Picking Up The Pieces by Grundy  

Living Like A Mole

Maeglin smiled to himself as he watched Tindomiel out of the corner of his eye. Not that he thought he was ever likely to not want to look at her, but he doubted even most other newlyweds were so fascinated by the sight of their sleeping mate.

There had been a brief period when he’d been alarmed by how often she needed to sleep – it spoke of her being either considerably younger than she claimed or not in good health. That had lasted until she caught his unease and explained that the peredhil inherited Mannish characteristics more or less at random, and this was hers. She didn’t sleep as long or as deeply as Rillë had claimed Tuor did, so now that he’d accustomed himself to it, he was no longer as worried.

He found it sweet that she often smiled or even giggled in her sleep. Whatever dream paths she walked were as a rule happy ones.

He couldn’t say the same for his, particularly since she’d told him about California. He’d been disturbed enough at the idea that elves could be torn from Arda, but he’d been too relieved at the time that her father had accepted Tindomiel immediately when she came ‘home’ with her mother and sister, and that he himself hadn’t been treated similarly by Gorthaur to think any further on it. (The thought of being torn out of the world was even more terrifying than being made into an orc. At least orcs could die and eventually be reborn. But what happened to an elf removed from the circles of the world entirely?)

That had lasted until he’d seen the memory of her sister Anariel in his mate’s mind. Tindomiel had meant only to show him her sister’s mannish ears – it had been part of her explanation about her sleep habits – but that one glimpse had been enough for him to recognize who she was.

Ammë’s foresight had proved accurate, after a fashion. Tindomiel was a descendant of Galadriel. He’d already known that, and rationalized that perhaps Ammë had simply been mistaken. But the girl Ammë had seen, the one who had occasionally danced in his dreams in Ondolindë and been a ray of hope when all seemed dark did exist, though she was not his and never would be – not that he would have wished it so even a day after marrying Tindomiel.

It seemed she had the sword he had made for her. Unlikely as it seemed, despite the Ages between them, the fall of the City, and the Sea taking Beleriand , Calaliltië had still found its way to her. Tindomiel had mentioned it, with emphasis on it being her favorite. He wasn’t sure if that was a comfort or not, even if his mate was convinced it meant Anariel would definitely approve of him.

But Gorthaur had also been right, and Maeglin had a sickening feeling he had done exactly as he’d threatened.

She lived. That was something at least. Judging by other things Tindomiel had said about her sister, it might well be Anariel’s own doing that she had survived to return unlooked for. He took some quiet satisfaction in the thought of how enraged Gorthaur must have been to discover she lived, even before she showed up with an army.

He had resolved that Tindomiel should never know.  He would never allow her to be hurt, and certainly not with the thought that she was somehow a second choice, much less the knowledge that all that her sister and mother had gone through was his fault – and he was certain that it was. Had he only been stronger, they would have remained safely among elves, and never seen the strange world of California. Or had he been less foolish and not strayed beyond the protection of the city borders in the first place…

He would have to ask Rillë to keep the secret as well. She wouldn’t have made the connection yet, he had never showed her what his foreseen mate looked like. He didn’t think it would be difficult, the trouble would be finding a time to warn her when he could be sure they would not be overheard.

He wasn’t sure he could admit the full truth to her either. Certainly not the part where it was his fault Tindomiel’s sister and mother had been targeted by Gorthaur. Even if Rillë somehow didn’t think badly of him for allowing Eärendil to come so close to harm, he didn’t see how she could forgive him endangering ladies he’d never even met. And even if she did, there was still Aunt Galadriel… his wife’s grandmother.

His family had been a complicated enough tangle before this.

He very much wished he could speak with one of his uncles – the ones still in the Halls, that was. He rather doubted King Turukano would be much help. He needed someone who might have words of advice or at least comfort for him. That not being possible, he had to settle for keeping his mind occupied while his mate slept.

He considered his latest work with a critical eye. He hoped it would not meet with opposition. He’d find out soon enough, he supposed.

He jumped when Tindomiel’s arms slipped around his shoulders.

“What are you up to?” she asked teasingly.

“I was planning while you were dreaming,” he replied.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she offered.

A quick brush against her mind proved that was a California saying. He was slightly puzzled why exchanging money for thoughts was a custom there, particularly since if what she had told him of California Men was correct, they did not have osanwë. Perhaps that made the sharing of thoughts more valuable? He would save the question to ask later. So far even apparently simple curiosity about that strange world had been met with lengthy explanations, many of which had been disturbing.

“I thought I should request Anardil’s assistance so we might proceed with the change of house color,” he explained. “Unless, of course, you wanted to emerge from our first month garbed in black?”

