Spark Joy by Grundy

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Itarillë looked over the sideboard nervously.

It was silly, of course – Lomion cared more about the company than the food. But she so wanted him to be in a good mood when she told him her news, so she had made sure to order all his favorites. (It helped that several of his favorites were also her favorites. Hopefully that meant he wouldn’t notice her not overly subtle attempt to influence him.)

Her steward cleared his throat from the door.

“Yes, everything is ready, thank you,” she assured him with a smile that hopefully masked her nervousness.

He bowed and returned to the entry, where he was keeping a sharp eye out for her cousin.

Hendor seemed determined that for once, both she and Lomion would be on time and in good order. He had even gone so far as to send to his counterpart in the House of the Mole to be certain the prince would be reminded in a timely manner.

She wondered if he suspected… he had been more diligent than usual of late at making sure she did not get so absorbed in her work that she forgot to rest or eat.

Tuor had asked if she wished him to be present, but she had declined. There were some things a nis had to do for herself. Besides, she and Lomion had been each other’s confidants long before Tuor had been born. In all probability, they still would be after Tuor was dust.

She really didn’t know how the atani didn’t go mad knowing their lives were so short. (Tuor just laughed and asked if she thought candles worried about the wind.)

A rap on the door preceded Hendor’s return.

“The Prince of the Mole, my princess,” he announced.

There was a note of disgruntlement in his voice that meant that Lomion was somehow not as hoped.

But to Itarillë’s trained eye, the rumpled look of her cousin’s clothing was the sort that came from sitting and doing his best not to fidget for too long, not the sort produced by a marathon session in his workshop without a break.

“I admit to being slightly tardy,” Lomion sighed. “I hope you will forgive me?”

Hendor harrumphed on his way out of the room but made no further protest.

Lomion hugged her before sinking gratefully into his usual chair.

“You were working?” she asked, though she already knew that couldn’t have been the case. At least, not his usual sort of work.

“I suppose it could be called that,” Lomion snorted. “Meeting with the Hammer and the Pillar. Penlod would go on even when everyone else was ready to adjourn.”

He gave the baked noodle dish a look that suggested it was somehow at fault for Penlod’s tendency to draw meetings out given half a chance, and Itarillë had to stifle a giggle.

“Well, at least you know there will be none of that here!”

“I should hope not,” Lomion grumbled. “If it had just been me, Rog, and our deputies, we could have been done in half an hour.”

“How long did it take?” she asked sympathetically.

“Three.”

“Three half hours?” she asked cautiously. It’s long, but not as long as the Lord of the Pillar has extended some sessions.

“No, three hours,” he replied, finally stirring himself to reach for a plate. “Good think you laid on eats. I’m starving.”

“That’s what happens when you go to a meeting with Penlod and don’t have breakfast first,” she laughed, grabbing a plate of her own, and dishing herself a generous helping of the noodles along with some of the salad.

“Anyway,” Lomion said, handing her a roll from the basket that was closer to him than her and adding a little scoop of the herb butter that went with it to her plate, “you did not invite me to lunch to hear me whinge about Penlod setting new records for boredom. What is on your mind today?”

Oh. Right. She’d spent so much time fussing about the food that she hadn’t actually thought about how to tell him…

She must have hesitated too long, because Lomion’s expression changed from playful to concerned.

“Itarillë? Is something wrong?”

She could see in his eyes the same worry that haunted her on occasion – that something might be amiss with Tuor.

“No!” she managed to get out. “Nothing is wrong! The news I wanted to share today is of a happier nature. At least, I think it is…”

She trailed off, because that was really the heart of her worry and hesitation. That others might not share her joy, but only see the potential problems. Her father had hesitate to give them his blessing when they married, she had no idea how he would react to this.

“I suppose you could leave me in suspense until dessert arrives, but it seems a bit mean,” Lomion said, at ease now that she’d reassured him.

“I…”

She took a deep breath.

“Tuor and I have begotten a child,” she said.

It sounded so much more real now that she’s said it out loud to someone other than Tuor.

Tuor more than halfway doesn’t believe it anyway. He had laughed when she assured him they had a son, and said only time would tell if she was truly with child.

She found it intensely frustrating, especially because the begetting had been so much more difficult than she had expected in the first place. From what Tuor said, atani women seemed to bear children quite often, and while she knew perfectly well they were bringing their first child forth earlier than any elven couple would, they hadn’t the same luxury of time her people usually did.

Lomion’s fork stopped midway between his plate and his mouth and he was entirely silent and still for just long enough that Itarillë began to worry in earnest.

“A child?” he exclaimed. “You are a mother?”

His eyes lit up as he let the news sink in. Her cousin was as unreservedly delighted as she’d hoped her husband would be.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“This is why you looked so nervous when I came in?” he continued. “But why? This is wonderful news!”

“At least someone thinks so,” she said in relief.

“Why should everyone not think so?” Lomion asked in astonishment.

“Tuor seems far more pragmatic about the whole thing,” she told him quietly. “I do not know quite what to make of it. And I am not sure what Atto will say.”

Lomion shrugged.

“Perhaps the atani ways for new parents are different?” he suggested. “Ammë sometimes remarked on the differences between the Noldor and the Lindar, and we know less about the ways of Tuor’s people than she did of my father’s people.”

