Dancing In The Dark by Grundy  

The Footsteps of Doom

“Have you heard, little brother?”

Curufinwë looked up from his work with a frown. He’d been wholly absorbed in the problem of how to inflict maximum damage on any enemy allowed through the main gates. (Preferably without killing their own people.)

Ingo’s sense that the time to go was nearly upon them was growing – not that it needing foresight or Ulmo to tell them that the strategic situation was getting worse these days.

Even after Tyelko went north to reinforce him, Resto had only managed to hold Tol Sirion eight months. That was actually six months longer than Curufinwë had expected Resto would manage. It had improved his opinion of Ango’s boy, but given a choice he still would much rather have had Ango back.

The retreat from Tol Sirion hadn’t been a disaster. Resto had managed to keep his forces in good order, and Tyelko had run a highly effective rearguard. They had also been protected by the Haladin once they were far enough down Sirion, and by Thingol’s people. If the Iathrim had noticed there was a son of Fëanor and his people among those retreating, they had chosen to overlook it the once. Maybe even they were starting to realize how dire things were.

Maitimo, for a wonder, had so far not ordered his wayward younger brothers to get themselves to Amon Ereb, Himring, or anywhere else - not that there was a very long list of ‘anywhere else’ these days. Amon Ereb, Himring, Nargothrond, and Mithrim were pretty much it.

Curufinwë was hoping the lack of orders meant Maitimo and Finno shared his analysis that bolstering Nargothrond was a useful occupation for them. (Then again, possibly their eldest brother had simply concluded that putting Tyelko and Moryo together in a fortress was a recipe for non-stop quarrels and resolved to put it off as long as possible.)

In the uneasy years since Tol Sirion became Tol-in-Gaurhoth, bright spots had been few and far between, and all of them short lived. Finno even had to repel an invasion of Hithlum itself. He’d managed it, but the fact that the attempt had come so close to success was an ominous sign.

If their Enemy’s forces could press into Hithlum, protected as it was by mountains, storming down the vale of Sirion and taking the north-south road would be no great trick.  Some believed the orcs’ masters had learned to give Brethil a wide berth, but Curufinwë suspected it was more likely the Enemy and his lieutenants had realized they’d need larger numbers to overwhelm it and were busying working on that.

There was little point in waiting until they were discovered to depart. The evacuation planning was in full swing, as were the plans for how to deal with any sudden attack.

It would all depend on timing. If they spotted the enemy’s movement far enough in advance to have the luxury of time, they would get most of the people safely away while leaving a picked volunteer contingent to hold the fortress until the actual attack. (The attack might well happen on their own terms in that case.) They could lure as many attackers as possible in and then destroy them and the fortress in one stroke, dealing their enemy a blow and denying him another stronghold. But that was the ideal scenario.

Nothing in Beleriand had been ideal so far.

So the other plan, the one Curufinwë was spending much more time and effort on, was for evacuation under pressure, with little or no warning. In that case, much like last time they would need to hold until they had as many people as possible safely away, or as safely as they could manage. Then Curufinwë would have free rein in taking as many of Morgoth’s creatures as possible out while making Nargothrond useless to anyone else. Unfortunately, in that case the defense wouldn’t be all volunteers, and the losses would likely be heavy. He and Tyelko would probably be among them.

The problem was time. The most serious orc incursions might not be ranging this far south yet, but they were already feeling the pressure. He hadn’t had nearly as long to prepare here as he had at Aglon, and when it came to it there…

“I have heard nothing. I’ve been working all morning, as you well know.”

“All day, you mean,” his older brother replied with an irritating smirk. “Morning ended some hours ago. You should pry yourself out from behind your desk more often. Much as he’s enjoying the company of kin closer to his own age, your son might appreciate the reminder of what you look like. Not to mention, communing more with elves instead of bits of paper would mean you might have heard what the rest of us did.”

Curufinwë glared at his brother as Tyelko made a show of picking up one of the ‘bits of paper’ – a rather comprehensive plan of the main galleries, important to Curufinwë’s defense planning – to study in mock puzzlement.

“Tyelpë knows perfectly well what it is to be busy. He keeps me appraised of his own work, as do Gildor and Finduilas. So if your ‘have you heard’ is trivial enough to wait until dinner, get out.”

“And if it can’t wait until a meal you’re like as not to miss?” Tyelko asked with a deliberately irritating smile.

“Tell me – and then get out.”

The smirk on his brother’s face suggested neither was going to happen. Curufinwë sighed and went back to his calculations about the force needed to take out the key supports holding up the dome of the great hall. Once he knew that, he could decide on how best to achieve it.

“Mortals have arrived,” Tyelko announced, seating himself on the corner of the desk. “Well, one mortal, at least. Baran son of Bere… Bora… oh, what does it matter? These days, they live about as long as horses, if that. I can’t see why I’m supposed to fuss about his father’s name. Especially as this one’s like to die quicker than most.”

