The Kids Are All Right by grey_gazania

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Chapter 5

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Ereiniel spent the next two weeks talking to the younger residents of her neighborhood – and, even more than talking, listening to them.

 

I feel lucky that I made it to adulthood, said Orodwen, who was five years older than Ereiniel and had come to Balar as part of the group led by Annael. But I’m worried my little brother won’t get to grow up at all. I feel like we’re all standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to be pushed over.

 

Her brother, young Galadhion, was only twenty-six, and had been a babe in arms when Hithlum had been overrun following the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. The fact that he’d survived the attacks by the Orcs and Easterlings to make it to Balar in the first place was a near miracle.

 

I wish there was something we could do to fight, said Daerthui, who, at seventy-four, was probably the oldest of them. Some tangible way to resist, you know? Everyone says we’re resisting by surviving, but that’s not what it feels like. It feels like we’re sitting on our hands waiting to see where the next blow will fall. There has to be something we can do to foil Morgoth’s plans.

 

Ereiniel understood his frustration, because it did feel as though they were simply waiting for the next stroke of Morgoth’s sword. But, practically speaking, she wasn’t sure what else they could do. There weren’t enough people on Balar to form an army and wage war. At best, they could take to the coast in light ships, perhaps, and harry Morgoth’s forces that way.

 

Still, it was something to think about.

 

Meril and Cúron, who were twins and had been born at Barad Eithel within a few weeks of Ereiniel’s own birth, both told her, We love our crafts, but we wish we could make art, too, like our parents did in Valinor. Not just practical things. We want to make something beautiful, even if it only lasts a little while.

 

Practical things could be beautiful, too, Ereiniel thought, but she could see what Meril and Cúron meant. All of the children of the Exiles, Ereiniel included, had grown up on tales of the beauties of Valinor – the light of the Two Trees, the elaborately carved buildings lining the streets of Tirion, the galleries of artwork crafted by the finest artists, the flourishing gardens that bloomed year-round. Who could blame them for wishing to recreate some of that beauty here in Beleriand?

 

Talagand, another child of the Exiles and eighteen years Ereiniel’s senior, was the most melancholy of the lot. I don’t really care what happens anymore, he said. We’re all going to die sooner or later. There’s no point in telling ourselves otherwise. We don’t stand a chance.

 

Ereiniel wondered when he had last touched his harp, and realized, too, that she would have to find a way to combat this type of despair in her peers.

 

Tuilin, newly married at fifty-eight, said, I used to think about what I would name my babies, when I was a little girl playing house. But Eithelion and I have been talking, and we don’t think it’s right to have children. Not now. Not with the world the way that it is. Maybe in the future, if we’re lucky, but that ‘maybe’ seems more and more out of reach each day.

 

That was a completely logical conclusion for the couple to draw, Ereiniel thought, but it was also, in its way, quite heartbreaking.

 

I don’t know what I want here, Hannas said. I want my home back. I wish Túrin had never come to us. I want my father. Then she’d burst into tears, and Ereiniel had pulled her into a hug and let Hannas weep into her shoulder.

 

I want my father, too, Ereiniel had said. She wished she could tell Hannas that the pain would ease, but the truth was that a loss like that would always hurt. Besides, no one, on the heels of the death of someone they loved, wanted to be told that things would get better. It hadn’t felt reassuring when anyone had said it to Ereiniel in the wake of Fingon’s death. It had felt dismissive and callous, and she doubted Hannas would appreciate any more than she had.

 

All told, Ereiniel had spoken to everyone in the neighborhood between the ages of fifty and seventy-five, and had been left with a lot of food for thought. The dissatisfaction among her generation was palpable. The question was, could she do anything about it?

 

She could listen, and she could speak up. At the very least, that was a place to start from.

 

***********

 

Midwinter arrived, and despite the ongoing war and the snow and the bitter cold, the elves of Balar prepared to celebrate. Boughs of pine and juniper were brought into the houses and meeting halls, lending their crisp, refreshing scent to the air. Mead was brought out, Ianneth glazed a ham with honey and set it to cook, and Ereiniel baked the whiskey-soaked currant cake that she'd learned to make from her father, and that her father in turn had learned to make from Lalwen, his aunt, before her death in the Dagor Bragollach.

