Before The Dawn by Grundy

Itarillë’s ladies in waiting were just leaving as Lomion arrived, and she tried not to smirk as she watched him try to navigate his way around and then- when his attempt to avoid them failed- through the brightly colored knot of nissi. More than one of them had been trying to catch the attention of the handsome, talented young prince of Ondolindë for some time. Itarillë had to work not to laugh by the time Lomion was finally able to extricate himself from his admirers, blushing at something Rosalmiel said.

Her cousin could laugh and joke with her easily enough, for she was his best friend and he hers. They were both so delighted with one another – and so happy to have family – that from the moment of their first meeting there was complete ease between them. They might have grown up together, so well did they get on. Time has since filled in many of the blanks a shared childhood would not have left, as they learned each other’s past and likes and dislikes.

But Lomion’s upbringing has left him unprepared when faced with ladies who take a romantic interest in him, and he retreats into his somber clothing and polite, unoffensive quiet as though it were armor. While Itarillë has often told him his insistence on dark hues, usually greens so deep as to be practically black or the very darkest of greys, was not effective camouflage in a city that is all whites and brilliant colors, he had yet to surrender to her prompting.

His preference for dark, subdued colors was partly mourning, she knew. The fate of his parents hung over Lomion like a cloud that refused to lift. But the dark colors was also partly stubbornness, she had come to realize. The more her father molded him into the perfect Noldorin prince, the harder her cousin clung to the few signs that he was not – or at least, not only that. She did not think he did it as a reproof – see, uncle, there is still an untamed Sinda, a son of the moriquendi, here in your city – so much as a refusal to entirely forget his childhood.

That was not so odd in her eyes, for she too treasured those reminders of the time her family had been whole that she still had. At least she had been left one parent. Lomion had lost both in the space of a day, and not even been able to properly mourn the father the rest of the city reviled as a kinslayer.

While Lomion had never contradicted Turukano’s account, Itarillë had been present when he had been told his father had killed his mother. His reaction had been blank incomprehension. ‘Ada would never do such a thing,’ he had said, looking from Irimë, who had broken the news to the pair of them, to Itarillë, as if hoping she might explain it was some odd Noldorin custom to play horrible jokes on newfound relatives.

The dark colors bother Irimë, who has tried quite a few times to get her grandnephew to garb himself in lighter hues. Itarillë’s father has always shrugged and said he saw no harm in Lomion wearing whatever colors he liked best – and once or twice added that he doubted hounding the boy about it would change his mind. He was right, and his aunt should have known it. She was well accustomed to stubbornness, for it ran in the House of Finwë. Itarillë her own share of it - yet another of the many ways they were alike, she and her cousin the Mole.

Itarillë had inherited her mother’s Vanyarin complexion and hair. Her golden hair and blue-grey eyes were a striking contrast to Lomion’s startling Sindarin paleness and eyes nearly as dark as the hair he had from his mother. But in the shape and lines of their faces, their stature, and even the way that they move, they were both clearly grandchildren of Nolofinwë, with such a strong familial resemblance that more than one of her father’s lords has remarked that they almost look brother and sister.

It makes her happy, to have a cousin that might almost be her brother. Not only was it a relief to have one person in the city she can be completely honest with – including her worries and occasional frustrations with her father and her great-aunt, which she cannot confide to Laurefindil the way she can to one of her own generation so much closer to her in age – it was nice to have someone who was not her father or Glorfindel looking out for her.

She has no mind to marry, and always sought to avoid giving rise to any speculation that she might favor any of her father’s subjects. Neri inclined to be overly persistent if it were just her would subside at once if Lomion looked their way. They would not challenge Irissë’s son, who was nearly as tall as his uncle. (And though uninclined to brag as some would have done, Lomion was generally only bested by far older and more experienced neri in the regular competitions between the city’s warriors.) He would notice her discomfort long before her father did, and could deal with it more subtly than if the King had to intervene.

Not that she didn’t also look out for Lomion.

This morning, she could easily read the creases and rumpled clothing that betrayed him – Lomion had cast off his protective apron and gloves to come straight from the forge when he had received her message. She frowned. It was an hour when most in the city would have only just broken their fast, as she and her ladies had.

