Aug. 8 - Joy Comes With the Morning
Title: Joy Comes With the Morning
Author: Grundy (jerseyfabulous)
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss Whedon & JRR Tolkien. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: To be half-elven in Aman is to have a whole lot of family. Tindomiel didn't expect it to be quite this complicated.
Word Count: 2675
“Where do you think you’re off to?”
Tindomiel stopped.
It was the beginning of her first full day in Tirion, staying in the royal palace, and she had seized the opportunity to discharge the duty her sister had laid on her as soon as possible. It was better, she reasoned, to get it over with right away.
Also, equally important, no one had yet thought to forbid her to go wandering around the city of the Noldor.
As into propriety and etiquette as her grandmother Anairë was, she suspected that would change at some point in the near future. The Noldor had some funny ideas about girls, ones that neither the women of California or those of Imladris would agree with. Tindomiel had already taken precautions - she’d scoped out the gardens and stables yesterday and determined that there were several alternate routes out of the palace besides the front gate or even the side gates.
Fortunately, it wasn’t Anairë who had stumbled onto her heading out the front gate.
She wondered if one of the palace guards had ratted her out. They weren’t able to forbid her from doing anything, not when she was doubly descended from Finwë, but they could inform people who did have that happy power.
People like Erestor, who while not technically her kinsman, might as well have been. Her father’s most trusted counselor had known her from the day she and her mother and sister had arrived in Imladris from Sunnydale. More than that, he had known her father pretty much all his life, from the time the peredhel twins had been sent to Gil-Galad and Cirdan on Balar. He was the closest to a living brother her father had.
If Erestor told her she couldn’t go, she was stuck for it.
“Going to visit family,” Tindomiel replied confidently.
“Family who don’t live within the palace walls?” Erestor asked skeptically.
Drat. She hadn’t thought of that.
The majority of her kin in Tirion dwelt within the royal complex, and even most of those who usually did not were currently in residence. The return of Galadriel Arafinwiel and arrival of her daughter and law-son was quite the Finwion family occasion. (Excitement about having another young member of the house in the form of Tindomiel and Tasariel and Califiriel might also be part of it, too.)
“Yes,” she said briskly.
It was true. Nerdanel was kin, and if Erestor thought otherwise, he was quite welcome to take it up with her father and her sister- and Tindomiel wasn’t sure which one of them would be more strident in defense of the relationship. Actually, it might be just as well that Anariel wasn’t here to have that argument just yet… even if she would be pretty handy to have around to deal with Anairë and her weird Noldorin notions about nissi.
“What family would this be, Tinwë?” Erestor said doubtfully.
She rather liked his Quenya gloss of her usual pet name - while she doubted Cali or Tas would take it up, she suspected Anairon would find it preferable to the Sindarin version.
She debated whether or not to hedge, but finally decided that honesty was best.
“Grandmother Nerdanel,” she told him quietly. “Anariel sent a letter for her. And this.”
His eyes caught the outline of the package she had slung across her back, and he drew in a shocked breath. Tindomiel allowed herself a moment of private satisfaction that she wasn’t the only one who’d had such a reaction, and made a mental note to say ‘told you so’ to her sister at the first opportunity - meaning in a hundred years or so.
“Tinwë, you ought not go to Lady Nerdanel’s house alone,” he told her firmly.
“Why not?” she demanded.
Surely her other grandparents couldn’t be so unjust as to hold Fëanor’s actions against his widow? His actions had hurt her as much as anyone else. Besides, Anairon has definitely mentioned visiting her. It was one of the few places she knew of outside the palace walls that he actually got to go.
Erestor’s sigh sounded both tired and exasperated, but not at her in particular. (Thanks to years of observing Erestor’s interactions with Anariel, she knew exactly what it sounded like when Erestor was exasperated with the person he was talking to.)
“You have not paid much attention to the conversation among the grownups,” he said gently. “The political situation in Tirion is complex, even now. It is not wise for a princess not of the House of Fëanor to go to that part of town at all, and particularly not alone. I note your new partner in crime chose not to come on this expedition.”
That did give Tindomiel pause.
