Cliffhanging by Grundy

Guess Who?

I would point out that many season finales end on a cliffhanger, so it's entirely appropriate I only have one chapter of two finished in time for the challenge deadline.

Read Guess Who?

Turukano pinched the bridge of his nose.

It had been a long, trying day.

Sometimes he didn’t know what was worse - the short, sullen grey days of winter when it felt like they’d never see the sun again, or the height of summer when the days seemed to have no end and his people went slightly mad feasting and drinking. Of late, both extremes of season brought out grumbles about not being able to leave the valley.

He’d had to discipline several of his younger subjects that day for a drunken attempt to do just that. All four were too young to have known anything but the safety of Tumladen.

One of them had been insolent enough to point out that his sister had been permitted to depart. It hadn’t improved the king’s temper in the least.

He’d heard nothing of Irissë since she went missing in Nan Dungortheb, evading Ecthelion, Laurefindil, and Egalmoth. (And he didn’t doubt it had been evasion. There had clearly been intent on her part to do as she would. He suspected she had run east instead of west to Finno like he had ordered her to go.)

Turukano had told the impudent youth shortly that if he thought Princess Irissë was one to emulate, he was much mistaken.

They were all on sewer duty for a week, regardless that they were Harps and Swallows. Ecthelion was generally grateful for extra help at the height of summer. Turukano had suggested the young saucepot in particular be put to any problems that required slopping out latrines.

He had a splitting headache.

He took a cautious sip of wine, hoping the delicate white would settle his head without roiling his stomach. He’d been working on it ever since he was left in blessed quiet by the dismissal of the chastened miscreants an hour ago.

It was the anniversary of Elenwë’s death, and his body never failed to remind him of that miserable day.  He was thankful that Rillë never seemed similarly affected – perhaps it being so very different here than it had been on the Ice helped. The sunlight, the warmth, the joy of their people… he encouraged them to make merry at this time of year, in the hope that it would lighten his own spirit. It hadn’t worked yet, but perhaps next year it would.

He was on his third glass, and just thinking he might retire for the evening, heading for the stairway from his office to his private rooms, when Laurefindil came flying in, his face glowing with excitement.

“Whatever it is, Laurë, it can wait until the morrow,” Turukano said tiredly. “I’m not in the mood for anything else just now. Good night.”

“You’re in the mood for this,” his cousin announced cheerfully. “Irissë’s back.”

Turukano’s mood might have lifted considerably had he not cracked his head against the doorframe turning around so abruptly.

“If this is a joke, it’s in remarkably poor taste,” he growled.

“It’s no joke. Are you coming or not? Rillë’s with them in the great hall – and out of deference to you, we’ve kept everyone else but Mother out.”

Turukano glared at him, but headed back out to his hall without further protest. He was relieved to hear his kin had remembered what day it was, and how little he liked having to deal with other people on it.

Laurefindil had told him truly – that was most definitely his adorable, brash, annoyingly strong-willed little sister chattering merrily away to Aunt Irimë. But his attention was immediately caught by the tall youth whose air of amazement mirrored Rillë’s perfectly.

For just a split second, he thought it was his little brother returned as well. Then reason reasserted itself and he remembered that Aryo was as dead as his beloved Elenwë.

His daughter turned to him, her face radiant as the sun.

“Atto!” she beamed. “Look, this is my cousin!”

He had rarely heard such excitement in his daughter’s voice – but then, she was an only child, and had grown up with no other family than her father’s sister, cousin, and aunt at hand. Younger kin were not within her experience.

The boy had one hand still caught in hers, and his eyes showed his youth plainly.

“Oh?” was the closest to coherent speech Turukano could manage. He raised an eyebrow at his sister.

“I was not even aware you had married.”

Irissë grinned.

