For the First Time in Forever by quillingmesoftly

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Among the Kindi

So. Much. Kindi. Stuff. Or, the one where Maglor fries spiders, is grilled on events since Cuiviénen, and discovers something interesting about his host. 

 

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They had erected the workshop not far from the settlement, but everybody had agreed that considering Helado’s approach to his craft, it was best for it to be further back in the forest. Most of the longhouses where the village lived were built along the river bank, stretching downriver to the water course narrowed like the tapering of a canoe, before broadening again. The point marked the southern boundary of the village, in so far as they had boundaries, and the beginnings of the fishing grounds; she remembered paddling out with her Ataro to that point in their canoe, otters chirruping in her lap, before she dived overboard with the otters and caught fish with them. But everyone in the village lived alongside the river-banks, to listen to the soothing rumble of her mother’s waters. 

That Tauren and Helado managed to work in the same work-shop was a mystery to most people in the village, considering Helado’s tendency to swear viciously at his work when the pigments did not match that of his imagination. Neniel had seen both of them work many times, though. When Tauren worked on a project, she fell into concentration so deep that it was doubtful that Grandfather Ulmo himself showing up would draw her from it. A little swearing next to that was nothing.

Helado’s clear tenor rang out, denouncing the lineage of the nettle plants, their origins, and their degree of relation to Morgoth. Neniel snorted, and unlatched the door of the longhouse, stepping in. Helado dealt better with interruptions, so his workshop was between the door and the screen that divided his work-space from Tauren’s.

“I’m fairly sure that’s anatomically impossible,” she said, crossing her arms, and waiting for Helado to turn from the large bucket that he is bent over. He straightened and whirled around, before beaming at her. 

“You have no imagination,” he said, before moving to hug her. It would mean that she’d have red dye streaked in her hair and on her vest; she leaned into the hug anyway.

“Is it going so badly?” she asked. 

Helado rocked his hand back and forth, thumb to the roof, to the ground, and back to the roof again. “It’ll get there.” 

“Right. Well, I need to talk to Tauren. There may be shouting. Hopefully not, though.” 

“Ah.” Helado’s eyes darkened, and he nodded, gesturing to the dividing screen. Interesting. So, while he wouldn’t speak against Tauren, he didn’t agree with whatever was bothering her. 

Well, only one way to find out. 

She stepped around the dividing screen and had to smile. Tauren sat on her work-bench, a pile of cut planks before her, her mouth pursed in concentration as she rubbed the river-reed stems over the length of wood in her lap. 

“What will that be?” Neniel asked her, coming to stand in front of her bench and to the side. Sunlight poked in through the poles of the roof of the work-shop, the steam of Helado’s dye shooting up to escape through the cracks. 

“A table,” Tauren said.

Neniel smiled. “The engravings look familiar. Like the things Galadriel’s people used.” 

“Mmm. Is that where you went? When you ran off without even saying goodbye?”  

Neniel counted to five. “I’m sorry about that. It was badly done of me,” she said. She heard the sound of retreating foot-steps, and felt a surge of relief, even as Tauren’s eyebrows crashed together in a thunderous frown. Helado shouldn’t have to hear this. 

Tauren stood, the length flying from her lap, and she whirled to face Neniel. “Yes. Yes, it was, Neniellë, it was rude, it caused a huge amount of stress for Ráca, you left! I – how could you do that? Just leave without saying goodbye, just run off like that?” 

Neniel snorted. “I haven’t been content here for a long time.” She bit her lip to keep a barb from about Tauren’s ignorance being caused by her obsession with her work, and turned it into, “I’m surprised you didn’t see it before.” That hit. Tauren’s eyes drifted from hers to the wall of the work-shop behind them, before turning back to Neniel. So. She had noticed, and she had put it out of her mind. 

“Why?” Tauren asked, her voice softening slightly. 

Neniel sighed. “It was time for me to go see the world,” she said. “I – how long can you last, without following through on an idea that you’ve had?” 

“That’s not a fair comparison.” 

Yes, it is. “Answer the question.” 

“Six days, seven?” 

Neniel resisted the temptation to cross her arms as she looked at her sister. Still so young, for all that she had her tattoos and a husband now. “I’ve been holding back on this for seven hundred years, Tauren,” she said, deliberately gentle.  