Anairon hadn’t exactly volunteered to accompany her as she’d hoped he would, though he had willingly given her directions on how to find his aunt’s house. He had not given her the impression that it was dangerous. Then again, he might not have expected her to head out at first light, and so have been counting on having some time to talk sense into her. Or possibly have been planning to arrange a guard.
She hadn’t actually asked what he did when he wanted to visit, mostly because she hadn’t wanted to be told she wasn’t allowed.
She glanced down for a moment, then looked up again, brightening.
“I wouldn’t be alone if you go with me,” she pointed out hopefully.
This time Erestor’s sigh was a little exasperated with her, but she pressed on, knowing she could steamroll his opposition if she had logic on her side.
“You’re not associated with Nolofinwë or Arafinwë,” she pointed out, “so Uncle Butthead’s supporters can’t object to you. They don’t know you, but it’s probably obvious you’re Ennor born and recently arrived. Even if they disapprove of me, they’re hardly about to start violence in the streets if I have a grown ellon who survived Beleriand as an escort.”
Erestor appeared to be considering her words, much as she’d often seen him think over a proposed course of action put forth by one of her brothers, turning it over in his head for flaws or weaknesses. She was also cheered that he had neither taken exception to ‘Uncle Butthead’ nor asked who she meant.
“And if we go now,” Tindomiel added, “we can be there before many people are out in the streets to notice me in the first place.”
The Noldor were, on the whole, not early risers. She assumed that some craftspeople, such as bakers and cooks, had to make an early start. But Nerdanel lived in the metalworkers’ quarter, and Anairon told her that many there tended to late hours, not early. (Or if they did early, they did it in the privacy of their own workshops.)
“Very well,” Erestor said at last. “But any trouble is on your head, young one.”
She grinned.
“You’re the bestest, Erestor,” she chirped.
The older elf shook his head.
“Excitement is no reason to mangle the language,” he said dourly, but he offered his arm politely all the same.
Tindomiel took it, as well as the unspoken cue to be on her good, more or less adult, behavior as they exited the palace gate.
With the sun only just up, the Square of the King was deserted, giving the impression that it had doubled in size overnight. The fountains sparkled in the early light, but otherwise the city was quiet. It was a little unnerving to Tindomiel, who had grown up surrounded by the sounds of birds, animals, and rushing water in Imladris.
She would never have admitted to Erestor that she was secretly glad to have a familiar presence at her side as they set off on the street Anairon had indicated was the easiest route to his aunt’s house. After all, she had a reputation to maintain, not only as the sister of Anariel, Arwen, and the twins, but as a girl who had lived in California and seen demons and vampires up close. A few grumpy elves should be nothing compared to that.
She took two wrong turns on the way and had to retrace her steps both times, as elven notions of urban planning differed markedly from American standards and the Noldor didn’t seem to believe in street signs. (Tindomiel planned to point that out to her grandfathers as a sensible measure at the first opportunity.)
By the time they neared the block occupied by Fëanor’s townhouse- in truth a sizable complex, with not only the house, but stables, forge, and workspaces for the wife and sons of the Crown Prince that easily took up more space than the house itself - there were other people about, and Tindomiel could feel curious and occasionally somewhat hostile eyes on her.
But she was as proud and stubborn as any other child of Elrond, and so she held her head up and marched boldly to the open gates with the eight-pointed star. The workmanship on them was amazing, but she supposed that was to be expected.
Erestor would have hung back, but she sighed and tugged on his hand, willing to play the child if need be.
“Come on, this could take a while and you can’t just sit outside in the street waiting.”
She was thankful that the high walls of the yard and intricate metalwork of the gates shielded her from prying eyes, because she had not expected the sight that met her inside.
It was one thing to be told Nerdanel was a sculptor famed for her skill. It was another altogether to see.
The statues placed here and there about the yard were so lifelike she almost expected them to talk, especially-
“Haru?” she whispered in shock. Surely Makalaurë was still in the Halls, his death was only a few years past. He couldn’t possibly have been released so quickly no matter how much Anariel wanted him back.
It was only when she lifted a shaking hand to touch him and felt the coolness of stone against her skin that she truly understood why it was that her grandfather’s mother was so admired for her craft.
