Picking Up The Pieces by Grundy  

When Irissë Came Marching Home

There had been times in her youth when Irissë had wondered in frustration if her mother loved the daughter she actually had, rather than the proper princess she seemed to want so badly. Then there had been times in Beleriand where she had wondered how she’d ever face her mother – even with the cold comfort of knowing it could be worse. Her hands were clean, at least, even if she knew her mother would find her behavior and probably her marriage mortifying.

But any doubts or fears Irissë had ever had about her mother were blasted into oblivion by the sound Anairë let out when she caught sight of her wayward daughter. It was somewhere between a scream and a sob, not that Irissë had time to analyze it.

She had never in her life seen her mother, thoroughly a creature of Tirion society, move as fast as she did when she somehow managed to cross the dozen or so rangar between where she had been standing by the campfire and where they had emerged from the forest in less than a second to wrap her arms around her daughter as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Anairon seemed just as startled, which was remarkable considering he must have been around when both Turvo and Aryo returned.

“My baby,” her mother murmured against her hair.

“Hi Ammë,” she said quietly, feeling as if the words were somehow inadequate in the face of her mother’s storm of emotion.

If the tears dropping onto her neck were any indication, she hadn’t said the right thing.

Don’t be ridiculous, her mother said firmly. There is no right thing to say when you are finally alive again.

Her emphasis on alive hovered somewhere between prayer and disbelief.

That might be true, but Irissë’s plans after seeing her child back among the living revolved more around punching her brother than hugging the boy so tightly that she might send him back to Mandos for lack of breath. She didn’t expect tears to feature. Well, unless they were Turvo’s.

Her mother’s hold loosened just enough that she could breathe comfortably again.

I may not understand how your mind works any more than I ever did, but that does not make me less than overjoyed to have you back at last.

That touched her – and more, gave her a glimpse of something she felt like she had not been able to see before. Ammë hadn’t been the only one not understanding.

A larger set of arms wrapped around them both – and a comforting warmth to her fëa that she had missed desperately most of her time in Beleriand.

“Atto!”

“How are you, my little jewel?”

Ok, maybe she was going to cry.

The last time she’d heard her father say those words – the ones he’d always used to ask how she was or what she’d been up to, no matter if it had been five minutes or five weeks since he’d last seen her – was in Mithrim, not long before Turvo had convinced her to come with him to his new hidden kingdom.

“Very well indeed, Atto,” she replied, dashing the tears away from her eyes.

More than just well, Artë prompted her silently, a reminder that it was better to share the news than have everyone work it out for themselves.

“This is my husband,” she announced, reaching for Eöl, who had hung back while her parents welcomed her.

Her father nodded at her mate before offering a hand in Lindarin fashion as they would have in Beleriand.

“Oh, no,” her mother said fretfully. “Darling, could you not have had Estë warn us? I haven’t so much as single stone with me to give him!”

Irissë was thankful Artë clapped a hand over her own mouth to hold back laughter, because if Artë laughed, she would too. And that would be the end of any semblance of serious conversation for a while.

“Ana, dear, I don’t think anyone is much fussed about ceremony at this late date. Certainly not your daughter or anyone married to her.”

Thank the stars for Aunt Eärwen. (If Auntie didn’t know herself that both her daughter and her niece were dangerously close to one of those rounds of giggles that were impossible to stop, Uncle would have told her.)

“Welcome, kinsman,” Uncle Ara added, stepping in to shake hands also. “I regret I was too late to meet you in Beleriand, but I have heard of you from my daughter and my wife’s kin in Neldoreth.”

Irissë felt her mate relax, though he did also privately point out that he had no idea what to call a man who was simultaneously the husband of his younger cousin and his wife’s uncle.

He’s also Celeborn’s father-in-law, she added helpfully.

“Well met, kinsman,” Eöl replied.

You are going to tell them, yes? he added silently.

There wasn’t much choice, really. Even if Uncle hadn’t caught their conversation, she doubted it would take him long to notice.

Much as she had with her little brother, she moved her mother’s hand down to her belly, directing her attention to their sleeping daughter.

“Oh!”

Her mother’s tone was as filled with wonder as though there had never been a child in the world before. And here she’d expected a lecture about propriety and waiting a respectable length of time!

“Oh, darling,” Ammë cooed. “When does she come into the light?”

“Next Midsummer at the latest,” Eöl answered for her, as Irissë had been rendered uncharacteristically silent by her mother’s reaction.

“Where do you intend to have the birth?” Atto asked, sounding hopeful.

“Tirion!” she announced firmly.

