Picking Up The Pieces by Grundy  

Daybreak

Turukano kissed the back of his mate’s neck. Being able to curl up with her in bed like this, just the two of them, was one of his quiet joys. He’d missed it terribly after the Ice. And he needed it this morning.

Dinner last night had been…uncomfortable. Thankfully, it hadn’t been a large party. Ingo’s children had all accepted an invitation to the Golden Flower. (He hadn’t asked Ingo if there had been any prompting from him, or if the younger generation were still picking up Tasariel and Califiriel’s version of events and hadn’t wanted to break off to come back.) So it had been just him, Elenwë, Tuor, his parents, aunt and uncle, and Ingo and Amarië.

Atto must have had the news from Ammë that Irissë had stopped by, because he’d given him a look when he came down to dinner – and remarked that he was pleased to see no fresh bruises on him.

Ingo had gone and made it worse by laughing and pointing out that Irissë might just be waiting until she had surprise on her side again, as if she hadn’t ambushed him in his own study.

Halfway through the meal, Ingo and his father both suddenly turned serious, as though something was wrong, but waved off any questions – and Atto had looked similarly concerned. He’d been the one to ask if Turukano had asked or even ordered Lómion to prepare Atto’s body for burial.

He hadn’t been able to eat another bite after that, because he hadn’t been aware of it at all. He’d been in shock himself and once he’d managed to pull himself together somewhat, occupied trying to comfort Auntie and Rillë that he’d just assumed their retainers had taken care of matters.

Rillë must have thought he knew. If Lómion had done it, she would have been aware of it.

He’d been so distracted that neither his father nor his uncle had tried to bring up anything else that might have been revealed at the Mole.

Ingo had followed him to his study after, looking concerned. If he’d been worried Turukano would start drinking again, he’d been mistaken. The open bottle had confused him until Turukano had related his sister’s visit from earlier, which Ingo found strangely encouraging.

He’d been only too thankful to crawl into bed once Ingo finally let him alone, where Elenwë’s only comment had been that he was doing better now than he had in Beleriand, and everyone understood that.

He supposed it should be nor surprise after the miserable day yesterday and turning in early that he was up with the sun.

With everyone else still abed, he should be able to get away with a quiet walk… possibly even to the Mole. He wasn’t going to feel easy about Lómion until he saw the boy with his own eyes. Even if he was sure Tinwë would have made nearly as much ruckus as Irissë if she thought there was something wrong with him and needed help.

He didn’t bother to put on anything fancy, just no-nonsense every day clothes. Tinwë wouldn’t care, and Lómion had always seemed more at ease when he was informal.

His feet carried him to the Mole without any conscious thought. The front door was opened to him without question, and he was halfway up the stairs to the family level when Irissë came stomping down to meet him.

He had just enough time to register that she was not pleased to see him before she did what he was still surprised she hadn’t done the previous afternoon and planted her fist on the other side of his face.

He managed not to be loud about it – it would be the height of rudeness to wake the entire House because his sister was yet again angry at him – but it was a near-run thing.

“What was that for?” he hissed furiously.

She grabbed his arm and hauled him in her wake toward her own rooms – away from Lómion’s.

She did not slam the door behind them, but probably only for the same reason he’d kept silent despite a jaw that just might be fractured.

The only bright side to his current situation was that his law-brother was nowhere to be seen.

“He and Elrond went to take breakfast at the Hammer,” she snorted. “Eöl wants to meet Rog, and Elrond wants to catch up with him – and probably ask more about Lómion. So you don’t have to worry about my mate walking in on this discussion. But you are going to have to be civil to him at some point, maybe even later today.”

He crossed his arms and glared at her.

“I don’t suppose you’re planning to tell me why I got punched again? Being an adult wearing off?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you all right,” Irissë shot back. “For starters, it turns out my son was terrified of you the entire time he was in your city! What kind of uncle are you that you didn’t notice that?”

He opened his mouth to react to the venom in her tone but closed it again when the words registered.

“Lómion? Was frightened… of me?”

“Yes!”