Tauren looked like she’d bitten into an apple only to find it rancid. There was silence for a few minutes, and Neniel forced herself to stay still, to keep her expression limited to a raised eyebrow. 

“Fine.” 

“Fine?”

“Fine,” Tauren said, setting the cuts of wood back on the bench. “I still don’t totally understand it, but if you need to do this…fine.” 

Neniel smiled at her, and opened her arms. “Does that mean I get my hug?” 

Tauren smiled back, and stepped forward into her arms, fitting her head underneath Neniel’s chin. “I’m glad you’re back, Neniellë.” 

“Me, too.” 

Tauren stepped back, and frowned. “You’re filthy. We can’t go home like this. Where’s that husband of mine? We need to clean off, first.” 

“He left to give us some privacy.” 

Tauren’s eyes went a little unfocussed as she reached for Helado through their marriage bond, and Neniel firmly squashed the pang of jealousy and longing that awoke. No point dwelling on what might have been, and now would not. All you could do was move on. 

“Alright,” Tauren said, slipping her hand into Neniel’s. “Let’s go.”

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Nurwë led Maglor into the longhouse. It was divided into two areas, one for cooking and one for sleeping. Beside the left wall, illuminated by the sunlight, there was a fire pit, with two holes, one larger, and one smaller, smoke rising from the smaller hole and a fire already crackling cheerfully in the larger hole. In the coals of the fire, some kind of fish was baking. The roof was an interesting design, Maglor thought, looking up at it. Made of long, fired poles that had been bound together by strips of fabric, so that the sleeping area was darkened, and shafts of sunlight poured into the cooking area. No windows, or other forms of ventilation that he could see. Interesting. 

There were two benches, one underneath the other, as the ropes had been, the taller at such a height that someone could work at it without bending or stooping. It was held over the other bench by a combination of wooden slats and song, Maglor realised, given the way the slats shimmered with enchantment at the edges. Below it were an assortment of pots and pans, ceramic bowls and mugs. Tuilo had already walked to the bench and begun to peel the onions with methodical, deft flicks of his knife.

“Can you fry?” Nurwë asked, surveying the room, his head tilted to the side slightly. 

“Certainly. What needs frying?”  He wasn’t as good as Celegorm or Ambarussa, but he was passable. Fëanáro would have regarded it as horrifying, if one of his sons had not been able to do a duty as basic as cooking. 

Nurwë pointed to the large ceramic bowl on the top bench, before kneeling to pull something out from underneath the lower benches.

“That bowl of spiders. We’ve taken them off the ice, and they’re at the right temperature now, so now we just need to fry them up.”

Maglor blinked. Had he heard that correctly? 

“Spiders?” he asked, holding his palms together and making his fingers mimic the creeping motion. Nurwë nodded. 

“They’re Neniellë’s favourite. I’m quite fond of them as well,” Nurwë said. “The heads need to be removed first, though. Oh, and their legs should be spread out, they taste better that way. I suppose the Noldor prefer other insects?” 

Maglor swallowed, stepped over to the benches, and looked down into the bowl. About fifteen spiders, he realised, their legs curled up rather than spread out as in life, and almost impossible to estimate their size. Only superficially resembling the giant ones that he had fought in the forest. He firmly squashed the feelings of nausea and gingerly picked one up by the legs. Praise Eru and all his Ainur, it remained still in his hand. He drew his dagger and carefully made the legs extend to their fullest with the flat of the blade.

“I’m sorry, could you say that again?” he asked. 

Nurwë’s hand set a ceramic jar half-full of oil on the bench. 

“I said, do the Noldor prefer other insects to spiders?” 

Maglor finished spreading the spider legs out, and then beheaded it. Well. Alright, it was disgusting, but still, not as bad as their larger cousins in Taur-im-Duinath. Less messy, too. He still had no intention of eating them, though. “No, insects disappeared from our diet while we were on–” Maglor frowned, thinking hard, back to old history lessons. “Tol Eressëa? I think so.”

“Tol Eressëa?”

“Ulmo–” Maglor cast a cautious glance at Nurwë. The perspective of an Avar who had refused Oromë’s summons and yet married a Maia was still a thought that made his headache. But Nurwë did not look at all perturbed by the mention of the Vala, so Maglor continued. Neniel calls Ossë and Uinen Uncle and Aunt alike. Perhaps Ulmo isn’t as distant a figure to him? “Pulled up an island for the V- the Minyar, I mean, and the Tatyar, to ferry them across the Sea. Then he pulled it back for the Teleri, Olwë and his people, when they decided to leave Middle-Earth at last.” 

