Dancing In The Dark by Grundy

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The Harsh Light of Day

Right, all, this is the chapter I've had in mind since the very beginning when I said I would post warnings on chapters as appropriate.

WARNING: non-con/rape

I cannot be any blunter than that, so if you don't read that sort of thing, you should either skip this chapter entirely, or skip the first section (search for "Curufinwë to take you to the start of the rest of the chapter.) 

If anyone's still keeping track of taboo squares, this one hits 'incest', and probably 'violate Laws & Customs' as well. 

Also, I am thoroughly relieved to have this chapter done, as I've been avoiding writing the first section since September.

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Galadriel snuggled happily into her husband. Would that this were real, rather than just a dream – her honesty had cleared the air between them, and they were closer than ever, no matter the distance between their physical bodies.

“I wish we could freeze this moment,” she whispered. “Just live in it forever.”

“Just you and I among the trees?” Celeborn asked, his amused voice reaching her ears more through his chest than from his mouth.

“Mmm,” she agreed, liking the notion more as she thought about it. “Just us. Not our peoples or our families complicating everything.”

He laughed.

“Beloved, you would be bored silly in a month at most if we were the only two people in the world.”

“I would not,” she protested. “There would be no Morgoth either. We would be free to wander where we would.”

“Very well, in that case I give it a year,” Celeborn chuckled, tightening his embrace as she swatted at him in mock irritation. “You, my lady of light, would not know what to do with so little society as just me. You are too fond of having people around. And we would both of us miss our kin, bothersome as they may be at times.”

She huffed in irritation, but Celeborn knew perfectly well how to distract her, kissing just the right spot on her neck to render her boneless.

“My love,” he said tentatively, “in this hypothetical world, where it would be just you and I, without meddling relatives or the threat in the North, would there be a chance of bringing a child of our own into the world? Not necessarily now, but soon?”

After her honesty earlier, he did not attempt to hide from her how greatly he wished they might bring a child into the world without too great a gap between him or her and Orodreth and Merelin’s daughter. Kin was very important to the Sindar – not that it was unimportant to the Amanyar, but he felt her people did not fully value what they had. Their families were immune from loss in a way his people have never been.

His voice was so wistful that she couldn’t help but wrap him in her love, and voice the reassurance he needed that were it not for that threat, she would surely be less reluctant to beget children soon, if perhaps still somewhat less eager for parenthood than he seemed to be.

“By the lights of my people,” she told him, “it is more usual to wait some years before begetting the first child – to be sure that the bond between the parents is strong, and their union solid, before bringing a child into it.”

She could feel Celeborn turning that notion over in his mind, the idea that a couple might take their time as new to him as the idea of begetting children immediately had been to her.

“Then,” he said seriously, his forehead touching hers, “I will not press you further on the subject. In the meantime, as living in this moment forever is sadly impractical, I suppose we shall just have to defeat Belegurth and his foul beasts. For I very much desire to meet a son or daughter of ours, and you will never feel safe enough to bring a child into the light while the Dark One holds sway in the north.”

He said it so matter of factly, so straightforwardly, that it sounded reasonable in a way her half-uncle’s promises never had. Galadriel had never loved her husband more than she did in that moment, for making her believe it was truly possible. Something fluttered in her chest, and she wondered if this was what hope felt like.

She kissed him and smirked at his response.

“Though we beget no children, it cannot hurt to practice the motions,” he murmured playfully.

They were wrapped together, Celeborn deep within her, when she felt something change.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but everything suddenly felt wrong, from Celeborn’s touch to the cool night air. Even the trees surrounding them no longer seemed friendly.

“Celeborn. Celeborn, stop,” she said urgently, putting a hand on to his chest, surprised that he could not feel it also. Normally he was far more attuned to their surroundings than she was. “Something is not right.”

For the first time ever, he did not heed her words. He continued as though he had not heard her at all.

“Celeborn, stop!”

It was no longer a request, but an order – one that was ignored.

“No, Artanis, I do not intend to stop,” he snarled harshly.

For a moment she was shocked beyond words or action. Then she attempted to push him off of her– and failed. It had never occurred to her to think of the differences between them before, but her husband was taller and broader than she was, and the difference in their body masses was nearly all muscle on his part.  Not that that should matter in a dream, she thought irritably.

His thrusts were stronger now, rough to the point of painful.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded in shocked incomprehension, hurt more by his indifference than anything else.

That was when she saw it – the malicious gleam in his eye, a flash of red. And she realized that he had called her Artanis. Celeborn had not used her father-name when it was just the two of them since the day after they’d met, when he’d confessed to her the name he had given her in his mind when first he’d seen her. Since then, the only time she has heard him say Artanis was if he spoke to her kin.

“Who or what are you?” she demanded angrily, renewing her efforts to free herself, but also slamming up every mental defense she’d ever been taught, whether in Aman or Doriath.

“Don’t you know me, Princess?” the thing wearing her husband’s form taunted. There was more than just a gleam of red in his eyes now. “I certainly know you – your pride, your arrogance. So sure of yourself you never once considered how vulnerable you are – and how much more vulnerable you could be.”