“Good morning, cousin,” he greeted her, with the half-smile that intrigued so many of the women of Ondolindë and a kiss on her cheek.

“Good morning,” she replied, eying him keenly.

Yes, that hair tie has certainly been in for more than one day, and the midnight blue tunic is the same as the one she’d seen him in at dinner the day before yesterday, which meant he’d not changed since. (Annoyingly, it was also one of his better tunics, not one he should be wearing to work in.)

“Lomion, when did you last eat?” she asked suspiciously.

That he had to stop to think on it was its own answer. He may well not have touched anything since dining with her and her father the other night.

 “What day is it?” he asked, as if it has only just occurred to him that he did not know.

“Eärenya,” she replied in mild exasperation. “You haven’t had breakfast yet.”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t realize it was breakfast time,” he told her, adding somewhat defensively, “I had lunch.”

“Really?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “When?”

“A while ago,” he said, sounding uncertain.

“Meaning yesterday,” she frowned. “Sit down. I’ve told you many times that your projects won’t run away if you take time off to eat and sleep! How long have you been in the forge?”

He shrugged as he obeyed, as she gestured for the server who had come in expecting to clear away to bring some of the food left on the sideboard instead. The man smothered a smile, for this was far from the first time he had witnessed such a scene.

Nor was Lomion the only one present who occasionally had to be dragged away from whatever project had his full attention at the moment. He did the same for her, generally at planting, harvest, and in the run-up to major festivals – the times when she throws herself full-tilt into planning and administration matters. It used to be Irimë who would insist on regular meals and naps, but she had quickly discovered that Lomion was far more effective.

Her cousin sheepishly accepted the plate piled high with food that was handed to him. His thanks to Sarderon was more than mere politeness, for the server had made sure to add what was left of several of Lomion’s particular favorites, and to see that he had fresh fruit.

“Thank you, Sarderon,” Itarillë said. “I think that will be all for now.”

The server gave them a polite bow, though he did not depart until he too had seen that Lomion was eating.

For several minutes, there was silence, for Itarillë wanted to be sure conversation would not distract her cousin from his breakfast – once he left her presence, he would likely not bother with food the rest of the day, and possibly not for several days thereafter. Not unless she sent it, along with someone to make sure he actually ate it. She was already considering who she could prevail on for such an errand. Perhaps Rauco…

“What is it this time?” Itarillë asked at last, after Lomion had wolfed down the spinach quiche and demolished most of an apple tartlet.

“I have an idea for a new helmet design,” he told her between bites. “One that would still protect the face and ears yet allow for better peripheral vision than the current type. I think I can make it lighter, as well.”

Her cousin was capable of making jewelry, plate elegant enough for the king’s table, and engravings so precise and detailed that Quendingoldo and his fellow loremasters would have happily had him do nothing else, but his work usually centered on defense of the city and its warriors. Weapons and armor were never far from his thoughts.

Lomion frowned as he turned his attention to the melon slices.

“But you did not call me here to find out why I stayed in the smithy all night.”

“And the night before as well,” Itarillë said wryly.

Lomion looked faintly puzzled, honestly unaware how much time had passed since he had last seen her.

“As you say,” he shrugged. “I had not noticed.”

Itarillë sighed.

She might have to be reminded to take breaks, but she at least looked out the windows of her study or walked about outside when she was absorbed in her work. She did not routinely fail to notice the lightening and dimming of the sky.

“I know, I know,” Lomion sighed, before she could even say it. “I had the windows put in as you wanted. It’s just that they get dirty quickly in the forge.”

“I’ll arrange to have them cleaned more often so you will be able to see the sun and moon passing by,” she told him, picking at a dainty confection of berries and cream, less because she was hungry than because she didn’t want Lomion to feel awkward eating when she was not. (Also because it was tasty, and he won’t tell anyone she was greedy enough to take a second helping.)

“If it makes you happy,” he told her, though his attitude said she’d be fighting a losing battle on that score. “But what is bothering you that you could not wait until dinner?”

She hesitated. This was the real reason she had sent for him, not to be amused at his inability to deal with increasingly shameless flirting or to chide him about not taking better care of himself.

