Lanthir Lamath. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

 

Lanthir Lamath.

 

 

 

   Dior frowned slightly and changed the toasting fork to his other hand as his knuckles became uncomfortably warm. Beside him knelt Eluréd, still as an Ent, his dimpled fists clenched on his plump little knees, staring into the fire. Across the hearth, Nimloth, her hair wrapped in a plain, undyed cloth to save it from sticky fingers, sang softly to Elwing, asleep at last. 

  Dior sighed contentedly, it was rare to have such peace; the soothing crackle of the fire seemed to blend with the gentle voice of his wife, and for once even the twins were sitting quietly. He looked over his shoulder to where Elurín stood on the cushions of the window-seat, peering out, his little hands pressed flat against the glass. His fair curls were almost transparent against the last of the sunlight, shining unhindered through the bones of the winter trees. 

  Nimloth stirred and shifted Elwing to her other arm, then smiled at her husband.

  "I might put her to bed now, I think she will sleep. Oh Dior, the toast !"

 

  A small plume of black smoke rose from the burned toast. Dior pursed his lips and threw the ruined slice into the fire. The smoke reminded him of the victory of the unfortunate Turin, slayer of Glaurung, destined for glory beyond even that of Beren. He had laughed privately at his own childish disappointment that another had slain the beast, and taken care to celebrate the feat as enthusiastically as the rest. He had said nothing to Nimloth, but she knew. He could see it in the extra kindness she had shown him, he could see it in her eyes... Even Gildor knew, though the old courtier kept his bland smile in place at all times. But Dior knew that they were as delighted, and relieved, at the death of the dragon as he was disappointed, for now he would not leave them to venture forth and confront the beast. 

 He had not dared to even hint at his suspicion, but it seemed to him that it was to distract him from his regret that Nimloth had asked him if they might beget a child. Of course he had been thrilled, full of pride and, even now, deeply honoured that she wished to bear their child. But more than all, he wished to show a child to his mother, and especially to his father, before they... before it was too late. 

 His father had changed, the Mortal had been stricken by the fall of Nargothrond, shocked to the bone, and wore now the grim face of an aged stranger. 

 

  He cut another slice of bread and carefully speared it with the toasting fork, watched by the attentive eyes of Eluréd. Nimloth shook her head and carried away the sleeping Elwing. 

  "Father," Eluréd looked up at him. "Does the fire hurt the bread ? "

 Dior chuckled, and wondered if he himself had asked such nonsense of his father, then remembered with a blush what Helin had once said : 'Your mother calls you Bubble for more than just your round belly and your pale skin. If you do not attend to your studies, you will be always as empty as a bubble.' He smiled at the memory, and looked at the solemn face of his son.

 "No Eluréd, the bread is not alive to feel anything. It was made from the seeds of the grasses, but the seeds are crushed into tiny pieces, then made into bread. You will ask whether it hurts to be crushed, and it would if the seeds were alive as we are alive. But the Ents tell us that the grasses live in peaceful slumber, dreaming away their short lives in the warmth of the sunlight. Nothing we do, not even the singing of your grandmother, can awaken them. They sleep in peace."

 "Like Elwing ?" 

 Dior smiled "Yes. But soon Elwing will awaken."

 "Screaming again ! " Elurín said, without turning from the window. Around his head his warm breath had steamed the glass. He shifted one small foot along the seat-cushion, then carefully lifted the other beside it, and slid his hands along the glass. Nimloth came back, unwrapping the cloth from her head and shaking out her pale golden hair. Dior felt his heart quicken, his love and desire for beautiful Nimloth seemed to grow more intense with time, though his mother had warned him that his Elven blood might mean that he continued to grow and mature for another seventy years. He wondered if it were possible for him to grow as tall as Thingol himself, but did not like to speak to his mother in such a way about her own father. 

 

 Nimloth, scratching her head and running her fingers through her hair with a yawn, suddenly sniffed and cried "Dior !"

  To his dismay he realised that he had burned a second piece of toast while gazing at his wife like a lovesick youth. He smiled at her.

  "I am a lovesick youth, lost in rapt contemplation of she whom I adore. Burnt toast ! What is that to one such as I ?" He spoke with mock formality, in a voice so deep it sounded almost Entish for a moment. Eluréd looked up at him in surprise, and even Elurín turned with a puzzled frown from the window. But Nimloth threw the cloth over Dior and laughed at him, and the twins giggled as Dior pretended to be afraid of the cloth, and of Nimloth. But Eluréd spoke again.