He finished with a grunt, and an expression of smug satisfaction she was tempted to claw right off his face, if she could but bring herself to do harm to something that looked so like her beloved.

Just do it, Galadriel! she commanded herself. That is not Celeborn! You know it is not!

Her opponent laughed at her hesitation, and then his expression turned to triumph, as she felt something spark within her that horrified her beyond words.

It is only a dream!

“Congratulations on achieving motherhood, Artanis Nerwen,” ‘Celeborn’ sneered. “I suspect your wood elf may be somewhat less than pleased. I’m sure he thought your first child would be his. Nevertheless, I’m confident this child will be a credit to his father. Admirable, one might even say.  I shall watch your offspring with interest.”

The mocking word was enough to give her the clue.

“Get out of my dreams, Gorthaur,” she snarled. “You may think you know me, but you know very little if you think to intimidate me thus. It takes more than an unpleasant dream to frighten a grandchild of Finwë and Olwë.”

He laughed, and the sound was as terrible as anything she’d ever heard.

“Brave words, little girl. What do you think your grandfathers will say when they hear of your shame? Or your parents? Just imagine the look on your poor Atto’s face when he finds out…”

Wake up, Galadriel! WAKE UP!

“Yes, Arafinwiel, do. After all, this is but an unpleasant dream, everything will surely be better when you wake!”

His triumphant smile lingered before her eyes as she dragged herself out of the dream by sheer force of will.

---

Curufinwë had been waiting nervously for Artanis to awaken for some time already when she abruptly bolted upright.

She looked horror struck, and her chest was heaving as if she had just been running – or fighting. Neither boded well.

“Artë?” he asked cautiously.

Her hand went at once to her lower abdomen – and to his own horror, he realized at once why.

No, he told himself. No. It could not be.

Begetting a child took intention on the part of the parents. It was never an accident. Most especially not when one was in such a drunken stupor as to be unknowingly rutting with one’s married younger cousin!

She looked at him, her horror only growing.

“Curvo!” she wailed.

“I swear I did not intend it,” he began, only to stop short at the wholly unexpected relief in her eyes.

“It is yours?” she demanded, sounding much as though she wanted that to be the case.

At his shame-faced nod, her shoulders sagged and some of the tension left her frame.

“Oh, thank Eru,” she whispered. “Nienna, lady of mercy, thank you.”

Curufinwë paused, rather confused himself.

While on the one hand, this was going much better than he had expected – astonishingly, all his body parts were still intact and Artanis showed no signs of planning to alter that arrangement – he was rather stunned that her finding out he had gotten a child on her was somehow a cause for thanks.

“Whose did you suppose it was?” he asked in befuddlement.

There were only the two of them there, after all, so it should have been an obvious conclusion…

She shuddered.

“Gorthaur’s,” she replied quietly.

He recognized the name – it was what the Sindar called the maia who had once been known as Mairon, a follower of Aulë. Corrupted by Morgoth into something nearly as terrible as himself, the Noldor now called him Sauron, though aside from Nelyo they had little direct knowledge of him.

The Sindar were not nearly so fortunate.

He wasn’t sure how she had come to such a conclusion – though that she seemed to think it reasonable put the events of the previous few hours in a very different light.

To evil end shall all things turn… I thank you most humbly, my lord Namo, for this lesson. You might have left Artanis out of it, however!

“In that case, I can see where the child being mine would be a relief,” he said weakly.

That was as far as he got before she leaped out of the tent to retch, then burst into tears – probably a sign that now that bearing the spawn of Sauron had been ruled out, the impossible position she still found herself was beginning to sink in.

He was her first cousin, and they were both married to other people.

Curufinwë could think of no explanation of their current situation adequate for either their people or her husband’s. Certainly not for their family. And likely not for her husband either. Silmë at least was on the far side of Alatairë, and the prospect that he might ever face her to confess his sin so faint as to be laughable – not that the conversation would be any less painful should the chance ever arise to have it.

He could not imagine that his amazing wife would not be horrified by the idea of him begetting a child with any other nis, let alone with his youngest cousin. Nor was it as if Silmë did not already have more than enough reason to appeal to the Valar to release her from their bond, assuming such a thing was even possible.

You have ever said she is as a sister to you!

He gulped, feeling a bit nauseous himself, and tried to bear in mind that this was still better than expected. Artanis was not calling down curses on him, or fleeing, or threatening violence. She was just… falling apart.

That was terrifying – not only was his youngest cousin normally steady and unflappable, usually new parents would at this time be ecstatically welcoming their newly begotten child’s fëa in an atmosphere of love, joy, anticipation, and wonder.

Besides his concern for his cousin, there was also another he had to worry about now, one who was a complete innocent in every sense of the word. What a child so young would understand of the emotional storm its parents were experiencing, he had no idea – but he couldn’t imagine it would be comfortable for the little one, or healthy.

He reached for Artanis tentatively, uncertain of her reaction, but hoping his touch might still be a comfort and not a fresh source of horror or disgust to her.