“I had a troubling dream,” she began, and then hesitated, unsure how to make the unsettling impressions and vague foreboding crystallize into words anyone else would understand. “Do you think we are safe here, in our city?”

Lomion looked startled by the question.

“Of course,” he replied. “It is not your Aman, but we are as secure here as anyone can be in Beleriand.”

“You do not think that Elwë’s halls would be safer?” she asked.

He frowned.

“Perhaps,” he mused, considering the matter. “Menegroth is under the protection of Queen Melian. But she is still not equal in power to the Enemy in the North, and even if she were, we can hardly move there.”

That was not entirely true. He could go to Menegroth – he had told her once in passing that his father was kin to Elwë, who would surely take him in if Turukano would release him from Ondolindë. That, however, was not likely to happen. And even if it did, she could not follow, for of all the Noldor only her father’s cousins, the children of her great-uncle Arafinwë, were permitted within Elwë’s borders.

“But it was not Doriath you wanted to speak of,” he continued, looking expectantly at her. “Will you tell me about this dream?”

She sighed.

“It is difficult to relate. Usually I recall my time in Irmo’s domain with clarity, but it is not so this time. I only know that the sky all around us grew dark and threatening, as though an immense storm were gathering and must strike us soon. And I thought something ominous approached, coming over the mountains. I knew not what, only that it would be the ruin of all we have built.”

Lomion was still for a moment, considering. Though he knew that foresight and warning dreams were not uncommon among their people, he had little experience of it himself.

“It might be a sign,” he said thoughtfully. “But it might just as easily be an uneasy dream, the worries of your waking hours following you into sleep. We know well enough that it grows ever more dangerous outside the Hidden Valley.”

Indeed, the news from the outside world has turned ever grimmer. The eagles do not come often, but they do bring news. The last eagle that came bore not only news of the disastrous Bragollach, but the broken and unrecognizable body of their grandfather.

Itarillë had not been able to connect what had appeared at first sight to be a mass of meat and bone ground together with dirt to the grandfather she loved. Her father had been stunned beyond words, mute in his grief. Irimë had been hysterical, unwilling to believe the burden the eagle bore, which barely  looked like it had once been an elf, could be her older brother. Laurefindil had put aside his own grief to try to calm his mother.

It was Lomion who solemnly bore away what was left of Nolofinwë and set about preparing the corpse for burial, washing and shrouding the grandfather he had never known in life. He had refused to let Itarillë see until he was done, insisting that it would not help her. When she asked him later how he could do it, he had shrugged and replied that it was more fitting that a dead elf be tended by kin, and it was easier for him to do than it would have been for any of them.

It had occurred to her for the first time then to wonder who had buried Lomion’s father. Someone must have, surely. They wouldn’t have just left the body at the base of the Caragdur.

“Did Uncle not say he was promised a warning, a sign that appear to him when the time came that his hidden realm was no longer safe?” Lomion continued. “No sign has come, has it? So Ondolindë is still secure.”

“Perhaps the dream foretells that the sign is soon to come,” she said doubtfully. “Or perhaps it did come and we missed it.”

She did not remember anymore what had been approaching in her dream, but she had feared for the city, in an awful, gut-wrenching way that spoke of death and destruction.

“Your father trusts deeply in Ulmo,” Lomion said reassuringly. “I have never seen a Vala, but I have met Queen Melian. If she had promised me a sign, I would be given a sign and I would know it when it came. There would be no doubt. As Ulmo is more powerful still, we could not miss a sign sent by him. Had Uncle received his sign, we would know of it. You and I would be far too busy preparing to move the people to safety to sit around fretting.”

Her cousin’s certainty was bracing. Itarillë herself had only vague memories of seeing any of the Valar as a young child, and the clearest of those was of the Judge handing down the Doom of the Noldor.  Her mother had clutched her tight and tried to cover her ears, but she had heard all the same.

She may tease Lomion about being her little cousin – a jest that had been laughable enough the day they first met, for he had already been as tall as she, and not yet at his full height. But despite his fewer years, she knew he spoke from experience. Melian was no hazy memory or tale told to him by others, for he had been born in Menegroth and even after his parents’ return to Nan Elmoth, had visited it throughout his childhood and early youth.