“Teleri?” Nurwë tilted his head to the side again, as he poured the oil into a large, deep saucepan, until the bottom inch of it was coated in oil. He reached for more jars, and another bowl, and began pouring and mixing with brisk, deft movements. “We had a word ‘tel at Cuiviénen. It meant last.” Maglor nodded. “Did they call themselves that?” 

“No, they called themselves the Lindar,” Maglor said. “Rightly so.” 

“Hmm. They didn’t take new names, then. Did the Minyar continue to call themselves that, in Aman?”

Maglor nodded. “We called them Vanyar, though. The Fair Elves.” 

Nurwë’s glance was amused, as he took the spider from Maglor and dropped it into the next bowl. “Of course you did. No Tatya was ever happy unless there were about a dozen words being invented at once.” Maglor thought about the controversy over the sá-sí, nights spent arguing in Telperion’s light, and beheaded the next spider, before straightening out the legs. “So, no insects. What did you eat instead?” 

Maglor frowned. “I’m not sure I know the Kindi for them,” he said, and he carefully took down one of the shields, letting images of old meals in Aman float across his mind, until Nurwë gave a satisfied nod and held up one hand, palm out. Thank you. No more. Maglor deliberately returned his gaze to the spider. 

“You were happy there?” It hovered between a question and a statement. The phrasing and the use of the particle suggested a question, but the tone suggested a statement. 

“For a time, we were very happy. But…” he shrugged. “We got restless, I suppose. Melkor’s release didn’t help matters.” 

“I heard of that, too,” Nurwë said with a frown. “Dînen was very unhappy and worried when it happened.” 

“He was not released back into Middle-Earth,” Maglor said, unable to keep his puzzlement off his face, beheading the next spider. Only two of the legs needed straightening.

Nurwë shook his head, earrings swinging with the movement, accepting the spider from Maglor’s hand.  “We never forgot those who had left the Lake. Never. And so when we heard, we worried for those of you who had left, trusting to hope in light. We did not part on good terms, many of us among the Nelyar. But family, kinsmen are not so easily cut from the heart that you can simply stop worrying about them.”

Maglor thought that opening his mouth at this point was very unwise. He beheaded two spiders instead, and straightened their legs. They’d clumped up so that their legs were against their abdomens. 

“Tch. You think I don’t know?” Nurwë asked, amusement still thick in his voice like honey, as he took the first spider. “Your cousin Galadriel spoke with me and my sister for a long time, when she and her people came to settle around the Lake. We have heard your deeds, or most of them.” His gaze was compassionate and steady as it held Maglor’s. “Do you know that your family is not the only one who has done so?” 

…

What?

Nurwë sighed, and wiped his hands on a rag, before running a hand through his hair. Another mannerism he had passed onto Neniel, it seemed. “We would not leave the waters we loved. We refused. And so, for a time, we dwelled there. It was difficult, but we loved it so. Until the waters shrank, and shrank, and shrank, the lake becoming ever smaller, food becoming ever scarcer. And we became ever more filled with fear. Though Melkor was chained in Mandos, then, his fear was on us. And so, on the other side of the sea, before you were even a light in your mother’s eyes, the Lindar, too, fought to the death.” Nurwë shook his head. “After that, Salyë and I went west, with some who chose to follow us, rather than stay and keep fighting. And it took me centuries to heal from that. To pass from shadow to something else.”

Maglor opened his mouth, and found that the words had gone away. “I hadn’t heard.” 

“Mm. It took Neniellë a while to make her peace with it, when she was young.” Nurwë took one of the spiders, drew a knife, and began beheading the spiders alongside Maglor. “But that’s done now, and she’s happy enough, these days. You seem to have been a good friend to her.” 

“As has she to me,” he returned. 

“Mmm.” There was laughter in Nurwë’s eyes as he glanced at Maglor. “Yes, I can tell. The fact that your clothes more or less fit you now is a good clue. So, tell me of these lands that she’s set on going to.” 

