The Call of the Loon by SonOfMandos

They moved swiftly between the trees, walking from a branch to another. They were unheard and unseen. They perhaps scared a few birds, but the wind silenced their jumps with its soft howl. They followed the faint source of light that made its way through the forest.

The hunter shot his arrow. It pierced the thigh of the doe. Panicked, the animal escaped. It ignored the throbbing pain in its leg and it ignored it until its body gave up and made it trip on rocks. The doe fell. It tried to get up as soon as it could. The hunter shot again. And again. The animal, painting heavily, squealed and grunted. Blood slowly crawled on the grass like a snake. The world buzzed, was blank and numb. The doe did not close its dark eyes when life eloped its body.

The hunter kneeled next to his prey. He gently scratched the ears of the corpse. His hound sniffed the body of the doe and licked the blood. The hunter brushed a finger against the dark fur, wet and warm. He slid his finger in his mouth and sucked. The strong taste of iron lingered on his tongue. He glanced up at the stars of the nightsky and murmured his thanks to the Great Hunter. He then removed the arrows from the dead body, motioned his hound to come closer, and tied the doe to the back of his companion with large leather straps. He gently slapped his hound’s neck and disappeared into the woods.

From the trees, they could see his glow slowly fade like a grey spectre.

“It’s not the first time I see him,” said one.

“No?” said the other.

“No,” the first one shook his pale hair—pale and white like the hunter’s. “It’s the Man who brought my attention to him.”

“What do you think we should do?” asked the second one. “He’s a Golodh.”

“Observe him, track his moves,” replied the first. His gaze was unfocused and stared at the nothingness.

“But?” pressed the second one who knew there was something unsaid.

“But we must not remain passive forever. The eight-branched star carved on his quiver reveals his identity. We must act before he brings his doom onto us.”

The second one pondered this. His companion was right. While the hunter presented no immediate threat, there was an air of danger that danced around him.

“Let’s ask her to intervene,” said the second one.

The first one raised an eyebrow. “Her?”

“Yes. She will know what to do.”

The first one nodded. “Let’s bring her here.”

***

Celegorm came back after weeks. The further he penetrated into the woods, the least he recognised his surroundings. Forests in this world were dense and he could not understand the tongues of their animals. The presence of predators and creatures of Morgoth, had made preys faster, quicker, bigger and more aggressive. A seemingly innocent raccoon would not hesitate to lunge if threatened.

Celegorm was not scared neither at ease. He explored the lands and had come with a handful of his men. He came dangerously close to the girdle of Melian. Celegorm tested waters and came closer to the hidden kingdom each time he hunted in the area. Why was he alive still, he did not know. Sindar were distrustful of the Ñoldor and particularly did not appreciate Fingolfin’s settlement in the north. What they thought of the followers of Fëanor carried more hatred than the evil of the Dark Lord. They resented invaders for subjecting their kin into submission.

He heard a long, eerie call. The call was sung twice and was followed by a strange tremolo sound. Huan rushed to the source of the sound. Celegorm ran after him. They both found themselves running on sand after going through the bushes. A small lake before them was lit by the moonlight. The call came again. It was loud and powerful. Celegorm shivered; Dryads of Yavanna were rumoured to dwell in the forests of Beleriand. They were unpredictable elemental spirits that switched from benevolence to anger in the blink of an eye. Huan barked and howled.

The same haunting wail replied, followed by two others. Celegorm crouched down. His eyes surveyed the lake but found nothing. He could not tell if it were a Dryad, a wolf or a bird. He sang a birdsong. His voice was lost in the concert of eerie calls and trembling wails.

Suddenly, he saw two large dark birds swim in front of him. One carried its chicks on its back. Excited, Huan woofed and jumped into the water. The birds simply turned around and swam away.

“Huan, boy, don’t go too far!” exclaimed Celegorm.

The dog came back to the shore and rolled himself in sand.

“Urh, don’t complain that I have to brush you later,” the Elf groaned.

He let his hound roll around. It was tempting to jump in the water. He put his boy and quiver on the sand and removed his clothes.

“First to reach the water wins!” screamed Celegorm as he sprinted to the lake.

Huan, as expected, went past him in a few jumps. Celegorm hissed when his legs entered the lake; the water was cold. He slowed down and stepped carefully in the lake. Huan had other ideas and pushed him into the water. The Ñoldo swore, coughed and splashed his hound violently. The dog took it as a challenge and jumped right next to his master, splashing him more. They played together like toddlers. A fish brushed Celegorm’s chest. He yelped. Huan, however, was not looking at him.

“What is it?” enquired the Fëanorian as he swam up to the dog. “Seeing a weird animal out there?”

The dog growled lightly. Celegorm glanced around.

“There’s nothing,” he patted his companion. “Alright, let’s get out of the water, it’s getting too cold for me.”

Lazily, the hunter floated on his back and pushed himself towards the shore. He stood up, shivered and mumbled to himself it was good he had worn his cloak. He could not wait to wrap himself in it. He froze when he felt the tip of a sharp blade against his neck.

“What’s this,” whispered in Sindarin the most melodious voice he had ever heard. “A kinslayer caught off his guard.”

Celegorm swallowed. The figure in front of him was as tall as he, if not taller. Her face was masked and khol circled her dark, dim eyes. A scarf covered her hair, and she wore tight clothes. Like all the other Elves and Men of Beleriand, she did not glow. Her skin barely reflected moonlight.

This is it, thought Celegorm, the marchwardens of Thingol have found me.

“And now, what will you do?” scoffed the Ñoldo. He had to act quick. Huan was too quiet. It made him uncertain and unsafe. “Slay me?”

“Be quiet.”

Valarin. The order resonated through Celegorm’s chest. He had to find a way to remain alive and unharmed.

“You will get dressed and after, you will let yourself be handled by my men,” the voice whispered its low whisper again. She had switched back to Sindarin.

Celegorm could hear the rumbles of a thunderstorm underneath the ethereal music of the woman. She was a Maia, that was for certain, and only foolishness would make him attack her. He would not. Complying was the only sensible decision.

He obeyed, struggling to put his clothes on. His skin was damp from his dip in the lake. The woman stood still, her sword lowered down.

“Like the view?” joked Celegorm as he tried to put his shirt on.

The figure did not laugh. Huan whimpered. The Fëanorian reached for his bow, and his hand was kicked by the woman.

“Ow…,” groaned Celegorm.

The woman made a hasty gesture with her hand, and Sindar appeared from the bushes. They seized him. Celegorm struggled to get out of their grasp. She had his bow and quiver in her hands.

“Stop,” her voice pierced through his chest again. By reflex, Celegorm froze.

“Don’t use Valarin on me,” he sneered.

“Comply and everything will go well,” she sighed.

“Leave me be,” he snarled in Valarin.

The woman pulled her sword in its scabbard and drummed her fingers against the handle. She stared at a point above Celegorm’s head.

“You speak a lot for someone whose sigil is broken. The mark of the Great Hunter bleeds above you. And…,” she said as she approached and brushed her nails on the Ñoldo’s chest, “the curse of the Golodhrim burns your skin.” The woman rested her hand on Celegorm’s stomach. He held his breath.

She always murmured her words, more breath than voice. Softly and mournfully. “Bind him and blind his eyes,” she ordered her men. Celegorm had barely heard her. Huan cried next to him, his tail between his legs. “Fret not,” she addressed the hound. “We are only bringing him home. You are coming too. We will not harm him neither you.”

It was the last words Celegorm heard before a needle punctured his skin and injected darkness in his mind.

***

He woke up with a throbbing headache. His mouth was dry and his muscles ached. He breathed in slow, steady exhales. Despite the pain, he felt strangely calm and content; his worries had gone away from the world.

He thought that perhaps, Mandos was welcoming.

Carefully, Celegorm opened his eyes. Above him, branches were intertwined, masking a ceiling of pale grey stone. The room had no windows. Two purple lights danced against the walls. Huan had squeezed himself between the bed and a wall, and was anxiously sniffing his mater’s arm. Celegorm scratched him between the eyes.