Curufinwë knew perfectly well his brother was trying to be annoying but not too annoying – if he’d truly  wanted to antagonize, he’d have crumpled the papers on the desk when he perched on it.

“You manage to keep track of the name of every other bird and beast in Beleriand, I shouldn’t think adding a handful of names for Men would tax you,” Curufinwë said briskly, moving his papers out of the range of his brother’s behind. “Particularly seeing as they seem to reuse them every few generations. Is there any reason this particularly short-lived mortal is so fascinating you feel the need to disrupt me while I’m trying to plan the details of our defense and relocation?”

“Well, for a start, this Man is wearing a ring belonging to our dear cousin. On his wedding finger, no less.” Tyelko paused. “Do you suppose Ingo betrothed himself to a mortal since Amarië’s not here?”

Almost against his will, Curufinwë’s head shot up.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.

“Ah, so you do still listen when I talk! I’ve wondered lately, you know. You’ve been doing that thing where you reply without actually engaging so often…”

“Tyelko, what do you want?” Curufinwë demanded, trying not to let it show that he was gritting his teeth in annoyance.

“I want you to come on up to the hall to join us for dinner, little brother. Someone has to make sure Ingo isn’t about to do something phenomenally stupid, and we both know I can’t be counted on for that. He may behave pleasantly enough, but since Alqualondë he trusts me about as far as he can throw me, which is to say not at all.”

Curufinwë did not point out that trying to kill Ingo’s favorite younger sibling and actually killing one of his uncles might have something to do with that.

“Of the three of us, Ingo is the one least likely to do something stupid,” Curufinwë snorted. “If we were talking about Turvo, maybe…”

“Yes, yes, I know, Ingo is the nice one, the level-headed one, blah blah Nelyo-like blah. But think on this, dear brother – until about five seconds before he went on his last ride, would you – or anyone else in the family, for that matter – have thought Uncle Nolo was likely to do any such thing?”

Curufinwë had opened his mouth at Tyelko’s initial words, all set to argue, but shut it again at that.

Because Tyelko, scorch him, was right.

Until he’d suddenly decided to go one on one with Morgoth, Uncle Nolo had been the only grownup left standing, the one they had all on some level counted on to be the sensible leader and head of the family. From the sounds of it, even their eldest brother had been floored when the news reached him.

In addition to shaking them all – for Uncle had generally been better than Father about keeping his temper – his death meant there were no older kin left on this side of the Sea. It was just their generation, left to their own devices, shouldering their inheritance of oaths and quarrels, with none of their elders around to make sure everyone played nice and didn’t do anything fatally stupid.

Of course, there weren’t quite as many of them anymore either.

Ingo had lost both brothers, and been lucky not to lose his nephew as well.

From what they’d heard from Mithrim since Uncle’s death, Irissë had died some years before, and her husband with her. For all they knew, Turvo, Auntie, and Laurë were dead too – having hidden himself so bloody well, it wasn’t as if they’d know if Turvo’s concealed stronghold had fallen. It must have survived the flames that consumed Dorthonion, if the eagles had been able to take what was left of Uncle to him. But they haven’t heard so much as an aquiline peep since. Anything might have happened.

Anything might still happen.

“Your brain is a bag of addled squirrels eighty percent of the time, but every once in a while you come out with something like that,” he informed his brother grumpily.

“I love you too, Daddikins,” Tyelko grinned, blowing him a kiss as he stood up.

He ducked the empty ink bottle Curufinwë chucked at his head with infuriating ease, catching it before it could hit the wall and setting it neatly on the side table near the door.

“I’ll see you at dinner, then? The mortal will be dining at the high table.”

“Yes, fine, I’ll be there.”

“Excellent. You’d better hurry. Dinner is in twenty minutes.”

Tyelko moved quickly enough to be closing the door behind him before the pen holder hit it at head height. But not so quickly his brother couldn’t hear him laughing.

---

Curufinwë somehow managed to get himself to the great hall just in time to be punctual for the evening meal – suitably attired, all traces of ink scrubbed from his fingers and all traces of frustration scrubbed from his face.

He had put on one of his new festival tunics, but it was still not quite the polished appearance he might have presented in Tirion or even Aglon. He was fairly confident it would be considered passable under the circumstances. Then again, he wasn’t sure why he was worrying. Nargothrond already knew his circumstances; the mortal probably didn’t know enough of elves to know the difference.

Curufinwë wasn’t the only one suddenly inspired to show up for the high table, either – he noted that not only Resto and Merilin, but all the young fry with the exception of little Gil had turned out as well. Finduilas and Gildor were dressed as the young princes they were, though it looked as though Tyelpë had been pried from his workshop with little time to change – or perhaps hadn’t seen the need. At least he was clean and relatively neat.

