Dancing In The Dark by Grundy  

Trouble Ahead, Trouble Behind

It was like Artanis had once told him. Knowing the danger didn’t help, not when you couldn’t see any safe path.

If Ingo was drawn into the snare Thingol had set for Beren, it would entangle them all. But there were so many different disastrous ways it could play out that Curufinwë quickly stopped trying to think of them all. Better to concentrate on how he could forestall disaster – and the only way he could see of doing that was keeping Ingo clear of it in the first place.

It was astonishing what a bastard Thingol could be when he set his mind to it. It had been bad enough when he turned that capacity on his Arafinwean grandnephews and -niece, but setting himself against his own daughter and her intended?

He knew better than to think the mortal boy would listen to him if he suggested forgetting Thingol’s daughter was far more conducive to health, happiness, and long life as Men counted it than persisting on a mission so clearly intended to be fatal.

It might have been a good many years since he had been young and in love, but unlike mortals, elven memory did not fade with the passage of time. Curufinwë could recall quite clearly what it had felt like to recognize his intended as the one for him. He knew he’d have told anyone who tried suggesting he walk away from Silmë where they could shove it. (That sort of stubbornness had set in probably not more than ten minutes after meeting her.) If young Beren hadn’t given in to Thingol, it wasn’t bloody likely he would yield to anyone else, no matter how well-intentioned or clear-eyed.

There was no point in even asking him. At best, it would be laughed off. Far more likely was that it would be seen as an insult or a form of meddling, and Beren would conclude Curufinwë was an enemy rather than someone who wished him no harm and saw no point to him dying needlessly, let alone taking Ingo with him.

Merilin had always seemed dubious about the prospect of her cousin Lúthien being permitted to visit Nargothrond, particularly since she hadn’t even been permitted to do so even when Finduilas came of age, an occasion when many of the girl’s other Iathrin kin had made the journey. That meant the most logical course of action – encourage the two lovers to marry without parental permission, and let Thingol blow his top after, wasn’t workable.

Or was it?

He and Merilin were still not what he would call good friends, but they had been on good enough terms since he arrived here. So he sought her out the next morning, while Ingo was occupied hearing the latest reports from Resto and Gildor on the state of the kingdom.

“I am surprised to find you seeking me out,” Merilin greeted him. “I expected you’d be picking the mortal boy’s brain.”

“I am not sure what you think I would gain that way,” he replied. “I know enough of his errand to be going on with. You are my best hope of an ally at the moment.”

“Oh?” she asked. “To what end?”

It wasn’t quite suspicion…

“Promoting your cousin’s marriage,” he replied.

He was pleased to see he had her full attention.

“I don’t see how,” she replied gravely. “It seems to me a hopeless business. I would have thought you knew enough of Uncle Elu to understand he won’t be induced to relent. You’ve seen for yourself how he behaves about nieces. I assure you he’s worse still about Lúthien.”

“Surely he wishes his daughter’s happiness,” Curufinwë said reasonably. “What parent does not want to see their child well matched?”

“Your definition of ‘well-matched’ and his do not coincide,” Merilin smiled. “Nor mine, for that matter. A mortal who will die in less than half a long year? I do not know what she sees in him. Even if I did, I doubt she fully understands what she is about.”

“Did you, when you married?” Curufinwë asked mildly.

He did not expect the flush that crept over her face. She hesitated long enough to make him wonder what he’d said to embarrass her so.

“I am sure you are aware that while love has grown between us since, marriage was not my intent when I met your nephew. I am reliably informed the union was seen as a scandal by your people. In fact, Oropher was at some pains to protect me once he realized the severity of it.”

Seeing how sincerely attached the pair were now, Curufinwë hadn’t recalled that theirs had not been a planned match.

“If you did not know,” Merilin continued, “I can tell you that while I am fortunate in how my marriage has turned out, I certainly did not understand what I was about. Nor was I the only one – and not all were as lucky on that score as Orodreth and I.”

He hadn’t given a second thought to any of the accidental marriages that had come out of the first encounters between Noldor and Sindar. He vaguely remembered there being a scandal over a union between two neri. Ingo had fanned the flames of that one a bit behind the scenes to shift attention away from Resto’s impulsiveness. (Also to keep the mess well away from Artanis. She had not married on one day’s acquaintance, but her conduct would not have withstood scrutiny in Tirion. They’d still thought such things mattered then.)

“Orodreth and I are both elves, yet we found differences enough between our peoples. I suspect there are still greater ones between elves and Men. I do not believe Lúthien has considered that as carefully as she should.”