Maglor searched his memory for Elrond’s words about Mithlond and Lindon.  “Lindon lies beyond the mountains, on the coast between the Blue Mountains to the north and the seas. Mithlond is where the King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth, Ereinion Gil-Galad dwells. North of it is Harlond, the town of the Falathrim, the Lindar who follow Círdan the Shipwright. I think you’d know him, actually. He’s Unbegotten as well.” He probed back further into memory, back to Aman, back to history lessons taught in Laurelin’s light. “…Nowë, I think, was the name?” 

Nurwë’s eyes went wide, and he set down the knife. The last of the spiders was beheaded, and he dropped them into the pot.  “He’s still alive? Still here?” 

Maglor nodded. “North-west of here, past the mountains and over the Gulf of Lhûn. Still alive and well, when I last spoke with my – son.” Foster son. Hostage. Cousin. The phrase it’s complicated had never been so apt. 

Nurwë tilted his head to the side, clearly catching the hesitation, as he indicated the pot and a wooden spoon. “Adoptive?” 

“You could say that,” Maglor said, which was every word the strict truth, as he picked the spoon up. Nurwë had created some sort of batter that smelled like chestnuts and cattails, and had flung the spiders into the batter. He wondered what he’d used instead of eggs. “He’s a good man. Nowë, I mean.” 

Nurwë nodded. “I know. He always was.” Nurwë’s smile was soft and sad, eerily familiar. “One of my regrets is parting from him on such bad terms.” 

Maglor blinked. “Perhaps you could give Neniel a–” he searched for the Kindi word for ‘letter’, before blinking. Oh. Of course. “Message for him?” 

Nurwë gave him a thoughtful look, but nodded. “The Rider is gone beyond the void. Evil is not gone, but it seems a time for new things. New verses for the songs.” He peered at the batter over Maglor’s shoulder. “It’ll do,” he said, before he pulled two of the spiders about of the saucepan and dropped them into the wide skillet. 

The spiders looked very different covered in the batter. Almost, almost edible. But not quite, Maglor thought.

“Don’t worry,” Nurwë said. “You won’t have to eat them. Even if you dislike them, Neniellë would eat all of them, if let to it.” 

From where he had been burying the vegetables in the coals of the fire, Tuilo laughed. It was not musical, as Neniel’s, but a harsh, braying sound. “And then complain that if we’d told her, she would have gone and caught more!” 

Maglor huffed a laugh, as Nurwë put the last of the spiders in the frying pan on the fire. Tuilo rummaged around underneath the lower bench for a minute, before emerging with a bottle and with three ceramic cups. They were a dark blue colour, with delicate white spreading across the cups in patterns that were almost reminiscent of a lightning strike. He poured out a clear liquid into the mugs, and pressed one of them into Maglor’s hand. It looked rather like water, but didn’t smell like it, certainly not like the water of the Baranduin. Tuilo was making no motion to drink his cup, so Maglor waited with him, until Nurwë took the pan of spiders off the fire, and set it on the bench. They had turned a golden colour, the batter forming a crust on top of the body and legs. 

Nurwë took the cup from his nephew, and held his cup out. Tuilo clicked his cup against it, and Maglor followed suit. There was no toast. Perhaps that was a Noldorin invention. 

Maglor took a sip, and blinked. It was actually quite good. Cold and clear on his tongue, burning as it slid down his throat, with a smokey aftertaste; warmth spread up his feet into his legs. “This is nanëni, isn’t it?” 

 Nurwë grinned. “It certainly is. What do you think?” 

“It’s good,” Maglor said, taking another sip, and then setting it back down on the bench. No need to drink it all at once. Tuilo had downed his cup in a single swallow, but Nurwë seemed content to take it slowly.  

“I’m glad you think so. Now, tell me. Did Finwë ever get to build those mountain-tall buildings he was so insistent about?”

Maglor laughed, and for the first time in a long time, the memory of the Mindon Eldaliéva had joy to it. “Oh, yes,” he said. He wasn’t sure where Neniel’s pack had gotten to, but he hardly needed his harp for this. “Let me show you Finwë’s city. As it was once, I mean.” 

