Aug 8 - Dressed to Slay
Title: Dressed To Slay
Author: Grundy
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Whedon & Tolkien. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Now that the formalities are over, it's time for dinner.
Word Count: 1645
“How did you do it?”
Carnistir turned to find Artanis at his elbow. He was unsurprised to find it was just her. He doubted Celeborn or Eöl were in any particular hurry to renew their acquaintance. He’d known since his return that there were bound to be awkward family reunions at some point. He just hadn’t counted on them being today.
“How did I do what?” he asked warily, keeping an eye out lest Irissë decide to join the party.
“Convince her to wear something of Tyelko’s?”
Artanis’ expression gave nothing away. He couldn’t tell if she loved it, hated it, or somewhere in between.
He glanced around and found that unsurprisingly, Aunt Anairë and Uncle Nolo were making sure any courtiers inclined to linger weren’t overly slow finding the exits. His mother and Silmë were catching up their own parents before making their way to the family dining room.
Artë’s parents were nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, Atto is far too eager to meet his smallest descendant - Uncle already got to see her at Elrond’s,” she informed him.
Besides, what do you really think I’m going to do?
“I have no idea,” he replied. “With you, one never knows.”
Her laugh was a pointed reminder that she was not the wildest card in the Finwean family deck these days.
“It wasn’t that difficult,” he admitted. “After all, it’s not going to fit my brother after this, is it?”
This time her laugh held true amusement.
“No, I suppose not. And he may detest you for it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up wrapped around her little finger once she decides he’s ok.”
Given that Tyelko had generally been the fun uncle and self-appointed protector of whoever happened to be the smallest (and thus youngest) at the moment for everyone from Curvo on, Carnistir was rather curious to see how the permanently little one who didn’t need any protecting would get on with him.
Artanis threaded her arm through his, and steered him toward the gardens. Long way to the dining room it was.
“So that’s Anariel. How did you convince Auntie?”
“Not enough time to make something entirely new,” he shrugged. “I could have reworked anything, really, but that one suited her best.”
And you liked the idea of sticking it to Tyelko, she snickered.
“That too,” he admitted. “As did your granddaughter.”
Speaking of which, he added, taking the chance now when he could hopefully get away with it. With both his uncles distracted and Findis, Irimë, and Indis still in Valimar, it was the best opportunity he was likely to get.
She saw Doriath, he informed Artanis. Last night.
He caught only the edges of her shock before she clamped down on her reaction. He wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be overheard.
“She would,” Artanis sighed.
“Didn’t you train her at all?” he asked, appalled.
There is only so much I could do. She was not with me always, or even often. And I may know how to deal with foresight as the elves know it, but I am not a descendant of Melian. Nor do I know much about the Slayer, and what she calls ‘Slayer dreams’ seem as likely to look backwards as forewards.
And always show her the very worst? Carnistir demanded.
I can’t say that I know all that they show her, Artanis said quietly. Though I suspect that it is not solely thanks to our dear cousin’s book that she knows the Nirnaeth as vividly as one who was there.
Carnistir felt like someone had dumped ice water down his back. If the girl could be drawn so easily to such moments without a detailed account to prime her, what had she seen after reading that wretched book?
Finally, someone other than Elrond understands, was Artanis’ slightly sour comment.
What does he make of these dreams? Carnistir asked.
They have long concerned him. He hoped she would no longer be troubled by them here in Aman.
Carnistir snorted. Since when had what they hoped and what actually happened been one and the same?
“Oh, I don’t know,” Artanis said, poking him sharply in the ribs. “You’re here, aren’t you? There are plenty who would have said that was beyond all hope.”
“Yes, well, that involved another of your peredhil grandchildren,” he shrugged. “As to Doriath…”
You’re not going to tell Turvo, are you?
“That’s your biggest worry here?” he spluttered. And no, I won’t tell him. I hadn’t planned on telling anyone. What would be the point?
He would be delighted to know he isn’t the only one with bloody hands. And probably gloat about whose blood it was, she said quietly.
I thought he’d gotten over that snit, Carnistir protested.
I’ll believe that when he and Curvo actually come face to face without any punches thrown, she told him with a sniff.
“No bet,” he said flatly. “Even if Turvo doesn’t, I suspect Curvo will.”
Good.
