The Kids Are All Right by grey_gazania

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Chapter 1

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FA 495

 

Winter had come early to the south of Beleriand, and though it had yet to snow, the air was cold and wet. The Elves standing guard at Círdan’s outpost at the Mouths of Sirion were red-cheeked from the wind, and both of them were looking forward to the change in watch, when they would be able to go inside and rest by the fire for a time.

 

“It’s going to be a rough winter,” Aerlin said, standing with her gloved hands clasped behind her back. “I can feel my bones acting up already.”

 

Braglanen fiddled with the strap of his quiver. “Don’t say that,” he said. “You’ll call down bad luck.”

 

Aerlin snorted, her breath condensing in the chill air. She didn’t believe in luck. The ache in her old injuries always meant bad weather. Whether she said it aloud or not wouldn’t make a difference. But she’d long ago learned that trying to make Braglanen give up his superstitions was a futile exercise, so she stayed quiet, focusing on the land around her. She was peering out through the mist, watching for any sign of movement, when she caught sight of a ragtag group of people moving towards her.

 

“Braglanen,” she said quietly. “I think we have guests.”

 

As the group came closer, their figures became clearer. Two dozen or so men, three women, and one lone child were trudging along the bank of the river, following its course towards Círdan’s outposts. They were in sorry shape, grey in the face and swaying with exhaustion, and a number of them seemed to be sporting injuries.

 

Braglanen and Aerlin stepped out to meet them -- alert, but not with their weapons drawn. Morgoth had yet to send any servants in the guise of refugees, and people escaping from Hithlum had been making their way south in a slow but steady trickle for the past twenty-odd years.

 

“Do you come from Hithlum?” Braglanen called as they approached.

 

“We come from Nargothrond,” a man answered. He was carrying one of the others over his shoulders, and apparently had been for some time; though his shoulders were broad and strong, he was stooping under the weight of his companion. His face was grave, and he said, “The city has fallen.”

 

For a moment, Aerlin froze, certain that she had misheard the man. But the sorry state of the people in front of her spoke for itself, and she felt herself grow cold with dread. She hurried to catch up with Braglanen, who had already reached the newcomers.

 

“That is ill news,” Braglanen said, stretching out his arms to help one of the women, who was limping badly. “How many more are behind you?”

 

For a moment there was silence. “None that we know of,” one finally said. “Orodreth is slain, along with nearly all whom he led into battle. The city has been destroyed by the dragon, and the rest of our people were taken captive. Túrin still lives -- and may the wretch be damned for his foolishness -- but we know not where he has gone.”

 

At that, even Braglanen fell still, utterly stunned. Surely this couldn’t be all that was left of Nargothrond, that great city that Finrod Felagund had labored so long to build and protect?

 

“What happened?” Aerlin finally managed to ask.

 

“Orodreth took us to Tumhalad to face Glaurung,” the tallest of the men said, his grey eyes shadowed. “We were routed. By the time we reached the city, the dragon had already made his way inside. Lúthwen and her children are all who escaped.”

 

“I knew,” said a woman -- evidently Lúthwen. “I don’t know how, but I knew in my heart that the battle had gone ill. So I took my girls and we ran. No one else would come. They said I was mad. Even my sister--”

 

Here she broke off, fighting back a sob, and covered her face with her shaking hands.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Aerlin said quietly. “Let’s get you all inside. We have food, and Eirien, our healer, can see to the worst of your wounds. Then we’ll get you to Balar. The Houses of Healing there will be able to treat the rest of you.”

 

“Thank you,” the tallest man said. Together, he and the other remnants of Nargothrond followed Círdan’s people to safety.

 

***********

 

Ereiniel fought back a yawn as she trailed after her mother, walking down the frozen dirt road and into the Houses of Healing. It wasn’t even dawn yet, but Lord Círdan had called for all those who worked there to be woken, telling them that a party of injured Elves was coming over from the mainland. Nargothrond, it seemed, had fallen, and the survivors had come to seek refuge on Balar. It was dire news. Nargothrond had been a thriving city, one of the few strongholds of the Elves to survive Morgoth’s assaults over the past few decades. Now only Doriath, Gondolin, and Balar itself remained.

 

While Ianneth stopped to consult with Halwen, the chief healer, Ereiniel joined her neighbor Ólwen by the fire. Ólwen, too, was yawning, and her eyes were still puffy from sleep. The two women didn’t speak, but they nodded at each other in greeting and together began to hang pots full of water over the flames to heat.