“What are you doing in Mandos, boy?” he murmured. “I can’t believe they put you down too…”

He did not have the strength to sit up so he kept lying still. He lost track of time; it hardly mattered anymore. He was too numb to think of his own death.

Moments later, the door opened. A silver-haired maiden came in, followed by a white-haired man.

“He’s awake,” the maiden told the man.

She leaned in and pressed two fingers against Celegorm’s throat. “Mh,” she said. “The pressure is a bit low, but he’ll be fine.” She looked at him. “Can you sit?”

“No,” answered Celegorm sorely. Strength had abandoned him completely; his body felt heavy and empty.

“Here, let me help you,” volunteered the woman.

As soon as he was in a sitting position, Celegorm’s head buzzed. His heart pounded, he panted and sweat pearled on his forehead. Quickly, the man retrieved a chamber pot from under the bed and put it on Celegorm’s lap. The Fëanorian clutched on it, grimacing.

“Go fetch water and the herbal tea I prepared,” said the woman. The man nodded and exited the room.

“Where… Where am I?” asked Celegorm.

“Now? In the personal house of healing of their Majesties,” she replied evenly.

“That’s not what I wanted to know,” growled Celegorm. He closed his eyes; the room around him was turning. “What’s the name of this place?”

“Menegroth.”

Realisation washed over Celegorm. He was not dead. No, he was still alive. He would have rejoiced the news with great joy and merry, had he not been made prisoners.

“You’re not the one who brought me here, are you,” he said. It was hardly a question. The voice of the caregiver was high pitched and she did not whisper when she talked. There was a certain light to her eyes like all Elves.

“No.”

Celegorm waited. “Who are you?” he asked. She did not respond. “Care to give me a name?” he huffed.

“Hm, who did she say you were,” the healer tapped her chin. “Oh, I remember now; Celegorm. Yes, that is your name.”

The Ñoldo grunted. He had forgotten Sindar excelled at being outrageously annoying only because they could be.

“Wrong: my name is Tyelkormo Turkafinwë,” he retorted.

“Not anymore.”

Celegorm inhaled longly. She was lucky he was too weak to smack her in the face. She was also lucky he made an effort to be courteous and civil.

“Your name. I’d like to know your name.”

“Right, but I don’t want you to.”

The Fëanorian growled lowly.

The other healer came back. After drinking the tea, Celegorm was considerably better. The infuriating healer had left and he was now alone with her white-haired colleague. He was no longer dizzy and he could stand up, albeit with wiggling legs. He was too proud to admit his legs would collapse at any time. He did not know what he was proving because he was clutching on the healer’s shoulders like his life depended on it. The Sinda guided him back to the bed. Celegorm dropped like a lifeless bird.

“What’s your name?” he asked the caregiver. Hopefully, this one was more cooperative.

“Aurion.”

“And…,” Celegorm started, hesitantly. “The woman who brought me here from the woods, who was she?”

Aurion’s lips pursed into a grin. “We call her ‘Tinúviel’.”

Celegorm recovered under the watchful eyes and snarky comments of the female healer who never bothered to give him her name, and under the practical care of Aurion. Aurion only spoke when necessary. It was pointless to befriend a kinslayer who carried the seal of death around him. Why Celegorm was not in jail, that the son of Fëanor did not know. He suspected Elu Thingol and Melian had evil schemes that were yet to include torture of all sorts. Forced work, possibly.

Huan never left his side.

Healing and passing time gave him all the opportunities of the world to reflect on his past actions, sob under the sheets, plead for forgiveness, cry his mother’s name, pray to Oromë, and all things those with a heart and guiltiness do in the face of their deeds.

He remembered the teachings of Oromë on the Valar and knew that it was not by benevolence that Eru forbade Ulmo to intervene after the kinslaying at Alqualondë. The God of the Sea was dangerous and brutal, but things ended quickly under his hand. The wrath of Námo was feared by all, save for Eru. The Judge hardly forgave and had damned Exiles after death.

Servitude until his fading was now his fate, Celegorm had reasoned. If the Fëanorian were bound to bring the silmarils to Thingol, if it were his only way to repent, so be it. He regretted that he never said his brothers, his nephew and his cousin Aredhel farewell.

One day, or night, or whichever, Celegorm could not tell, a dark-haired guard came to fetch him. Huan trailing behind, they walked through many sinuous corridors. It was a labyrinth of stone and magic.

They entered a great hall. The floor was a mosaic of colourful stones in an intrinsic pattern. The columns were ornate with glistening jewels, flowers and thin branches. Celegorm gazed around, admirative. The genius of the Dwarves, the art of the Sindar, the magic of Melian; this was the most foreign but sophisticated place he had ever seen.

The guard motioned him to move faster. They walked through the hall and entered a room, as impressive as the hall, that seemed to be a private salon. Two women sat on luxurious golden cushions that contrasted nicely with the dark carpet. The embroidery of the carpet depicted wildflowers under the stars.

A tall man stood, taller than Maedhros. His hair was long and grey; his robe was forest green; his crown was heavy and black, but more interestingly, it held together two ram antlers that fell on the sides of the man’s head.

Celegorm held his breath; he stood before Elu Thingol.

A strong hand forced his head down. Celegorm complied and bowed weakly.

“Excuse his lack of manners, my Lord,” said the guard.

Thingol’s lip twitched in a smirk. The guard cleared his throat expectantly.

“Thank you for bringing him here. You are dismissed,” said the King.

“My Lord.”

The guard bowed and exited the room, leaving the Fëanorian alone with the King and his consorts. The hunter found it curious that the King had two wives—such was a barbaric custom exclusive to Bëorian Men. No Firstborn worth the name ever succumbed to such decadence. He never understood how his cousin Finrod befriended them and devoured the pleasure of the flesh with some of them in the secrecy of dense woods.

Huan, oblivious to the tense atmosphere of the room, wuffed and happily walked to one of the ladies, wagging his tail. Not knowing what to do neither what to think of this, Celegorm’s eyes darted stupidly between the King, his hound and the ladies.

“Did you enchant my dog?” he blurted out.

Thingol scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

One of the ladies huffed. The other continued to pet Huan without paying Celegorm attention. She, Celegorm noticed, had four arms and dark blue veils with beaded crystals on her head that cascaded on the carpet. She did not seem to have hair, only an ocean of silks. The other’s appearance was less unusual: she had two arms and regular hair, although her carbon coloured mane had tiny diamonds that glowed like stars. They had to be the Queen and the Princess, the Ñoldo reasoned. A soft sigh of relief escaped his mouth; the King only had one wife! There was still hope left in this world!

“Come and sit,” ordered the monarch.

Celegorm obeyed. Aurion’s instructions echoed in his mind: in the presence of people of higher castes, one must sit on their heels as a sign of deference. High people could sit with their legs crossed and the close circles of the royal family were allowed to lay down on their sides or stomach. The King spread his long legs lazily and propped himself on his elbows.

The mind of the Fëanorian raced. He hated to sit on his heels. It hurt his knees and feet (how Sindar could handle this position for hours was beyond him, even with a cushion!). He preferred to keep his legs crossed. The matter of Iathel castes system presented a puzzle for him: he was captive, therefore, among the lowest caste. However, he was an Elf of the West, therefore higher than the Dúnedhelath—this is what his logic dictated him, but reality was that the peoples of Beleriand hated invaders from the Undying Lands. His Ñoldorin-ness made him lose points, nevermind that he was a reknown kinslayer. Probably a single caste had been made just for him, a caste lower than all the others. But, as a prince and grandson of Finwë, surely he was not at the bottom of the pyramid. Celegorm could not determine what he was neither what sitting position was proper. It was infuriating and so was the entire caste system of Doriath that was beyond ludicrous. In Tirion, ranks were determined by age and wealth. This was an easier thing to determine.

“On your heels,” said Thingol.

Ah. Celegorm had his answer. He nevertheless cringed, “My grandfather was King Finwë; surely I can sit legs cr-…”

“No,” Thingol cut him off.

Huan, for good measure, lied down on the carpet, his head resting on the lap of the four-armed lady. Celegorm knew she had a name, Melyanna in his tongue and Melian in the tongue of the Grey-Elves, but four-armed lady was more descriptive and accurate.