You aren’t supposed to be cheering for one of your cousins to have his nose bloodied, Carnistir sighed. Particularly when he’s also a grandfather to your darling granddaughters.
He had best hope Anariel doesn’t throw any punches, was her sour retort.
“Again, no bet,” he murmured.
Knowing what he did of the girl, he suspected she take a swing for the same reason Curvo would - his treatment of Maeglin.
“Speaking of…” Artanis snorted as they entered the dining room.
The older generation were still drifting, but the younger folks had largely taken advantage of being the first in to seat themselves as they pleased with one exception. It looked like the guest of honor had been appropriated by Uncle Ara and Aunt Eärwen.
“Anariel,” Artanis said reproachfully after a glance at her granddaughter. “Were you not told no weapons in the King’s House?”
All heads - and eyes - turned unerringly toward the girl in question, including Uncle Ara’s. Though he looked as puzzled as Carnistir felt…
“No,” the girl replied, looking slightly bemused.
“Darling, I’m sure we told you,” Lindë began.
“You said I couldn’t bring my sword,” Anariel protested. “No one said anything about weapons in general!”
Carnistir noted that both Celeborn and Eöl had looks of pride on their faces - though he wasn’t sure why Eöl did, the girl was at best a cousin at several removes to him!
“I don’t understand,” his mother said from the doorway nearest the public rooms. “She left the sword behind as we asked.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean she’s unarmed,” Artanis said drily. “I can see one, which I’m sure means there’s at least one more I don’t see.”
Carnistir had been correct that Anariel’s innocent face would be one of the all-time greats. Both his aunts were visibly ready to defend her, Silmë looked torn. Irissë wasn’t taken in, but Amarië was ready to defend her grandniece.
Celebrían sighed.
“How many?” she asked her daughter flatly.
“Four,” Anariel replied. “Oh, and the hair clip. Five.”
Both his uncles looked utterly astonished.
“No, wait, six,” Anariel corrected herself. “The necklace is dwarf-made, I could use it as a garotte in a pinch. But I don’t see why anyone’s worried - there’s knives all up and down the table!”
Celeborn and Eöl were positively beaming. Ingo’s boy was giving the girl a look that betokened interesting times to come in the House of Inglorion. Gildor and Miryo were visibly stifling laughter.
“Off with them, pitya,” Artanis sighed.
Anariel sighed, and removed one dagger from the front of her dress, another from the back - and Carnistir was going to have to ask later just how she’d managed to keep it in place - and one from each leg that looked rather familiar…
“Tyelko would be so proud,” he snorted.
That got him a glare from the girl herself, but chuckles from several other people who knew exactly what he meant.
“The hair clip too?” Anariel wanted to know.
“I don’t think you can do much damage with a hair clip, darling,” Aunt Eärwen said.
This time the chuckles came from Elrond’s boys at the look on Anariel’s face, one of utter astonishment. Chuckles turned into outright laughter that Gildor and Miryo joined in on as Anariel pulled the radiant sun from her hair and casually winged it down the table to nearly slice the leg off the roast fowl at the other end without so much as nicking anything in between.
The boys who knew her were laughing, but no one else was, not that Carnistir could blame them. Even Tyelko would have been impressed. (Carnistir was also starting to reconsider his eldest brother’s notion that Anariel needed a minder.)
“I assure you, Grandmother, she very much can,” Elrond said drily.
Carnistir managed to do no more than smile as a chain of his younger kin began passing the hair clip back up the table. Maeglin paused the sequence just long enough to wipe the ornament clean before resuming its progress to his law-sister.
“Anariel, that was not necessary,” Celebrían told her daughter.
“Telpenia, you forget I raised your mother,” Aunt Eärwen informed her breezily. “We were going to carve the bird in any case.”
“Where did that hair clip come from, my sunshine?” Elrond asked, intercepting it for a better look.
“It was a gift from Master Faran of the Iathrim,” Anariel replied.
“You may have it back if it stays in your hair for the remainder of the night,” Elrond said, only handing it on after she nodded her agreement.
“Am I allowed to keep the necklace on?” Anariel wanted to know.
“Yes, of course you are.”
Aunt Anairë’s firm answer pre-empted anything Elrond or Celebrían might have said, and was not directed just at Anariel.
Her tone carried the implicit command that they were all going to sit down and enjoy a peaceful family dinner right now.