 

Medicine wasn’t exactly Ereiniel’s calling. In fact, though she’d turned fifty in the beginning of the year, she’d yet to find any craft that truly suited her. But the Houses of Healing always needed extra hands, and thanks to her mother’s lessons, Ereiniel was skilled enough to be useful.

 

She liked being useful.

 

Occasionally, too, she was called upon to use the Elessar, the gem her father had entrusted to her before his death. In the aftermath of the destruction of the Falas, she’d found that she could use it to focus the light of the sun and heal those who were gravely wounded. She wore it now, on a chain tucked beneath her tunic, for it was the only thing of Fingon’s that she still possessed. Her feelings towards her father may not have been as simple as they had been when she was a child, before she knew of his part in the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, but she still missed him terribly.

 

By the time the people from Nargothrond arrived on the island and were ushered inside, the water was warm and the necessary supplies had been assembled. Ereiniel was sent to help a man with a broken ankle.

 

“Did Eirien tell you where the break is?” she asked him, unwrapping his makeshift bandage to reveal swollen, bruised skin.

 

The man shook his head. “The others needed her attention more than I did.”

 

Ereiniel nodded and then began to carefully palpate the area, seeking the location of the broken bone. The man winced, squeezed his eyelids closed, and breathed in through his teeth in a hiss, but he didn’t pull away from her touch.

 

“I’m Gildor,” he said after a moment, his voice tight with pain. “Gildor Inglorion.”

 

“I’m Ereiniel,” she said absently, her attention still focused on his ankle. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

His eyes opened. “Ereiniel, daughter of King Fingon?” he said, looking at her intently. “You must be; I can see it in your face.” He winced again and then said, “I knew your father. Not well, but I knew him.”

 

She didn’t want to talk about Fingon, especially not with someone from Nargothrond, the city that had refused to aid their king in his final stand against Morgoth. Those extra warriors could have been all that was needed to turn the tide of the battle, and then her father might still be alive. She changed the subject back to Gildor’s injury.

 

“I found the break,” she told him. “The bone has started to mend itself, but it’s crooked. We might have to break it again. One of the more experienced healers will decide.”

 

If her abruptness had offended Gildor, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded and held still as she rubbed balm on his bruises, splinted his ankle, and wrapped it in clean bandages. Then she helped him to a seat near the fire. Lothrin, Ólwen’s sister, brought Gildor a bowl of porridge to eat while he waited, and Ereiniel moved on to her next patient.

 

A few hours later, once everyone had been examined and fed, Ereiniel gathered up those who didn’t need further attention from the healers. “We have places for you to stay,” she said. Then she began to lead them back to her own neighborhood, where there were empty rooms waiting to be occupied. Lord Círdan had clearly expected that many people would be fleeing to Balar, for he had made his city large indeed. There was more than enough space.

 

Little Mithrim, some of the Falathrim called the neighborhood. In fact, not everyone in Little Mithrim hailed from Mithrim; Maewen and Erestor, Ereiniel’s two closest friends, both lived there with their families, and they were from the Falas. But most of the Noldor who had escaped from Eithel Sirion had settled there, and they had been joined by a number of Mithrim’s Grey-Elves in the past few years -- especially since Annael, Ereiniel’s grandfather, had arrived on Balar with a large group of his people. Nargothrond’s survivors would probably be more comfortable among their fellow Noldor than they would be in other parts of the city.

 

The sun had risen while they had all been in the Houses of Healing, and the fine layer of frost that had covered the ground overnight was beginning to melt. The salty air was still cold, though, and Ereiniel could see her charges shivering. She shrugged off her own cloak and offered it to a woman around her age who was holding a small girl in her arms.

 

“Thank you,” the woman said, as Ereiniel helped her fasten the garment.

 

“What’s your name?” Ereiniel asked.

 

“Hannas,” the woman said. “And this is my sister, Saelwen.”

 

Saelwen was resting against Hannas’ shoulder with her eyes closed, sucking on her thumb. She was pale and hollow-cheeked, and she looked exhausted. She couldn’t have been any older than Ereiniel herself had been when she and her mother had left Mithrim, and Ereiniel had a sudden urge to pick her up and hold her close, to tell her that she was safe now and that everything would be all right.

 

But she didn't. The little girl was surely more comfortable with her sister than she would be with a stranger, and saying that everything was going to be all right would be a lie. Saelwen’s home had been destroyed, her friends and neighbors taken captive, and now she was in an unfamiliar city full of new, strange faces. Ereiniel remembered how that felt. Everything was not going to be all right, and she knew it.