“You do not wish to see her wed this Beren, then?” he asked.

He’d expected her to be as eager to see the pair together despite Thingol as he was.

“I do not wish to see them not wed if she has her heart set on it, particularly if any hesitation on her part is due only to Uncle’s behavior. But I am concerned for her regardless.”

“I am concerned for them both,” Curufinwë said. “And for my cousin as well.”

“For Finrod, you mean?” she asked, looking puzzled. “How can Lúthien and her mortal possibly trouble him?”

He outlined the position Ingo found himself in, and saw the consternation bloom on her face as she realized what it meant for the kingdom.

“That is why the boy came here?” Merilin spluttered. “To call in this life-debt? Not even the full strength of Nargothrond could guarantee his success! Has he heard nothing of how disastrous the situation is in the north? If Nargothrond alone had the strength to throw down Belegurth, we would have done it already!”

“I believe he is painfully aware of what occurred in the north,” Curufinwë assured her. “If I understand his tale correctly, his people dwelt in Dorthonion, and he himself lived as an outlaw before stumbling into Doriath. But a desperate man will grasp at any hope. Young Beren is too proud not to at least attempt to make good on his bold words to your uncle.”

“The more fool him,” she grumbled. “He’d have done better to refuse such a deadly errand and plead with Aunt Melian to talk sense into Uncle.”

“It’s a bit late for that, unless you believe he can slip past your uncle’s guards to return.”

“No, there’s little chance of that. Many of our people will be sympathetic, but not so sympathetic that they would care to explain how he managed to enter the kingdom again against Uncle’s express orders.”

“We are at an impasse, then,” Curufinwë concluded grimly. “If you say there is no hope of bringing Lúthien here to marry him without her father’s blessing…”

“I cannot see how. Uncle will have her guarded as well. He has never once let her come her to visit before, not even when all Beleriand was enjoying the long peace. He certainly won’t give her permission to go beyond the borders now.”

“I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Merilin added. She sounded sincere – as well she might be now that she understood the stakes.

“I am sorry to have put you in such a position,” Curufinwë replied tiredly. “Though I ask you keep what we have discussed to yourself. I would not have anyone know of it, not even your husband.”

“Why?” she asked. “Surely anyone would understand your wish to help Lúthien and Beren?”

“Any but your uncle, perhaps,” he pointed out wryly. “You know better than I do how he might react to news that the Kinslayers take an interest in his daughter’s fate, but I do not imagine he would welcome it.”

The expression on her face suggested that no matter what he thought might ensue should a whisper come to the Greycloak’s ears that a son of Fëanor was plotting to help his daughter wed her mortal, it would be worse.

“You may rely on my discretion,” Merilin assured him. “And my aid, should you find a solution that will help my cousin. I trust you will do it if it can be done.”

Her words expressed confidence, but he could see the worry in her eyes.

He bowed, and took his leave of her, thinking hard as he went.

Beren wouldn’t abandon the task set him. Lúthien couldn’t be brought here. Nobody was prying a Silmaril off Morgoth’s bloody head.

That only left Ingo.

Curufinwë knew his cousin and best friend better than anyone else in the world but Amarië. (No matter how fond Artë was of Ingo or he of her, there were some things one didn’t discuss with little sisters. And Turvo was several hundred sun years out of date by now – years that had not been uneventful, particularly of late.)

Ingo was kindhearted and honest to a fault. Here in Beleriand, in the shadow of the Enemy and the Doom, those good qualities were about to be his undoing. Of all their kin, he was the one least able to look away from the mortal’s plight. Curufinwë didn’t doubt Ingo’s debt to the boy’s dead father was weighing heavily on his conscience, but he knew there was more to it than that.

The separation of the lovers would resonate with Ingo. He had parted from his own beloved in Tirion, and seen how leaving Silmë and losing Elenwë had affected his two best friends. And after Aiko and his mortal love, Ingo would be the last person in Beleriand to tell Beren son of Barahir to do the sensible thing and face facts. His estrangement from Aiko, still unresolved when the Sudden Flame removed any possibility of reconciliation, all but guaranteed Ingo would overcompensate by ‘helping’ the mortal boy.

What form would Ingo’s help take? Worse, what could it actually accomplish – and at what cost?

If the King of Nargothrond marched openly against Morgoth, there was little doubt it would end in the destruction of Nargothrond and the death of his people. Curufinwë knew that no matter what damage he, his brothers, and their cousins might collectively have done in the Sudden Flame, there were still uncounted orcs in the North, and more being bred by the hour. Even the full strength of Nargothrond would be at best a noisy but ultimately insignificant wave on a beach.