Author: Grundy
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Whedon & Tolkien. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: Now that the formalities are over, it's time for dinner.
Word Count: 1645
“How did you do it?”
Carnistir turned to find Artanis at his elbow. He was unsurprised to find it was just her. He doubted Celeborn or Eöl were in any particular hurry to renew their acquaintance. He’d known since his return that there were bound to be awkward family reunions at some point. He just hadn’t counted on them being today.
“How did I do what?” he asked warily, keeping an eye out lest Irissë decide to join the party.
“Convince her to wear something of Tyelko’s?”
Artanis’ expression gave nothing away. He couldn’t tell if she loved it, hated it, or somewhere in between.
He glanced around and found that unsurprisingly, Aunt Anairë and Uncle Nolo were making sure any courtiers inclined to linger weren’t overly slow finding the exits. His mother and Silmë were catching up their own parents before making their way to the family dining room.
Artë’s parents were nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, Atto is far too eager to meet his smallest descendant - Uncle already got to see her at Elrond’s,” she informed him.
Besides, what do you really think I’m going to do?
“I have no idea,” he replied. “With you, one never knows.”
Her laugh was a pointed reminder that she was not the wildest card in the Finwean family deck these days.
“It wasn’t that difficult,” he admitted. “After all, it’s not going to fit my brother after this, is it?”
This time her laugh held true amusement.
“No, I suppose not. And he may detest you for it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up wrapped around her little finger once she decides he’s ok.”
Given that Tyelko had generally been the fun uncle and self-appointed protector of whoever happened to be the smallest (and thus youngest) at the moment for everyone from Curvo on, Carnistir was rather curious to see how the permanently little one who didn’t need any protecting would get on with him.
Artanis threaded her arm through his, and steered him toward the gardens. Long way to the dining room it was.
“So that’s Anariel. How did you convince Auntie?”
“Not enough time to make something entirely new,” he shrugged. “I could have reworked anything, really, but that one suited her best.”
And you liked the idea of sticking it to Tyelko, she snickered.
“That too,” he admitted. “As did your granddaughter.”
Speaking of which, he added, taking the chance now when he could hopefully get away with it. With both his uncles distracted and Findis, Irimë, and Indis still in Valimar, it was the best opportunity he was likely to get.
She saw Doriath, he informed Artanis. Last night.
He caught only the edges of her shock before she clamped down on her reaction. He wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be overheard.
“She would,” Artanis sighed.
“Didn’t you train her at all?” he asked, appalled.
There is only so much I could do. She was not with me always, or even often. And I may know how to deal with foresight as the elves know it, but I am not a descendant of Melian. Nor do I know much about the Slayer, and what she calls ‘Slayer dreams’ seem as likely to look backwards as forewards.
And always show her the very worst? Carnistir demanded.
I can’t say that I know all that they show her, Artanis said quietly. Though I suspect that it is not solely thanks to our dear cousin’s book that she knows the Nirnaeth as vividly as one who was there.
Carnistir felt like someone had dumped ice water down his back. If the girl could be drawn so easily to such moments without a detailed account to prime her, what had she seen after reading that wretched book?
Finally, someone other than Elrond understands, was Artanis’ slightly sour comment.
What does he make of these dreams? Carnistir asked.
They have long concerned him. He hoped she would no longer be troubled by them here in Aman.
Carnistir snorted. Since when had what they hoped and what actually happened been one and the same?
“Oh, I don’t know,” Artanis said, poking him sharply in the ribs. “You’re here, aren’t you? There are plenty who would have said that was beyond all hope.”
“Yes, well, that involved another of your peredhil grandchildren,” he shrugged. “As to Doriath…”
You’re not going to tell Turvo, are you?
“That’s your biggest worry here?” he spluttered. And no, I won’t tell him. I hadn’t planned on telling anyone. What would be the point?
He would be delighted to know he isn’t the only one with bloody hands. And probably gloat about whose blood it was, she said quietly.
I thought he’d gotten over that snit, Carnistir protested.
I’ll believe that when he and Curvo actually come face to face without any punches thrown, she told him with a sniff.
“No bet,” he said flatly. “Even if Turvo doesn’t, I suspect Curvo will.”
Good.