She looked about and found the other statues in what was clearly meant to be a group had faces less familiar, for she had only ever seen them in portraits painted by people who hadn’t known them in life. Crafty Curufin and cruel Celegorm, who somehow looked far less wicked when carved by their mother, a tall elf more like a maia in form who must have been Maedhros before Angband, a pair of cheerful, laughing twins whose mischievous expressions made her miss the big brothers she’d left behind in Endorë as if they had parted but moments before.
And one more that floored her.
“Erestor,” she exclaimed. “Come here!”
He had been drawn to the other side of the courtyard, where he was admiring a statue of Turgon with Elenwë and a baby that must be Itarillë, looking utterly charmed.
“Erestor!” she repeated more urgently. “You have to see this! Right now!”
He looked mildly annoyed to be pulled from his contemplation of the king of Gondolin and his lost love.
“What under the stars can be so urgent,” he began, only to trail off in shock, because it was plain enough.
“This one looks like you,” Tindomiel said, pointing a shaking finger at the seventh statue in the group to the right of the gate.
For once, her father’s eloquent counselor was rendered speechless.
---Nerdanel rose early, as she often did.
There was always something to be done to keep the house in good order, and there was only herself and her law-daughters to do it. They kept no servants. She had wanted none since her family left, for the eyes of servants, no matter how loyal, felt like knives on her bad days, when she wanted to scream and let her fëa flee to the sanctuary of Mandos as Miriel had once done.
Even now, in the dawning of the Fourth Age of the Sun, there were still days where at least one of the three women of the household did not feel equal to the presence of outsiders, for Tyelpesilmë and Lorilindë mourned their losses as well. For Silmë, who knew her husband and son to be long in the Halls, there was at least the cold comfort of certainty. But for poor Lindë, there was only the agony of not knowing.
The last news that had come to them of their family, in the middle of the Second Age, had been of Tyelperinquar’s death. Nothing had been said of Makalaurë save that he had not been seen or heard in yeni. Since then, there had been only silence.
They all work their pain out in different ways.
Lindë poured it into her music, her compositions known among the Eldar for their poignancy and longing. Silmë turned hers into the stuff of daily life, cookware and silverware, door handles and other such practical goods, having given up crafting jewelry after learning what had befallen her only child. Nerdanel, of course, sculpted. She had been creating portraits of the dead since her husband left. Finwë had been the first of many.
She thought little of the voices in the courtyard. It was far from unusual for others to view the works she put on display.
Little, that was, until she heard one of them raised in shock.
“This one looks like you.”
She moved without thought, nearly tripping over Silmë in their shared haste to reach the door.
For that voice was young, and all the statues outside at present were of family.
There were two strangers in the yard, an adult ner and a nis still in her youth, examining the statue of her son Carnistir.
The girl turned first.
The wide eyes that blinked at her in surprise were blue as the sea itself, and looked stunningly out of place in a face that was otherwise all Anairë. Nerdanel realized with a start that she must be looking at Artanis’ youngest granddaughter.
“Haruni,” the girl said in Quenya that carried only the faintest hint of Sindarin, with a deep and respectful bow.
Tears sprang to her eyes, for it had been three long ages since she last answered to grandmother, and she had never expected to hear the word from the peredhil. But if they regard her as grandmother… Lorilindë had neither children nor grandchildren.
It was only when the child unslung the cloth wrapped package from her back that Nerdanel understood what it was that brought her there so promptly after her arrival in Tirion.
She shook her head.
“No, pitya. That should not come to me,” she said, speaking gently for both the confusion in the child’s eyes and the stifled sob she could hear behind her from Lindë.
The girl’s eyes were shocked as they lit on Makalaurë’s wife - no, his widow, Nerdanel told herself sternly, knowing that the harp and the letter the child carried could mean only one thing, that all seven of her sons were dead. The uncertainty was over. It was done.
But the surprises of the day were not at an end as the girl knelt before Lindë, who had sunk onto a bench against the wall of the forge with Silmë offering her what comfort she could.
For the grown elf turned at last and Nerdanel knew as soon as their eyes met that she was looking upon her grandson. It was not just his likeness to Carnistir, it was the shock of recognition that passed between them, fëa to fëa, unexpected and out of the blue.
She had been afraid of the day she would come face to face with one of the peredhil for so long. Yet now that it had finally come, it may just be the best day she has had since she lost her sons to her husband’s madness.
