The Call of the Loon by SonOfMandos

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Chapter 3

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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