She nodded.

“I am sure you are right,” she said, trying to take heart from his calm logic.

“You do not sound sure,” he said with a smile. “Come, let’s go riding through the valley. You will see for yourself that it is a bright, sunny day, with no storm clouds threatening, and feel better for the fresh air and the breeze.”

“I don’t mean to keep you from your work…” she replied guiltily, though she really did want to do as he suggested. A few hours of his company would do her good.

Lomion laughed.

“The helmets aren’t going anywhere,” he told her. “Nor do I believe them needed so urgently that I have no time for a ride and perhaps a picnic.”

She grinned.

Lomion was sweetening the pot, for though she loved picnics, he usually found planning them a bother – or perhaps not so much a bother as time he could use for other, more enjoyable things. It probably didn’t help that whenever the Lords of Gondolin went on outings, Lomion as the youngest invariably ended up with the task of seeing to the provisions. (No matter what he did, Salgant always complained about something being left behind. Itarillë was running out of sweet, polite ways to divert his complaints and about ready to tell the Lord of the Harp that since he’s forever finding fault, perhaps he should take a turn at organizing the eats. If Lomion won’t say it, she will.)

“Very well,” she agreed. “But since you’ve so generously offered a picnic, I’ll arrange for the food.”

At his pleased grin, she wondered if she hadn’t just been maneuvered into doing exactly as he’d hoped. It didn’t matter, though. She had his company for the day, and that suited her just fine.

By the time they turned to ride back to the city, Itarillë was in a much better frame of mind. It was, as Lomion had confidently predicted, bracing to be out in the sunlit fields of Tumladen, surrounded by green and growing things under a blue summer sky.

She felt almost at peace as their horses ambled along. Though they had raced out, giving their horses a rare chance to get up to a proper gallop, neither of them were in any particular hurry on the return. Lomion did not seem to mind as much, for he had the forge to look forward to, but Itarillë realized to her surprise that she was beginning to feel dimly what Aunt Irissë must have felt before she left – stifled within the walls, as though she were caught in some trap.

She did not mention it, though, for she worried that Lomion might feel similarly, and she could not bear the thought of him running away as her aunt had – all the more for her conviction that if Lomion ever left the valley on his own, he was unlikely to return.

It was her cousin who spotted it first. Two great birds spiraling down from above. Eagles.

Itarillë froze. What new horror could they have to tell?

Lomion drew his horse to a halt beside hers, and only then did she realize that she had stopped.

“I do not think it is ill tidings,” he told her bracingly. “Look, they are bringing people into the valley!”

This had happened once before – Irimë and Laurefindil had come to the city so, having gotten lost in the mountains and been rescued by Thorondor. That was how news of Elwë’s ban on their language had reached Ondolindë.

Her father had forbidden that news to be given to the city at large, however. Most of their people already spoke Sindarin, with vary degrees of proficiency, and relations between the Noldor and those Sindar who had chosen to join Turukano in his hidden kingdom had always been harmonious. He had not wished to risk it becoming otherwise, as thousands of survivors of the Ice discovered that they were to be punished for a Kinslaying they had taken no part in. He did not wish to jeopardize the safety or even enjoyment of life of his Sindarin folk if the Noldor reaction was, as seemed likely, anger and resentment.

Lomion knew of the Ban, of course. But as Sindarin was his cradle tongue, and Thingol his kinsman, he was unlikely to ever be taken to task for flouting it. She has never asked his opinion of it. Speaking his mother’s language did not appear to bother him.

The eagles were nearly to the ground now, and changed course to meet them rather than attempt a landing in the city itself. Itarillë was startled to see that it was children the eagles were bringing to them.

The two younglings were quick to scramble down, and equally quick to thank their benefactors – in Sindarin, of course. It was only as the eagles took off again that the pair turned to face the prince and princess of Ondolindë – and it was then that Itarillë spotted the hair on the face of the taller one.

“What is wrong with him?” she whispered urgently to Lomion in Quenya. “That cannot be normal!”

Her cousin smothered a laugh.

“I believe it is normal for Men,” he replied, equally quietly. “Or have you not read any of Cousin Finderato’s letters?”