He sang Tirion upon Túna. The great rice terraces that had climbed from Túna’s base, running all the way to the walls of the city, and the bridge that ran over it to the gate of Tirion. The way the mingled light of the Trees had spilled down the Calacirya, shining brightly on the diamond dust of the streets. The different quarters: Fëanorion, Nolofinwion,  Arafinwion. His favourite park, on the northern side of the city, about a mile east of the Mindon Eldaliéva, where he would go when he needed to simply breathe, instead of listening to the noise generated by six brothers. His Grandfather’s palace, with its labyrinthine passages that had taken most of his childhood to learn to navigate. The Mindon Eldaliéva itself, spiralling towards the sky, proud and tall, with joy of the Noldor in their creation shimmering from the stonework itself. And Haru Finwë, sneaking a moment to himself on the roof of the tower, away from lords and princes and petitioners, his face turned towards the east, and Ezellohar. 

He left the song there, and looked up to meet Nurwë’s eyes. They were bright with his joy as he smiled at Maglor. 

“Thank you,” he said. “It is very good to hear more of Finwë and his deeds.” Nurwë took another gulp of the spirit, and nodded thoughtfully. “A difficult ending for the first verse of his song. But the second will be better than the first for it, I think.”

Pure speculation; there was none of the distant gaze that had accompanied Artanis, Arafinwë, Indis, or even his mother, when they Saw. But there was both hope and expectation in Nurwë’s voice, and to that hope…

“I’ll drink to that,” Maglor said, setting the harp down, in time to hear footsteps entering the hall. 

“Getting that dye off was a nightmare! What on earth have you been using for it, Helado?” Neniel’s voice rang out. Nurwë smiled, and stepped around the screen. Maglor thought it was woven of cattail stems as well. 

“Hibiscus roots and flowers, and – well, some other stuff.”

“No wonder you had to spend that long in the water,” came another voice. Similar in tone to Neniel’s, but lower and softer in pitch. “Alright, where is he?” 

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Neniel laughed. There was the sound of water splashing, and fabric rustling. “Alright. You can come say hello now, Maglor!” 

Well, at least she remembered, Maglor thought, setting the harp aside and finishing his cup of nanëni, before setting it on the bench and ducking around the screen. Neniel was indeed clothed; she had shrugged into a long blue-grey tunic, and a fresh pair of green leggings beneath it. Her face was bright with happiness, and Maglor glanced at the floor. Better that than staring like an adolescent. He was far, far too old for that.

Sleeping mats like those woven by the Minhiriathrim were scattered, all in the same room, with cushions at their heads for pillows. Neniel’s pack had been placed on a green mat closest to the wall. The cushion on the one directly adjacent to it was covered in dog fur. Regen, then. There was also a spear on the mat that adjoined Regen’s on the other side, plus a half-finished snare. There were two other sets of sleeping mats pushed together at other points in the room, one of the pair dyed in delicate patterns of green shading from light to dark – Helado’s, it had to be – and another that was plain, un-dyed nettle fabric. So…Married couples slept side-by-side, whilst the unmarried Elves bedded down together.

Neniel was moving forward to grab his hand and introduce him, he realised, returning from his study of the room. Tauren shared Neniel’s skin tone and her hooked nose, but her hair was black, and there was an awkward jerkiness to her movements that was very unlike her sister’s athletic coordination. 

“Hello,” she said, with a nod. Maglor waited for something else, and then only after a few moments’ silence, realised that nothing else would be forthcoming. Neniel had learned more of Nurwë’s easy manner, then. 

Well, he might be an exiled wanderer now, but having been a prince did teach some useful skills. Talking to people, for one. 

“Hello, Tauren,” he returned. “My name’s Maglor. Neniel’s told me a little bit about you.” A certain distracted look in the eye, and her leggings were covered in saw-dust. Well, if nothing else, that made finding a topic of conversation easy. “You work with wood, don’t you?” She nodded, looking a little taken aback. He pointed to the roof. “Tell me, why are the slats designed like that?” 

Some of the confidence returned to her stance as she launched into an explanation. Neniel’s eyes were warm when Maglor glanced at her, and her nod was approving. Regen was now coming up the path and entering through the door, and Dînen behind her, as well as another woman. 

“Ráca’s running a bit late, I’m afraid,” the third woman said, crossing to Neniel and dropping a quick kiss on her lips. Maglor blinked. He hadn’t seen anyone do that since Elemmírë had introduced him to her parents in Taniquetil. “Goldberry! Good to see you again!” 

