The news from Tol Sirion is good – Resto is holding the pass in good order,” Ingo announced cheerfully. “There’s a letter here marked private for Merilin – Findë, if your mother doesn’t come back to sit with us, can you pass it to her?”

“Mmm,” was the only response that got.

With little Gil off to bed, the older kids had broken out a game, a complicated affair of strategy and bluff that they’d tried valiantly but failed to pull Tyelko into, on the excuse it would be more fun with four than three. (Tyelko had declined to play, but he was giving advice to all sides impartially and enjoying the resulting chaos.) They were wholly absorbed in that and not paying attention to much beyond ‘news is good’.

“Odd, I could have sworn the messenger said the main letter was from the High King,” Ingo remarked with a frown as he opened the Mithrim packet. “But it uses Finno’s locks.”

The kids didn’t even look up from their game.

“Perhaps you misunderstood and there’s another from Uncle somewhere else in the packet,” Curufinwë shrugged, reaching for the rest to see if any of his Mithrim contacts had written. “Or perhaps Finno was his scribe.”

It had been known to happen from time to time, when the most sensitive information had to be put to paper, if there was no better way.

“What does Uncle have to say?” Curufinwë asked idly.

“It is not from Uncle,” Ingo said quietly.

“But-” Tyelko’s protest died instantly, and at his stab of fear, Curufinwë looked up to find Ingo had lost all color. Whatever news the letter contained was evidently dire.

Gildor leapt up from the game table in alarm.

“Uncle Nolo is dead. This letter was written and signed by High King Findekáno in his own hand.”

Ingo’s words fell like boulders into the sudden silence.

“He can’t be,” Finduilas burst out after a minute, looking around at the rest of them. “They retreated safely to Mithrim! He was alive, all the reports said so!”

Gildor had gone nearly as pale as Ingo, but quieted her with a hand on her arm.

“But he can’t be,” she protested again, this time ending in a bewildered whisper. “He just can’t be.”

She was the only one saying it aloud, but they were all thinking it. What under the stars could have befallen Uncle in Mithrim?

“Finno writes that he and his scouts were overwhelmed and driven down from the mountain passes,” Ingo told them. “He broke his leg badly in the retreat, his horse threw him – though that may have saved his life. The guards who were riding to either side of him were killed by arrows. When they reached Hithlum, more bad news came in hard on their heels from their Mannish allies. Uncle saw Finno settled with his leg set, then went to the stables and rode out without another word to anyone.”

“Where?” Tyelko demanded.

“To Angband,” Ingo said, in a tone that did not quite believe what he was reading. “Finno was confined to his bed and unconscious. Uncle was in such a fury that no one else dared stay him. Some who saw him riding from afar thought Oromë himself had come to challenge Morgoth.”

“What did for him?” Curufinwë asked, his mouth gone dry. What madness was this?

“Morgoth himself,” Ingo replied. “He made it all the way to the gate of Angband, where he called Morgoth to come forth. Morgoth came.”

Ingo held the letter out as though he expected they would not believe him.

Curufinwë wasn’t sure afterward how he had managed to take it, but clearly Ingo needed someone else to read it to confirm. He wanted to be told it was all some ridiculous misunderstanding, that he had misread.

Curufinwë scanned the lines – and the splatters that indicated Finno had been far from calm while writing – almost as uncomprehending as his best friend.

“The Eagles brought word he wounded Morgoth seven times. Well, I suppose that’s something… wait, they took his body to Turvo – what cack-headed avian logic is that? Finno gets stuck with the crown and all the responsibilities but Turvo gets to hold the funeral and mourn ostentatiously in his hiding place? Though I suppose that means Turvo’s still alive, so there is that at least.”

“Finno’s all alone,” Ingo said quietly.

“Rubbish,” Curufinwë shot back immediately, misliking where this was going. “He’s got all of Hithlum with him.”

Ingo could not be permitted to set foot outside his kingdom under the present circumstances. The danger was too great. Lose him and what remained of their western front would collapse. Artaresto had neither the gumption nor the backbone to hold it. It was something of a miracle he was still holding out at Tol Sirion.