“You have been summoned here to discuss of your fate,” declared Melian. Her voice was clear and deep. It made the hunter shiver. “Naturally, your destiny would be to be left alone in a cage, rot in the forest outside my girdle and be offered to the spiders and werewolves of Nan Elmoth.” Celegorm winced and hissed. The Maia continued, “It had come to my attention that it was my daughter who brought you here, therefore she shall be the one making the final decision.”

Celegorm looked at Lúthien with surprise. So she was the woman of the lake! It all made sense why her eyes were dim and reflected no light, and her voice had the haunting song of a phantom. Lúthien rested her head on her mother’s shoulder and smirked. She played with Huan’s fur. Apprehension devoured Celegorm from within. Thingol took a bowl full of grapes and watched the scene with interest.

“Your blood carries a smell of temptation,” started the princess. “I wish to drink it, if only it wouldn’t be such a waste to take your life away! We never met a pupil of the Great Hunter before. You must understand I refuse to let go of someone who sings like a bird, hisses like a snake and growls like a bear.” She gazed at Huan lovingly. “I am sure your companion would rather a life in safety than a life of evil and treachery.” She glanced up at Celegorm. The pointy tip of her tongue brushed her lips. “You are very fair. You see, my betrothed is not from this kingdom and is often away. Despite my many friends, I often feel lonely.” She smiled with light affection. “I could use a retainer.”

Thingol opened his mouth like he wanted to object, but closed it immediately after. He tapped his bowl with his fingers, frowning and pensive. The bitter taste of disappointment lingered; just like his wife, he had wished to put the Fëanorian in a cage and witness a monster eat its meal.

He sighed. “So be it.” He raised his bowl in salute.

Lúthien clapped her hands. “Splendid!” She jumped on her feet. “Follow me,” she addressed Celegorm and intimated him to stand up. “I will show you my personal quarters.” The princess slid an arm across the hunter’s waist. “Oh, my precious little gift, I wonder what use I could make of you…,” she purred against his ear.

In a normal situation, arousal would take possession of Celegorm’s mind and body. This not being a normal situation, cold sweat and dread ran down his spine. He prayed to Mandos that the appetite of half-Maiarin princesses was not untamed, or else he would truly request to be put in a cage and be left at the mercy of predators.

Chapter End Notes

Golodh: Ñoldo
Iathel: Doriathrin
Dúnedhelath: Beleriand Elves

Serving Lúthien was not nearly as terrifying as Celegorm apprehended. There was no room ready for him, so she had suggested to share her bed. Celegorm was not in position to reject her proposition. They both had bathed—not together, Lúthien did invite the Fëanorian to attend her, but he blushed so violently she judged better to spare the poor boy.

The Ñoldo twirled in his night-robe. It was large and puffy, and he liked it. Nightclothes were not gendered, he noticed. In the facts, Doriathrin fashion was androgynous. The only difference was that many robes and dresses were adjusted to the body shape of men and women; wider shoulders for men, narrower waistline for women. Designs remained the same.

Lúthien, who was reading a book in her bed, watched Celegorm with amusement. Aurion did well to recommend a herbal tea that increased feeling of relaxation and euphoria. It made the Ñoldo easier to deal with. Celegorm had nothing of the fierce hunter of Oromë and kinslayer that he was reputed to be when the benefits of the tea showed. It gave him back the innocence he had murdered at Alqualondë.

After spinning around for a while, Celegorm decided he was dizzy and that he had to stop. He grinned at his own cleverness. When you twirl and you’re dizzy, you stop and all is good! The tea made him feel silly and stupid.

He climbed on the bed and slid under the covers. Lúthien closed her book, murmured a spell in Valarin and the three lamps of her room became a faint glow in the dark. She rested a hand on Celegorm’s stomach. The hunter was no longer grinning like a fool. Fear pinned him down in motionlessness. Lúthien shifted closer and pressed her front against his side. Her hand trailed to Celegorm’s muscular chest. The princess hummed with satisfaction. Celegorm closed his eyes, afraid to see the light of hunger in Lúthien’s eyes. Fingers ghosted on his shoulder, neck, jaw, cheekbone, nose bridge and lips.

“If you slay me in my sleep,” she warned him, “my mother will call upon the Great Hunter. He will take care of your soul—or rather, deal with it—before it arrives to Mandos.”

Celegorm nodded.

“Good,” purred Lúthien. She stroked her retainer’s arm. He tensed and squirmed. “Calm down,” she whispered. “I will not take advantage of you. I am no monster.”

Celegorm could only believe her. Lúthien turned his head to face her and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead. She muttered a ‘goodnight’, rolled on her other side, pulled blankets above her shoulders and drifted to sleep.

***

He thought his repetance as retainer of the Princess of Doriath would include submission, humiliation and carnal service. Nothing prepared him to the tasks he was assigned. He helped Lúthien reorganise her books in her personal library; discussed whether blue or lilac was a more appropriate colour for a shirt; hung decorations all over the royal quarters for the spring festival; collected honey; was stung by angry bees; made honey candies; shooed raccoons away; tripped on Huan who was sleeping in the middle of an alley; taught young Iathil to make tools with animal nerves and bones.

To his surprise, Lúthien washed herself and dressed without being attended. She was equally surprised when Celegorm made the remark. Celegorm explained that Ñoldorin nobles had grooms and servants to do it. She voiced that if Ñoldor lacked the capacity to dress by themselves, then it was time to rethink their fashion. Sophistication was not meant to be at the cost practicality. It pained Celegorm to agree with her, but he did. The reason he became a hunter was that he needed whatever excuse to not spend his days in heavy robes full of laces, accessories, shawls and other idiocies of the kind. It allowed him to wear simple clothes.

Lúthien also replied that if he were bored and did not have enough things to do, he was welcome to wash and comb her hair. Celegorm, for a lack of verve (may Fëanor never hear), said, ‘erhm.’ The Sindarin princess took it positively. She took his hand and led him to her personal washroom.

Lúthien’s hair was very long. It reached her knees. Her mane was thin and soft. The princess’ favourite hairstyle was a bun to the back of her head. She often covered her head with a tight scarf or a veil that reached her ankles. The sight of her hair was as breathtaking as it was rare. As breathtaking as her naked milky skin.

Celegorm stood next to the silver bathtub, a black plait in his fist, unsure what to do with such a length. It would be difficult to wash it properly without him being in the water too.

“May I…?” he asked tentatively.

Lúthien raised a leg lazily and washed it with her sponge. Her soap smelled like coriander. “Take off your clothes,” she said, almost sighing of pleasure.

Celegorm swallowed and nodded, but Lúthien did not see him, as he was standing behind her, still holding her hair. He delicately put it on the surface of the water. The way her hair floated around her reminded the Fëanorian of her mother’s veils. With trembling hands, he obeyed her command, removed his shirt, fumbled with his trousers, and entered in the bath. Lúthien shifted to make him room. Intimated and self-conscious, Celegorm crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Oh, the bucket,” said Lúthien. She moved to her knees, bent above the bathtub, retrieved a small bucket that contained a bottle of shampoo and handed it to her retainer. Celegorm averted his eyes as her chest was no longer hidden in water and a sea of hair. “You can look,” she spoke those words with the enchanting whisper she had when she wanted something. It commanded attention.

“No, I-,” protested Celegorm.

“I would like you too,” a smile was drawn on Lúthien’s lips.

The Ñoldo took a deep breath and raised his head. Lúthien rested her arms on the edge of the tub with an air of ease and defiance. Her arms and shoulders were graceful but no less toned. She was not as muscular as women of Men and Orcs (Men and Orcs had the talent to gain muscle like nobody else—Elves often appeared frail in comparison. The Fëanorian was terribly envious of Men), yet her shoulders showed she was a trained archer. Her breasts were small and round, so small Celegorm almost missed them. They had an adolescent quality. Her areolas and nipples were no bigger than those of a male. Celegorm had seen a few busts during his youth, when he had the heart to court ladies behind bushes, and they, for most, had breasts that were pointy and facing slightly downwards. They bounced under thick robes when women walked. Celegorm liked chests that bounced. Lúthien’s chest clearly stayed in place when she moved around. That was a losing point for the Fëanorian. However, the perfect round shape interested Celegorm. It reminded him of Vána. With a pang of regret and nostalgia, he saw with his mind’s eyes the six small breasts of the Valië. She had antlers like Oromë, the ears of a horse, and the upper part of her body was like an Elda. From her navel, skin turned to dark grey hair and she had the legs of a goat. More than once, when Celegorm was exhausted from a fruitful hunt, the Ainu had let him suck her nipples and fed him with her milk, milk could satiate an Elda for a week.