They hadn’t discussed it, but she wanted her daughter born among her family, with her mother and aunts there. She’d only had Artë for Lomion’s birth, and while she had been deeply thankful for her cousin’s presence, it hadn’t been enough. She glaced toward Artë apologetically.

It’s all right, I felt the same, Artë said quietly. I wanted Emmë and your mother and our aunts and my grandmothers.

Irissë would have squeezed her hand in sympathy had she been able to reach, but she was still firmly held between her parents, with Eöl just beyond her. It suddenly struck her she hadn’t ever met Artë’s daughter, or Ingo’s boy.

Thank you, Artë smiled. You’ll see Celebrían soon enough, given your child just married hers. I should drop a hint to her that she and Elrond ought to join us. That is, assuming Melian hasn’t already beaten me to it…

“Why would Celebrían need to join the party?” Atto asked in confusion, catching the echo of Artë’s thought.

The shared thought that darted back and forth between her and Artë was so lightning quick that not even Uncle could follow it.

“I think I’ve already announced enough shocking things for one day, don’t you?” Irissë grinned.

“Oh, very well,” Artë shrugged. “Maeglin has returned also, which is why we’ve all been maneuvered into a trip to Gondolin.”

Judging by the expressions on both Atto and Uncle, they already knew what had happened in Ondolindë to end with both her and Eöl dead. While she might have enjoyed getting Turvo in as much trouble as he deserved, she found she wasn’t entirely sorry to not have to tell it.

“Just as well we’re all here, then, isn’t it?” Atto sighed.

“Why under the stars would he go to Turvo’s city?” Aunt Eärwen asked.

“I would have thought he would come to us, or go to Neldoreth to Eöl’s parents,” Ammë added, sounding equally puzzled.

“Anairon, darling, it’s only fair you tell this part,” Irissë suggested. “You did very well keeping it quiet!”

You are so mean, Aryo informed her flatly.

Hush, it’s good for him, Artë said.

Both of you, Aryo amended.

“Gondolin was the only hope of avoiding scandal,” Anairon said, more to his shoes than anyone in particular, “given he and Tinwë married two days after he happened on us in the berry groves.”

The ensuing chaos of parental reaction was delightful, right down to Atto’s blend of exasperation, disappointment, and pride as he deplored her being back among the living less than a week and already setting her baby brother an absolutely terrible example.

---

Anairon was enjoying the quiet calm of the cookfire.

He had thought he had some idea of what his sister was like from the stories he’d heard, but somehow they’d still fallen short of the reality.

Irissë positively reveled in the uproar his admission of Tinwë’s marriage had caused. But she’d also kept it all whirling around her, allowing him to quietly retrieve the venison from Aryo and Eöl and get on with making dinner.

He’d been surprised when Eöl was the first to join him.

“You certainly know what you’re about.”

Anairon was too busy rubbing down the meat to jump as he otherwise might have.

“I may not be much good at getting the meat, but I’m all right at the preparation,” he shrugged. “Could you pass me the spit please?”

“You’re good enough, I’d say. If I understood your brother correctly, you were the one who shot the deer, were you not?”

Anairon hadn’t had the chance to tell his parents about that, and tried not to be too obviously pleased that someone recognized his achievement.

“Chin up, lad, you’ll get your chance to shine. Aredhel’s enjoying herself, and when they wind down with her and Galadriel, they’ll all be ready for food – and to ask where it came from.”

Anairon found that interpretation rather heartening. He had little idea what to think of his new law-brother. Eöl had died back in the First Age, so Tinwë didn’t know much about him. (And as she’d remarked in annoyance more than once during the time they’d been avoiding Turukano while all grounded together, the grandfather who would be most help finding out more was on the inconvenient side of the Sea.)

“Anything I can do to lend a hand?” Eöl asked. “I think it’s safer if we both stay out of the way for a bit.”

“If you’ll help me get the meat over the fire?” Anairon asked.

He was fairly sure he could manage it himself if he really had to, but moving the laden spit into position over the fire would go easier with two, particularly as this was somewhat different in both weight and balance than the birds or small game he was more used to working with.

“Of course,” Eöl nodded.

Anairon found that having someone helping who had definitely done this before eased the process considerably.

“Now what?”

Anairon nodded toward the packs.

“I’ll what we have on hand to make a sauce from the drippings. I know there’s wine, and probably vinegar, and there should be more dried herbs.”

“I am at your disposal,” Eöl said with a smile.

Anairon set him to chopping herbs while he went for wild garlic, and noted when he came back that while the older man was doing a fine job of it, he was also keeping a watchful eye on Irissë.

“How did you meet, really?” he asked, fighting a blush as he realized he’d spoken rather abruptly.