“But,” he began, having difficultly with the idea. “Why? I was so careful with him from the very beginning. I even made sure to emphasize that he was being given his own house so soon after reaching his majority because people expected it of him, not because I wanted to be rid of him!”

“Did it ever once occur to you, Turvo, that having his father killed made quite the impression on him?”

It was as well that it was Irissë asking – she went with white hot anger. His mother would have gone for quiet disappointment.  He didn’t particularly like either one, but Irissë blowing up at him he knew how to handle. Disappointing his parents he’d never quite learned to deal with.

“No,” he replied softly, trying to keep his back straight. “

“Sit down before you fall down,” his sister snapped impatiently. “And no curling up in your shell like a snail. We are having this out.”

He obeyed without argument, backing into the nearest chair.

“Did he tell you what he apparently told Curvo?” he asked nervously. “About holding himself at fault for your death and his father’s?”

The look on his little sister’s face was enough to shatter him.

“No,” she said raggedly. “But I do see why he’d feel that way. For the love of Nienna, I did far more foolish things at his age.”

“I don’t understand,” he said carefully, wary lest he tip her back into anger. Which, actually, he decided he rather preferred to that brokenhearted expression.

“It was his idea to go to your city, Turvo, not mine. We followed him, trying to catch up to him before anything could happen. But we didn’t reach him until he was practically to the Outer Gate. At that point, we were stuck for it.”

Turukano was silent for a moment.

“I…should have listened more and drunk less that day,” he said. “I do not know if he will hear it from me, but what happened was my fault, not his.”

“Good to see one of you is thinking clearly since your return,” she snorted.

“If Lómion is not thinking clearly at the moment, I think we can agree he has a good excuse,” Turukano pointed out.

“Back to the subject at hand – which is how things went in Beleriand. Why was he kept in your House after we died? Lómion says Auntie would have happily taken him in.”

“I only meant to take the best care of him and keep him safe, Irissë!”

“And you didn’t think Aunt Írimë would take care of him? How often did you drink yourself stupid?”

“I’m his uncle,” Turukano said softly. “He was my only nephew, and it seemed unlikely Finno would be having children. And Rillë was so attached to him.”

“You could have sent him to Finno!”

“I could not – you knew the rule! No one could leave, lest Morgoth’s spies discover the city!”

“You were willing to let me go to Finno!”

“You were an adult! A grown woman, and I might add one who threatened to burn my city down if I didn’t let you go! He was a boy, and freshly bereaved – we nearly lost him as it was! Do you seriously think it would have been wise or practical to send him off to another uncle he didn’t know, in a place he’d never been or heard much about, with an escort, however trustworthy, that he did not know from Imin?”

Irissë’s glare said she didn’t have a counter to that, but she didn’t like it one bit.

“Besides,” Turukano continued. “What if I had sent him to Finno – what then? He’d have been with our brother at the Battle of the Unnumbered Tears, not me – how do you think that would have turned out? Because I think it would have meant watching my brother and my nephew being killed.”

“Finno might have had the sense to leave him in Hithlum,” Irissë grumbled.

“Yes, I’m sure your son would somehow have been less stubborn at Mithrim than in Gondolin,” Turukano snorted. “The boy would not be left behind when everyone else was going to fight, and I really don’t think that had anything to do with me, not after what you’ve said, and certainly not after Atto’s death.”

He belatedly remembered that might not be the best topic to bring up, and braced himself, but to his surprise, Irissë only sighed resignedly.

“I take it Ingo or Atto already… what was Tindomiel’s charming saying? Spilled the beans? Or was it berries…”

“If it’s Tinwë’s saying, it’s beans,” Turukano informed her.

The one good thing to come out of his enforced stay in Tirion was spending more time with his granddaughter and younger brother. California sayings might not always make sense to him – why would one want to spill beans? – but he did recognize a fair number of them now.

“Beans, berries… the point is they told you?”

Turukano nodded.

“What under the stars, Turvo?”