Staring at Lúthien’s breasts, he noticed that water pearled on her chest in an unusual way. He frowned and leaned in.

“You have… feathers?” he gasped.

Lúthien hummed.

Her feathers were pale blue, thin and small. She had some around her breasts, and her feathers converged to a trail from her stomach to her pubic area.

“Touch,” she ordered.

Celegorm brushed a finger on her chest. Lúthien shivered and her tiny feathers lifted. He repeated the motion and brushed her sternum area with his fingernails. The princess relaxed and her eyelids were heavy. His pale beige hand caressed her white skin, making Celegorm appear dark—and Celegorm, as a Ñoldo, was very fair himself. He moved his hand downwards, smirking at the contrast of colours. Lúthien gave no objection when he reached her nether parts.

Had it been elsewhere than in Doriath, Celegorm would feel blood rush to his member and he would consume his desire. In the tub of the princess, his position as a retainer hang heavy in the air. His shoulders sank. There was no one he could start anew, court her like an equal and walk by her side. He grabbed her inner thigh as if she were as delicate as porcelain. Between the two, he was the fragile porcelain vase, he thought bitterly. She had him under her hand.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. She reached with her fingers Celegorm’s cheek. He leaned in the touch despite himself.

“I can’t,” he whimpered.

“Get hard?”

Celegorm scowled. “Don’t spoil the moment.”

Lúthien shrugged. “It is what it is,” she smirked.

Celegorm’s scowl deepened. It was her fault for bringing him in, not that would change the situation he was trapped in. He was content enough to wander around Menegroth and do what was assigned to him. He did not need somewhat dubious intimacy to be ruined, neither his sour, self-loathing whispers that crept from the back of his mind. He certainly did not need his present erectile defect to be named so crudely. It hurt his pride.

Arms circled his shoulders. “There, there,” Lúthien’s breath came in warm, short bursts on Celegorm’s cheek. “It’s not like you to think-”

“Hey! I can think! I’m not dumb!”

“…I wasn’t finished, but good to know you can think. Or perhaps not. It means I cannot give you stupid, contradictory orders for the sake of it,” she sighed dramatically.

Celegorm shifted to face her. “You seriously-…” The princess smirked and raised an eyebrow. “…Right. Grey-Elves. Your strange humour,” grumbled the Ñoldo.

Lúthien giggled and brought him close. Her hands drew large circles on his back. Celegorm buried his face in her hair, blushing. Her breasts were soft and it pleased him. Even though they did not bounce. He circled her waist. She settled on his lap.

“My hair has to be washed,” she murmured. She kissed his cheek.

“The bucket-”

“You put it back on the floor.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. Do you know what a floor is?”

Celegorm froze with Lúthien in his arms. “Of course, I know what a floor is! Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Ah, really? You amaze me.” He felt her grin on his skin.

“Right, Sindarin mockery,” he muttered. “I’ll never get used to it.”

“Don’t forget what a bucket and shampoo are.”

If it weren’t for his new and peculiar life, Celegorm would consider a second kinslaying.

***

Daeron was sulking. He was sitting in one of Mablung’s luxurious chairs in the marchwarden’s immense talan and he was sulking. Mablung, to calm him down, had given him a cucumber to chew on. Daeron’s scowl was as ugly as the depths of his frown—the cucumber did not improve this. The cucumber only silenced his everlasting whining. Daeron loved cucumbers. He loved to eat them. As he once told Saeros, who did not believe him, cucumbers never consented to unorthodox usage; therefore, Daeron only enjoyed them for eating and nothing else.

Daeron was sulking because the love of his life had a male retainer. He knew she did not consider Celegorm a potential spouse. The Ñoldo was like a pet, a companion to her. Daeron wished he had his place.

What surprised Mablung and Beleg (because Beleg was already at Mablung’s when Daeron stormed in to execute his grandiose sulking) the most was that the bard resented Celegorm more than he resented Beren. This last one was far more intimate with Lúthien than anybody else. Beren, to Daeron’s eyes, was a good man. He was hardy, courageous, steady and kind-hearted. He was aware the Secondborns were better equipped to deal with feisty Maiar than Firstborns, and Lúthien had a feisty side. They had a flame in them that matched Maiarin mischief.

“What do we do?” whispered Mablung to Beleg. They did not dare to enter the living room.

“Fetch another cucumber?” suggested Beleg.

They heard footsteps. Someone stood behind the two Elves.

“Ha, Beren! It’s good to see you!” said Mablung cheerfully as he clasped the Man’s shoulder.

“Nice to see you too,” grinned Beren. “Where are you guys standing in the doorway? Don’t you want to sit on the couch?”

Mablung lifted his hand, gestured and dropped it.

“He’s eating a cucumber, and?” Beren raised an eyebrow.

Beleg sighed. “He’s brooding.”

“I can see that. Move, I want to pass,” said Beren as he entered the living room.

He crouched down in front of Daeron. The Elf barely acknowledged him with a nod. He continued to chew his cucumber.

“What happened?” asked Beren.

Daeron’s face was dark.

“The hunter that you spotted in the woods…,” he started.

“The Exile?”

Daeron nodded. “Beleg and Mablung,” he pointed at them with the remaining quarter of his vegetable, “consulted Lúthien, and they captured him.” His melodious voice was thick with reproach.

Beren raised his brows. He sat on the floor, eager to learn more. An Elven sacrifice was unheard of in Doriath—surely that was the fate of the kinslayer.

“They kept him as a servant. Personal retainer of the princess,” the bard growled.

Beren said nothing. He only scratched his stubble. Lúthien never was one to act without thinking first.

“Can’t you do something about it?” snarled Daeron. “It’s a bloody Fëanorian! I will convince the King to marry you to his daughter if that’s what it takes! But get the Golodh out!”

“Won’t you be angry that Beren will be with Lúthien until death does them part?” Mablung raised an eyebrow.

Beleg, who was mysteriously gone, came back with mugs and a bottle of mead.

“I prefer to know Beren near,” pouted Daeron.

“For being near Lúthien, that he is. More than near, I’d say,” snickered Mablung. Beren promptly ignored him and Daeron cast him an angry glare.

“So is her consort, surely,” said Beleg nonchalantly as he handed a cup of mead to Beren.

Mablung’s face fell. “I forgot about that,” he winced.

Daeron, clearly, never forgot. If possibly, his expression became darker than it already was. His face twisted with dread and horror. What happened behind closed doors…

“Come back to Menegroth, please,” the musician begged.

“He will,” announced Beleg. “Beren, the King requested your presence.”

“I suppose he shares Daeron’s sentiment,” mused Mablung.

“He did not say,” continued Beleg. “I assume it concerns the Golodh since Beren was the first who saw him in our woods.”

“Stupid Golodh,” Daeron took another bite of his cucumber.

No one disagreed with him.

***

“Beren, mae govannen,” smiled Thingol as he noticed the Man standing in the arch of the doorway to his personal office. “Come in, take a seat.”

Beren nodded. The king showed no sign of discontentment, but he was wary of the discussion to come.

“Dog, stay out!” shouted Thingol. “The entrance is too narrow!”

Beren jumped.

“No, not you,” said the king. “The dog behind you. You’re not a dog. Careful, he’s big.”

Beren yelped. The hound was as large as a strong stallion. It wanted to enter the room, but the doorway was too narrow.

“Queen Melian?” he tried.

Thingol laughed. “No! He is a hound of the Great Hunter and of Lúthien’s Golodh. This is why I summoned you here. Regarding the Golodh more particularly, the dog is no concern.”

Beren, on his guards, stepped away from Huan despite that the hound seemed friendly rather than aggressive. The dog was stuck in the doorway but wagged his tail like it was the happiest moment of his life. He took a seat near Thingol’s desk.

