Suitable Foster by herenortherenearnorfar

---

Baby Fever

---

Balan’s people had their own scripts, simple and designed to communicate to the broadest audience possible. If you wanted to make sure those coming after you knew about a goat, you drew a goat. If the subject of discussion was a fire, there was bound to be a fire symbol somewhere in the cobbled together pictography of the people.

Compared to that common sense communicative technique, the Tengwar was a swirling mess. Half the time he got the letters backwards, and that changed their meaning immensely, and then the whole word was thrown off or the sentence ruined. Reading was a smidge better, but still took longer than he felt it ought. The children of men had picked up quickly on elvish language, stacking it on their native one like pretty bead bracelets on top of one another. They valued so little what their elders had to work for. 

The abominably curly alphabet did make it easier to discuss complex political matters through letter though. Since letters were his main form of communication with his children Bëor grit his teeth and double-checked every line, tracing across the stiff birch-bark paper with the uninked tip of a hawk’s quill. At least his hands could still hold a pen. The stiff joints of old age were starting to creep up on him. Soon the days of dotage would be here and memories of struggling through letters from Baran would be a passing joy. 

The air in the room changed slightly, the warm fire— banked high in spite of Nargothrond’s approaching spring— dancing with renewed vigor and the hairs on the back of Bëor’s neck prickling. 

“King Felagund,” he nodded, not looking up. “How is your city?”

“Less exciting with you holed away, my friend.” He could feel Nóm’s loose hair fall across his shoulders as the elf leaned over him and placed a posy of spring flowers by his hand. “You should come out to the river! We dearly miss your company.”

Bëor touched the blossoms lightly, feeling his callouses catch on the delicate flowers. Squill, snowdrops, pussy willow. Pale spring plants, the sort that crept out while the mornings still threatened frost. “The river is too cold for me. In your wisdom, you should know that.” He had dwelt with them for many years, yet human frailty still caught the Eldar by surprise. Every winter they wondered at the chills he got and marveled at the common cold, and every spring they laughed when he would not join them in the river— the river that had been iced over just weeks ago.

Finrod’s smile was audible, bright as the adonis flowers that had been braided in his hair that morning. “Oh my wisdom comes from not knowing a great many things. What word is there from your son?”

Balan glanced back at the letter. “Mostly good news so far. They have survived the snows on their own supplies this year. Your kinsmen offered aid but they were able to kindly decline. There were no great illnesses either— the new outhouses seem to be working well and our wise woman’s knowledge is growing even greater.” The plants here were not too different from the ones across the mountains to his eyes, yet the healers made the small distinctions seem important.

“Any observations of note?” Finrod had pulled a low stool over from the hearth and was sitting now, full of interest. After the first few discoveries made by Bëor’s people, of new remedies elves did not need or of poisons that impacted one kind but not the other, he’d started taking notes. Even second-hand accounts of the health of Estolad were juicy gossip to him. 

“The winter fever and the gripe were mild but they still took some of our old,” He didn’t look at Nóm, more aware than ever of his own white hair and papery skin. The chill had gotten so bad that he had to wear a hat indoors over the winter. “We did lose a young mother. Baran is having some trouble finding a home for her two babes.” The older one was at least weaned and the younger, Baran wrote, was surviving on goat’s milk and whatever the other ladies could spare. 

“Children?” Felagund sounded uncharacteristically distressed. “Surely their father is with them.”

“She was close-lipped about their sire. One of the orphans who came with us on the long search, poor girl, and she never quite found a home. No matter, Baran will shake it out of one of the young lads, or their parents will step up. Grandchildren make all of us weak.” Bëor’s own grandchildren saw him with excruciating infrequency. It was one of his last few regrets. In the face of two bouncing babies some soft heart would break.

King Finrod’s soft heart looked to be in pieces already. “Oh, what a terrible fate, poor children. No family at all.” He looked up at Balan, water-mirror eyes at full reflectivity, and said, “You should write back to your son and say we can take care of them here in Nargothrond.”

Lost in that lovely, empathetic face, it took Bëor a moment to realize what a terrible offer he’d just been made. 

