A Septad of Silvestris Variables by Lferion

A Septad of Silvestris Variables

The kittens were unexpected, indeed, entirely inexplicable. How had they gotten there? From whence had they come? No mother cat was in sight, nor did there seem to be any hiding places big enough for a kitten smaller than the smallest in this kindle, much less a cat big enough to be producing offspring. And it seemed ... unlikely (not impossible, no, but more than a little unlikely) ... that Yavanna or Vana had simply manifested them. But here they unquestionably were. Fingon sat down in the middle of the glassy bowl; instantly he had a lap full of adorable fuzz balls. What Maedhros would say he had no idea, but he couldn’t just leave them here. He for one had never had time for the idea that cats were a product of Morgoth and Sauron’s twisting of living things into vile shapes. There were — had been, should still be — cats in Valinor after all.

There were seven kittens, and they were small enough to fit in one of his saddlebags. (Even without a saddle per se, longer journeys required some supply, and Celegant had never minded wearing enough tack to carry travel-packs. Men had called them saddle-bags, for they did generally prefer saddles for long rides, and the term had stuck.) The kittens were old enough to be interested in more solid food (for a version of solid that was still quite soft — dried meat cut fine and cooked over the fire in water from the nearby stream), even if the smallest and most venturesome one kept climbing Fingon's tunic and butting at his chest. "Nothing there for you, little one, not now, and likely never." He (Fingon had determined there were three males and four females, at least as far as visible equipment went) snugged himself into a gap between Fingon's inner and outer tunics, and would not budge. He made a pleasant warm weight against his ribs.

The rest of the kittens were quite happy to stay in the bag, as long as the flap was loose. Ears and noses and twiggy tail-tips in various colors would appear and vanish again as Celegant stepped smoothly through the grassy meadow along the treeline. The glassy, perfectly circular bowl had vanished behind them, and Fingon did his best not to think about what had caused it or how the kittens might have arrived. They were here, and he would see that they had the best life possible. He was becoming fairly sure that they were not exactly ordinary kittens. (How could they be?) in part because they appeared to have actual fëar, more distinct than the sparks of life and sense that most animals had. Though that could be because they were cats. Fingon had not known many cats. Certainly each one of these kittens had a very definite personality, that was perfectly apparent even if he had only known them for a few hours.

The kittens loved Hithlum, and Barad Eithel. They charmed everyone, from Fingolfin down to the youngest child of Men, and got along remarkably well with the fox with an indeterminate number of tails. At times, they all seemed deceptively ordinary, but Fingon knew that none of them were, and especially not the little blue-grey one with the copper eyes and one perfectly circular pale grey spot (each of them, somewhere, had a pale, perfectly circular spot), who had adopted him from the outset. Maedhros named him Shadow, and the others acquired similarly ambiguous names.

Fingon never did learn where they came from. But that was all right. They were happy and busy and very well loved. What did it matter that occasionally they could be seen staring up at one particular star. After all, plenty of Elves did the same. Fingon himself had done so, more than once. The night before he found them had been such a night, the stars burning fiercely and beautifully. Maybe Varda had sent them, not Vana or Yavanna. Maybe when they were done being cats they would return to the stars. If so, they were certainly in no hurry, and Fingon was just fine with that.