Dancing In The Dark by Grundy  

Dispossessed

With his nerves so frayed, it took all that remained of his self-control not to respond at the sound of his son calling Ingo ‘Atto’ in that moment.

He had known perfectly well Gildor would look on his cousin as a father – that had been the entire point of the damned charade. He had put the boy into the protection of someone who could be trusted to raise him properly, to not only give him an unsullied name and keep him safe, but to care for him and coddle him and love him.

The boy’s name was Gildor Inglorion, not Curufinwion, by his true father’s own choice. His childhood had been a happy and peaceful one, surrounded by as much kin as any child could hope for in these lands and never lacking for playmates, rather than the lonely semi-exile on the northern marches his older brother had known with no kin at hand but his father and uncle.

It had been the best thing for him.

All that still didn’t take the sting away.

It had been easier to think on in the abstract, when he had been five hundred leagues away and hadn’t had to see or hear it, least of all when everything was falling apart.

And somehow, in the privacy of his own head years ago when first contemplating the plan, he had imagined Ingo would be ‘Ada’, not ‘Atto’.

Not that it should logically make the least bit of difference…

He suspected Gildor wished to speak to Ingo on much the same subject they had just been discussing, to insist that it was madness for Ingo to even consider going with Beren on his futile quest. Everyone agreed on that point. Unfortunately, it was already a lost cause. Ingo had made up his mind.

Curufinwë had yet to deploy his last ditch argument – that even if by some grace of Eru, the mortal were to return with a Silmaril, Thingol would likely set him some task still more impossible. Fetching the other two, perhaps, or returning the Noldor whence they came. Thingol had no intention whatsoever of permitting his daughter’s chosen match, much less giving it his blessing. If this mad errand didn’t kill the boy, he’d find some other way.

Curufinwë frowned.

Perhaps he should suggest that approach to Gildor. Being asked something by a brother or a cousin was quite different than being asked by your own child. They boy might think Ingo didn’t listen to him, but Curufinwë knew otherwise.

“You look quite fierce,” Ingo said, looking a bit taken aback.

Please don’t let it have shown so plainly on my face.

Ingo was not a fool. Thus far, he hadn’t stumbled onto Gildor’s true parentage. He had accepted the tale that his sister was Gildor’s milk-mother. He didn’t need to take any new-found knowledge to the contrary with him into Morgoth’s lair. If he did, every sacrifice Curufinwë and Artanis had made to keep the boy safe would be in vain.

“Thinking on Thingol and his ridiculous Ban,” Curufinwë temporized. “Hasn’t stopped the younger generation, has it? The boy sounds every bit like one of us.”

Ingo’s snort was far more eloquent than words on that point.

“He has a slight accent,” Ingo shrugged, “but I think if ever he were permitted to go home to Tirion, he would lose that quickly enough. The only one who might find any fault with it would be your father, given we don’t use Þ. Though it occurs to me that your mother would adore him. He’s taken to dabbling with sculpture, you know. I fancy he and Aunt Nerdanel would have a grand time together.”

Ingo looked rather wistful at the thought.

The idea of Gildor and his mother working together on some shared project brought a fresh pang to Curufinwë’s heart, but there was nothing for it. 

“I’d say it’s just as well my mother and your parents are on the far side of the Sea,” Curufinwë said drily. “I expect they would be rather thunderstruck the first time the boy walked into a room and called you ‘Atto’ and Artanis ‘Ammë’.”

Nor did Curufinwë particularly wish to contemplate whether or not the deception would hold up to scrutiny should their son ever come to Tirion, where there would be not only Artanis’ parents and grandmother to reckon with, but his mother and grandparents as well. Nerdanel had rarely been fooled by her sons’ attempts to cover up mischief or misdeeds, and what she missed, Indis, Mahtan, or Rilmë generally caught. He doubted this particular secret would fare much better. Fortunately, he was unlikely to be there for the consequences.

Ingo looked startled for a moment, then he laughed.

“I never thought of it like that, but you are certainly right! Though I am sure they would get over the shock,” he said with a smile. “They would be far too delighted by their grandson. Mother would absolutely dote on him! Besides, he rarely addresses Artë so before others.  He always calls her ‘Aunt’ in public, lest it confuse any who do not know the history. He loves her too much to wish any foul whispers to be attached to her.”