A stealth mission to Angband had little chance of success. It had been made painfully clear to them over the years just how bloody lucky Finno had been to get as close as he did without being noticed, and all he’d wanted to steal back was a lone prisoner of no practical value and little remaining strategic worth. Maitimo had only still been alive for the Enemy’s amusement, not because there was anything more to be gained from him.

Trying to talk sense into Ingo was only option. It just wasn’t a very good one.

Curufinwë had tried talking sense into Ingo several times over the years. It only ever worked if Ingo hadn’t already decided whatever unsensible thing he’d settled on was Important. Curufinwë suspected this was a good deal more important than material choices for childish projects, proposing to Amarië in Valimar instead of Tirion, or even whether or not it was a good idea to follow Fëanaro.

This time the stakes were so much higher. If he thought about them too hard, Curufinwë might weep. His sons, his brothers, Ingo, Artë… Pits of Angband, Findë and little Gilya too! The boy was scarcely more than an infant, far too young to be threatened with death or a crown. (In Beleriand, a crown was proving to be a route to a particularly unpleasant death.)

Beren’s task put everyone left alive on this side of the Sea who mattered to Curufinwë at risk.

He had never been the one reliably good with words. He tended to trip over his own tongue when it really mattered. He was Curufinwë because he’d been the one who looked like his father, but the only talent he came even close to matching Curufinwë Fëanaro at was in smithcraft. Not eloquent words, not swaying people’s hearts. Yes, he’d used rumor to good effect a time or two, but any idiot could spread rumors. It wasn’t difficult to do. If anything, it was harder not to these days.

This really needed Maitimo. Or Kano, who if he couldn’t talk sense into Ingo, could at least Sing at him until he outlasted his younger cousin and bent him to his will. Even Moryo, with all his logistics and unforgiving reasons why this could not work, might have better odds. Ingo would pay more heed to an older kinsman than to his best friend.

But none of them were here, and by the time they could get here, it would be too late. It was just him and Tyelko.

Tyelko would be less than no help. He had been in an odd mood lately, antagonizing brother and cousin alike, watching the young ones like hawks, and all the while urging everyone to live in the moment.  Curufinwë wasn’t sure, but he suspected it might be a sign Tyelko was giving up. It was as well that there were still nephews and a niece around for him to play uncle to. Otherwise he would likely be much worse.

He could see the disaster taking shape, but no way of avoiding it. At best, he might be able to keep the children safe.

He refused to think on ‘at worst’.

Curufinwë sighed, and penned a note to Ingo requesting to meet with him privately after dinner that evening. He had no great hope, but he had to at least try.

---

The knock on his door mid-afternoon wasn’t entirely unexpected. All the kids were unsettled by this latest development.

Curufinwë suspected it would be one of the boys. Gildor had been avoiding everyone since dinner the prior evening, and Tyelko had mentioned at breakfast that Finduilas was put out about it. Tyelpë would have heard all about it by now.

“Enter,” he called, tidying the papers littering his desk sufficiently that they were both organized and not showing anything he wouldn’t have the children see.

He nearly dropped the ones still in his hands at the sight of his visitor.

“I was told this was likely the best time to see you, sir, but you look to be occupied,” Beren said. “I can come back later if this is a bad time?”

There was never likely to be a good time, but Curufinwë couldn’t very well say that.

“Your visit is a surprise, but not such a terrible one I cannot spare you half an hour,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice light and pleasant.  “Please, take a seat.”

He couldn’t imagine why the mortal had sought him out. If anything, the boy should consider him a potential obstacle.

“I, er, wanted to apologize,” Beren told him awkwardly as he sat in one of the chairs usually reserved for Ingo or Tyelko – when Tyelko bothered with chairs. “I’m not pleased at going to fetch something that isn’t mine to hand it over to someone with no claim on it, and I wouldn’t be even if I hadn’t broken bread with those it belongs to by right.”

Curufinwë blinked. The mortal was full of surprises.

“I had understood you lived as an outlaw after the fall of Dorthonion,” he said, more to see what the boy would say than anything else. “Yet you’re troubling yourself about stealing from Morgoth?”

“Stealing back what he stole from my people so we could survive is very different than being ordered to steal something he’s stolen from your people because someone else wants it more. I’ll do the first any day, particularly when it deprives the Enemy of resources that would otherwise feed his hordes. But I’m no sneak thief. Taking your jewel to Lúthien’s father goes against the grain. All the more so when I’m told it can only make trouble between you elves.”