Finduilas’ fretful looks in Tyelpë’s direction suggested that his attendance had been her doing.  Curufinwë couldn’t tell if she was fretting because she hadn’t thought to take suitable dinner clothes to him in his workshop, or because she’d tried to make him see the importance of changing but failed.

Personally, he suspected the latter. The boy’s education still had some glaring gaps. He’d work on that particular one first thing tomorrow morning. Findë might have terrible ideas about daily hairstyles, but she could be counted on when it came to public occasions.

“A good evening to you, lords and ladies,” Curufinwë greeted the company, before taking his usual place at Ingo’s table. 

Ingo didn’t bat an eye, even though it had to be a fortnight at the least since his cousin had last dined in the great hall.

“Ah, Curvo, there you are! Let me make known to you Beren, son of Barahir. It was Barahir who saved my life at the Fen of Serech several seasons back. Beren, my cousin and advisor Prince Curufin.”

Curufinwë nodded, giving the Man a slight bow.

If he was any judge, the lad would be considered handsome as mortals went. He was not as tall as Curufinwë or his cousins, but then few mortals were. He actually gave the impression of being somewhat taller than he truly was, being well-built and carrying himself with both grace and confidence. He had a pleasant face, light brown hair with golden highlights, and green eyes set off by a rich tunic that must be a gift from Ingo. It certainly wasn’t of Mannish make.

The ring Tyelko had spoken of – one given to Ingo by Uncle Ara on his coming of age – was indeed on what would normally be the wedding finger. But another ring gleamed on his third finger, and Curufinwë concluded that Beren’s people signified that one was wedded or intended slightly differently than elves did.

All the same, it was still tempting to clout his brother for speaking as he had, even just amongst themselves. With all Nargothrond on edge, rumors started all too easily these days.

“As Finrod is one of my favorite cousins, I stand in your father’s debt, sir,” he said politely.

“Not so much as I do, of course,” Ingo added with a smile. “Though I am a bit hurt to be numbered only ‘one of’ your favorite cousins!”

“Ah, but as my other favorite is your sister, you can hardly fault me,” Curufinwë grinned, seating himself.

“The Lady Galadriel is fair indeed, it would be stranger by far if Prince Curufin did not esteem her,” Beren said.

“We can speak of my sister after dinner,” Ingo suggested.

There was a tension to his jaw that anyone who didn’t know him as well as Curufinwë did might have missed. What under the stars was Artanis up to now? Had the mortal brought news of her? Had she sent him here?

Whatever Ingo knew or suspected, he steered the conversation so skillfully throughout the meal that no one, Curufinwë included, had a chance to return to the subject of Artanis – or put very many questions to Beren son of Barahir.

In fact, Ingo managed to avoid questions so well that Curufinwë began to get a bad feeling. Ingo was normally so open, hiding nothing. What under the stars was going on?

He found out all too soon.

After dinner, the mortal took himself off to guest quarters at once, confessing he was exhausted and very much looking forward to a good night’s sleep. While he might look alert enough, the words didn’t sound like mere politeness. So Curufinwë did not add his voice to those urging him to say. Nor, he noticed, did Ingo.

When they retreated to the family rooms, Ingo shooed the kids out of the family rooms swiftly – though not without some trenchant commentary from Gildor, who did not appreciate being excluded and was in no way mollified by Findë’s suggestion that he join her and Tyelpë in her mother’s rooms to hear the latest from her Iathrin kin. But it did him no good, as Ingo plainly intended only the adults to join him in his study.

None of it made Curufinwë feel any less uneasy.

Ingo finally explained the mortal boy’s errand to his cousins over wine. Though ‘errand’ was in truth too light a word. Thingol had set the poor mortal a deadly task for the grave insult of wanting to wed his daughter.

“A Silmaril?” Tyelko spluttered indignantly. “They’re not his to demand, any of them! How dare he!”

“I suspect he justifies it as a form of payment for your crimes,” Ingo said thoughtfully.

“He already had his vengeance – he took our language, Finrod.”

“Yes, I know, I was there when he did,” Ingo said, a hint of something sterner than normal showing.

Ingo’s patience was running uncharacteristically thin. Or Thingol had done something more. Or both.

“Spare us the dramatics, Tyelko. He doesn’t expect to actually get one,” Curufinwë snorted, wondering to himself what the grey fool would say if the boy did by some miracle manage it.

The Valar wouldn’t intervene for him or his brothers, but for true love between a worthy innocent and their kinswoman Melian’s daughter, they might…

If it didn’t run the risk of setting them on a disastrous collision course with Doriath, it would be rather amusing to see Elwë get his comeuppance.

“But why has the boy come here, Ingo?” Curufinwë asked, ignoring his older brother’s continued mutterings. “You don’t have a Silmaril to lend him.”

“He wants my assistance in his quest,” Ingo said quietly. “And that ring I saw you both looking at over dinner means I’m honor bound to give it.”