“I wanted to thank you,” started the king.

“Huh?” Beren raised his head.

“’Huh,’ indeed,” scoffed Thingol with a thin grin. “You were the one who warned my marchwardens about the presence of the kinslayer. You did my kingdom a great service.”

Beren blushed. “I, hm, huh, mrhrh,” he said with exceptional eloquence.

“With that being said,” pursued Thingol, paying Beren no attention, “my daughter captured him and took him as a slave of… sorts.” He grimaced. He censored himself from thinking about what Lúthien could do with that piece of meat—the Fëanorian—but his censorship was not infallible.

Beren played with his trousers. This was no topic he was interested to discuss with the Elvenking who once refused him as the princess’ consort. ‘Sir, I wooed your half-divine only child; let me woo her some more to distract her from her servant!’ was not recommended to say aloud.

“Beren, I allow you to live in Menegroth permanently.”

Beren jerked his head up for a second time. “Really?” he rasped.

Thingol nodded solemnly. “Yes,” he said. “Your children will always be welcome here.”

‘Make me grandchildren before the Golodh does’ was the unspoken command.

“Please come back to my daughter,” pleaded the king. “Do what you must, but keep the kinslayer away, I beg you.”

Beren bit his lips. The only strategy he thought of was to unleash an angry Daeron on the Fëanorian. There was nothing he could do personally. Lúthien had been firm on keeping the Fëanorian alive and under her service. What if somebody else claimed him…

“My father, Barahir,” he articulated. “He had a ring given by Felagund. Felagund swore allegiance to my people. Perhaps we could gift him the retainer.”

Beren was unaware of Elven customs but hoped they were alike to those of the House of Hador. Hadorian Men gifted servants to their allies. It was a tradition to maintain good political relationships. To receive a servant was a great honour. In return, the one who was given the gift had to treat their servant with respect. It was a metaphor of the respect given to their allies. Giving the Fëanorian to Felagund would strengthen the bonds between Doriath and Nargothrond.

Thingol smirked. “Finrod is the grandson of my brother Olue. I can summon him here.” He rested his chin against his palm. “Isn’t his sister said to be the greatest of her people? Surely she can have a hold on the Golodh. Last she came, she seemed to be smitten with Galadhon’s son; I’m sure she would be pleased to see him again…” His smirked deepened. “I shall invite them both here. Let us see what they do to their half-cousin.” He rose from his chair and put his hand on Beren’s shoulder. “Thank you for your suggestion. I underestimated your kin. You are far more astute than you present to be.” He huffed. “And they say Elves are wise! Wise, perhaps, but tactical? No.”

Beren, at loss with what to say, simply cleared his throat.

Chapter End Notes

Golodh: Ñoldo
Iathil: Doriath Elves
Olue: Olwë

Celegorm rubbed his butt. He did not understand the preference of the Sindar to have low tables and sit on cushions and the floor rather than on chairs. He knew some Sindar had chairs and desks like the Ñoldor did (Lúthien had a desk with a mirror and a small wooden chair in her bedroom). His pupils (he was the assigned hunting teacher of a group of children and adolescents) said sitting on the ground was more convenient. Nobody complained their bottom felt flat after a while (the Fëanorian once made the complaint to Lúthien, and she had fondled his posterior, assuring him it was round and firm).

The end of the crafting class was most welcome. He was free to roam around Menegroth. The truth was that he lost himself easily in the vast cave and labyrinth-like corridors. He had been there for a couple of months yet felt like it was his first day. There were street signs he could not read. They were in Cirth, courtesy of Daeron. Deemed illiterate, it was natural that Celegorm hopelessly wandered around. It pained him to admit it, but it made him miss Nargothrond. The caves were more orderly. And street signs had the decency to be written with the Tengwar script.

Celegorm heard a faint squeal. A skunk was stuck in a tree (there were many trees growing in the caves under Melian’s magic).

“Sweetpie, what are you doing here?” he cooed. The skunk, unable to speak Sindarin (or to speak at all), cried louder. “Don’t move, I’m coming to fetch you,” grinned Celegorm, who found the unfortunate creature endearing.

He climbed on the tree and took the skunk in his arms like a saviour. The animal pressed itself against his chest and sniffed his neck and ear. “There, there,” he whispered, brushing the skunk’s back. Two Elves walked under the tree. Celegorm froze; there was a voice he recognised. “Shhh,” he told the skunk.

He climbed a few branches, observing the couple from the tree. A maiden with pale golden hair linked her arms with a tall, slender man of silver hair. Celegorm noticed that the young lady, just like him, glowed. He swore there were only a handful of individuals whose hair was halfway between the sandy-blonde hair of the Teleri and the wheat gold of the Vanyar. What his cousin was doing in Menegroth, he could not tell. He deducted her main interest was the company she was with. Celegorm swore under his breath. Galadriel would never leave him alone. He had to find a petty excuse to work alongside the marchwardens, hoping Lúthien would accept, or else Galadriel would excuses to track and mock him.

Once the couple was gone, Celegorm headed to the room of his mistress. He forgot he was still holding the skunk, but the animal was more than comfortable and had fallen asleep.

***

“What are you doing? Trying a new pose?” snickered Lúthien.

“Very funny,” scowled Beren. “I’m trying to take my shirt off.”

“Not successfully,” she scoffed.

Beren grunted. He put his arms down and repeated his motion. The moment his arms were in the air and he felt his head go halfway through the hole of his shirt, he could go no further.

“Lú,” he whined.

“What?”

“My hair,” he breathed. “It’s stuck in the buckles!”

“What’s the idea to have buckles on the back and not on the front…,” grumbled Lúthien. “I’ve always said it was a bad idea.”

“You tell me, that’s Iathren fashion,” replied Beren.

Lúthien knew he had a point. She was a kind person and went to help Beren. She nonetheless grinned because he looked absolutely silly stuck the way he was, arms folded, shirt on his face, his chest bare.

It’s at this moment Celegorm chose to storm in the room.

“Ah, there you are,” said Lúthien. “Welcome back.”

“Thank y-… what are you doing?” asked the Ñoldo, incredulous.

“His hair is twisted in a buckle. I might cut it,” answered Lúthien. “It’s a joke,” she added right after Beren growled his disagreement.

Celegorm stood there not knowing what to do. “He’s a Man,” he said unhelpfully. No one had warned him the suitor of the princess was around.

“I thought I was a Dwarf,” huffed Beren as he finally removed his shirt and kept his hair intact.

Celegorm narrowed his eyes: this one had spent too much time with the Sindar and had assimilated their annoying retorts.

“Give him a chance, he’s from the West. He’s a cousin of Felagund,” Lúthien addressed her companion.

“I reckon he made the same remark, although he seemed to have more wits,” said Beren.

“Cousin of…? And he’s shirtless!” blurted Celegorm. This scene made no sense to him; it only flustered him.

“Of course, he is,” smiled Lúthien. “Not that I would complain…” She winked suggestively.

“Being shirtless is,” the hunter sighed. “Indecent.”

“Ah?” Beren raised his eyebrows.

Celegorm felt heat creep on his cheeks. He resolutely stared at his shoes. “Yes. It’s vulgar for men to be shirtless. Less so for women because they breastfeed children. In Tirion, that is. That’s what we think.”

Celegorm was not the most prudish of the Ñoldor. He and Aredhel often swam in streams together; if nudity was a little social taboo, being naked in front of the other gender was a bigger taboo. The two bore no attraction to the other and decreed it was pointless to wash oneself clothed after an exhausting hunt. Moreover, Oromë was not one to scold them for it. Elves were born naked, after all.

Celegorm’s level of comfort changed depending on his familiarity with his surroundings. Beren was a strange—it was the first time of his existence he ever cast eyes on the Man. His shirtlessness unsettled him. He realised, with a certain relief, that Men were not different from Elves. Not too different. Men were bulkier and hairier. Celegorm thought grimly that Beren was broader than him. It did nothing to justify Finrod’s action of taking Men behind bushes if the rumours were true. Said rumours were not difficult to believe, Finrod once drunkenly confessed he was envious of Celegorm for his relationship with Oromë (Celegorm then had to make clarifications on his bond with the Vala. Finrod’s mind was beyond perversion).