 

The kitchen became full as Annael and Tinneth arrived mid-morning, Tinneth bearing a basket of freshly-baked rolls and Annael a net bag of parsnips and rutabagas, which he quickly set to roasting and mashing, and another of pearl onions, which Ianneth took in hand. She took over the other half of the stove, preparing to stew the onions in a mixture of broth and cream. That was a recipe that came from Ereiniel’s grandmother, Amareth, who had not survived the attack by orcs when Annael and his people had first tried to flee Hithlum. Her absence had left a hole in their family, though they did their best to make merry despite it. As Annael had said, Amareth would not have wanted to see them mourn forever.

 

By the time Celebrimbor knocked on the door at noon, a mince pie balanced in his hand, the house was toasty warm from the fires and full of a medley of tantalizing smells. The table was set, and candles were burning in the pewter candlesticks that Ereiniel had made during her attempt at learning metalworking – a little lopsided, but Ianneth had insisted on keeping them regardless, in the way mothers often did. Ereiniel knew for a fact that, up until it was lost in the destruction of Eglarest, Maewen’s mother had kept Maewen’s very first piece of weaving, dreadful though it had been.

 

“Come in, come in!” she said to Celebrimbor, ushering her cousin through the door. She unburdened him of the pie, gestured for him to take a seat, and asked, “Would you like some mead?”

 

“Please,” Celebrimbor said. “But tell me, what can I do to help?”

 

“Nothing,” Ereiniel said firmly. “It’s all under control. Nana runs the kitchen like a military operation on holidays. She won’t want anyone extra underfoot. Besides, you’re our guest.”

 

Pouring him a glass of mead, she continued, “You know, I’ve never had a cousin before. I mean, I have cousins off in Gondolin, technically, but I’ve never laid eyes on them, and it’s not like there’s any sort of reliable messenger service to or from that place, so we’ve never even exchanged letters. This is new.” With a smile, she added, “Exciting, though.”

 

“I’ve had cousins,” Celebrimbor said. “Never one so intent on adopting me, though.”

 

In a different tone, the words might have seemed mocking, but Celebrimbor’s voice was warm, with a touch of gentle amusement. “Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he continued. “I wasn’t expecting anyone here to welcome me as family. It was a nice surprise.”

 

“Well, you seemed so alone,” Ereiniel said with a shrug. “And I know what it’s like, fleeing to a strange place where you don’t know anyone. Eglarest was lonely when we first moved there. And I had Nana with me. You’re on your own.”

 

A lot of people were on their own these days. It was a rare thing for a family to stay intact in these war-ravaged times. The only person Ereiniel knew whose close family were all still living was Maewen. Erestor still had his mother and father, but he’d lost three of his grandparents in the destruction of the Falas. Ereiniel’s grandmother had never made it to Balar, and the fates of Fingon and Fingolfin were well known. Some, like Celebrimbor, were sundered from their kin, whether by choice or by misfortune. And others, like Henthael, had no living family left at all.

 

Celebrimbor was fishing around in his pocket now, and he pulled out something wrapped in a scrap of brightly-colored cloth. “This is for you,” he said, pressing it into her hands.

 

Ereiniel opened it to find a cloak pin in the shape of a four-pointed star, nearly exactly like the tattoo that adorned her wrist. “It’s my star,” she said, touched by the fact that Celebrimbor had made something so personal for her. “Thank you.”

 

“It’s stainless steel,” he said, “so it won’t rust or tarnish.” He paused for a moment, and then said, “I’ll admit that I don’t know what the significance of the star is. But I figured it had to mean something, otherwise you wouldn’t have inked it into your skin.”

 

Ereiniel chuckled, and then said, “It’s a reminder. Light in the dark, you know? My mother named me Gilwen, and Fingolfin used to call me starshine, gil-galad. I’ve always liked the stars. They remind me that there’s still hope, no matter how dark things might seem these days.”

 

And these days, things seemed particularly dark.

 

“I have something for you, too,” Ereiniel told him, and then went to the mantel over the hearth, where she’d laid out the gifts she had to give. She returned with a corked, brightly painted pottery jar. “It’s a balm. For your hands,” she said, placing it on the table in front of Celebrimbor. “I learned how to make it from one of the beekeepers. My best friend swears by it.”

 

“The weaver, right? Plump girl, curly hair?”

 

Ereiniel nodded. “Her name’s Maewen,” she said. “She’s been my friend since Nana and I first moved to Eglarest.”

 

“And there’s a boy I usually see the two of you with,” Celebrimbor said. “Who’s he?”