 

News of Nargathrond’s fall had traveled quickly, and when they reached the heart of Little Mithrim, Ereiniel found that her neighbors had already made up temporary beds for the newcomers. There was a fire lit in the neighborhood meeting hall, and Ereiniel’s aunt was waiting inside with more food and drink.

 

Henthael, Fingolfin’s former scribe, was helping Ólwen sort out spare clothing by approximate size. “Whenever you’re ready, we can show you where the bathhouses are,” he said, turning to greet the newcomers. Then his eyes lit upon the tallest of Nargothrond’s survivors, and his face went wooden.

 

“He can’t stay,” he said, his voice flat.

 

“What?”

 

“That’s Celebrimbor Curufinwion. He can’t stay,” Henthael repeated.

 

“Actually, it’s Celebrimbor Nyellion now,” Celebrimbor said coldly.

 

Ereiniel sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Henthael,” she said. Lord Círdan had allowed Celebrimbor on the island, and Henthael had no right to undermine that decision. Besides, they had all heard of what had happened in Nargothrond, of how Celebrimbor had denounced his father’s deeds and cut all ties with his family.

 

But none of that seemed to have occurred to Henthael. “He’s the son of a Kinslayer,” he said, glaring at Celebrimbor.

 

“And I’m the daughter of one,” Ereiniel reminded him. “Will you shun me, too?”

 

She kept her eyes fixed on Henthael’s face, letting him see her disappointment. Henthael had had no love for her father, thanks to Fingon’s hand in the deaths at Alqualondë, but he had been fiercely loyal to Fingolfin, and after seeing Ereiniel wield the Elessar in the aftermath of Morgoth’s attack on the Falas, he had turned that loyalty to her, child though she was. She was the only descendent of Henthael’s king who was left outside of Gondolin.

 

She’d become well acquainted with him over the past two decades, and she knew that he was prone to speaking rashly when angered. But she knew, too, that he wasn’t so petty that he wouldn’t apologize when he came to his senses.

 

Sure enough, Henthael tried to meet her gaze but, flushing, failed. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, squaring his shoulders and looking over at Celebrimbor. “I should not be so swift to judge.”

 

“Celebrimbor had naught to do with Curufin’s crimes,” a burly man called Belegon said firmly, before Celebrimbor could speak. “He was faithful to our city and our people.”

 

Ólwen helped defuse the situation further by handing Henthael an empty bucket that sat by the hearth. “Be a good fellow and get us more water, will you?” she said. Henthael took the bucket and hurried outside, and everyone seemed to sigh in relief as the lingering tension left the room along with him.

 

“Don’t mind Henthael,” Ereiniel said to Celebrimbor. “He says things that he doesn’t really mean. It’s nice to meet you. Cousin,” she added, reaching out to grasp his arms in greeting. Cut off from his father or not, Celebrimbor was still the great-grandson of Finwë, just as Ereiniel was Finwë’s great-granddaughter. They were kin.

 

After a moment’s hesitation, he returned her gesture. “I’m not like Curufin,” he said. There was a hint of pained earnestness in his voice. “Please believe that.”

 

“I think you made that plain some years ago,” Ólwen said. “We all know how you repudiated him. It’s like Ereiniel said -- Henthael speaks without thinking. You are welcome here, no matter who your parents are.”

 

“Please,” Ereiniel’s aunt said from near the fire, where she had begun frying eggs and kippers, “come eat. Sit and rest. You’ve all had a long, hard journey.”

 

They sat, and Ereiniel helped Tinneth pass out food and cups of barley water. Though most of the refugees had eaten only a few hours ago in the Houses of Healing, they ate again eagerly -- unsurprising, given how thin they all were. Even Saelwen woke at the scent of food, hungrily devouring the fish that Hannas cut up for her. By the time Henthael slipped back in with his bucket, everyone was too intent on their meal to notice him.

 

“We have work that we need to see to,” Tinneth said to Ereiniel. “But you stay in here today, all right? I’ll see if Maewen and Erestor can join you. Someone needs to make sure our new neighbors can find everything they need.”

 

“Yes, Auntie,” Ereiniel said, giving Tinneth a quick peck on the cheek. “Erestor should be able to come. We’re working together on a new fishing net for Uildir. And Maewen can weave just about anywhere.”

 

Sure enough, as the adults trickled out of the room, Ereiniel’s friends came in. For a moment, Maewen looked around the room at the newcomers. She then set about tethering her backstrap loom to a low hook on the wall. Erestor took a seat across from Ereiniel, laying the half-finished net and several coils of twine between them.