Her peal of laughter at the thought of what she mentally termed ‘going Goth’ seemed to indicate he had guessed correctly that she didn’t wear black often. He decided that he would ask what a Goth was later as well. It did not seem to relate to Morgoth…

“I probably have one or two black and silver dresses in storage from Minas Tirith,” she giggled. “We all wore Gondorian colors for my nephew’s naming ceremony. I saved mine because Arwen did the embroidery, even if I don’t wear it much. Besides, I usually prefer Lindarin styles, and they’re Mannish.”

He filed that away, relieved to hear she found natural colors more to her tastes than some of the outlandish fashions of his mother’s people. He wondered if they still wore so many impossibly bright shades.

“Yep,” Tindomiel said cheerfully. “But it’s less out of place here. New Gondolin may be less tropical than Tirion, but there’s still a lot more colorful plants and birds around. Oh, and frogs. Which I thought would be poisonous when we first got here…”

“Poison frogs?” he asked curiously, unable to help himself.

Tindomiel obligingly explained about the frogs in a southern region of California that some tribes had used in much the same way Ada’s people had used orcbane, or Belegurth’s beads – except that they used darts or arrows rather than knives.

“What a strange world,” he murmured.

“You sound like my grandfathers,” she snickered.

He suspected from the slight pause that she’d had a specific grandfather in mind. But she circled back to the original topic before he could say anything.

“How is Enerdhil supposed to explain suddenly needing color samples, though?” she asked, scanning the note he had written to leave in the outer room to be collected the next time food was brought. “You won’t want to pick a new color without seeing what it looks like first, not when everyone’s going to need to wear it regularly, including us. And it would be best to see how any color you like looks in fabrics you won’t mind wearing.”

“He’s creative, he’ll come up with something,” Maeglin shrugged. “Unless things have changed a great deal, he rarely lacks for inspiration. Though he usually uses it for his work with jewels.”

She brightened at that, and he was pleased to see her eyes flick to her ring before she answered. It was always so hard to tell if he had struck the right balance with jewelry, and that one was the most important piece he had ever made.

“True. Though I bet the gossip goes into overdrive anyway. It’s the wrong season for grey. Everyone’s after summer colors right now.”

“We might pick multiple shades – a lighter one for summer, and a darker for winter?” he suggested.

For some reason the idea of ‘shades of grey’ made her giggle to herself as well, but she agreed, and he amended his instructions for Anardil accordingly before allowing Tindomiel free rein with her ideas on how to spend the afternoon.

---

Enerdhil repressed a sigh.

Two and a half weeks had passed relatively uneventfully, but he and his co-conspirators were starting to feel the pressure, all the more so as against all expectation the newlyweds had showed no sign yet of being anywhere near ready to receive visitors or appear in public. He rather doubted they’d emerge in time for the upcoming holiday.

He, Elemmakil, and Mastacarmë had fallen into the habit of taking either breakfast or a light dinner together daily, the better to compare notes.

“The Wing’s cook had been asking Fountain some odd questions, or so my young friends in the Golden Flower tell me,” Mastacarmë told them. “It seems I paid a bit too much attention to the princess’ tastes, and not enough to her father’s. Happily, I don’t believe his suspicions have reached Princess Itarillë’s ears.”

Enerdhil wasn’t inclined to complain. While the trays left in the prince’s rooms weren’t emptied quite as often as he would have preferred, the pair were at least eating regularly. That meant Mastacarmë’s measures were a success in his book.

“Yet,” Elemmakil added, helping himself to a savory roll.

“Ever the optimist,” Mastacarmë snorted, pushing the spread intended for that particular roll towards him. “I covered by asking about Princess Celebrían’s favorite dishes. That has thrown Wing into some confusion. I have every hope that will be the end of it.”

As well it might. Princess Tindomiel visited the city more frequently than either of her parents. Her mother seemed to share her mother’s preference for Sindarin lands. Consequently, it was likely none of the Houses had much experience cooking for her.  

“Then there is this,” Enerdhil said, laying his latest instructions on the table between them. “It seems our new lady has some changes in mind.”

Elemmakil grabbed the paper, and read through it swiftly.

“Good,” he said decidedly. “I’ve never much cared for wearing black. And I am relieved to hear the lad is finally ready to stop mourning.”

“Good?” Mastacarmë demanded. “How are we to explain the change to other houses?”

“By not explaining it until it becomes necessary,” Enerdhil said firmly. “It’s not as if we can reveal it before it is known that the prince is back, much less that there is now a princess. Besides, I suspect a good portion of the city will find it fitting – grey is the color of the returned, after all.”