“Men? Here?” Itarillë squeaked, worried by the strange newcomers. “Are you sure they are not dangerous?”

Lomion did laugh at that.

“They are rather small... I do not think they are yet full grown, and they were brought by eagles. I doubt they are agents of the Enemy.”

She glared reprovingly at him and he shrugged.

“Even if they are,” he murmured, “they are not very long lived. We have only to keep them with us until they expire. I believe they last only slightly longer than horses.”

She did not trust these strange children, but she did let her glare drop.

“Well met, strangers,” Lomion said in Sindarin. “Any brought here by Thorondor’s folk will find shelter in our valley.”

“Well met, my lord,” the taller one with the hair on his face said. “I do not know where we find ourselves, but my brother and I are grateful for your hospitality – all the more so for it being so unexpected. Until the Eagles came to our aid, we expected to be set upon at any moment by orcs coming down from the mountains.”

Itarillë knew herself to have an accent in Sindarin, for Lomion had told her so and done his best to train her to sound more like one of the Iathrim, saying that should she ever venture beyond Tumladen the Sindar would look more kindly on that accent than any other. But even so she knew the shape of her words was not as strange as the child’s.

“You have been brought to the hidden kingdom of Turgon,” Itarillë spoke up. “We shall take you before the king. He will decide what is to be done with you.”

Both children bowed.

“We thank you, my lady,” the younger one said, looking in awe at the city walls. “I am Huor, and my brother is Hurin.”

“We do not know much of the Aftercomers here,” Lomion began, “but you do not look full grown to my eye.”

The younger boy blushed, but his older brother stood up straighter.

“That is because we are not, my lord,” he said plainly. “We were too young to go to open war, but we were not so young that my uncle would not allow us to ride out with him to destroy some of the orc filth that thought to menace Brethil.”

“Ah,” Lomion nodded, the name evidently meaning more to him than it did to Itarillë. “I see. How old are you? And how should we reckon you according to the ways of your kind?”

“I am sixteen,” Hurin answered, “and my brother is shortly before his fourteenth birthday. He was lucky to be included in the riding, but I will be considered a man grown in five years, and old enough to marry in seven.”

Itarillë was shocked to hear that the Atani married so young – though she supposed if their lives were as brief as Lomion said, perhaps to marry and beget their offspring at scarce more than twenty was sensible.

She also noted that for all his fine words about how harmless these atani were, Lomion had neither given their names nor revealed that it was not just any elves Hurin and his brother spoke to, but the daughter and nephew of the king. Perhaps he did not think them so trustworthy after all.

She was pleased to find him so cautious, for with the arrival of these boys the memory of her unsettling dream had sprung once again to her mind, and she could not shake her certainty that the two mortals were somehow connected with the fear and foreboding she had felt.

“So you are children,” Itarillë exclaimed, “and we should look after you as such.”

She could see that young Huor was rather amused to see his older brother – so clearly striving for adulthood – reduced to the same station as himself.

“Come,” she continued sweetly, “you shall ride with us.”

Turning to her cousin, she added, “Huor will come with me, and Hurin with you.”

He nodded, and extended a hand to help the lad up, while Itarillë tried to think of a tactful way to ask Huor if he knew how to mount a horse. Fortunately, he seemed to know what he was about, though he looked a bit bemused.

“What is the matter, Huor?” she asked.

“I was looking for the saddle, lady, but I see none,” he told her, turning red once again. “I have never ridden without one before.”

“We do not use them for short rides,” Itarillë explained, extending a hand. “Here, I will help you up.”

The boy looked hesitant, but took his cue from her confidence – and looked somewhat surprised to be pulled to sit in front of her, rather than behind.

I take it back, I do not like them, Lomion told her silently.

Oh? she replied. They are untrustworthy after all? I shall be saying ‘I told you so’ for yeni.

I have no idea as to how trustworthy they may be, Lomion replied. But either the Atani in general smell unpleasant, or you were lucky in choosing the smaller one for yourself.

She found it very hard not to laugh out loud, though now that he mentioned it, the boy did smell a bit odd – a sort of earthy, musty smell with an odd whiff reminiscent of cabbage. It wasn’t exactly bad, but nor would she have liked to have to spend hours in close company with him.