You aren’t supposed to be cheering for one of your cousins to have his nose bloodied, Carnistir sighed. Particularly when he’s also a grandfather to your darling granddaughters.
He had best hope Anariel doesn’t throw any punches, was her sour retort.
“Again, no bet,” he murmured.
Knowing what he did of the girl, he suspected she take a swing for the same reason Curvo would - his treatment of Maeglin.
“Speaking of…” Artanis snorted as they entered the dining room.
The older generation were still drifting, but the younger folks had largely taken advantage of being the first in to seat themselves as they pleased with one exception. It looked like the guest of honor had been appropriated by Uncle Ara and Aunt Eärwen.
“Anariel,” Artanis said reproachfully after a glance at her granddaughter. “Were you not told no weapons in the King’s House?”
All heads - and eyes - turned unerringly toward the girl in question, including Uncle Ara’s. Though he looked as puzzled as Carnistir felt…
“No,” the girl replied, looking slightly bemused.
“Darling, I’m sure we told you,” Lindë began.
“You said I couldn’t bring my sword,” Anariel protested. “No one said anything about weapons in general!”
Carnistir noted that both Celeborn and Eöl had looks of pride on their faces - though he wasn’t sure why Eöl did, the girl was at best a cousin at several removes to him!
“I don’t understand,” his mother said from the doorway nearest the public rooms. “She left the sword behind as we asked.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean she’s unarmed,” Artanis said drily. “I can see one, which I’m sure means there’s at least one more I don’t see.”
Carnistir had been correct that Anariel’s innocent face would be one of the all-time greats. Both his aunts were visibly ready to defend her, Silmë looked torn. Irissë wasn’t taken in, but Amarië was ready to defend her grandniece.
Celebrían sighed.
“How many?” she asked her daughter flatly.
“Four,” Anariel replied. “Oh, and the hair clip. Five.”
Both his uncles looked utterly astonished.
“No, wait, six,” Anariel corrected herself. “The necklace is dwarf-made, I could use it as a garotte in a pinch. But I don’t see why anyone’s worried - there’s knives all up and down the table!”
Celeborn and Eöl were positively beaming. Ingo’s boy was giving the girl a look that betokened interesting times to come in the House of Inglorion. Gildor and Miryo were visibly stifling laughter.
“Off with them, pitya,” Artanis sighed.
Anariel sighed, and removed one dagger from the front of her dress, another from the back - and Carnistir was going to have to ask later just how she’d managed to keep it in place - and one from each leg that looked rather familiar…
“Tyelko would be so proud,” he snorted.
That got him a glare from the girl herself, but chuckles from several other people who knew exactly what he meant.
“The hair clip too?” Anariel wanted to know.
“I don’t think you can do much damage with a hair clip, darling,” Aunt Eärwen said.
This time the chuckles came from Elrond’s boys at the look on Anariel’s face, one of utter astonishment. Chuckles turned into outright laughter that Gildor and Miryo joined in on as Anariel pulled the radiant sun from her hair and casually winged it down the table to nearly slice the leg off the roast fowl at the other end without so much as nicking anything in between.
The boys who knew her were laughing, but no one else was, not that Carnistir could blame them. Even Tyelko would have been impressed. (Carnistir was also starting to reconsider his eldest brother’s notion that Anariel needed a minder.)
“I assure you, Grandmother, she very much can,” Elrond said drily.
Carnistir managed to do no more than smile as a chain of his younger kin began passing the hair clip back up the table. Maeglin paused the sequence just long enough to wipe the ornament clean before resuming its progress to his law-sister.
“Anariel, that was not necessary,” Celebrían told her daughter.
“Telpenia, you forget I raised your mother,” Aunt Eärwen informed her breezily. “We were going to carve the bird in any case.”
“Where did that hair clip come from, my sunshine?” Elrond asked, intercepting it for a better look.
“It was a gift from Master Faran of the Iathrim,” Anariel replied.
“You may have it back if it stays in your hair for the remainder of the night,” Elrond said, only handing it on after she nodded her agreement.
“Am I allowed to keep the necklace on?” Anariel wanted to know.
“Yes, of course you are.”
Aunt Anairë’s firm answer pre-empted anything Elrond or Celebrían might have said, and was not directed just at Anariel.
Her tone carried the implicit command that they were all going to sit down and enjoy a peaceful family dinner right now.