“Your parents and mine are hardly ‘public’!”

“I’m sure they’ve heard more ridiculous things from us as children.”

Ingo frowned, struck by a new thought.

“It is true that I am his father, but now that you mention her, I cannot help but feel I ought to consult Artanis. If I send him anywhere, perhaps it would be best for him to go to her in Doriath.”

Curufinwë made sure to conceal how horrified he was by that proposal. He had never quite fully believed Celeborn’s assurance that not even Melian could detect the difference between a milk-mother and the nis who had borne the child. Besides–

“Are you mad, Ingo?” he demanded. “How would that keep him clear of the Oath? If the mortal succeeds, at least one Silmaril will go to Menegroth! How long do you think it would be before Maitimo demands Thingol surrender the gem?”

Ingo shrugged.

“Does it matter? Thingol will not yield anything to you or your brothers, not even a Silmaril.”

“Exactly. At which point, the Oath will not allow us to simply stand by and let him keep it.”

Ingo looked troubled.

“But surely you would not – “

“I do not know what we would do,” Curufinwë said sharply, ignoring the pit of dread in his stomach that told him exactly what the Oath would demand they would do.

They were only as strong as the weakest among them. And all of them, probably even Pityo, were intelligent enough to realize a Silmaril held by elves would be a good deal easier to get at than two held by Morgoth. Eventually someone would wear their eldest brother down. He could only hope it wouldn’t be him.

“And I hope not to find out! Better Morgoth retains them than we be pitted against other elves.  I may think Thingol is an ass, but he is not Morgoth, who we know to be a murderer, a thief, and a liar. I would just as soon he not bring the danger of Father’s gems into his kingdom.”

Ingo grinned.

“I think you’ve just said something nice about Thingol in a remarkably roundabout way. There may be hope for diplomacy yet.”

Curufinwë glanced at him sourly.

“I said Thingol was not Morgoth. If that is now considered ‘nice’, it is a sad commentary on what we have been reduced to.”

Ingo’s laugh was the same boyish joy he’d once graced Aman with.

“Fear not, I shan’t tell. Nor will I send Gildor to Doriath since you are so troubled by the thought. Though I am sure Artë would let him come to no harm.”

From what he’d seen of the Doom, Curufinwë expected the exact opposite – sending Gildor to Doriath would all but guarantee Artanis would be unable to protect him. And wouldn’t it just be the most delightful form of treason of kin on kin the Valar could contrive if he and his brothers were to face his son and Artanis with swords in hand?

“Your sister’s greatest fear, Ingo, the one that has frustrated Celeborn almost from the day of their marriage,” he pointed out, “is that she might see a child of hers in mortal danger and be powerless to save them. If, after what I have told you I guess is in store for Doriath even if they do not suffer the misfortune of a Silmaril coming within their borders, you still think it a good idea to send the child she nursed at her own breast there rather than to Círdan and Ulmo, by all means.”

Ingo flinched.

“Perhaps you are right,” he murmured. “I had not considered it in that light. Poor Celeborn. I do hope they both survive to a time of peace. I should like to meet Artanis’ children someday.”

“Their odds of them coming into being would improve if you did not lend your assistance to this mortal Beren,” Curufinwë could not resist pointing out. “Not to mention the odds of their survival and happiness!”

“No, Curvo, enough,” Ingo said. The note in his voice was not often heard, but it was the sound of the underlying steel that the Arafinwions kept so carefully hidden. “I am resolved, and you will not alter my decision. If it comes to a fight between you and your brothers on the one side and Luthien and her father on the other after my death, I shall be relieved not to have to see it.”

“You left Beren out of it,” Curufinwë reminded him. “Or do you expect he will die in this quest also?”

“Even if he survives the task Thingol has set him, as a mortal he must still die eventually,” Ingo replied with a shrug. “That cannot be changed. So I expect that if there is to be a quarrel over Uncle’s jewel, Beren will have no part in it. In fact, I ask it of you as a favor – should he against all odds succeed, kindly defer any action to reclaim the jewel until after his passing. A mortal life already half gone is no great time to us, long though it may seem to him. They consider a hundred years to be a rare and venerable age, you know. Sun years.”