The feeling of hands sliding on his arms brought him from back his rêverie. Lúthien took the skunk, rocking it gently.

“She’s sleeping deeply,” commented Beren.

“She often does that,” said Lúthien.

“She?” asked Celegorm.

“It’s nana,” said Lúthien. “Didn’t you notice how big she is for a skunk?”

“I thought it was an obese skunk…,” mumbled the Fëanorian. It never crossed his mind the queen enjoyed wearing the body of this animal.

Beren snickered. “Queen Melian the fat skunk. Excellent.”

“Pity I can’t shapeshift as I wish,” sighed Lúthien. “I would make a beautiful black fox.”

“Maiar can’t all take as many forms as they wish, it requires a lot of energy. They usually settle to two or three physical forms,” said Celegorm. “I met one shapeshifter and it was… odd.” He had no idea why he explained the shapeshifting abilities of Maiar. Lúthien, of all people, was well aware of the technicalities.

“You’re familiar with Spirits, aren’t you?” Beren cocked his head.

“I am,” nodded Celegorm. “My grandfather serves Oli and I was a hunter of Araw.”

“I see. Are you the one with the giant dog?”

“The what?”

“Huan,” provided Lúthien.

“Yes, he’s my dog,” answered Celegorm.

“Is he a Spirit?” pressed Beren.

“Ah, no. Only a big and intelligent dog.”

“Does he bite?”

“If you purposely walk on his tail, yes, otherwise, no. He’s a sweet boy and won’t harm a bug unless the bug is Sauron.”

“So he doesn’t eat people?”

“What? No!”

Beren put a hand on his chest and sighed heavily. “Sweet Elbereth! Thank the Gods!” Lúthien, for some reason, did not seem so happy.

“What?” said Celegorm.

“My friend,” Beren put a heavy hand on the Ñoldo’s shoulder. “Lúthien made me believe the dog ate Men. What a relief he doesn’t!”

Lúthien had the decency to look guilty.

***

Dear Findya,

You will never believe it: our ruthless cousin, the one and only Tyelkormo, was captured by no one else but Princess Lúthien herself! Tyelko is her retainer and he tries to disappear whenever I’m around. Hunting with Lord Oromë had rendered him remarkably good at the art of hiding. Pity. I can’t snark on him like I wish to.

By all means, please come over. King Thingollo told me he wrote you a letter earlier, a convocation to Doriath. It concerns the case of Tyelkormo. I’m sure you will be packing by the time you receive my letter. Sir Galadhon told me he would love to host you—so did Celeborn. Beren said he missed you. I had no idea you two were well acquainted. I did inquire, but all Beren gave me was a cheeky smile. I wonder what the son of Barahir has done to you…

You are most welcome to bring Tyelperinquar with you but by Moringotto, lock Curufinwë away. His presence in Lestanórë will result in a second kinslaying. If he escapes, I will personally make sure Lord Eöl of Nan Elmoth finds hims and make him his new assistant at the smithy (it pains the High Elven side of me to say it, but Grey Elves forge weapons and armour greater than ours). Girdle of Melyanna or not, the second-biggest danger, after Curufinwë’s bad temper, is the Princess who would let him in so she can have him bicker with her people for her enjoyment. Hence my insistence on keeping Curvo away.

My salutations to Artaresto and little Faelivrin.

Love,

The manliest man of the House of Finwë after Irissë

***

“You cannot take my son to Lestanórë without me!” snarled Curufin.

“Yes, I can,” retorted Finrod with a stern voice. “I am King here. I make the decisions, and you are in no position to handle-”

“I am Tyelko’s brother!” hissed Curufin.

“The two of you are my subjects.”

“So is Tyelpë!”

“Yes,” conceded Finrod. “But Tyelpë is not the cause of diplomatic conflicts with the Teleri.”

Curufin sneered. “Because I suppose you’re better than I?”

“I did slay my people, didn’t I?” smirked Finrod. “And I am the one taking refuge in a monarch’s domain, am I not?”

“Quit the sarcasm. You are arrogant to put yourself and your rule on a pedestal. What power do your words hold on the King of the Sindar?” countered the Fëanorian. “You are no High King of the Ñoldor.”

“I am no one but the mere grandson of his beloved brother. Family, you see. But if you may,” Finrod put his hands on his hips, “have the High King of the Ñoldor assess the situation, I will be delighted to invite him to Lestanórë. I’m sure Uncle Ñolo would love to be part of it.”

Curufin scowled. Fingolfin in Doriath would cause more harm than good. Worse, he might take Celegorm with him. Finrod was benevolent but Fingolfin was unforgiving.

“Fine,” the Ñoldo growled. “Go with Tyelpë, but if you don’t bring my brother back, I will dismember you.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Finrod dismissively. Curufin’s face twisted with contempt and hatred. There was nothing that irritated him more than the caustic tongue of his fair and golden cousin.

“I’ll stay here,” declared Celebrimbor who had been watching the scene from the corner of the room. “I want to see Uncle Tyelko, but… atya will be restless alone. I also doubt I can be of any contribution in the woodland.”

A warm smile was painted on Curufin’s lips. His son, at least, was loyal.

“I suppose you’re right,” nodded Finrod. “It’s better to keep an eye on your father and make sure he does not torment the entire Nargothrond in my absence.”

“Excuse me for being worried my own brother was killed!” riposted Curufin.

Finrod ignored him. Celebrimbor patted his shoulder.

***

“Pass me the bottle,” ordered Celegorm.

Beren took pale silver hair in one hand and wobbled to take a bottle on the drawer. Celegorm comfortably installed himself on the Man’s chest and spread his legs on Lúthien’s bed. He took a sip.

“It burns everytime,” he rasped.

“It does,” agreed Beren.

“Why do Men love strong alcohol?” he whined.

“Erh, we like being drunk?” tried Beren. “Stop moving, I can’t braid your hair if you shift all the time.”

“One more sip.” Celegorm drew his head back. He grunted and massaged his throat.

“That’s enough,” scolded Beren. “You’ll drop dead if you continue.”

“I’m immortal.”

“Semantics. You can be slain. Now, give me the bottle. Hold your hair.”

Celegorm complied. There was nothing else to do. He and Beren were waiting for Lúthien, on Lúthien’s bed, to come back from her meeting with her father, mother, Galadriel and Finrod. A meeting that concerned the fate of the Fëanorian. He did not know what to expect and to his relief, Beren had suggested to braid each other’s hair while intoxicated on whisky. It was the most sensible thing to do. Celegorm, just like his fellow Ñoldorin exiles, held the belief mushrooms were enchanted by Melkor. He refused to eat any. He was certain he would die if he ate what the Sindar called ‘magic shrooms’. Alcohol, on the other hand, was not as risky. Pleasurable it was, to an extent. Celegorm loathed hangovers. Beren called him boring (he was fond of shroom trips from time to time).

He and Beren got along relatively well. Beren was not used to have a retainer and let Lúthien take the situation in charge. Celegorm did not bother him. He minded the dog but gave no further thought to the Ñoldo whom, after all, did not bite. Scared of his ‘shirtlessness’ perhaps, which was amusing to Beren. When the Man was not busy annoying Daeron about the Princess’ servant or busy patrolling the woods with Beleg, Mablung and Nellas, he accepted to be in Celegorm’s company. Celegorm found it was better than to be left alone and truth be told, he was curious about Men. There was something with Beren’s smell that left him with an unsettling warmth in his chest.

Perhaps, after all, there were reasons behind his cousin’s inclination towards the Secondborns. He once confessed it to Lúthien, hoping she would provide an explanation on the enticing smell of Men. Lúthien, being who she was, wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. She pouted when Celegorm shouted a scandalised ‘No!’ She mumbled Finrod had accepted and enjoyed it. It was on the Fëanorian’s mind his cousin had had a threesome with the princess of Doriath and her beau. His life had never been the same since then.