They said they were fighting orcs, she pointed out.

Orc stench is another matter entirely, Lomion said decisively. I’m hoping he just needs a bath, but I can’t imagine what could have happened to him to produce such an odor!

The ride to the city walls passed quickly, and once at the gates they turned their horses over to the nearest stable hand and set out for the palace on foot.

The two young atani could not contain their amazement at the city – which Lomion helpfully informed her was beyond anything they would ever before have seen. The other major elven strongholds were either hidden caves – Menegroth and Nargothrond – or northern fortresses, built for defense and war, not for sheltering large populations. The Atani themselves had no cities or strongholds, only scattered villages, most of which depended on elvish neighbors in some degree for their security.

Engrossed in their surroundings, the children did not notice the reactions their presence – or their escort – was drawing from the people of the city.

Itarillë was relieved that no one had hailed her or Lomion as they led their young charges to the palace. The steward blanched at the mud-caked boots and worn clothing of the guests, but had the sense not to protest as the prince and princess conducted them to the king’s office, where he spent most afternoons.

Today was no exception.

Turukano was seated at his desk, perusing reports from the various houses. He worked hard to keep his kingdom running smoothly and its people happy – too hard, according to his aunt and her son. He rarely smiled, though when he did, it was usually at Itarillë or Lomion. He often said it as a jest, but it was true that they were his treasure, dearer to him than any gold or jewels. He could bear no threat to them.

For that reason alone, Itarillë knew, neither of them would ever be permitted to leave the hidden kingdom.

Her father, if he was startled by the company his daughter and nephew were currently keeping, hid his surprise well when he looked up.

“May I present the Atani Huor and Hurin, my king?” Lomion introduced them. “They are not yet adult by the accounting of their own people, and were brought to us by the eagles.”

A subtle prod from Lomion prompted Hurin to bow, and his brother followed his example.

“Indeed?” Turukano said, looking curiously at the young mortals. “Welcome, Huor and Hurin, to my city. What do you mean to do with them, my children?”

Itarillë nearly laughed at the comical expression on Hurin’s face as he realized that the elves he and his brother had been riding with were not just anyone, but the kin of the king.

“Surely that is for the king to decide,” she cut in.

“The king can see from here that the lads need a bath, a good meal, and a good night’s sleep,” her father said drily. “Most likely in that order. And he would have hoped that the prince and princess of Ondolindë would have the sense to recognize it. Anything more can wait until the morrow.”

“Yes, atto,” she murmured.

Lomion nodded.

“Should they be lodged in your house or mine?” he asked his uncle.

Her father gave Lomion a closer glance than he’d spared for the brothers, and sighed. He was no more fooled than his daughter had been about how Lomion had been spending his time of late.

“The House of the King would be best, I think,” Turukano replied, mild reproof creeping into his tone. “Lomion, please see that you also bathe before dinner, lest you give Pillar or Harp the opportunity for further commentary about the Prince of the Mole being overworked and handed far too much responsibility.”

Lomion reddened slightly.

Rather than seeing the others’ concern about how much Turukano placed on his young shoulders, he tended to take the sharp comments of the king’s other lords as criticism of his capabilities. This had the paradoxical effect of leading him to work even harder. Itarillë had pointed out to him many times that he had staunch supporters in Glorfindel and Ecthelion, and if Egalmoth was criticizing anyone when he spoke of how much was expected of the Mole, it was Turukano.

“Certainly,” he said, his tone implying that he would have thought to do so without prompting – something anyone who knew him would have doubted, for he was far likelier to slip off to the forge again. “I shall leave Hurin and Huor in the care of your steward.”

“Very good,” Turukano nodded. “Itarillë will see to having fresh clothing and rooms prepared for them while they bathe.”

“Of course, atto,” she replied. “Come, young ones, I will introduce you to the steward and have him show you to the baths.”

It was not until later in the evening that her father returned to the issue of what to do about the young atani.

The young visitors had been guests of the king at dinner. They had been far too hungry to notice that they were the object of much curiosity, for not one of the elves present had seen one of their kind before. That was not to say that the youngsters had done nothing but eat – it was clear enough they had been taught good manners, for they made polite conversation and did their best to cover that the food was far more appealing to them than the company when first they sat down.