It was the day her family finally began to return to her.
Author: Grundy (jerseyfabulous)
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss Whedon & JRR Tolkien. No money is being made here, it's all in good fun.
Summary: To be half-elven in Aman is to have a whole lot of family. Tindomiel didn't expect it to be quite this complicated.
Word Count: 2675
“Where do you think you’re off to?”
Tindomiel stopped.
It was the beginning of her first full day in Tirion, staying in the royal palace, and she had seized the opportunity to discharge the duty her sister had laid on her as soon as possible. It was better, she reasoned, to get it over with right away.
Also, equally important, no one had yet thought to forbid her to go wandering around the city of the Noldor.
As into propriety and etiquette as her grandmother Anairë was, she suspected that would change at some point in the near future. The Noldor had some funny ideas about girls, ones that neither the women of California or those of Imladris would agree with. Tindomiel had already taken precautions - she’d scoped out the gardens and stables yesterday and determined that there were several alternate routes out of the palace besides the front gate or even the side gates.
Fortunately, it wasn’t Anairë who had stumbled onto her heading out the front gate.
She wondered if one of the palace guards had ratted her out. They weren’t able to forbid her from doing anything, not when she was doubly descended from Finwë, but they could inform people who did have that happy power.
People like Erestor, who while not technically her kinsman, might as well have been. Her father’s most trusted counselor had known her from the day she and her mother and sister had arrived in Imladris from Sunnydale. More than that, he had known her father pretty much all his life, from the time the peredhel twins had been sent to Gil-Galad and Cirdan on Balar. He was the closest to a living brother her father had.
If Erestor told her she couldn’t go, she was stuck for it.
“Going to visit family,” Tindomiel replied confidently.
“Family who don’t live within the palace walls?” Erestor asked skeptically.
Drat. She hadn’t thought of that.
The majority of her kin in Tirion dwelt within the royal complex, and even most of those who usually did not were currently in residence. The return of Galadriel Arafinwiel and arrival of her daughter and law-son was quite the Finwion family occasion. (Excitement about having another young member of the house in the form of Tindomiel and Tasariel and Califiriel might also be part of it, too.)
“Yes,” she said briskly.
It was true. Nerdanel was kin, and if Erestor thought otherwise, he was quite welcome to take it up with her father and her sister- and Tindomiel wasn’t sure which one of them would be more strident in defense of the relationship. Actually, it might be just as well that Anariel wasn’t here to have that argument just yet… even if she would be pretty handy to have around to deal with Anairë and her weird Noldorin notions about nissi.
“What family would this be, Tinwë?” Erestor said doubtfully.
She rather liked his Quenya gloss of her usual pet name - while she doubted Cali or Tas would take it up, she suspected Anairon would find it preferable to the Sindarin version.
She debated whether or not to hedge, but finally decided that honesty was best.
“Grandmother Nerdanel,” she told him quietly. “Anariel sent a letter for her. And this.”
His eyes caught the outline of the package she had slung across her back, and he drew in a shocked breath. Tindomiel allowed herself a moment of private satisfaction that she wasn’t the only one who’d had such a reaction, and made a mental note to say ‘told you so’ to her sister at the first opportunity - meaning in a hundred years or so.
“Tinwë, you ought not go to Lady Nerdanel’s house alone,” he told her firmly.
“Why not?” she demanded.
Surely her other grandparents couldn’t be so unjust as to hold Fëanor’s actions against his widow? His actions had hurt her as much as anyone else. Besides, Anairon has definitely mentioned visiting her. It was one of the few places she knew of outside the palace walls that he actually got to go.
Erestor’s sigh sounded both tired and exasperated, but not at her in particular. (Thanks to years of observing Erestor’s interactions with Anariel, she knew exactly what it sounded like when Erestor was exasperated with the person he was talking to.)
“You have not paid much attention to the conversation among the grownups,” he said gently. “The political situation in Tirion is complex, even now. It is not wise for a princess not of the House of Fëanor to go to that part of town at all, and particularly not alone. I note your new partner in crime chose not to come on this expedition.”
That did give Tindomiel pause.
Anairon hadn’t exactly volunteered to accompany her as she’d hoped he would, though he had willingly given her directions on how to find his aunt’s house. He had not given her the impression that it was dangerous. Then again, he might not have expected her to head out at first light, and so have been counting on having some time to talk sense into her. Or possibly have been planning to arrange a guard.