Perhaps the Man wasn’t as great a simpleton as he’d thought. Curufinwë was certain Thingol hadn’t given so much as a second’s thought as to what would happen if the poor lovestruck fool succeeded in his quest. Though on that score…

“Boy, that is the least of your problems,” he sighed. “It’s good of you to recall that jewel isn’t Thingol’s, but rather unnecessary given he’s sent you to your death.”

“I’m not a boy,” Beren retorted with some heat.

“My son was born well before Ingo first met Men –a time I’m told was already out of living memory for your people before your grandfather was begotten. I consider my son to still be a boy,” Curufinwë informed him bluntly. “You can waste time fighting about it, or you can accept that even your whitebeards are little more than children to us by the count of their years.”

Beren swallowed whatever he’d been about to say as he considered the notion, then nodded.

“I suppose I can’t argue that logic,” he sighed. “Is that part of why Thingol was so upset?”

“I doubt Thingol would take the news of his daughter wanting to marry anyone from outside his kingdom well,” Curufinwë shrugged. “But I also suspect any elven parent would have reservations about their child marrying a mortal.”

“Queen Melian expressed no reservations.”

Curufinwë fought the urge to thunk his head not so softly on the desk. Did the boy have no idea what he’d entangled himself with?

“Queen Melian is a maia, one of the beings that sang the world into existence. It is safe to say she has a unique perspective on matters between you and her daughter.”

Beren was silent for several moments.

“So I’m not the only one who has the insolence to raise his eyes to someone far above him?”

His voice was soft and angry.

“If you wish to take it that way,” Curufinwë replied. “It was not my meaning.”

“No, it was not your meaning, it was Thingol’s,” the boy replied. His anger was under control, but it was still there.

Curufinwë began to see why Beren hadn’t backed down and accepted so ridiculous a demand. The pride and folly of youth…

“You have yet to try to talk me out of it,” Beren observed, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Waste of my time and breath,” Curufinwë snorted. “If you love her, you won’t be persuaded.”

“You are the only one who thinks so. Everyone else has tried to talk me out of it.”

“Including your lady love?”

“No, of course not! Lúthien believes in me.”

He had already been thinking of banging his head on the desk…

“If Princess Lúthien truly loved you, she ought to have tried to talk sense into you,” Curufinwë snapped. “This quest will be your death, and no one of sense could believe otherwise.”

“Yet you’re still not trying to talk me out of it?”

“You’re in no mood to be talked out of anything, boy. In fact, you’re doing your best to talk yourself into a quarrel if not a fight. Though I’m not sure why – I’ve done you no injury I’m aware of, and you ostensibly came here to apologize for being maneuvered into stealing something that belongs to me and my brothers.”

The boy hesitated a moment, then his shoulders sagged.

“King Finrod won’t truly be able to help, will he?”

In his quiet desperation, Curufinwë heard that the boy did in fact realize just how monumental a task had been set him. He wasn’t ready to admit it was suicide to go through with it, but on some level, he knew it was beyond him.

“No.”

Curufinwë saw no point to softening his answer – or to hiding the full dimensions of what Thingol had unwittingly set into motion.

“Ingo won’t be able to help,” he continued. “Though I don’t doubt for a moment he will die trying. When he does, Nargothrond will fall, and Princess Lúthien’s realm will be in just as much danger as my cousin’s in Hithlum. Ring or no, Thingol did not expect you would dare call on Ingo for help. He may, when he hears of it, convince himself ensnaring Ingo is somehow justice for the killings in Alqualondë.”

The boy frowned.

“I though King Finrod was blameless in that matter.”

“Entirely. But Thingol does not stop to consider logic when his temper runs hot. He’ll find some way to absolve himself of Ingo’s death and pretend he never compassed yours. He’ll tell himself he only meant to frighten you away, and it’s your own fault you weren’t sensible.”

Beren dropped his head into his hands.

“What a mess,” he muttered. “My father didn’t save King Finrod only for me to bring his kingdom down,” the boy said tiredly. “He believed the king to be the linchpin of the leaguer against the Enemy! Yet now I’ve asked for help, he’s not likely to let it drop any more than I can walk away from trying to fetch that bloody jewel.”

It was unfortunately accurate.

“I’ve heard much of your cleverness,” Beren said. “Can you see no other way, sir?”

“I haven’t yet,” Curufinwë sighed.

He couldn’t tell the boy he meant to attempt to talk Ingo out of it.

He wasn’t sure who it would be crueler to – Beren, who would realize how alone he stood; or himself, for clinging onto what was almost certainly false hope.