She wilted into him when he put his arm around her, sobbing in a mixture of Quenya, Telerin, and Sindarin that wasn’t particularly intelligible – but then, it didn’t need to be. He knew fairly well what she was feeling, aside from the part where it was not him that would be required to shelter and nourish the child in his own hröa over the next year.

He drew her back into the tent and wrapped her in her blanket, cradling her in his lap as he had done when she was but a child herself, rocking her as though she were young again. He stroked her hair with one hand, while the other went to her belly, trying to reach and reassure the now frightened child that all was well with its mother.

It was a boy, he noted, and was not sure if he was more relieved to find the child apparently healthy and normal despite the circumstances of his begetting, or disappointed not to have a daughter.

Ammë will be fine, my son, she is but surprised, for you are a blessing unlooked for.

“Can hear you,” Artë mumbled through her sobs.

“Can you?” he asked softly, electing not to point out to her that while the first and third word had been Quenya, the middle one had been Telerin. (Though he did not think she’d meant to mix her languages, it was still appropriate, for the word in question referred to osanwë rather than spoken words.)

“Good, then tell your son yourself that you are well. He’s rather distressed.”

He was immensely relieved that she was able to calm herself sufficiently to reach out to the child with a tremulous welcome of her own, even if he privately suspected she would go back to weeping again at the first chance.

Between the two of them putting forth the effort to project the emotions new parents should have felt at such a moment, they managed to lull the child into the dreamy state in which the unborn spent most of their time for the first six months of their lives, more sleeping than waking as their hroä formed and knit itself to their fëa.

Only then could he turn his full attention back to Artanis.

There were still tears in her eyes, and they were certainly not tears of joy.

“What now?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“First, perhaps you might explain how in Arda you concluded you were carrying Sauron’s offspring,” he suggested.

He knew perfectly well what he had dreamed, but he wanted to know what exactly had happened from her view.

She swallowed hard, but managed to recount in a low voice what she had experienced – thankfully, without going into overly much detail about the physical aspects of it. It was a relief to know that she had believed herself with her husband just as he had thought he was with Silmë.

He sighed when she reached the part about the betrayal, and ‘Celeborn’s’ eyes turning red and malicious. He understood now why Sauron was so abhorred by the Sindar if he could so easily delve into Artanis’ mind to turn her deepest fears into weapons to wield against her.

But there had been more than just passing malice in this, he suspected. The dream itself would have been bad enough, but by tricking the pair of them into begetting a child, the one who had once been called Mairon likely hoped to bring about still more strife, both among the Noldor as well as between the Noldor and the Sindar.

Treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason…

It could not be allowed to happen. That much Curufinwë knew. Much more was at stake here than merely Artanis’ reputation. (His own reputation was already of so little worth on both sides of the Sea that he discounted it entirely. All personal damage worth speaking of would be to her.)

“You are certain the child is yours?” she asked, for the second time.

“Absolutely,” Curufinwë replied drily. “Having done something similar before, I do recall what begetting a child feels like, even when a malicious maia is twisting both my dreams and my hroä against me.”

She nodded, still looking less than certain.

He hissed in exasperation.

“Artanis, you inherited more from Indis than any other of her grandchildren. You do not need to ask me whose child it is – you should know better than I!”

She laid a cautious hand on her belly, almost as if it were a foreign body, before concentrating. He was relieved to see something more sure finally come into her expression.

“Yours.”

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled.

The glare that came his way did more than anything else to assure him that she was beginning to feel like herself for the first time that day.

“And now?” she asked nervously.

“We bathe, and eat,” he said simply. “Then sleep. True sleep, not whatever that was we experienced last night. And we take it in turns from now on. If Sauron’s influence could reach this far, his creatures could as well. We were thoughtless fools, and should count ourselves lucky the consequences were no worse.”

He was unsurprised that she looked daggers at him.

“No worse?” she demanded. “You speak as though this were no great matter!”

He sighed.

“It is true that it is not nothing. But a child is hardly in the same class as being dragged bodily to Angband or cut to pieces by orcs.”

His oldest brother was testament to that, but he wasn’t about to bring that up to Artanis as shaken as she already was. It would help her not at all to know that no matter how confident or strong he might appear by day, there were still nights Nelyo awoke screaming. And Curufinwë has observed his brother closely enough to fear that those may not be the worst of his terrors.

“It may yet be the ruin of us both,” she pointed out. “Yet you say ‘bathe, and eat’ as though nothing has happened!”

“What do you expect me to say?” he asked with a shrug. “Running wildly about will help nothing. We are not yet ruined – or at least, you are not ruined, and I am no more ruined now than I was this time yesterday. I may be able to think our way out of this, but I won’t be much good hungover, exhausted, and inches away from shock. The fright you’ve just had puts you no better off. And no matter how little you may like it, you in particular need to eat and rest.”

For a split second, he was intensely glad it was only Artanis there, because if Irissë had been anywhere near, there would most certainly have been violence. But it was no longer just about her, and much as he might otherwise indulge her, he would not allow her to lose sight of what was needful for their child.

Though it would probably help if at some point he were able to stop wincing every time he thought of it as their child.