She hadn’t actually asked what he did when he wanted to visit, mostly because she hadn’t wanted to be told she wasn’t allowed.
She glanced down for a moment, then looked up again, brightening.
“I wouldn’t be alone if you go with me,” she pointed out hopefully.
This time Erestor’s sigh was a little exasperated with her, but she pressed on, knowing she could steamroll his opposition if she had logic on her side.
“You’re not associated with Nolofinwë or Arafinwë,” she pointed out, “so Uncle Butthead’s supporters can’t object to you. They don’t know you, but it’s probably obvious you’re Ennor born and recently arrived. Even if they disapprove of me, they’re hardly about to start violence in the streets if I have a grown ellon who survived Beleriand as an escort.”
Erestor appeared to be considering her words, much as she’d often seen him think over a proposed course of action put forth by one of her brothers, turning it over in his head for flaws or weaknesses. She was also cheered that he had neither taken exception to ‘Uncle Butthead’ nor asked who she meant.
“And if we go now,” Tindomiel added, “we can be there before many people are out in the streets to notice me in the first place.”
The Noldor were, on the whole, not early risers. She assumed that some craftspeople, such as bakers and cooks, had to make an early start. But Nerdanel lived in the metalworkers’ quarter, and Anairon told her that many there tended to late hours, not early. (Or if they did early, they did it in the privacy of their own workshops.)
“Very well,” Erestor said at last. “But any trouble is on your head, young one.”
She grinned.
“You’re the bestest, Erestor,” she chirped.
The older elf shook his head.
“Excitement is no reason to mangle the language,” he said dourly, but he offered his arm politely all the same.
Tindomiel took it, as well as the unspoken cue to be on her good, more or less adult, behavior as they exited the palace gate.
With the sun only just up, the Square of the King was deserted, giving the impression that it had doubled in size overnight. The fountains sparkled in the early light, but otherwise the city was quiet. It was a little unnerving to Tindomiel, who had grown up surrounded by the sounds of birds, animals, and rushing water in Imladris.
She would never have admitted to Erestor that she was secretly glad to have a familiar presence at her side as they set off on the street Anairon had indicated was the easiest route to his aunt’s house. After all, she had a reputation to maintain, not only as the sister of Anariel, Arwen, and the twins, but as a girl who had lived in California and seen demons and vampires up close. A few grumpy elves should be nothing compared to that.
She took two wrong turns on the way and had to retrace her steps both times, as elven notions of urban planning differed markedly from American standards and the Noldor didn’t seem to believe in street signs. (Tindomiel planned to point that out to her grandfathers as a sensible measure at the first opportunity.)
By the time they neared the block occupied by Fëanor’s townhouse- in truth a sizable complex, with not only the house, but stables, forge, and workspaces for the wife and sons of the Crown Prince that easily took up more space than the house itself - there were other people about, and Tindomiel could feel curious and occasionally somewhat hostile eyes on her.
But she was as proud and stubborn as any other child of Elrond, and so she held her head up and marched boldly to the open gates with the eight-pointed star. The workmanship on them was amazing, but she supposed that was to be expected.
Erestor would have hung back, but she sighed and tugged on his hand, willing to play the child if need be.
“Come on, this could take a while and you can’t just sit outside in the street waiting.”
She was thankful that the high walls of the yard and intricate metalwork of the gates shielded her from prying eyes, because she had not expected the sight that met her inside.
It was one thing to be told Nerdanel was a sculptor famed for her skill. It was another altogether to see.
The statues placed here and there about the yard were so lifelike she almost expected them to talk, especially-
“Haru?” she whispered in shock. Surely Makalaurë was still in the Halls, his death was only a few years past. He couldn’t possibly have been released so quickly no matter how much Anariel wanted him back.
It was only when she lifted a shaking hand to touch him and felt the coolness of stone against her skin that she truly understood why it was that her grandfather’s mother was so admired for her craft.