 

Looking at the twine, Ereiniel wanted to sigh. It was boring, repetitive work, tying the same knots over and over again, but without nets they could catch no fish, and without fish the people of Balar would not have enough to eat. So she kept her complaints to herself, working with Erestor in companionable silence as Maewen wove beside them.

 

Celebrimbor and a few of the other men from Nargothrond selected clothing and sought the bathhouses, but most of the group took the opportunity to sleep -- except for Hannas, who sat with her eyes unfocused, stroking her sister’s honey-colored hair. Saelwen was curled on her side, asleep, with her thumb in her mouth once more, and Ereiniel felt another pang of sympathy as she looked at her.

 

“I’ll be right back,” she said quietly, setting down her side of the net. An idea had struck her.

 

“Where are you going?” Erestor asked.

 

“You’ll see,” she said.

 

She returned a few minutes later with a small block of wood, her whittling knives, and some sandpaper.

 

“We’re supposed to be working,” Erestor said pointedly, flicking his eyes from her to the net.

 

Ereiniel sighed. “Just trust me, all right?” she whispered. For a little while she sat still, turning the wood over in her fingers and feeling the weight of it as she envisioned what she wanted to do. Then, when she had the project fixed in her mind, she began to shave careful slivers from the block. Slowly, a spinning top began to take shape beneath her hands.

 

Erestor was back at work on the net, but Ereiniel could see him biting his tongue. Making toys isn’t work!, he clearly wanted to say, but he managed to contain himself.

 

It was Maewen who figured it out first. She looked up from her weaving, glanced from the top to Saelwen and back, and flashed Ereiniel a small smile that showed off her dimples. Not long after, Erestor caught on, too, and the irritation melted from his face. He understood now what Ereiniel was trying to do.

 

Saelwen woke as Ereiniel was testing the top’s balance, making small adjustments here and there as it wobbled. The girl’s attention was quickly caught, and she watched Ereiniel work with interest. By the time Ereiniel had finished sanding, Saelwen had left her sister and scooted closer to Ereiniel and her friends. But she didn’t speak; she simply watched the toy spin, a look of longing in her tired eyes.

 

“It’s for you,” Ereiniel said, picking it up and holding it out to her.

 

At first, Saelwen gave Ereiniel a look of doubt, but when Ereiniel made no move to pull the toy away, the little girl reached out and took hold of it with her boney fingers.

 

“What do you say?” Hannas said from where she sat. She’d been watching the exchange carefully, but had made no move to intervene.

 

“Thank you,” Saelwen whispered. She turned as though to scurry back to her sister’s side, but then stopped, looking back at Ereiniel. “You have a star on your skin,” she said.

 

Ereiniel glanced down at the four-pointed star inked on the inside of her left wrist. “I do,” she said. She knew that Saelwen was unlikely to have seen a tattoo before, for tattooing was a tradition of the Falathrim, not the Noldor. But in the aftermath of the destruction of Eglarest the star had seemed necessary. Even Ianneth hadn’t protested when Ereiniel had returned home one day with the unexpected adornment.

 

“Why?” Saelwen asked.

 

“To remind me that there’s always light, even in the dark,” Ereiniel said. “And that as long as I can see the stars, I’ll be able to find my way.”

 

“Does everyone here have pictures on their skin?”

 

Shaking her head, Ereiniel said, “No. But a lot of us do -- even Lord Círdan.”

 

Beside her, Maewen set down her shuttle and rolled up her own sleeve, showing Saelwen the delicate daylily bloom tattooed near her elbow. “I have one, too,” she said. They had gotten them together, although, unlike Ereiniel, Maewen had had her parents’ explicit approval.

 

Saelwen moved a little closer, the top still clutched in one hand, and said, “It’s pretty.”

 

“It’s a daylily,” Maewen said. “Because daylilies can grow just about anywhere.”

 

Turning towards Erestor, Saelwen looked at him expectantly, but he shook his head. “I haven’t got any.”

 

“Oh.” Saelwen looked once more at Ereiniel’s star and then, solemnly, said, “Thank you for the top.” Then she returned to Hannas’ side.

 

Ereiniel smiled, and as she tucked her knives away and turned back to the net, her heart seemed to grow lighter in her chest. Everything wasn’t going to be all right, but she thought that she might be able to make things a little better, at least for Saelwen. A top and a conversation weren’t much, but they were a place to start.

 

***********

 

Like the morning, the afternoon and the evening were spent helping the people from Nargothrond settle into their new homes. It was late indeed when Ereiniel finally crawled into bed, but it seemed to her that barely five minutes had passed before dawn, when she was woken by someone rapping sharply on the front door.