“Exactly,” Elemmakil agreed. “In the meantime, we prepare, and keep the preparations quiet. It’s not as if a good portion of the House doesn’t suspect something by now.”

Enerdhil pinched the bridge of his nose. Their secret was not quite so secret as they’d hoped, but thus far their luck had held – any gossip had been kept quiet, and safely confined within the house.

The kitchen staff more than just suspected. Mastacarmë had discovered he wasn’t the only one working on expanding his repertoire with flavors known to be favored by Prince Lomion. His staff must have deduced from the trays that there was someone secluded with the prince, but so far no one had guessed the identity of their new princess. Happily, the assistant cooks were taking their cue from their master. If anything, they might be raising suspicions at how tight-lipped they had become when not in the kitchens.

Enerdhil and Elemmakil had both also found several of those who would normally be on the cleaning duty rota by now lingering by the princes’ rooms and sent them on their way.

“Do you really expect Lord Egalmoth will let you borrow any of his horde of samples on nothing more than curiosity?” the cook asked skeptically. “Have you been at the wine already so early in the day?”

“You handle your staff, leave me to handle Lord Egalmoth,” Enerdhil retorted before Elemmakil could add anything.

“I wish you luck,” Elemmakil muttered. “Though on the bright side, I suppose he’d be the last to suspect your request has anything to do with the prince.”

All three men shared a chuckle, knowing how deeply the Lord of the Heavenly Arch detested their prince’s choice of house color – and all the more since Princess Itarillë had not-so-innocently let slip several decades back that it had been inspired by him in the first place. (That was not the only subtle prank Prince Lomion had pulled on him, but it was the most lasting one.)

Then Enerdhil poured himself a whiskey, because Elemmakil was right, dealing with Lord Egalmoth was going to be a complete and total headache. It was almost enough to make him wish Aranwë back.

---

Irissë giggled at her mate’s minor frustration as they looked around for their clothes.

Not that she minded nudity – she’d found life among Thingol’s people quite refreshing on that score – but they were more or less aiming for Noldorin areas, and that meant someone would be bothered if they were spotted wandering around without anything on. (And unlike in Beleriand, ‘tell her mother’ was a possibility here.)

“I thought you knew these lands,” Eöl snorted, extricating himself from the thicket of honeysuckle.  

Her attempt to distract hadn’t entirely succeeded, but they were now both in a better frame of mind. Not to mention, now smelled absolutely delightful.

“I do,” she replied, retrieving her tunic. “But they’ve changed somewhat. It has been three Ages. Estë said so. Things are bound to be a bit different than I remember.”

“She also said we ought to wait for one of our kin to come guide us,” Eöl pointed out. “You might have had whoever you wanted. She also offered to have someone instruct you if you wouldn’t wait.”

Maddeningly, his tunic hadn’t ended up nearly as far away as hers had, even though she had paid far less attention when she pulled it off of him. Or had hers come off before they reached the shade of the honeysuckle?

“It would have taken too long,” she told him as she pulled it on. “And I sort of recognize this region. It’s just not somewhere I spent much time even before the Darkening. I may not know where we are in detail, but I know in a general way.”

“Does that mean you know where you’re going or not?” he sighed.

“There are no orcs here,” she reminded him. “Or wolves. Or…”

“Yes, I know. I’m not worried on that score. But I would just as soon not spend several weeks wandering around until you get your bearings. It doesn’t matter if you want to see your kin first rather than mine, but we ought to head for one or the other. There is our daughter to think of...”

“How could I forget? But you can stop worrying, we’re almost there,” Irissë replied soothingly, with a kiss for good measure.

“Where?”

“I’m not sure.”

She felt his mild exasperation, and headed the next question off before he could say the words.

“I may not know where exactly there is, but I do know Artë’s coming to meet us. And we’re only a day or two from where she is, so we’re almost there.”

“Just Galadriel?” he asked in puzzlement.

Irissë frowned.

“I’m not sure about that either,” she admitted. “She didn’t say anything about Celeborn, but then again, I didn’t ask either. Maybe she didn’t think it was necessary. After all, we know he wasn’t in the Halls. So why would she be here without him?”

Eöl nodded, though she knew he wasn’t entirely convinced. But he was willing to let the matter drop, at least until they met up with Artë.

He was probably as curious as she was to hear what Artë and Celeborn had been up to all this time. The most recent news they’d had was from Oropher. At least, most recent they knew to be accurate. (She hadn’t thought it tactful to try to drag gossip about her grandfather out of young Tindomiel on the few occasions they’d met.)

Anyway, there was no question that Artë had to be the first one to hear the joyous news – and that there was no one better to help them find out where Lomion was.