“There were some slight difficulties in sending you wedding announcements,” she shrugged. “I understand wanting to keep everyone safe, Turvo, but you take it too seriously. If you were less strict, you’d have heard. Atto and Finno know. So does Artë.  And Ingo – and his brothers, too, I suppose. Even our cousins know. Curvo sends his greetings, by the way.”

Turukano’s unsettled temper spiked at the mention of his kinslayer cousins – particularly Curvo. But he did his best to keep calm.

“You’ve made your point. What is the boy’s name?” he asked, pleased at how level his voice was.

“Lomion,” Irissë said proudly.

“Maeglin,” answered a male voice at the same time.

Turukano noticed the man at his sister’s side for the first time. By his clothing and his coloring, he had to be one of Thingol’s people. The idea that his sister had been sucked into the orbit of the Sindarin king did not improve his temper. Artanis and her nephew were enough for diplomacy’s sake, surely?

“Maeglin Lomion,” Irissë said, with a warm look at son and mate alike. “And this is my husband, Eöl.”

Eöl was no fool, for he picked up on the barely concealed anger rolling off his newly met law-brother. Irissë didn’t notice, hugging the dour man cheerfully. For his part, he did his best to subtly manever her further away from her brother.

“Just look at the children,” she said cheerfully. “Surely that was worth the trip?”

Eöl’s response was noncommittal.

“As you say, wife,” he shrugged.

Aunt Irimë looked from Irissë and her husband to Turukano.

“Perhaps Rillë would like to show Lomion around the city?” she suggested. “I believe he’ll find it quite different than Menegroth, and I would not mind hearing more of my nieces. I have not seen either of them in some years.”

“Oh, yes, Lomion, we must show you Ondolindë – you’re visiting at the very best season,” Rillë assured her cousin. “You’ve missed Tarnin Austa, but the city is still decorated for the festival, and there will be singing and dancing in most of the squares. Come!”

Lomion had little choice but to allow himself to be enthusiastically swirled out of the room with Rillë and their great-aunt.

“Leave us,” Turukano snapped at Laurefindil.

“Cousin,” Laurë began, a note of warning in his tone.

“Last I checked, I was the king of Ondolindë,” Turukano said sternly. “Leave us.”

“The king had best keep his temper,” Laurë muttered as he bowed to the room.

Irissë had caught his mood by now, but waited until their cousin had closed the door behind him to say anything.

“It’s a treat to see you, too, big brother,” she snorted. “What under the stars is your problem? I would have thought you’d be pleased.”

“How dare you ask that?” he snapped. “You disappear, might have died for all I know, send no word whatsoever, only to waltz back in eighty-five years later with a dark elf?”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

“If Curvo and Tyelko could not only keep civil tongues in their heads talking to my husband, but actually welcome him with the warmth a kinsman should by rights expect, you can manage basic politeness to your law-brother.”

“I should have thought your husband would dislike our kinslaying cousins as much as I do,” Turukano growled, incensed at the mention of them today of all days.

“I can’t say I’m as fond of them as Aredhel,” the dark elf said cooly. “But they were a great help to us, and I hope in return they did not find me ungrateful.”

His eyes were inscrutable, but Turukano suspected they had caught that he was slightly the worse for drink. He tried not to flush.

“What are you doing bringing weapons into my city?” he demanded irritably, gesturing at the knives and bow he could see.

Eöl’s eyebrows flew up at that, and he asked Irissë in Sindarin if her brother was serious.

“Yes, I am, as it happens,” Turukano snapped. “I don’t permit weapons to be carried openly within my city, except by the city guard or those going to and from their military drills.”

“One can tell you haven’t travelled much outside your valley,” Eöl snorted. “No one goes unarmed on the East-West road these days. Despite your cousins’ excellent watch in the highlands, the orcs still slip through from time to time.”

Turukano couldn’t tell if he meant the Arafinwions in Dorthonion, or the kinslayers further east, but he suspected the latter and didn’t like that they were being brought up yet again.

“That’s all well and good, but they should have been left at the gates,” Turukano snapped.