 

“That’s Erestor,” said Ereiniel. “He and Maewen are cousins. He’s my other best friend.”

 

“Two best friends. You’re lucky.”

 

“I am,” Ereiniel said softly. “All three of us are lucky. Most of our other friends didn’t survive the destruction of Eglarest.”

 

Celebrimbor nodded – more in understanding, Ereiniel thought, than in simple acknowledgement – and said, “Most of my friends didn’t survive the Dagor Bragollach. And the few who did didn’t survive the battle at Tumhalad.”

 

“It's not right,” Ereiniel said, pouring herself a splash of mead. She raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry and, when Celebrimbor nodded, poured a second measure into his half-empty glass as well. “I’m so tired of all the death,” she said. “It feels like this war will never end.”

 

Taking a sip of her drink, she added, “Ada gambled everything on the Union of Maedhros, but he lost. And now he's gone. It sounds like Orodreth made the same mistake, putting all his eggs in the basket of one big battle.”

 

“It was Túrin’s idea,” Celebrimbor said. “Orodreth shouldn't have listened to him, but he did. And the whole city paid for it.” His gaze was far away, but after a moment he seemed to come back to himself. “At any rate, thank you for the balm. I’m sure it’ll come in handy in this cold weather.”

 

At that point, Ianneth called for Ereiniel from the kitchen, and she excused herself for a moment.

 

“Bring out the neeps, will you, love?” Ianneth said, her own hands full with the dish of stewed onions. Annael was carrying the ham and Tinneth had the parsnips and the rolls. The four of them proceeded out to the main room.

 

“Dinner is served!” Ianneth trilled. She took the seat at the end of the table, while Annael sat at the head. Ereiniel ushered Celebrimbor into the chair beside her own and then began pouring mead for the rest of the family. Once they were all seated and their glasses were full, Annael raised his in a toast.

 

“We’re halfway through the darkest season,” he said. “It’s been a difficult winter, but from here on the days will get longer and the world will get warmer. We’ll make it through, and we’ll survive another year. I know it. And today we’re gathered together as a family to celebrate the turning of the season with all the joy that we can muster.”

 

The five of them clinked their glasses together and each took a sip of mead.

 

“Ereiniel, will you say the blessing?” Ianneth asked.

 

She nodded and bowed her head, her hands clasped in front of her. “Bless the table, bless the bread. Bless the roof above our heads,” she said, deciding to go for something simple. She wasn’t certain what Celebrimbor was used to, after all. She remembered her father telling her once that Maedhros, at least, had abandoned the tradition of asking the Belain’s blessing before meals, and she wasn’t sure if that had been restricted to him, or common across the lands of the Sons of Fëanor.

 

“Let it be so,” Annael said, and then raised his head and began slicing the ham.

 

By the time they were halfway through the meal, the conversation was flowing freely and easily, any initial awkwardness long overcome. And when it came time for dessert, as Ianneth set out Celebrimbor’s pie and Ereiniel brought out the cake she’d made, Celebrimbbor said in surprise, “Whiskey currant cake! That’s a Golodhrim recipe. Caranthir used to make it whenever we visited him. He said it was my great-grandfather’s– our great-grandfather’s favorite dessert.”

 

“I learned to make it from Ada,” Ereiniel said. “He learned from my aunt Lalwen.”

 

At the mention of Lalwen’s name, something in Celebrimbor’s face seemed to grow soft. “I always liked her,” he said, a hint of regret in his voice. “She could brighten a room just by walking into it. Her death was a tragedy.”

 

“It was,” Ianneth agreed.

 

“Speaking of which,” Tinneth said, “did you bring a candlestick?”

 

Celebrimbor looked at her blankly. “A candlestick?” he said, sounding puzzled. “No. Was I supposed to? No one mentioned it.”

 

“But how are you going to light your candle when we go to the meeting hall?” Tinneth asked, equally puzzled.

 

“I’m not actually familiar with this custom, I’m afraid,” Celebrimbor said. “Is this a ritual from Mithrim?”

 

“Well, yes and no,” Tinneth said. “It started with us, but the Golodhrim liked it, so they adopted it, too. I would have thought you'd have grown up with it, like Ereiniel did.”

 

“I don’t think it ever spread outside of Hithlum, Auntie,” Ereiniel said, cutting in. “Celebrimbor grew up in Himlad.”