 

“Up and at it, Ereiniel,” Gurvadhor was calling from outside. “It’s training time.”

 

She groaned and resisted the urge to bury her head under her pillow. She was still tired from the day before, and arms training was the last thing she wanted to do right now. But she knew exactly what Gurvadhor would say in response to that: Orcs won’t wait for you to be well-rested, young lady.

 

He only called her young lady when he was annoyed.

 

“Just a second,” she called back, heaving herself out of bed. She scrambled into her clothes -- breeches and a long tunic that was split at the thigh for better mobility -- and pulled on her boots and cloak before exiting into the frosty dawn.

 

Nearly everyone on Balar had at least some skill with weapons; it was only sensible, given all that had happened over the past few centuries. But Gurvadhor, who had been a captain under Fingon, was determined to train Ereiniel up to the standards of the Noldorin military. If you ever find yourself fighting for your life, I want you to have the best chance of survival possible, he’d said once. Your father would never have forgiven me if he knew I did anything less.

 

She followed him to the training grounds, where she shed her cloak and began to stretch alongside her teacher. When she deemed herself limber enough, she took up a blunt practice blade and moved to stand opposite Gurvadhor. Usually he gave her a sign that it was time to begin, but today he attacked as soon as her hands had closed around the hilt of the sword. Ereiniel was hard pressed to parry the unexpected assault, and Gurvadhor succeeded in smacking her shoulder with the flat of his blade.

 

“Slow,” he chided. 

 

She gritted her teeth and forced herself to move more quickly. It soon became plain that he was determined to push her hard today, almost as though he was punishing her for being tired, and Ereiniel became annoyed enough that she began to push back. Gurvadhor nodded in approval when her attacks became more fierce, and when she managed to knock him to the ground with a well-placed blow to the back of the knee, he actually smiled. But she erred by holding back, waiting for him to climb to his feet. Instead he lunged, grabbing hold of her ankle and tugging hard, sending her tumbling in the dirt. She barely had time to blink before the blunt tip of his sword was level with her heart.

 

Sighing, she let her own blade drop. Gurvadhor stretched out a hand, helping her back up, and as she brushed herself off, he said, “You need to stop treating me like a comrade.”

 

“What do you mean?” Ereiniel asked, looking at him in confusion.

 

“I mean that during these lessons, I’m not Gurvadhor. I’m your opponent,” he said. “You should’ve pressed your attack when I fell, but you didn’t, because you’re seeing me, and you know me, so you think you should be fair. But that’s not how battle works, Ereiniel. Orcs and balrogs won’t be merciful. They won’t be honorable. They’ll take every opportunity that they can to kill you, and if you fall into the habit of treating your opponents with courtesy, you will die.”

 

His face was grim and his voice grave, and Ereiniel knew he was speaking from experience. Gurvadhor had fought in many battles, surviving even the crushing defeat of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. It had been Gurvadhor who had brought the news of the king’s death to Fingon’s wife and daughter. He, Henthael, and a handful of other Noldorin survivors had banded together with a number of the Falathrim after the battle, helping each other across Hithlum and to the Firth of Drengist, where Lord Círdan had ordered some of his ships to wait in case of defeat.

 

“I’m not your father,” he said, “and I’m not trying to be, because I know that no one could ever take Fingon’s place. But I care about you, Ereiniel. These are dangerous times, and I want you to survive. It’s a virtue to be fair and just in your day-to-day dealings, but it’s not a virtue in battle.”

 

“I understand,” she said, subdued.

 

He shook his head. “You don’t,” he said. “But at least you’re listening.” Scooping up the swords, he added, “That’s enough for today. But think about what I’ve said, and be ready to work even harder tomorrow.”

 

“I will.”

 

“Good,” he said. “Now head on home. I’m sure your mother will need your help today.”

 

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Chapter End Notes

Nyellion - ‘son of Nyellë’. Having cut ties with his father, Celebrimbor has stopped using his patronymic (Curufinwion) and is now identifying himself as his mother’s son instead. His mother is unnamed in canon, so I’ve given her the name Nyellë.

A note on the Elessar: I'm making use of an earlier origin for the Elessar that Tolkien ultimately discarded, but which I like. In the early draft, the stone was created by Fëanor in Valinor. Upon his death, it passed to Maedhros, who later gave it to Fingon as a gift. In my verse, Fingon gave it to his daughter just prior to the Nírnaeth Arnoediad.