“What is wrong with you?” Irissë demanded. “Has the isolation addled your brain, or have you been hit in the head too often in your precious military drills since I left? No one was about to tell my husband to leave his weapons at the gate as if he were some untrusted stranger!”

“He is a stranger,” Turukano said irritably. “Though I suppose he won’t be for long. He is subject to the same law as any other – now that he is here, here is where he stays.”

He was selfishly pleased to see he’d succeeded in spreading his foul mood, as Eöl’s eyes sparked dangerously at that.

“I do not recognize your law,” Eöl growled. “The only king I answer to is Thingol. I did not object to the idea of visiting Aredhel’s kin, particularly since my wayward son had his heart set on seeing the city, but I did not agree to relocate here permanently. You may have the freedom to hide yourself from the rest of the world, but not all of us have that luxury!”

Irissë stepped between them, one hand soothingly on her mate’s arm.

“Peace, beloved,” she said, though Turukano knew her well enough to hear that it was not peace at all in her voice. “He is being an ass because he’s in a foul mood. We will retire for the evening, and discuss this in morning when he’s calmer. And soberer.”

Her glare said that she’d noticed he was in his cups, though she showed no sign of sympathy.

“I’m plenty calm,” he snapped. “And he should not be walking around with these!”

He grabbed at one of the knives, pulling it from its sheath, and was grimly pleased to see Eöl back away at once.

“Careful, kinsman,” he said tautly.

“Turvo, for the love of Varda!” Irissë snapped. “Stop acting like you’re more of a child than my underage son.”

Her tone sounded more like Ammë than he’d ever heard her. Perhaps motherhood had made her grow up at last.

“I know perfectly well how to handle a blade, little sister.”

“Then stop waving it about and handle it properly,” she suggested. “And give it back!”

He turned to focus on her rather than the Sinda at her side. But he was slightly off balance, and the knife in his hand nicked her arm.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, feeling the blood rushing to his face. Perhaps he had gotten a bit out of hand. “I’ll get you a bandage.”

She stared at the blood on her arm, her face going pale.

“Oh, Valar,” she breathed, sounding utterly terrified.

Turukano froze, unsure why she was so fussed about such a trifling injury. She’d done worse to herself learning to shoot properly and laughed about it.

He was startled by Eöl smacking his arm with his bow hard enough to make him drop the knife, sending it skittering away across the floor. The other man pulled Irissë into a rough embrace, looking stricken.

“Beloved,” she said, sounding somehow broken. “It… will it be painful?”

She sounded like a little girl again, petrified there might be orcs after Tyelko had scared her silly with his terrible stories.

“Not at all, my love,” he said quietly, looking into her eyes as though they were the only two people in the world. “Do not trouble yourself even a moment. All will be well. Just take care of her. Until we can join you.”

“Her?” Turukano asked stupidly, feeling as though he was missing something terribly important.

The crack of his sister’s neck breaking echoed in the suddenly still hall as loudly as a cannonade.

Turukano Nolofinwion saw red, a haze that crowded out any sense of guilt or wrongdoing on his part.

Laurefindil was the first one back in the room after his bellow.

“Fetch my guards,” he said coldly. “This twisted dark elf just murdered my sister.”

Eöl did not speak, but the look of purest loathing he shot at Turukano said more than words possibly could have.

 Laurë, for his part, looked completely gobsmacked.

“What are we to tell the children?” he asked quietly.

Turukano wasn’t prepared for that conversation, and glared until his younger cousin did as he had been ordered.

As it happened, it wasn’t his household guard who entered, but Ecthelion, Duilin and Rog. So much the better, as it meant Turukano had unimpeachable witnesses to his sister crumpled lifeless on the ground and her so-called mate standing at bay.

“Confine him,” he ordered. “I will pass judgement on him in the morning. I cannot look on him right now. And I must break the grim news to my daughter and my nephew.”