Family by grey_gazania

Family

Read Family

Elrond was bored. His brother was tucked up in bed with a fever, a cough, and a runny nose, and Maglor had forbidden Elrond from sitting with him; he was worried that Elrond, too, might fall ill. The troubles that come from trading with Men, he’d muttered, shooing Elrond away.

 

Elven children, it seemed, did not get sick.

 

There would be no lessons today. Elrond could tell already. Maglor was busy tending to Elros, and Maedhros had not been at breakfast that morning. At Amon Ereb, absences were their own kind of language. Elrond likely wouldn’t see Maedhros today, but he knew that if he did, the eldest son of Fëanor would look right through him with hollow, shadowed eyes.

 

With a sigh, Elrond tucked the book of Quenya poetry he had been reading into his pocket, and then he wandered down through the kitchen and outside. It was a beautiful autumn day, crisp and sunny with a gentle breeze, but he took little joy in the weather. For a while he amused himself by attempting to juggle a trio of rocks, though he had little success. But as he ambled along the side of the keep, his attention was caught by a soft scraping sound. Curious, he followed the noise.

 

Rounding the corner of the outer wall, he found Galwen perched cross-legged on a bench in the sun, her hands busy as she used an unfamiliar blade to shape a short length of wood. He moved closer, intrigued. He hadn’t known that Galwen did anything other than hunt and patrol.

 

“What are you making?” he asked.

 

She didn’t answer immediately, but dragged her knife over the wood a few more times before setting it down beside her.

 

A bow, she signed.

 

Elrond tipped his head, studying the wood more closely. It was curved like a bow would be, but it was very short, much shorter than the bows the people on patrol used. “Who is it for?” he asked.

 

You.

 

“Me?” His eyes widened. “Are you making one for Elros, too?”

 

She nodded, and then lifted her knife and returned to her work. Elrond knew he should leave her be, but he was too interested to walk away.

 

“What’s it made of?” He knew that yew was favored by bowyers, but he doubted that Galwen would use such a fine wood for a child’s bow.

 

She set her blade aside once more, but the sign she made was unfamiliar.

 

“I don’t know that one,” Elrond said, shaking his head.

 

She seemed to think for a moment, and then her hands moved again. The tree that makes syrup, she said. Then she repeated the earlier sign.

 

“Oh! Maple.”

 

She nodded.

 

Impulsively, he moved closer and sat down on the empty end of the bench. “I didn’t know you made bows.”

 

Galwen closed her eyes and exhaled through her teeth in a rough sigh. I make all the bows here, she said. And I do not mind if you watch, but I cannot talk and work at the same time.

 

“Oh. Right. I’m sorry,” he said. He forgot that, sometimes, though he always felt bad about it afterwards.

 

She returned to the bow, and he sat meekly beside her, watching with interest as the weapon took shape beneath her deft hands. More questions were buzzing in his brain, but he was aware that he had already pushed Galwen’s patience about as far as it would stretch. He wasn’t afraid of her the way he had been when he was small, but he knew, too, that she was not particularly warm or gentle.

 

Silently, steadily, she worked as the sun climbed overhead, switching between knives as she shaped different parts of the bow. Around midday, she tucked her tools back into the worn leather wallet beside her and climbed to her feet, stretching her arms over her head.

 

Finished for now, she signed. Are you hungry?

 

He nodded, and she patted his shoulder. Gathering up the bow and her tools, she led him back inside. It seemed that she was in a good mood today, or at least inclined to treat him kindly, because she set about slicing up cheese, bread, and apples for both of them. Then she poured two cups of small ale and, plates balanced precariously, carried everything to the table.

 

Elrond accepted his portion with a small smile and a word of thanks, and then pulled out his book to read as he ate. Normally, mealtimes were a time of conversation, but just as Galwen couldn’t talk while she worked, she couldn’t talk while she ate, either. So they sat in silence, Elrond engrossed in his poetry and Galwen lost in her own thoughts.