At the same moment Celegorm and Beren were grooming themselves, Thingol and Finrod wished they had something strong to swallow. So did Melian, who was bored. Not having booze nearby, she chose to morph into a skunk. She could walk on the office desk and settle on people’s laps. Having decided Thingol’s lap was the best for obvious reasons, she curled on him, purring.

Her presence soothed his irritation. Thingol wanted the Fëanorian out of his realm. Lúthien did not share his opinion. He had convoked his daughter, his wife, Finrod and Galadriel to debate on the matter.

“You must understand,” said Finrod, “his younger brother is a little pest without his older brother with him. I am the one suffering from his difficult temper.”

“Agreed,” nodded Galadriel. “He is just like a moody goose. I feel sorry for his son whose head is on his shoulders.”

“Aren’t there seven sons of Fëanor? Surely you can send Curufin to one of them,” Lúthien crossed her arms.

“It’s not as easy,” groaned Finrod.

“Let us bring this younger brother and his son here, then,” said Lúthien.

“You cannot think-” started Thingol but was interrupted by Galadriel’s loud ‘Ew! By Ulu, no!’

“See,” said Finrod, pointing at his sister.

“I will not give Celegorm away. He’s mine,” Lúthien stood her ground.

“Isn’t he Beren’s?” asked Thingol. “He was the first to see him.”

Lúthien was pensive. “Perhaps he… Mh. Yes. I’m afraid you’re right.”

“Then the decision belongs to him,” sighed her father. She glared at him. She hated when he was right.

“Let’s bring him here,” said Galadriel. Finrod nodded.

Melian squeaked. She had enough of this meeting. Everyone looked at her, expecting her to pronounce something intelligent. Melian, however, felt too lazy to form complete sentences and she rolled on her back, wiggled her legs and chirped.

“Ah. She wants a belly rub…,” said Thingol apologetically.

“Wait for me, I’ll be back with Beren shortly,” said Lúthien. “We must find a solution. Pet nana, in the meantime.”

She was back with a tipsy Beren a few minutes later. The discussion was not conclusive. Beren considered all sides of the argument before making a decision. He was undecisive naturally, but his inebriation increased his said lack of quick decision-making skills. The problem was not Celegorm himself, but his younger brother. He sensibly pointed out that the specialist of the question was Celegorm himself, so why not meet with him? Melian got too impatient for the appointment to continue. Thingol had to report it before she bit everyone. Melian proved to be a rude skunk when she wanted to.

Celegorm was reading a book when Beren, Lúthien and Finrod stormed into the princess’ room. In reality, he was staring at the same page he had been staring at for the last five minutes. His mind was clouded by the fog of whisky.

“So?” he asked.

Beren shrugged.

“If you can’t return to Nargothrond with me, Curvo will decapitate me…,” muttered Finrod.

“Oh no, he won’t,” purred Celegorm. “He likes you.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow. “Does he?”

Celegorm nodded solemnly. Lúthien came close to see which book he was reading and she complimented his braids. Beren was smug.

Suddenly, Celegorm realised the meaning of Finrod’s presence. His mind raced and jumped to conclusions.

“What is he doing here?” he gasped. “Lúthien, you, you-…” His eyes widened. “He’s my cousin! I cannot possibly do that! Don’t be evil! You and I haven’t-, no we didn’t-, I can’t!”

“Do what?” asked Lúthien, confused.

“A foursome!” Celegorm too had a perverted mind.

“Woopsies,” said Beren almost helpfully.

“Why do you think we’ll have a foursome?” sighed Lúthien. “Not that I would never consider it, but… How drunk are you?”

Finrod hid his face behind his hands, plagued by the reminiscence of his naughty time with Beren and Lúthien.

“You already had a threesome. He liked it. You seem to want a threesome with Beren and me. Finrod is with us,” explained Celegorm. “Consequently, that means you want a foursome, I’m sure.”

“Who wants a foursome?” asked Galadriel as she crossed the room accompanied by a tall silver-haired man. “Ah, Findya, I hadn’t expected to find you here.”

“Me neither…,” replied Finrod.

“Well. Anyways. Tyelko, this is Celeborn; Celeborn, this is my cousin Tyelkormo. He’s called ‘Celegorm’ in your language,” Galadriel introduced them to each other. Celeborn nodded. He had already bumped into Celegorm by accident (when Celegorm was lost in Menegroth, as per usual, when looking for Huan).

“Findya, are you alright?” Galadriel enquired.

“Yes?” replied Finrod.

She narrowed her eyes. “Your cheeks are red.”

Finrod smiled a silly grin and shrugged.

“Celeborn and I are heading to the pub,” announced Galadriel, putting the issue aside. “The Happy Bock. Or The Singing Wine, we haven’t decided yet. Who’s coming?”

“Oh no, I’m drunk already,” whined Celegorm. “What will I do? Lúthien, cast a spell on me so I can drink without being sick tomorrow.” Thinking himself fancy, he added ‘if you please’ in Valarin. Lúthien retorted that it was best he drank water and ate a rich meal instead.

On their way to the pub, Celegorm locked his arm with Finrod’s. He warned him to not squirm because he was about to whisper things to his ear. So he did. Knowing the question was on the threesome and that Finrod was terrified of what his little sister would think, Beren yelled Huan’s name in the corridor in order to mask Celegorm’s voice. One could always count on Beren to be the hero of the day. It displeased Celegorm who cried he didn’t hear Finrod’s answer. Finrod only swore in Quenya.

***

Maedhros took a deep breath. And a second one. And a third. A fourth. A fifth.

“Who wrote?” asked Maglor, who was sitting next to him on the couch in front of the fire.

“Findaráto.”

“Ingo? Ah. A letter on breathing techniques?”

“No,” grunted Maedhros. “I wish it was.” He massaged his temples. Discouragement came in waves in his mind and body.

“This bad?”

Maedhros nodded.

“Ingo leads a peaceful life in Nargothrond, I hardly see what wrong can happen,” mused the musician.

“Many things happen when it concerns Tyelko and Curvo,” replied Maedhros grimly.

Maglor’s face fell. “I see. Pass me the letter.”

On the contrary to Maedhros’ expectations, his brother’s expression brightened as he read the foul paper.

“Amazing,” whispered the bard.

“You think it’s funny?” snarled Maedhros.

“Funny? This is hilarious!” exclaimed Maglor, putting the letter back on his elder’s lap. “Tyelko is a servant in Lestanórë and Curvo is fussing. That’s the most unexpected! Well, Curvo’s tantrums are predictable, that doesn’t surprise me anymore.”

“I don’t know what to do,” sighed Maedhros. He felt life slowly coming out of his hröa as he pictured a political conflict with his mind’s eyes.

“I doubt there’s anything to do. The princess said Tyelko’s life belongs to her. I’m no expert in the laws of the Sindar, but I don’t want to negotiate with a princess who’s the daughter of a powerful, scary king and an even scarier Maiarin mother.”

Maedhros considered the further implications of the situation. To have a hold on a Fëanorian was perhaps a proper war prize for Thingol, and a tool to maintain peace between two nations (Maedhros made an effort to see the good outcomes of it all). Galadriel herself was in favour of keeping Celegorm in the wooden realm.

Maglor picked the letter to analyse it a second time. “Ingo says Tyelko is well treated despite his, ahem, past. Lúthien is utilitarian yet Tyelko is content to patrol the woods and hunt with Huan, and do whatever he’s asked to do that is beneficial for the Sindar. Good thing he’s scared of her and listens. Even Irissë struggled to keep him in place.”

“You agree it’s better to not claim him?”

“Yes,” replied Maglor. “For the time being. Moringotto’s spawn cannot enter the Girdle. He is safe there. And Curvo…”

“I suppose Findaráto will send him here if he becomes troublesome. Or to Pityo and Telvo’s.” He groaned. “Let’s send him to Turukáno’s. Everyone listens to Turukáno.”

“And Itarillë,” added Maglor, grinning. “Don’t forget she has the gloomy personality of her father despite her appearance holding the light of Laurelin. The problem is that Turno’s city is hidden.”

“It’s a good thing. Curvo will be safe there.”

“Yes, but how can we send Curvo to a city we don’t know where it is? That’s the point of being hidden.”