“You too, Aunt,” Neniel said, hugging her tightly. Oh. So that was Salyë. Didn’t she have a husband? Sílena walked in through the back exit, studying the whirl of her family with an amused look in her eye. Maglor envied her serenity, as she walked over to Tuilo and his arm came up to encircle her. 

“Alright! The apples are done!” Nurwë called out. When had he vanished back into the kitchen? “Everybody come in!” There was another whirl of movement as everybody grabbed a cushion from the sleeping mats, and walked around the dividing screen into kitchen area. Neniel’s hand wrapped around his as she sensed his bewilderment, and she reached out with the laughing bubbling-brook of her mind: it’s alright, Maglor. If there was a little amusement to the thought…well, that was normal. 

The vegetables were baked soft, and pleasantly smoky on the tongue. The greatest proportion of the meal, though, was undoubtedly the eel. It was delicious; easily as good as anything that he’d eaten in Alqualondë. And, though he didn’t eat any, the way Neniel’s face lit up when Maglor passed her the bowl of fried spiders was, Maglor was astonished to find, almost entirely worth the trouble of beheading them all. 

…Oh, sweet stars of Varda.

He called to mind the Sea, endless, grey, and rolling, and flung that thought into it, before returning his attention to the conversations. There were about four going on simultaneously, which made it tricky, but Maglor caught the words “call” and meeting” and “why”, and thought that one might be the most important one. He swallowed the mouthful of eel, and listened intently. 

“Well, you’re not the only one who wants to go,” Ráca piped up, as she bit into a baked onion. “I keep dreaming of the sea. And I know you’re not the only one who’s curious.” 

“Oh, so that’s why we’ve been eating more fish,” Tuilo said, with an air of dawning comprehension. Ráca pulled a face at him – some extended joke between the siblings? – and their mother frowned at them both.

“You want to come with me?” Neniel asked, and her cousins’ attention swung to her. 

“I do,” Ráca said. “You’re right. If we don’t go, we’ll never know. And Mam and Uncle Nurwë were right too, to not let us go when the war was still going on. You can’t rescue someone else if you’re going to drown too.  Besides, I don’t think we’re the only ones who think this way.” 

“You’re definitely not!” Regen piped up, from where she was sitting beside Helado and Tauren. Ráca laughed. 

“I wasn’t actually talking about you, Regen.” Regen looked vaguely insulted at that, as though she had been dismissed as insignificant; Tauren nudged her in the ribs. Ráca began reeling off a list – names, Maglor realised quickly – and Neniel interrupted a once or twice with an incredulous repetition of the name. But only once or twice. “So, we could go,” Ráca said. She had finished the list, it seemed. “We wouldn’t even be alone. And there’d still be people who could oversee the hunts.” 

“You’re not giving it to me!” Salyë said. “I have enough on my plate.” 

“Banë could do it,” Neniel said. 

Nurwë’s cup hit the floor, and he picked it up with a curse; Dînen made a twisting gesture, paused halfway through it, and then reached for the nanëni bottle instead, refilling Nurwë’s cup. He smiled at her, pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, and then locked eyes with his daughter. 

“Banë,” Nurwë repeated, his voice neutral. 

Maglor sighed. Knowing that you were missing about four layers of context to everything was thoroughly exasperating. He had no idea how Neniel had exercised so much patience when dealing with him. 

It’s a gift, Dînen’s voice rippled in his mind. To answer your question – my daughter and Banë have detested each other since they were both old enough to toddle. She paused. Despite this, quite a few people have a betting pool on whether she’ll marry him. 

That kind of mutual hatred. Maglor felt a surge of jealousy move through him, took a deep breath, and then threw it into the Sea as well, where it was better off. 

“Look, I hate him,” Neniel said, and that gave no clues at all. Maglor eyed his cup of nanëni and took another sip, before setting it on the floor. “However, I have never been able to argue his competence in the hunt. He knows the woods very, very well, he knows how to speak with the trees, he knows where to find the game, and where they go. He’d do a good job.” Neniel paused, grimacing as though the words had left a bad taste in her mouth, and swallowed the rest of her cup of mead, before she pointed at Maglor’s. “Are you going to finish that?” Maglor shook his head, and she picked it up and began sipping on it. Her eyebrows rose, and she took another, longer swig. “This batch is very good, Sílena.” 