They had spoken enough with the lords of the city to flesh out their story – it turned out they were the grandsons of one of her grandfather’s retainers, not that Itarillë had even known before now that her grandfather had atani serving him. There was so much she’d never had the chance to know…

To Itarillë’s surprise, it was only family present when she arrived in her father’s study – herself, Lomion, Laurefindil, and Irimë.  She had expected he would want to hear the opinions of his lords on this subject.

Turukano never stood on ceremony in private, and Itarillë was happy to settle next to her father on the arm of his chair as Lomion claimed the rug near the fireplace.  These times were among the few he truly relaxed, with none but family around to see him so informal.

Lomion would certainly not ever allow Salgant or Ecthelion see him sprawled out so carelessly – the former because they detested each other, the latter because Ecthelion intimidated Lomion. (Itarillë did not quite understand why, for she has always found the Lord of the Fountain quite approachable.)

“Well, nephew? What do you mean to do with the young mortals?”

Trust Aunt Irimë to come right to the point.

Turukano shrugged.

“I had in mind to ask the Eagles to return them,” he replied, swirling his wine about his glass. “Whenever they next chance to visit.”

Her great-aunt did not look pleased at that, but she said nothing more.

Laurefindil frowned.

“How is it, cousin,” he asked, “that these young ones are exceptions to your rule that those who find their way hence may not leave?”

When your own kin are not?

The Lord of the Golden Flower did not say the words, but then, he did not need to.

“They did not find their way hence,” Turukano said with a frown of his own for his younger kinsman. “They were brought by the Eagles. I have spoken with them at some length. They have no idea where the city is, or even in what mountains. Without the Eagles, they would not have reached us, and without the Eagles, they will not be able to return.”

Lomion had said nothing, and Laurefindil looked to him.

“You have nothing to say to this, young one?”

Lomion shrugged.

“It seems to me rather hard to keep a pair of young atani here, where they would be nothing more than curiosities.”

“Curiosities?” Itarillë asked, puzzled.

“Of course,” Lomion replied, looking surprised. “There are no others of their kind in the city, which means they would have no hope of leading a normal life. For them to remain here means the best they can hope for is a trivial sort of friendship.”

“Why should they not live a full life among us?” Itarillë protested. “Aside from their mortality-“

“And the hair,” Lomion muttered, no doubt also adding a mental and the smell.

“Fine, and the hair,” she continued, ignoring Laurefindil’s snicker, “they are not so different from us.”

“Not so very different, perhaps,” Lomion shrugged. “Yet I cannot see many ladies of the city considering them as potential husbands when they are little more than children themselves, and will likely die before any child they might beget grows to maturity.”

“Assuming, of course, that their kind and ours can have children together,” Irimë pointed out crisply. “Finderato has mentioned no such thing in his letters, and he would most certainly have mentioned such a thing had it occurred.”

“They look so very like us, why should it not be possible?” Itarillë demanded.

“Their fate is rather different,” Irimë replied. “But in any case, I rather think Lomion has a fair point – I do not see many nissi seriously considering binding themselves to a creature that will not long outlive their horse, much less risking bearing a child that may also prove so short-lived.”

“Indeed. Under the circumstances, it seems rather cruel to keep them here, where they have no real prospect of a full life,” Turukano agreed. “Provided the two young ones are willing to give me their word that they will reveal nothing of the city or their time among us, I am inclined to say they should be returned to their own people in Brethil.”

“But how can we trust that they will not accidentally betray the secret?” Itarillë protested. “The Eagles are unlikely to return for some months – they do not visit one day and return the next. How will Hurin and Huor account for their long absence? They are certain to be asked!”

“I shall let that be their problem,” Turukano answered. “They know their own people far better than we can, so they will know what best to say that will not raise suspicion nor be seen for an untruth.”

Itarillë frowned, but she knew she would find no help from her cousins or great-aunt. In their own hearts, she suspected all three of them would join the young atani in leaving if they could.

Irimë and Laurefindil had never intended to come to the city – they had been searching for Artanis when the Eagles saved them from an orc ambush in the Echoriad, with no idea that they had come so close to stumbling across Turukano’s hidden kingdom. It had been some weeks before Irimë could speak civilly to her nephew after being told she was not free to leave.