To his relief, that forwardness got only a laugh.

“What did you hear?”

“Galadriel said Irissë got lost and stumbled across you, and that was that.”

“She edited a bit,” Eöl chuckled. “You sister was indeed lost, but it was I who stumbled across her – while she was bathing.”

Anairon suspected he already knew enough of Irissë to imagine how things had gone from there.

“I suggested that she might be more comfortable using the bathing room in my house than a lake filled with fresh snowmelt. Things… escalated after dinner.”

“At least that means she can’t give Tinwë a hard time,” Anairon sighed.

“Don’t worry, she wouldn’t,” Eöl told him with a fond laugh. “The only one she wants to give a hard time is your older brother.”

“Aryo?” Anairon asked in confusion.

“Your older older brother,” Eöl clarified.

“Oh. Him. That’s all right,” Anairon decided.

Someone owed Turukano a hard time, and their parents’ last effort at it had been as much a penance to him and Tindomiel as it had been to the offender. He wasn’t sure if their sister could do a better job of it, but he didn’t mind finding out.

“Care to tell me about it, lad?”

He looked up to find that Eöl looked rather amused at how fiercely he was whipping the liquid ingredients for the basting sauce, and tried not to blush.

“It sounds as if there’s a bit more there than just him having deprived you of an older sister and a niece you didn’t know about,” Eöl observed.

“He did stupid things that hurt other people besides you and Irissë and Maeglin,” Anairon admitted. “And the baby…what’s her name?”

“I don’t know about your people, but mine generally do not give names so early. We prefer to be sure the name is fitting. Your sister is fond of teasing me about how it took me twelve years to settle on Maeglin for our son. If she doesn’t bring it up at some point this evening, it will definitely be mentioned in the next few days.”

Anairon didn’t know when babies were named, as aside from Tasariel and Califriel, he was the youngest on either side of his extended family. But what Eöl said sounded sensible enough – except for the twelve years part. That seemed a little extreme.

“Well, you’ve had practice,” he said. “So maybe this time will go quicker?”

That got a chuckle from Eöl.

“Let us hope,” he said. “But as to your brother?”

“He’s not my favorite brother,” Anairon admitted. “Tinwë’s more or less ok with him, which is good I guess, since he’s one of her grandfathers. But she gets mad at him too sometimes. Part of what he did hurt her sister. Anariel almost got killed balrog hunting, you know. I’m not sure if Tinwë knows the whole story, but I heard Laurefindil telling Ammë and Atto about it not long after they arrived.”

There was a sound from Eöl that might have been a smothered cough.

“These would be Celeborn’s grandchildren, yes?”

“Oh! Yes, Celeborn is your kinsman, too, isn’t he?” Anairon exclaimed.

He should have remembered that part. But Eöl’s dark hair and eyes set him apart from the rest of Thingol’s kin, even if the lines of his face were similar. Anairon tried to remember if he’d met Eöl’s parents on one of his visits to Neldoreth. He must have, Tindomiel had introduced him to everyone. But there had been so many people new to him it was hard to keep track…

“Indeed. Is he not part of this expedition?”

Anairon shook his head.

“He’s still in Endorë with Tinwë’s older sisters and brothers,” he explained. “Galadriel says they couldn’t be trusted without adult supervision. I’m not sure why, if Anariel can kill dragons and balrogs I don’t see what there is to worry about.”

Eöl laughed.

“If she’s much like Lúthien – and it rather sounds that way – there’s a good deal to worry about if there’s no one about to tell her when she has a bad idea. Ah, well, I’ll just have to wait to catch up with Celeborn.”

Aryo came stomping over at that point.

“She’s enjoying this as much as if she’d planned it,” he announced, waving in the direction of their sister before flopping down by the cookfire. “I’ll turn.”

“She is,” Eöl agreed, though the look in his eyes was far fonder. “Though I think part of the enjoyment is knowing that Maeglin is safe, and from the sound of it, well matched.”

They both looked at Anairon.

“They get along very well,” he said, unsure what else they expected him to say.

“Tinwë’s not as wild as Irissë or Artë, and definitely not in the same class as her older sister,” Aryo told Eöl.

“She’s a scholar, not a warrior,” Anairon added, picking up from his brother that Eöl was looking to hear more about her. “She’s the youngest ever inducted into the Lambengolmor – the language scholars’ guild. She managed it even younger than our uncle.”

He decided it was better not to mention Uncle Fëanáro by name. Quite a few of the Sindar had strong opinions about him.

Eöl seemed to relax.

“I imagine I’ll find out soon enough. Now, suppose you lads tell me a bit about yourselves while they’re still fussing?”