Cousinly Bonding by Klose

Cousinly Bonding

Read Cousinly Bonding

Idril finds Ereinion upon the beach, watching Tuor, Eärendil, and Voronwë sailing in little boats along the bay, accompanied by a few of Lord Círdan’s sailors shouting teasing comments and instruction. It’s late afternoon and Anor is on its way back to the West, going where Idril and her kin cannot—casting a golden glow all along the horizon even as a pleasant breeze sweeps across the beaches of Balar.

Wrapping a scarf loosely across her shoulders, Idril pads slowly across the sand dunes, enjoying the softness of the white sand beneath her bare feet. In the distance, Eärendil shouts for joy as his boat glides sleekly through the calm blue waters, and she cannot help smiling at the sight of it. He's ten now, and growing fast, but Idril thinks that her son's laughter will never fail to give her joy. 

“Please, sit with me, cousin,” Ereinion calls out, having now seen and hear her. He’s always struck Idril as a solemn young man, in the few years since they first finally met, but he’s smiling too, now, watching the antics upon the water. The resemblance now to his father, who was always quick to mirth, is almost painful: the dimples, the keen blue-grey eyes, and the open expression, are all the same. Idril’s poor prior experience with first cousins aside, it is difficult not to like Ereinion.

“You did not care to sail today?” Idril asks, settling down beside him as he shifts to make space for her on the cloak he’s sitting on.

“Círdan had me running around most of the day running errands. But honestly,” he adds in a confidential tone, as leans back on his elbows, “I’m not particularly good on the water. Círdan’s people long ago gave up on me ever developing my sea legs. And you? Did you only just manage to escape my mother’s lectures on plants and crop husbandry?”

“They were actually very interesting lectures,” Idril replies, amused. “And helpful, too. I’m hoping to use some of her suggestions to improve our crop yields back at the Havens.”

Ereinion nods very seriously. “I know things are better there now that you’ve all had a few years to settle in, but my mother would be happy to come over there to help, if you need her advice.”

“I’ll be sure to ask, if it comes to that,” Idril reassures him, struck yet again by how different he is from Maeglin. Both so serious, so sad—yet despite knowing him for only a few short sun-rounds, she does not feel as guarded around Ereinion. Does not feel that inexplicable wariness that always tightened around her heart, sometimes almost crippled her, whenever Maeglin even glanced her way.

Shaking off her thoughts, Idril glances back towards the water. A race is afoot—Tuor and Eärendil and Voronwë in one boat, against Círdan’s sailors in another. The sailors are pulling ahead, but Idril’s menfolk aren’t doing too badly at all.

“You’d think Eärendil was one of the Teleri, the way he’s taken to the water,” Ereinion says, grinning as they watch the race. “Or Tuor, for that matter, as much as he is unmistakeably Edain and the very mirror image of his great-grandfather Lórindol.”

“The way he talked about the Sea, Ecthelion sometimes wondered if he was a Teler spirit born in a mortal body.” Idril thinks backs to those evenings in Gondolin, when captains like Ecthelion, like Elemmakil and Glorfindel and Rog, would cluster around the hearth in Tuor and Idril’s house, drinking and laughing and chatting, and the reminiscence doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.  Indeed, it brings other, older memories to mind.

Ereinion looks over at her, eyebrows raised and mouth still curving upwards. “And what do you make of that?”

“I don’t know about Tuor, but I am a little put out that no one thinks Eärendil developed his affinity for water from me, to be honest,” but she’s giggling as she says it. “I used to be handy with row boats, back in the day.”

Ereinion’s grin turns a little incredulous. “In Gondolin? Was that Fountain so big?”

“In Mithrim, actually. Did they not use them when you lived there?”

“Not that I can remember,” Ereinion says, frowning.

“Your mother might be able to tell us why they stopped, maybe. But we used rowboats in Tirion, too—did you know, our grandpa’s house looked a large canal? A few times Uncle Argon or Uncle Fingon took me down to Great Uncle Arfin’s place, and one time we raced with Uncles Aegnor and Angrod. They didn’t let me row, on that occasion, but I did get to beat a little drum and yell at them to move faster.” That had been tremendous fun.

“So who won?”

“The House of Nolofinwë, according to your father and our uncle—and myself, while we’re at that—but our cousins did not agree, and there never was a consensus about it. Auntie Eärwen gave us all fruit tarts and sweet nectar afterwards, though, and that seemed like the most important thing at the time!”

Ereinion shakes his head, amused. “Naturally.”

Idril watches him carefully as he turns back to the sea, wistfulness writ on his handsome features. A long moment passes before he speaks again. “Grandfather and Father did take me swimming once, during a camping trip. There was a brook—a stream, really. Grandfather let me climb on his back and ride him like a dolphin. Father had quite a difficult time prying me off him.”

 Her heart twists, because she can imagine it so clearly—can remember so clearly how she herself had often clung to Fingolfin as a young child, taking comfort in his strength and wisdom—and the laugh that escapes her mouth sounds just a little watery. “Grandpa was wonderful for that sort of thing. For a while I called him Rocco because I wanted him carry me on his back all the time, as if he were a pony! He was so tall and strong—I always felt safe with him.”

Ereinion only nods, looking as sad as Idril feels, and unspoken between them are the words I miss him.

Shouts erupt on the water, and Idril glances back at the boats, where the race is now over—and just like those many years ago between Nolofinwëans and Arafinwëans, there seems to be some debate over who has won. Idril can see both Tuor and Voronwë getting very red in the face as they argue across the water with Círdan’s sailors—while Eärendil, bless him, enthusiastically waves a flag with the Hadorian house crest, proclaiming their victory.

“Maybe we should go mediate,” Ereinion says wryly, running a hand over his raven-dark hair, which is gathered in a long queue.

Idril raises an eyebrow, but nonetheless lets him help her to her feet. “What makes you think I’ll be impartial in this matter?”

Ereinion chuckles, and Idril realises he has the same laugh as her own father. Not so much the sound, but the softness of it, and the way hearing it makes her feel inexplicably safe, even though Beleriand, and life for the Exiles and Edain, is now as unsafe as it ever has been.

“A fair point, dearest cousin. Maybe our best option is to remove ourselves—plausible deniability and all that. And I do believe Círdan’s cellar carries a bottle of sweet wine which goes well with Cook’s ham and cheese, and which might be of interest to you.” Ereinion’s eyes glitter with mirth as he adds, “He was not able to take me on any rowboats, but my father did teach me the fine art of pilfering snacks, at least.”

“The best of skills, no doubt!” Idril wraps her hand around her cousin’s elbow, as they slowly climb up the sandy dunes. “Did Uncle Fingon ever tell you about the time that he and my father emptied Grandmother Indis’s pantry of all its sweetmeats, just before Grandfather Finwë’s Begetting Day feast?”

“And how they were sick for days afterward, never mind the tongue lashing Grandmother Anairë heaped upon them? Father did not regale me with that tale—but Grandfather did, after my parents scolded me for eating too many honey cakes! But Father did tell me about the adventure they had with Aunt Aredhel when trying to steal apples from Fëanáro’s orchard—”

“Which ended with the apples pelted at Fëanáro, instead? Aunt Aredhel said she could never eat an apple again without laughing about it…”

And so they stroll back to Círdan’s halls beyond the dunes, exchanging stories of the House of Nolofinwë, and making their own memories together—the way their own fathers did, so many years ago.