“I can make no promise to control my older brothers,” Curufinwë warned him. “But should it come to that, I assure you I will do my best.”

“Your best is usually quite good, Curvo, so that will more than do,” Ingo smiled. “Now, unless you have any other matters to raise with me, we had better let Gildor have his say before I break the news to everyone else. He’s rather like you, you know – he’ll dig his heels in and sulk until I hear him out.”

“I do not sulk, Ingo.”

“Of course you don’t,” Finderato agreed cheerfully. “Neither does Gildor, according to him.”

---

When Ingo turned up with breakfast in the morning, Curufinwë knew by his expression  that Gildor had been no more successful than he had himself. He also knew Ingo well enough to recognize the food – and turning up at the time he usually rose rather than Ingo’s later preferred time to wake – was intended as a peace offering.

He would feel better about that if he weren’t fully aware it meant Ingo was committing himself to a path that could only end in death.

“How about you let me talk first?” Ingo asked wryly as he finished setting out the dishes from the tray he’d carried in.

“Could I stop you?” Curufinwë snorted.

Ingo grinned as he added honey to a cup of tea and shoved it across the table.

Subtle.

“It’s early,” Ingo shrugged. “And I might as well sweeten what I can, given there’s no way around this next bit: I’m going with the boy. I’m honor-bound, and what’s more, I’m fairly certain it’s fate. Maybe not Doom, but definitely fate.”

“Foresight?” Curufinwë asked with a shiver.

“I had the foresight long ago,” Ingo admitted. “I just didn’t realize until last night that this was what it was about.”

“Foresight isn’t ironclad,” Curufinwë countered. “Your sister has said so often enough.”

“Curvo,” Ingo said quietly. “I know I’m meant to go. There’s no getting around this one. This is why Ulmo’s been keeping me safe the whole time in the first place. Either I die helping Beren make good, or I’ll die here wishing I had because the alternative will be worse. Don’t waste your time trying to think up ways to keep me alive. It’s no use, it won’t work.”

The set of Ingo’s fëa said more strongly than any words could that he meant it.

There had never really been any way around the Doom in the first place, but somehow when they’d first arrived in Beleriand Curufinwë had thought they’d find one. But if even Ingo couldn’t evade it…

“Fine,” he said roughly. “Let’s at least try to figure out how to save as much as we can.”

He had originally intended to commit Tyelpë to Ingo’s care as well whenever the order finally came for him and Tyelko to leave. Clearly that was no longer viable.

“There’s not much to save,” Ingo said ruefully. “That foresight showed me there would be nothing left for any son of mine to inherit.”

“You may not be able to save his inheritance, but you can still save the boy,” Curufinwë snapped. “I told you once already - keep the children clear of whatever you’ve seen in store for you!”

“How? It’s not as though I can get away with slinking off quietly with just Beren and some supplies!”

No, that wouldn’t be possible, would it? Ingo was too good at what he did. His people were ridiculously loyal. Half the kingdom would want to go – all the more if they decided it meant a chance to avenge their losses. Too many were just itching for such a chance.

Unless… something Ingo said last night was tickling his brain. There might be a way after all.

“That’s the look of an idea,” Ingo prompted.

“I doubt we can arrange matters so nobody goes with you,” Curufinwë said slowly. “Your closest retainers won’t be put off. That steward of yours would follow you into Angband itself. But we can probably prevent most others.”

Ingo waited, eyebrow raised.

“However, if you want my idea, much less my help, there’s a condition.”

“Depends on the condition,” Ingo said, sounding wary.

“You will make sure the children go to the Falas,” Curufinwë told him flatly. “All four of ours at least, if you won’t try for all of the kingdom’s. They need to be gotten safely out of the way of whatever is coming. You just said yourself there’s going to be nothing left for Gildor to inherit, so there’s little point to keeping him here for the end when you know it will be bitter. Gil-galad is practically still a babe in arms. Finduilas may have a heart that’s both noble and stubborn, but she doesn’t know the first thing about battle or defending a stronghold that’s about to fall, and I don’t think you want her to learn. Sod that, I don’t want her to learn. She somehow got the best qualities of both the Sindar and the Noldor, she deserves better from us.”