 

What she didn’t say was that the Sons of Fëanor and their people would have been unlikely to participate anyway. The custom – lighting candles at Midwinter to remember those who had been lost – had started even before Annael’s father's father's time. Living nearly on Morgoth’s doorstep as they did, the elves of Hithlum had always suffered losses, as every year some of their people were killed or taken to Morgoth’s dungeons.

 

Fingolfin had first adopted the practice as a way to remember those who had died on the Grinding Ice. But the Sons of Fëanor hadn't crossed the Grinding Ice. They’d had their stolen ships.

 

“You light a candle,” Ereiniel explained to Celebrimbor, “and you think of the people you love whom you've lost. It's like a family memorial.”

 

Sometimes it was the only memorial people had. Fingolfin and Lalwen and Amareth all had proper graves, even if those graves were now too far away or in Morgoth's territory. But Ereiniel’s father had no grave, no cairn, no monument. She'd coaxed the information out of Gurvadhor a few years ago, when he’d had too much to drink and grown melancholy, and she knew now. By the time the orcs had finished beating Fingon’s body into the dirt, there hadn't been enough of him left even to throw on the Haudh-en-Ndengin. Her father had been nothing more than a pool of bloody mud, a few clumps of hair, and a handful of bone fragments.

 

Sometimes she regretted having asked, but she told herself that an ugly truth was better than a pretty lie.

 

“You can join us in our candelabrum,” she said, forcing the melancholy thoughts aside. “It’s got seven spaces and there are only four of us. There’s plenty of room. I mean,” she added, “if you want to. If you want to sit it out, that’s all right, too. It’s up to you.”

 

Celebrimbor smiled gently. “I’d be happy to join you,” he said. “It sounds like a lovely tradition.”

 

Later, as Ianneth, Tinneth, and Annael cleaned up from the meal – Ianneth insisting that Ereiniel stay with Celebrimbor to keep him company – Celebrimbor nodded his chin towards the candlesticks on the table and asked, “Speaking of candlesticks, did you make these?”

 

“Yes. And I know they’re crooked,” Ereiniel said, a little defensively. “But Nana insisted on keeping them anyway. You know what mothers are like.”

 

“I don’t, really, actually,” Celebrimbor said. “I don’t remember my mother. I haven’t seen her since I was four years old, when we left Valinor.”

 

That brought Ereiniel up short. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quiet. “I didn’t mean to drag up something unpleasant.”

 

“It’s fine,” he said, waving a hand in a vague gesture of dismissal. “I wish I could have known her, but at least I still have the name she gave me. Celebrimbor. Tyelperinquar.” Resting his chin in his hand, he added, “Curufin tried to get me to switch to my father-name when we first arrived in Hithlum, but Caranthir had a talk with him and convinced him to leave it alone.”

 

“What’s your father-name?” Ereiniel asked.

 

“Guess.”

 

She shook her head. “I couldn’t even begin to.”

 

“Yes, you can,” Celebrimbor said. “Just think of the worst possible name he could have given me.”

 

Again, Ereiniel shook her head, but then she froze as an idea occurred to her.

 

“Not Curufin?”

 

“Got it in one,” he said wryly. “You’d think two Curufinwës would be more than enough for any family, but he decided we needed three.”

 

“Stars above,” Ereiniel said. “You poor thing.”

 

At that, Celebrimbor laughed. “I’ll manage,” he said. “It’s not as though I have any intention of using it now.”

 

Crossing to the cabinet to retrieve her mother’s pewter candelabrum, Ereiniel said, “Well, of course not, and I don’t blame you.”

 

“That’s fine workmanship,” Celebrimbor said, watching as Ereiniel began wrapping the candelabrum in a length of cloth.

 

“Yes,” Ereiniel agreed. “My mother bought it from a craftsman from Brithombar, after we settled here. I can’t remember her name, but I’m sure Nana does, if you’d like to meet her and compare techniques. I’ve heard you’re exceptionally skilled yourself. Not like me with my crooked candlesticks,” she added with a self-deprecating grin.

 

Celebrimbor smiled back. “I’d like that,” he said. “I have a gift for your mother as well. And truly, I do appreciate you inviting me today. This has been lovely – a far better welcome than I ever would have expected.”

 

Curufin, Ereiniel thought, in addition to being a conniving, malicious bastard, had really put his son in a difficult position. But she wasn’t going to let that stand.

 

“You’re family,” she said simply. “And you’re welcome here at any time.”

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Chapter End Notes

Belain (S.) - Valar

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