“Baran will find their kin, given time,” he weakly reassured the elven lord, but Finrod’s mind was now made up. 

“I insist. Rations will be tight until the first harvest comes in and it would be a hardship for any family in your kingdom,” it was kind of him to refer to Estolad as a kingdom, “to take on two infants. Nargothrond could easily host them and my people would delight in such young faces among our midst.” 

He leaned over and touched the back of Bëor’s hand with his fingers, long fingers with broad flat fingertips that always made Balan think of a frog.

“It wouldn’t be good for the children,” he blurted. “They’ll need humans.”

“Oh.” Nóm didn’t argue, just sat back, face pensive. Behind him the fire crackled angrily. 

“I do not doubt your intentions are good but there are things they’ll need to know from other mortals. How to handle the cold in winter, how to bear the chills and colics of childhood.” Elves loved children but shunned having them in any time of danger. In all of Nargothrond there were only a handful of young people, all of whom were close, cossetted, and dear. Wise old young creatures, Balan thought, half sage and half infant with nought but adults to entertain them. He did not doubt Finrod’s subjects would love any mortal child in their midst... but their love was a smothering sort and did not seem to account well for the delicate nature of mankind.

“You have lived among us for many years,” Nóm reminded him. “You will be there to help.”

“There are some matters I can’t aid with,” Bëor said firmly. “What if they need friends their own age? Humans thrive on company and need more playmates than your kind. What if they live among you for many years and the younger girl needs a human woman to teach her about the ways of things?”

A beet-red flush crept up Nóm’s cheeks, reaching all the way to the tips of his frostragged ears before reason reasserted itself. He was too easily scandalized by instinct and too permissive by habit. “I have spoken at great length with your wise women,” he reminded Bëor. “We are not that different, men and elves. Besides, Estolad is not far, and you will be here to help.”

Another bad habit of elves— they assumed permanence in all things. “I may not be here much longer.”

Finrod’s brow furrowed. “It would only be a decade or two. Surely you...” his hand crept back to Bëor’s, squeezing lightly as if to check his continued presence. The pressure made his old bones ache but the warmth washed away the pain quickly. 

“Hard to say,” Balan shrugged. “Finrod, I am old. And while the children of men must learn about dying, I should not be their only lesson.” The elves, he feared, would raise strange bairns, half spirit and half flesh, unafraid of doom and unaware of human ways about the world. The lot of orphans was sad but better than that of changelings. 

“As always, you give wise counsel.” Finrod smiled, tight-lipped. “I’m afraid my urge to help rather got away from me. To hear of young people suffering is not easy.”

“It isn’t easy for men either. You must trust that we can take care of our own children, for it preferable to human children living alone without their kindred. Unless you think their missing father is one of your kinsmen?” He slanted a glance at Finrod who, as expected, laughed. 

“No, no, I trust my cousins in Thargelion and Himlad. They and theirs know better than that, if only barely. They are too proud and all agree that a union of our people would be ill advised.” The idea of half-elf children haunted Bëor as well. It was an inevitability, and yet he hoped selfishly that it would not come to pass in his lifetime. The possibilities that arose were... complicated and all people in their secret hearts loathed to live in complicated times. 

“And yet I cannot help but think that it is not our fate to be sundered so,” Finrod added mournfully. He had stolen the posy out from under Balan’s nose and was twisting it between his fingers.“Someday, I hope it will come to pass that children of elves and men can dwell in any welcoming hall.”

There was a melancholy that came over elves sometimes when you confronted them with the unfortunates of life. It was like they had to drag every dark and uncomfortable thought that ought to live in the wakeful night into crisp daylight. Wistfulness overtook them too quickly. 

Because he was a good guest and a better friend, Balan nudged the king of the elves with his boot. “You’re just saying that because you want to hold a baby.”

Nóm tucked the flowers beneath his chin. “Yes, you caught me. Would you like some help writing your response?”

The tengwar, though useful, was a monstrously elegant creation, and Bëor’s hands ached. “Your wisdom is always welcome.”

Finrod’s bright eyes turned up at the corners. “As is yours.”