She looked about and found the other statues in what was clearly meant to be a group had faces less familiar, for she had only ever seen them in portraits painted by people who hadn’t known them in life. Crafty Curufin and cruel Celegorm, who somehow looked far less wicked when carved by their mother, a tall elf more like a maia in form who must have been Maedhros before Angband, a pair of cheerful, laughing twins whose mischievous expressions made her miss the big brothers she’d left behind in Endorë as if they had parted but moments before.
And one more that floored her.
“Erestor,” she exclaimed. “Come here!”
He had been drawn to the other side of the courtyard, where he was admiring a statue of Turgon with Elenwë and a baby that must be Itarillë, looking utterly charmed.
“Erestor!” she repeated more urgently. “You have to see this! Right now!”
He looked mildly annoyed to be pulled from his contemplation of the king of Gondolin and his lost love.
“What under the stars can be so urgent,” he began, only to trail off in shock, because it was plain enough.
“This one looks like you,” Tindomiel said, pointing a shaking finger at the seventh statue in the group to the right of the gate.
For once, her father’s eloquent counselor was rendered speechless.
---Nerdanel rose early, as she often did.
There was always something to be done to keep the house in good order, and there was only herself and her law-daughters to do it. They kept no servants. She had wanted none since her family left, for the eyes of servants, no matter how loyal, felt like knives on her bad days, when she wanted to scream and let her fëa flee to the sanctuary of Mandos as Miriel had once done.
Even now, in the dawning of the Fourth Age of the Sun, there were still days where at least one of the three women of the household did not feel equal to the presence of outsiders, for Tyelpesilmë and Lorilindë mourned their losses as well. For Silmë, who knew her husband and son to be long in the Halls, there was at least the cold comfort of certainty. But for poor Lindë, there was only the agony of not knowing.
The last news that had come to them of their family, in the middle of the Second Age, had been of Tyelperinquar’s death. Nothing had been said of Makalaurë save that he had not been seen or heard in yeni. Since then, there had been only silence.
They all work their pain out in different ways.
Lindë poured it into her music, her compositions known among the Eldar for their poignancy and longing. Silmë turned hers into the stuff of daily life, cookware and silverware, door handles and other such practical goods, having given up crafting jewelry after learning what had befallen her only child. Nerdanel, of course, sculpted. She had been creating portraits of the dead since her husband left. Finwë had been the first of many.
She thought little of the voices in the courtyard. It was far from unusual for others to view the works she put on display.
Little, that was, until she heard one of them raised in shock.
“This one looks like you.”
She moved without thought, nearly tripping over Silmë in their shared haste to reach the door.
For that voice was young, and all the statues outside at present were of family.
There were two strangers in the yard, an adult ner and a nis still in her youth, examining the statue of her son Carnistir.
The girl turned first.
The wide eyes that blinked at her in surprise were blue as the sea itself, and looked stunningly out of place in a face that was otherwise all Anairë. Nerdanel realized with a start that she must be looking at Artanis’ youngest granddaughter.
“Haruni,” the girl said in Quenya that carried only the faintest hint of Sindarin, with a deep and respectful bow.
Tears sprang to her eyes, for it had been three long ages since she last answered to grandmother, and she had never expected to hear the word from the peredhil. But if they regard her as grandmother… Lorilindë had neither children nor grandchildren.
It was only when the child unslung the cloth wrapped package from her back that Nerdanel understood what it was that brought her there so promptly after her arrival in Tirion.
She shook her head.
“No, pitya. That should not come to me,” she said, speaking gently for both the confusion in the child’s eyes and the stifled sob she could hear behind her from Lindë.
The girl’s eyes were shocked as they lit on Makalaurë’s wife - no, his widow, Nerdanel told herself sternly, knowing that the harp and the letter the child carried could mean only one thing, that all seven of her sons were dead. The uncertainty was over. It was done.
But the surprises of the day were not at an end as the girl knelt before Lindë, who had sunk onto a bench against the wall of the forge with Silmë offering her what comfort she could.
For the grown elf turned at last and Nerdanel knew as soon as their eyes met that she was looking upon her grandson. It was not just his likeness to Carnistir, it was the shock of recognition that passed between them, fëa to fëa, unexpected and out of the blue.
She had been afraid of the day she would come face to face with one of the peredhil for so long. Yet now that it had finally come, it may just be the best day she has had since she lost her sons to her husband’s madness.
It was the day her family finally began to return to her.