Sílena laughed, and lifted her cup. “I trust your judgement more than my own sometimes, so that’s good to hear!” She glanced up at her law-mother. “So, Mam. There’ll be a meeting soon?” 

“Yes, I think so,” Salyë said. “We’ll have to spread the word fast, of course, but best to get this done as quickly as possible. Probably a few nights from now. It’ll take a day to get word to everyone, and then we’ll have to meet.  We need to start planning for the winter, and we need the numbers to do that.” She took another bite of the eel and spoke again. “Of course, that just raises the question of who should raise it at the meeting.” 

“Neniellë,” Ráca said, “she’s the eldest – well, not counting you three,” she said, with a gesture to Nurwë, Salyë and Dînen, “but if you do it, it sends the wrong message entirely. Anyway, she’s been wanting to do this for ages.” 

“You,” Neniel countered, but there wasn’t much feeling behind it. “You’re Salyë’s daughter.” 

Ráca grinned at her. “Why do you think I’m not staying? Tuilo can be heir and lead, enough for the both of us. I’m not cut out for it. But you? You'd do a good job.” 

There was wonder in Neniel’s eyes, the look of someone who had been given a gift that she was certain would never be hers to receive. “Are you sure?” 

Her voice was very soft. 

Ráca nodded, and took another drink from her cup. “I am.” Her eyes didn’t move from Neniel’s. “Lead us to Mithlond, and I’ll go with you.”

Maglor pushed memories of Aman away, as the silence lingered. After a long moment, she pushed her hair behind her ear, and nodded. “Alright. I’ll raise it at the meeting. It’s been a while since we had a fuss.” 

“Now we just need to throw the meeting together,” Nurwë said dryly. “Dînen, would you speak to the fishermen?” 

As if on cue, the air filled with chatter and suggestions about who would go where and talk to whom. Neniel’s fingers found his, and she squeezed. 

Come with me? You don’t have to say anything, but…A nervous sort of anticipation from her, the kind of not-quite-fear that he had known before intense performances. He smiled at her. 

You’ll be fine. And of course I’ll come, Maglor sent back, more than a little amused, even as his pulse sped up. Where else would I go? 

A wordless rush of warmth, affection, amusement from her, the sound of lapping waters almost laughing now, as she rested their linked hands on his knee for a moment. Then she pulled her hand away and reached forward to snag the last spider.  

---

 Maglor made a valiant effort not to stare as Neniel stepped out into the centre of the massive hall.  The effort failed miserably. She was dressed in a yellow skirt that wrapped around her hips, and fell to her ankles; the yellow bodice was cut just beneath the curve of her breast, and ran upwards from there to be fastened around her neck, leaving the skin of her lower back and her belly bare. Her hair was braided into a crown, with white lilies in her hair.  

Neniel clapped her hands and began to play the drum, singing wordlessly, and then finding words, her voice carrying easily through the room. A time long lost in memory, when Elves danced by starlit waterfalls, until the waterfall fell silent. That first battle, and their flight west; the grief and despair that had taken many of them. And slowly, as they met with their kin, and found a place to rest, the long march of their people towards healing, of making their lives anew. 

The song shifted in tempo and tune, and many of the Kindi who had fallen silent and transfixed stirred uneasily, as the rhythm turned. Neniel’s song conjured images of the First Age: the winged dragons, the rivers of fire, the slow, inexorable sinking of Beleriand into the Sea. 

She looked at Maglor, and her eyes seemed almost apologetic. Forgive me, he heard her whisper. 

The song shifted again, fierce and fast and martial, and she translated his father’s boast into Kindi: through the darkness to the starlight. 

She stilled abruptly, and set the drum down. Silence fell as she rose to her feet again. 

“We have been here in the forest for over an Age, and we have healed from the wounds we have taken. But now our kinsmen stand, with their world torn apart from them. Shall we not go to them, and offer what we may? Even if it is only ourselves.” She shrugged. “I do not know what we will find. But I will stay here no longer. If any would come with me, speak now.” 

Ráca stepped forward, with hibiscus flowers in her hair, and a wide grin that was almost entirely natural on her face.

“I will!” 

“What of your mother, Salyeniel? What does she say?” came a voice from the crowd. 