“And if those three go, Tyelpë will not feel singled out by me sending him,” Ingo said wryly. “Which I know you well enough to know you will absolutely not compromise on. Very well. It’s easy enough to agree to. I should like to know all of them safe. But there is a flaw in your plan already – once I leave, there’s nothing to prevent the older three from coming back on their own.”

“Make it a condition of handing the crown over to Resto,” Curufinwë said bluntly. “He ought to see the sense in it, too. Even if you don’t tell him outright you expect Nargothrond to fall, he must understand the situation isn’t far from desperate. He may be soft-hearted but he’s not that much of a fool. Not after Tol Sirion.”

Ingo considered.

“That could work. He may even seize the excuse to send Merilin off with them.”

Curufinwë hoped he would. He was fond of Merilin

“So much the better.”

If Resto had any sense, he would do exactly that. He was devoted to his wife, but not so devoted that they hadn’t had several quarrels lately on the theme of it being safer if she took the children to Menegroth, to Melian’s protection.

In Curufinwë’s estimation, the Falas would be safer. If Menegroth fell, it was likely to be sudden, with them already standing alone, all possible avenues of escape cut off. There would be no fleeing, only dying.

“Very well,” Ingo sighed. “The young ones go to the Falas, and you help me limit the damage here – I want as few people as possible on this doomed quest. The more I can leave with Resto, the more likely he actually manages to get everyone to safety, not just the children.”

“Done,” Curufinwë snapped, holding out a hand.

He and Ingo shook on it as solemnly as any childhood pact.

“So how are you going to do it?” Ingo wanted to know.

Curufinwë grinned.

“We’ve been so busy trying to keep rumor under control lately.”

Ingo stared at him expectantly.

“Why not let me start some?”

To his immense surprise, Ingo grinned.

“Of course, why didn’t I think of that? I’d like to get a few in of my own.”

“Ingo, we’re trying to spread rumors to make people no longer want to follow you. You can’t make this kind of stuff up!”

“Why not? It will be fun. Are you seriously going to deny me what may well be the last fun I’ll ever have?”

Curufinwë glared at him.

“That’s not amusing.”

“I’ve got such good ideas, too,” Ingo informed him. “Wild drunken orgies. Gildor actually my son by blood the way it’s been quietly rumored several times – we can have fun picking mothers. Oh, and what about me planning to usurp Finno?”

Curufinwë sighed.

He hadn’t foreseen needing to rein such enthusiasm in. Maybe he should have. One couldn’t be as well-behaved as Ingo for an entire lifetime and not be tempted to act out on occasion. All the same…

“Some of those, Ingo. Not all of them. Moderation! And for the love of Varda, let me be the one to actually start them making the rounds, or let me delegate some of it to Tyelko. You’re too honest to spread rumors about anyone, but especially about your own self. No one would believe you for an instant.”

“Spoilsport,” Ingo grumbled. “I could be quite a convincing maudlin drunk, I think. The whole kingdom would be repeating whatever I said in my cups and you know it.”

“I don’t trust you not to get carried away.”

“Oh, fine. You can have the fun of starting them, but I get to pick half.”

“A quarter. You get to pick a quarter of them. I’ll get Tyelko to weigh in on most of it. He’s got the best instinct for gossip of all of us, even Maitimo.”

“A third, or else.”

“This is why you weren’t in charge of overall strategy at any point. You’re threatening someone who’s trying to help you! And ‘or else’ what?”

“Or else I won’t leave a letter with Resto to send to Artë explaining that she should ignore whatever she hears you’ve gotten up to here once I’m gone. Seeing as I expect you also plan to eventually let yourself get ‘caught’ and thrown out once Resto’s established on his own?”

Curufinwë stopped dead. Ingo was absolutely right about the ‘caught and thrown out’ part. Really, it would be more surprising if he hadn’t seen the full outlines of the plan, given how close they were. But Curufinwë  had neglected to factor in what might filter through to Artanis in Doriath. And she was very much still going to be around after Ingo left…

Ingo smirked.

“A third it is,” Curufinwë sighed reluctantly. “If there are to be any more kinslayings, let’s at least make sure she’s not involved.”