Itarillë turned that idea over in her mind.

“Perhaps you are right. I should ask him more about the subject. Perhaps fathers are more reserved among them.”

“He can be as reserved as he likes,” Lomion told her. “Don’t worry, I’ll more than make up for it.”

“Oh?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m an uncle,” he beamed. “I’ve never been an uncle before!”

His excitement was contagious, and Itarillë felt her own spirits lift in response.

“When does the child come into the light?” he asked.

“I am not entirely sure,” she confessed. “If Tuor were an elf, I would say fifty-one weeks from now. But he tells me atani infants are born after only nine months. So I do not know when to expect our son to greet the world.”

Lomion blinked, and she could practically see him adding that to his mental store of knowledge about the atani.

“Well, I suppose that will keep us all on our toes, a child that can chose his own time,” he said thoughtfully. “In that case, I’d better get started on a begetting gift as soon as may be. It wouldn’t do to have the boy born before his gift was ready!”

She laughed, for among the Noldor and the Sindar alike, it was considered bad luck for a child not to have received any gifts before its birth. It was rarely a problem, though – traditionally, one set of grandparents gifted a blanket and the other a cradle. Everything else was up to the rest of the parents’ relatives and friends.

But this was not the city she’d been born in, and her mother was not here. After her father, Lomion would be her son’s closest kin.

“I take it you and Atto will see to the cradle?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

Lomion nodded, though he also looked slightly discombobulated at the idea.

She supposed he and Atto did both have strong opinions about design, so there might well be some minor squabbles – particularly since her father would doubtless have something Noldorin in mind while her cousin’s ideas about cradles would be more Sindarin. But it was only right that they should both have a hand in it.

“I doubt anyone would expect us to produce a blanket, neither of us having much talent in that direction. Perhaps Aunt Irimë and Laurefindil will stand in for Tuor’s parents?”

“Oh! I hadn’t even thought on that!” she exclaimed. “Maybe that’s why Tuor is less pleased about this than I’d hoped.”

“You could just ask him,” Lomion suggested wryly.

“I suppose I could. Except he’s gone to see Laurefindil.”

Now it was Lomion’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“He heard that their gardeners had produced a new variety of basil that could be grown in window boxes. It’s so fragrant and the flowers are lovely. He thought perhaps I might like some in the windows of my office.”

“Ah. Well, at least he’s getting that part right. You should have flowers and fragrant things around.”

Itarillë gave him a look.

“You don’t have the faintest idea what is supposed to be done for new mothers, do you?” she asked sweetly.

Lomion shifted slightly before he gave up and shrugged.

“Not really,” he admitted. “How would I? Only a few pairs in my House have begotten children. And I’m the youngest lord, as Salgant is constantly reminding us all, so it’s not as if anyone looks to me in these matters. But it makes sense – you should have something like that around for a new life.”

“Is that the Sindarin view on things?” she asked curiously.

Lomion may not know much about the Noldorin approach, but she knew really nothing at all of what the Sindar thought.

He nodded.

“More or less. And I know the Noldor might fuss, but to the Lindar, having children so soon is nothing out of the ordinary. I was not nearly so ‘hasty’ as Auntie seems to think.”

Itarillë had to stifle a giggle, because Irimë has expressed horror more than once at how soon after his parents’ marriage Lomion had been begotten – a scant few years later.

“I don’t know much about the finer details, seeing as I was the youngest there too,” Lomion shrugged. “I mean, none of my kinswomen begot children before I came here, so I’ve only just picked up the stuff that everyone knows. Like that it’s good luck to beget children in spring, and that it’s good to have flowers and growing things around new mothers.”

He paused.

“What about the Noldor?”

Itarillë laughed.

“I know some things, but probably not much more than you do. Aunt Irissë is the only one of our kin I know who’s begotten a child here in Beleriand. But I’m assuming Auntie Irimë will fill me in.”

“Poor Auntie’s going to be very busy, filling in for your mother as well as Tuor’s parents. Especially as she won’t know what the atani do any more than we do…”

“Yes, all right, fine, I’ll ask him!”

“If you don’t, I will,” Lomion grinned as he applied himself to dishing out the dessert.

“Have you told your father yet?” he asked.

The plate he handed her was heaped higher than she would normally have accepted (at least for a first serving.)

At her slightly reproachful look, he gave her his most innocent smile.

“You’re eating for my nephew too, you know.”

She couldn’t hold the glare long, not when it was strawberry shortcake...

“No, I haven’t told Atto,” she admitted. “You’re the first.”

“You’ll be telling him next, though.”

“Yes?” Itarillë offered.

He didn’t ask, but then he didn’t really need to - he just sat there waiting expectantly for her to tell him.

“He was reluctant about the marriage, you know that. What if he’s not pleased at the thought of a grandson who may be more an atan than one of us?”

It’s her biggest worry, really. She knew she would continue to love her son no matter what, even if his days proved to be as short as his father’s. But her father might feel differently. He still hasn't gotten over her mother's death - or her uncle's, or her aunt's, or her grandfather's.

“I think the only thing Uncle will consider relevant is ‘grandson’,” Lomion said thoughtfully.

He leaned forward, and caught her hand.

“You should tell him soon. He will be hurt if you do not.”