“But not any of his family,” Tyelko said quietly. “Ingo’s right, Finno’s alone.”

“I thought he still had one of Aunt Anairë’s nephews in his household?”

“Assuming he didn’t get killed in the same action that broke Finno’s leg, I suppose,” Ingo answered, though it sounded more question than statement. “But that’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“I could go,” Gildor began only to have all three adults round on him with an instant and emphatic ‘NO!’

The boy was taken aback at how adamant everyone was. By the looks of it, they’d startled Tyelpë and Findë as well – and the latter was edging toward tears. But with the last of the elder generation fallen, sending the children north was not something anyone cared to contemplate.

“Will Maitimo…” Ingo trailed off.

“His letter to Moryo indicated in the private cipher that the east-west road was too dangerous to risk messengers on,” Curufinwë said grimly. “So who knows when the news will reach him? We may have to be the ones to break it to him.”

Curufinwë ignored his brother’s muttered, “not bloody likely.”

“They are calling Ard-galen Anfauglith now,” he continued. “Anything living moving in that burnt wasteland can be spotted from leagues away, so it isn’t any safer to attempt the northern route.”

“But-”

“Maitimo might be desperate enough to try once he hears, but Kano has too much sense to allow him to take suicidal risks,” Tyelko cut in firmly. “He won’t be allowed to go, even if he would be the best support for Finno. As he can’t, I suppose I’d better.”

At the fresh chorus of protest from all sides, Tyelko sighed theatrically.

“Do I really have to repeat the explanation of how I’m the most expendable one here yet again? It’s getting very tiresome.  And you’re old enough you shouldn’t need to hear it, Ingo. I understand you’ve had a shock, but be sensible. You need to set the kids a good example.”

“We can’t afford to lose anyone right now,” Ingo said sharply.

“I’m willing to travel by whatever route you two think safest. You’re the strategists. But someone has to make sure Finno doesn’t break down as Uncle did, and I’m the best suited for it. He’ll probably take it better from an older cousin than a younger one.”

Ingo clearly wanted to argue, but Tyelko did every once in a while prove himself sensible, and this was one of the rare occasions. A pretty pass they’d come to when Tyelko was the voice of reason.

“He’d also be able to bring back any messages too sensitive to trust even to ciphers,” Curufinwë added.

“Or fresh ciphers,” Gildor put in. “If there’s a new High King, should he not use new ciphers?”

“I doubt the Enemy stopped to pick Uncle Nolo’s pockets to see what ciphers he was using,” Finduilas sniffed disdainfully.

She hadn’t seen the letter, so didn’t know what an impossibility picking his pockets would have been. Curufinwë decided it might be best that the children be spared the details. Or at least spared so long as they contrive to keep it from them. They’d hear it sooner or later, but later would almost certainly be better.

“If he was in such a fury that he rode like an arrow to Morgoth’s gates, I doubt he was carrying any letters with him,” Tyelpë put in. “Switching ciphers would still be sensible, though. To us, at least. I’ve no idea how he’d get new ciphers to Himring or Amon Ereb.”

“Through us,” Tyelko said firmly. “It may take longer, but it will be safest.”

“You’re never riding all the way to Himring!” Finduilas protested. “You’re the one who keeps telling us how dangerous it is!”

“Sorry, kiddo, but if it’s necessary…”

“You’re necessary here,” Gildor said, evidently having decided flattery was the way to go.

Leave it, Curufinwë ordered his brother. They’ve had more than enough for one night.

Arguing with the boy wasn’t going to achieve anything. Besides, Ingo was too quiet. He might well be in shock. And understandably so – with Uncle dead, it was now all on Ingo, Finno, and Maitimo.

It had been all well and good to grumble about Uncle’s strategy when Uncle had been around to keep them in line. But now that he wasn’t…

The words of the Doom flitted through his head.

He batted them away. They still had choices. This was his – to stick with his cousin and best friend.