Lomion, of course, had very much intended to find the city, but not to stay – or at least, not to stay without his parents. He would much rather have returned to Doriath after his parents’ deaths than remain alone and grieving in a city where the only person he knew or trusted at all was Itarillë.

Secretly, even Itarillë would have liked to leave the city – she would like to see more of Beleriand than just this one sheltered valley, even if it meant danger and risk. She wanted to meet some of their long-sundered kin beyond Lomion, even if the Greycloak wouldn’t ever allow her into his kingdom. She wanted to live, just as much as the young atani were to be allowed to do.

But her father would not allow any of them to leave, her least of all.

She slipped out onto the balcony to lean against the railing, trying to let the cool night air restore her sense of balance as she contemplated the city before her. When had it begun to feel so small?

“I’m sorry, Itarillë.”

She turned to find Lomion had followed her out.

“I know you hoped I’d agree with you,” he added. “But I really think it would be unkind to keep them here.”

“It’s so unfair,” she whispered.

“That they can go?” he asked, sounding startled.

“That we can’t!” she hissed.

Lomion blinked, and came to sit on the railing next to her.

“It… I know it does not seem fair at the moment,” he began hesitantly. “But your father really does want to keep us safe. You most of all.”

“He’ll keep us safe,” Itarillë laughed bitterly, trying not to cry. “He’ll keep us here right until the city falls.”

Lomion looked for a moment as though he did not know what to say, opening his mouth and then closing it again as if he’d thought better of it.

“He may,” he agreed quietly. “So you’ll just have to look for a way to get people out without him knowing. A secret way.”

Itarillë gave him a disgusted look.

“Without atto knowing about it?”

Lomion smirked.

“That would be what secret means.”

She stared at him.

“But how are we-”

“No, not we,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “You. If anything happens to the city, you can be sure I’ll be in the middle of the fighting. It’ll fall to you.”

“But you’ll know all about it!”

“No, I won’t, because you’re not going to tell me,” he said firmly.

“But-”

“My father’s people hold that there are two ways to keep a secret,” Lomion told her conversationally. “The first is to tell one other person.”

“Why only one?” Itarillë asked.

“Any more than that, and it isn’t a secret anymore.”

“But why can’t I tell you?” she demanded.

“Everyone knows we’re the best of friends. If you want to keep something a secret and anyone else wants to find out, who do you suppose they’ll try to get it out of?”

Itarillë glared at him.

“You talk as if you expect Morgoth himself to try to discover our secrets.”

“The Sindar have learned caution the hard way,” he replied with a shrug. “And it’s Morgoth who wants this city destroyed. He may not come himself, but you can be sure that whoever he sends will do whatever it takes.”

“What was the second way?”

“Hm?

“The second way to keep a secret,” she reminded him. “You said there were two ways.”

“Oh, that. The second way is to keep it so that everybody already knows.”

“How is that keeping it a secret?” Itarillë asked in perplexity.

“It takes some doing,” Lomion grinned. “If you do it properly, everybody knows, but nobody believes it. But I don’t think that method is one that will work very well for you. You’re far too honest for it. That method needs someone like Rog to carry it off.”

“This is your serious advice?” Itarillë asked with a sigh. “Figure out a secret way to escape if it comes to that?”

Lomion nodded.

“And if we do escape? What then?”

Itarillë didn’t need to point out that if it ever came to that, they’d be in a frightful situation. 

Lomion was silent for a while, with no answer at the ready. Finally, he seemed to make a decision.

“I don’t know how we will manage it, Itarillë, but I promise you that someday I will take you to meet my father’s kin. My uncle – that is, my great-uncle – may be as unreasonable in his own way as your father, but I do not think he can hold the crimes of your kin against you when all know you were but a child at the time of the Exile. Should the day come when we are not safe here, you will be safe among the Sindar.”

She looked at him in surprise.

He sighed, seeming to feel the question.

“It is the best that I can think of for now. But I am sure we have time to form better plans. You have been so troubled all day. I do not want you to keep worrying, and certainly not over those silly boys. Chances are once they leave the city we will never see or think of them ever again.”