Smoothly, as gracefully as though they’d rehearsed it, both cousins turned and walked to Salyë and dropped to their knees in front of her. Salyë rested her hands on both golden and black heads, and then spoke, her voice pitched to carry. 

“It is no betrayal of who we are to seek to offer what we may to a torn world. For this reason, the Lord of Waters did not desire that we should come to Valinor. I shall not go, and neither shall my brother. We are happy here by the river. But any who would go with my niece are free to go as it pleases you. But speak, and speak now.” 

There was the sound of a quick movement, and Regen broke from the knot of young Elves she had been standing with to race to her sister’s side. That seemed to be the cue for others to walk forward, slowly at first, and then moving faster. Ten, then twenty, then fifty, and finally seventy-five Elves stood around Neniel and Ráca. Neniel’s eyes had widened as the first ten people walked forward; her jaw had begun to slacken after twenty. And now, for the first time in the season he’d known her, he saw her look like she had been slapped silly. He reached out in thought to her, and tapped against her mind. If you’re not careful, the fireflies will fly in. 

Her jaw snapped shut abruptly. She nodded, and then turned to speak to the Elves. 

“We will not leave immediately. There is much we must find out before we go, and much to prepare. But for now…” Neniel paused, and then shrugged, and smiled. “For now, I think we’ve had far too little music tonight. And we have a guest among us who is very skilled in music. Maglor Nerdanelion! Will you play for us?” 

Maglor stood, and bowed, picking up his harp. At least this would be something for him to concentrate on, besides the sparkle in her eyes.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said. Singing of Aman might be unwise, considering that Regen had named him a deserter. Instead, he played the introduction and then began to sing one of the ballads of the Nandor, the rhythm made for dancing. The group of seventy-five collapsed, as the Kindi launched into the dance, and those who did not dance joined in on his theme. First one harmony grew on it, and then another, and then another, until there seemed to be as many harmonies dancing on the strength of his melody as there were flickering shapes in the fire at the centre of the hall.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

•   Notes: 

   

• I have no idea what Helado was saying to the dye. I’ll leave that to your imagination.
   
• The houses the Kindi live in are based on Iroquois longhouses, which, from my limited research, seem to have been roofed with poles that could be easily moved to admit sunlight or keep out rain. Given that, furniture built to be collapsible definitely seems like something the Elves would design. 
   
• Fried spiders are a delicacy in Cambodia, according to wiki, and I’ve already firmly headcanoned the Kindi as breeding spiders and producing spider silk. Gotta do something with them when they’re dead.
   
• On the Kindi as Kinslayers: I don’t see Elves as being inherently too good to do something like fight to the death. I’m a Noldor fan, for crying out loud. And tbh, I think impending starvation is one of those things that causes people to do things they wouldn’t otherwise do. 
   
• Nurwë as one of the Unbegotten: There were 72 Unbegotten Nelyar, besides Enel and Enelyë. So, how can Nurwë have a sister, if he’s Unbegotten? I’m kind of imagining that Salyë and he were always really close, and when the second generation of Elves were born, and brothers and sisters became an enshrined concept in Elven culture, they just started using that to describe their relationship. And now…well, I wouldn’t advise arguing that they’re not really brother and sister within their earshot. Like. Seriously. Don’t do that. Bad idea. 
   
• A note on the Kindi politics here: The society is organised matrilineally, and Neniel’s mother is a Maia. While she lives among the Kindi, and she is even regarded warmly by them now, after over a thousand years, she still holds no rank within the Kindi, which is why Ráca and Tuilo are senior in rank to Neniel. Ráca arguing for Neniel to raise the topic at the meeting means that she is handing leadership of the expedition to Neniel, and Neniel, for a long time, has been telling herself that it’s not like she’d be any good as a leader anyway, so it doesn’t really matter, if Ráca and Tuilo are the heirs.
  And now...*grins*. Even immortal Elves should get surprises, after all.
   
• Kindi formal costume! I am so excited to finally have a chance to talk about this. So, Neniel is essentially wearing a yellow halter top and a drape skirt, which is one of the older styles of formal gear, when the fashion for tattoo placement was down by the small of the back. Regen and Tauren on the other hand are both born after the Kindi have encountered Galadriel’s people, so their design is a little different, and looks more like a choli, with a circle of the upper back bared, and framing the tattoo within the circle.