 "Father, what is rapt ? "

Nimloth laughed and scooped him into her arms, kissing the top of his head, then sitting down and tucking a loose curl behind his small pink ear. "Rapt is when you are so distracted that you burn the toast. Do you think we can trust your father to make the supper ? "

  Elurín jumped into the air "Grandfather is coming !" He exclaimed excitedly, then paused "Has he got a sore knee ? He looks sad. He looks more sad than I was when I had a sore knee. I would never look that sad, even if my knee was chopped right off, like grandfathers hand." 

 

 But Dior too had jumped up, cold fear gripping his heart. There had been too much sad news, too many deaths, whole cities destroyed by the unceasing attacks and relentless malice of the Enemy. 

 Elurín, face down, was trying to slide off the window seat, his little fat legs kicking wildly at air. Dior smiled despite himself, still immeasurably proud that his beloved wife had given him twins. She had smiled and disclaimed all responsibility, save only  the wish. But he loved his boys intensely, protective and proud, and treasured every foolish word and deed. He picked Elurín up by the waist and tossed him laughing into the air, then caught him and slung him over his shoulder.

  "I had better throw this rubbish in the fire too, my dear, we do not want something so grubby soiling our nice..." But the rest of his words were drowned by the laughing and screaming of Elurín, who began kicking wildly again. Eluréd pressed his face into the side of his laughing mother, digging a fist into her skirts and gripping tightly, as Dior swung the upside-down Elurín over the green and yellow rug before the fire. 

 Almost forgotten, Beren knocked softly on the door. Dior tucked Elurín under one arm and strode across to the door.

 

 "Father ! Come inside, sit by the fire, you look weary and cold. Let me warm some wine for you."

 Beren had smiled at them, but there was a strange look in his eyes. Nimloth rose, her skirts dragged sideways, still clutched in the tiny hand of Eluréd. 

 "What ails you Beren ? Will you sit ? " She asked him anxiously. He shook his head "My son, my dear daughter, I beg you to visit your mother, now, this evening. There is... there..." His voice faltered. 

 

   Nimloth called out "Helin ! " and held Eluréd tightly, stooping to unclench the gripping fingers. Helin came in smiling, then saw their faces and looked at Nimloth in concern.

  "Helin, my dear, we must go at once to Lúthien, will you give the boys their supper ? Elwing is asleep already, long may she remain so. We shall send for you all if needed, or return ourselves..." she looked doubtfully at Beren, but he was staring into nothingness and seemed not to have heard her words.

 But Elurín had heard and understood. He gripped the hair of his father, finding little purchase on the smooth brown locks, but twisting until Dior tilted his head to one side "Do not leave us, father ! Take us with you ! And Helin ! And Elwing ! "

 "And Gildor ! " Eluréd said indignantly. Beren moved slightly and looked down at Eluréd. When he looked up again, Dior saw with horror that his father was weeping silently. Helin took the hand of Eluréd as Dior swung Elurín to the ground.

 "Come now, boys, Gildor has been learning to bake, and there are apple pies in the ovens. Let us judge his work, and report our findings when we have eaten our fill."

 "Apple pie ! My favourite ! " Elurín exclaimed eagerly, but Eluréd hung back still.

  "But apple pie is father's favourite. Come with us father, and you too grandfather, it will make your knee better. "

 

  Beren looked at the child in astonishment, he could recall no injury of any kind to his knee. He wondered what stories Dior had been telling them, as Helin, still talking calmly to the twins, finally led them away.

 "My knee ? " Beren said blankly, but Dior smiled "Whatever grim tidings you may bear, your grandsons can imagine no evil worse than that suffered by Elurín when he sprained his knee. "

  Beren nodded. Nimloth moved to his side and laid her hand upon his arm "Please tell us your news, then we may be able to help." 

  But Beren looked at Dior with an unfathomable expression on his face. For a moment Dior could almost imagine the man his mother had fallen in love with; the cheeks were hollow, the bones, revealed sharply against the lined skin, were beautiful, and the eyes with their thick dark lashes spoke to that within him of the time before memory began, and his world had begun and ended in those eyes. And the eyes of his mother.

 "Is my mother well ? " Dior asked anxiously. 

 

  Beren sighed "No. She needs us. Thingol is dead."