Maglor, despite his fondness of music and emotionality, was quite the practical Elf. He had the talent to state the obvious everyone forgot about. Maedhros, in his mental imagery of diplomatic incidents and outcomes, had forgotten that Gondolin was impossible to locate.

“Let’s… go to Nargothrond,” decided Maedhros. “Discuss with Findaráto and Curvo. And Tyelpë. I miss the little chap.”

“The little chap who’s taller than his father.”

“It was an expression. I still remember him when he was a baby. I watched all of you grow up, but this one had the biggest lungs of the House. On the other hand, Curvo was a silent babe…”

“Tyelpë got this from his mother. The tables have turned. Curvo’s the loud one and Tyelpë the silent one. Except when he drinks. Ah, Eru, the yelling.”

“Speaking of which, where’s the wine? I have letters to write tonight. I need something to spice my evening.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “Letters to whom?”

“Our other siblings, who else? And Finno. Finno will never believe it…,” Maedhros grinned widely.

***

Celegorm stayed in Doriath and Curufin stayed in Nargothrond. Much to everyone’s surprise, he did not behave like a demon around Orodreth. It was suspected Finduilas threatened him by saying she would summon the devil, or something of the sort. Finduilas’ had an unveiled interest for Mannish magic. Their rituals scared Elves deeply (Men used it at their advantage. An Elf healthy of mind would never wish their fëa to be locked in a teapot, and would comply instead of rebelling Mannish authority), and it did scare Curufin. Celebrimbor had bonded with Dwarves and he often travelled with his father. A busy Curufin was a happy Curufin, and a happy Curufin meant he was of agreeable company to everybody else in the same vicinity as him.

The wildlife of Doriath fascinated Celegorm. He had learnt how to sing like a loon and it was his favourite activity. This, and climbing in trees with Melian when she wore her skunk form. Daeron despised him less after he was told he sang better than Maglor Fëanorion.

Morgoth was on vacation and did not stir trouble. Those were peaceful days. Nobody knew Morgoth was busy building new countries in the East, all assumed he stayed in Angband doing nothing or making new dragons, maybe.

Dior was born and Celegorm’s life became more exciting. Mannish children grew scaringly fast and had an infinite amount of energy. Throwing Elvish and Maiarin blood into the mix only amplified it. The child loved to explore the world and to his parents’ despair, often travelled outside Doriath. He always came back from his adventures in one piece, sometimes with unwanted guests (he and his friend Thranduil wanted to raise wargs and giant spiders. They claimed that, as young adults, they were responsible enough to do it. Melian refused).

One day, Dior had brought two Elves. Beren had allowed him to go to a festival organised by Dwarves living near Doriath. The festival was an occasion for various kingdoms to reunite and trade.

“What do we have here?” said Lúthien. She and Celegorm were grooming Huan. This last one took the opportunity to escape her grip.

“I found them in the woods! He says he knows Celegorm,” said Dior proudly, pointing at Celebrimbor. They met at the festival but saying Celebrimbor was a mysterious creature of the woods was more interesting.

“Huan! Sit! Boy, sit down!” cried Celegorm. He shifted around when he heard his name. “Who knows me? What? Tyelpë? What in the world?”

“Dior found me in the woods,” Celebrimbor winked.

“Who are you?” asked Lúthien.

“His nephew.”

“I see,” she replied. She tilted her head. “And who is this ellon next to you?”

“It’s Maeglin,” answered Dior. “Maeglin, this is nana; nana, this is Maeglin. He’s from Nan Elmoth.”

The princess raised her eyebrows. “Oh, really? Well, welcome to Menegroth. We haven’t had guests from Nan Elmoth for a long time…”

The young elf bowed. Curious, Celegorm observed him. The lad had the milk white skin of the Sindar and their high cheekbones. His jaw was square and his hair was carbon black like the Ñoldor. He was tall and his eyes had an odd greyish-purple shade.

“What is your patronymic?” asked Lúthien. “Is your father noble? Is there a chance my father knows him? Oh, I’m sorry for those questions, I’m rather curious, you see…”

“He’s a lord, my lady. I’m Eölion,” said Maeglin.

Lúthien whistled.

“What’s wrong?” frowned Celegorm.

“Ah, let’s say I’d never believe Eöl would be a father,” said Lúthien. She smiled, “We are indeed acquaintances of your father, Eölion. An interesting man. I imagine he trained you? You must be the best smith of Beleriand!”

Maeglin blushed and to make a diversion, mumbled a remark about Celebrimbor’s hair clip.

“Maeglin said his mother knows you too, Celegorm,” mentioned Dior.

“Uncle is famous,” added Celebrimbor.

“His mother…,” repeated Celegorm.

“See, Celegorm ravished a lot of ladies,” Dior told Maeglin as a matter-of-fact. Celegorm made an offended noise.

Huan, happy that his master’s attention was no longer on his grooming, came to sniff Maeglin and be petted by Celebrimbor, whom he missed. Lúthien looked at Celegorm expectantly. Her retainer was deep in thoughts but did not seem to find which woman was both a mother and an acquaintance of his. There were too many to remember.

“Come on, uncle Tyelko,” groaned Celebrimbor. “Don’t you find Maeglin looks like Irissë?”

“Eh, a bit, but-…,” frowned Celegorm. He inspected Maeglin from head to toe.

“She’s his mother.”

Next to Celebrimbor, Maeglin nodded.

“Irissë had a child?!” shouted Celegorm. “How?!”

“Oh, you know how babies are made, don’t you,” chided Dior.

“Irissë had a child?!” repeated the Fëanorian, hysterical.

“Is it this surprising my mother had me?” Maeglin whispered to Celebrimbor.

“Yes. Sort of. She had no interest in men in Valinor.”

“Ah. That’s not what she told me.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” said Maeglin. “She secretly loved Araw.”

“He’s a God, that doesn’t count…”

Maeglin shrugged.

“My father likes my mother,” provided Lúthien. “It counts.”

“Irissë had a chi-” continued Celegorm.

“Yes, we know,” Dior cut him short.

“I thought she was in Turukáno’s hidden city!”

“Uncle Tyelko, I’m sure many believe you’re still in Nargothrond,” said Celebrimbor. “News don't travel fast.”

“I’ve always known Dryads weren’t reliable messengers,” Lúthien muttered to herself. “Anyways,” she clapped her hands, “I need your help. Let’s continue this conversation after I’m done doing what I was doing before you came.”

“Nana-” whined Dior.

“Don’t ‘nana’ me. Huan is still dirty and I need to groom him.”

The poor hound, that was receiving belly rubs from Celebrimbor and Maeglin, found himself pinned to the ground and unable to escape. It distracted Celegorm for a while and he stopped mumbling ‘Wow, Irissë is a mother, I can’t believe it’ in presence of her son. According to Beren, he rambled about it for an entire hour when both were enjoying an ale at The Happy Bock.

Lúthien grew fond of Maeglin and allowed him to travel back to Nan Elmoth with Celegorm. The Ñoldo saw Aredhel for the first time in decades. Eöl intimidated him. If possible, he looked more ancient than his grandfather Finwë. He once asked if he were part Maia, but the smith only glared.

Celegorm came back to Doriath. He had not been freed from his duties as a retainer of the princess. He dutifully wrote to all his brothers every year. He learnt that Celebrimbor and Curufin had moved east and were somewhere under the Misty Mountains with Dwarves and a dubious Maia; Fingolfin had had the terrible idea to challenge Melkor when drunk and had broken ribs; Caranthir meddled with the Haladins; Fingon had been promoted High King (Fingolfin wanted a break from kingship) and was the father of a little mischievous Elf; Maeglin, Eöl and Aredhel had successfully tamed a dragon; Maedhros had failed to grow back his right hand.

To his surprise, Thingol allowed him to sit legs crossed in his presence.

Chapter End Notes

Iathren (S): Doriathrin
Nana (S): Mum
Oli (S): Aulë
Araw (S): Oromë
Ulu (S): Ulmo
Thingollo (Q): Thingol
Moringotto (Q): Morgoth
Melyanna (Q): Melian
Lestanórë (Q): Doriath
Artaresto (Q): Orodreth
Faelivrin (epessë): Finduilas