 

By the time Elrond looked up from his book, they had both nearly finished eating. “Galwen?” he said. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but can you help me? I don’t know what this word means. Ni–,” he tried, “niques–”

 

He gave up and turned his book around so that she could see, pointing to the word with his index finger. But Galwen merely shook her head.

 

“You don’t know it either?”

 

Again, Galwen shook her head, but then she raised her hands and signed, I can’t read this.

 

Elrond was puzzled. “You can’t read Quenya? But you understand Quenya,” he said. “I know you do. People speak it here all the time.”

 

He could see in Galwen’s face that something about this conversation was making her deeply uncomfortable, and when she did answer, there was tension behind her signs.

 

I can’t read at all, she said, and Elrond could see that the admission was costing her. Not Quenya. Not Sindarin. Not the Tengwar. Not the Cirth. Nothing.

 

For a moment, Elrond gaped, wondering how on earth Maedhros and Maglor could have allowed such an oversight. Who had ever heard of an elf living among the Noldor who couldn’t read?

 

“Do you want to learn? I could teach you,” Elrond said. The words seemed to have come out before his brain had caught up with his mouth, and he almost flinched, bracing himself for rejection.

 

Rejection was what he got, but not as brusquely as he expected. Instead, Galwen simply looked tired. Better men than you have tried, she said. It doesn’t work. The letters – they all look the same to me. She paused for a moment and then, some of the stress bleeding out of her body, she said, It’s no coincidence that the Sons of Fëanor have a sign language that I speak. My lords Amras and Amrod had one of their linguists develop it because of me. They took me in after my family was attacked, but I couldn’t talk, or read, or write. So their linguist took the hunting signs my father’s people used and made them the foundation of a new language. Others learned it because it was useful, and it spread throughout my lords’ brothers’ lands. But it was no accident, Elrond. This language exists because of my lords’ kindness to me.

 

She popped her last slice of apple into her mouth and then signed, Try to say it out loud.

 

“Niq– niquessё,” Elrond said, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar sounds.

 

Galwen nodded. Frost patterns on a window pane, she said. From the Quenya word for feather. My foster father always called them snow ferns, though.

 

Elrond knew better than to ask what had happened to Galwen’s foster father. Chances were he had either died in Doriath or died at the Havens of Sirion, and Elrond didn’t particularly want to know which. Besides, no one at Amon Ereb liked to talk about the Kinslayings – Elrond and his twin included.

 

The question must have shown on his face, however, because a shadow had passed over Galwen’s dark eyes, and she signed, He left. After Doriath. He said he couldn’t attack his own kind again, so he and my foster mother left and went east. I don’t know what happened to them.

 

“But you stayed.”

 

Yes, Galwen said. I owe Fëanor’s sons a life debt. Debts must be repaid, and I will stay until I have paid this one.

 

“I guess Elros and I owe them, too,” Elrond said. “For sparing us.”

 

At that, Galwen shook her head fiercely. You owe them nothing, Elrond. You shouldn’t be here, and someday you will have to leave. This is not where you belong, and my lords were wrong to take you from the Havens. You should’ve been left with your own people. There’s no future for you here, and the longer you stay with us, the less chance you have of finding a future somewhere else. We are Kinslayers, Elrond. We’re not welcome anywhere, and if people start to see you as one of us, you won’t be welcome anywhere, either. The sooner you return to the Iathrim, the better it’ll be for you.

 

It was probably the most impassioned speech Galwen had ever given him.

 

“But I don’t want to go back to the Iathrim,” Elrond said. “I barely even remember them. My family is here. Elros and Maglor and Maedhros, and Doronel and Melloth and Arthoron, and even you – you’re my family. You’re all my family.”

 

Galwen shook her head. We’re your captors, not your family. The only family you have here is your brother.

 

This sudden turn in the conversation had caused a heavy knot to form in Elrond’s chest, and he pushed himself to his feet, stuffed the last bit of his cheese into his pocket, and grabbed his book.

 

“You’re wrong,” he said, feeling as though he might cry. Then he turned and fled from the kitchen.

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Chapter End Notes

You can read more about Galwen in my "Chosen Exile" series.

 

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