“I had no idea he’d been the one to do what could be done for Atto until last night,” he replied in complete honesty. “You may have trouble understanding what a shock it was when the Eagle arrived. Greeting dead kin in the Halls is not the same as finding out while still alive that they died. And you did not see…”

He trailed off, closing his mind against the memories. He did not want to think on that. Not when Atto was alive again. When nearly everyone was alive again. Finno would rejoin them eventually. He was sure of it. He’d even put up with Maedhros again for his brother’s sake.

Irissë sighed and sank into the chair opposite him.

“You are such an ass,” she said, sounding exhausted.

He leaned forward in concern. Was she well?

“I am fine, aside from being furious and belatedly worried sick about my son!”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for,” she grumbled.

“Everything?” he offered.

“You’re just saying that to calm me down.”

“No, I’m saying that because I made a mess and I am sorry.”

“I suppose you’re not the only one,” she snorted. “Though the other one I need to yell at will probably be less apologetic about it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve found someone else at fault? Can I watch when you take them to task?”

“Yes, and no, because I’m not in charge of that outing, considering the other person who needs a talking-to is Namo.”

Turukano nearly choked.

“You plan to tell Lord Namo off?” he spluttered.

His sister grinned – but not a nice grin.

“Yes, Tindomiel – wait, how did you shorten her? Tinwë? – is going to take me. But we’ve agreed I should wait until after the baby is born. She probably shouldn’t go to Mandos so young, even if she will be alive for it.”

Turukano pinched the bridge of his nose. Any other day, his sister wanting to yell at the Judge and having a way to actually achieve it would have been the worst thing he’d hear all day. Today, it wasn’t even second. Possibly not even third. And given that Irissë wasn’t through with him, it might yet slip farther down the list.

“How angry are the children with me?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know that Lómion is angry with you, though Nienna knows he should be,” Irissë replied thoughtfully. “Tinwë is definitely not pleased with you.”

That, unfortunately, was familiar territory.

“And Elrond?” he added nervously.

Not only did he want to be on better terms with the boy, Elenwë and Rillë were going to be furious if he’d given Eärendil’s only surviving child still more reason to avoid him and his city. Come to that, his grandson might have words as well. (Elwing definitely would, but mercifully she was unlikely to come here to share them with him.)

“I’m not sure. He’s too much the courtier – keeps his own counsel, even among family, if he’s not sure of people around him. I’ve an idea he’s still making up his mind about me. I’ll ask Eöl later, he might get more from him when it’s just the two of them.”

Turukano bit back his sharp comment about why Eöl should get along with the boy better. His sister’s expression said she knew perfectly well where he’d been heading, though.

“Eöl’s his kinsman, too,” she warned him. “He’s cousin to Lúthien and Nimloth, so has every right to take an interest in the boy. And it sounds as if a decent chunk of his Sindarin kin are still missing, what with Lúthien and Dior leaving the world and Nimloth by all accounts not quite right since. Don’t make a bigger mess than you already have.”

“How do I fix it?”

He hadn’t planned to say it, much less in such an abject tone, but to his surprise, his sister softened.

“I really don’t know, Turvo. I’m not the one you need to fix things with.”

---

Tindomiel woke feeling unexpectedly refreshed. She hadn’t thought she’d get good sleep, not after yesterday.

The previous evening had been intense, even once everyone else left.

Maeglin had been surprised, then touched, to find so much support once he’d gotten the worst parts out.

Ada had assured him it was as brave a thing as any battlefield deed, and that he was to be commended for finding the strength to speak of his worst memories.

Nana and Aunt Irissë had hugged him a lot, and Gran Itarillë had been practically glued to his other side until she had announced she had better head home. Gramma Anairë had been super attentive the rest of the evening and gone down to the kitchens to bring up leftovers from dessert, seeing as Maeglin hadn’t eaten much of it at table.  (She’d come back with an entirely new set of desserts, as the kitchen staff evidently believed you could never have too much dessert. Tindomiel was looking forward to getting to know all of them.)

She wondered if maybe it might behoove her to venture as far as the kitchens on her own this morning rather than wait for someone to bring food up. They’d been here almost a month, after all. Have to rejoin the world sometime.

Not yet though?

She snickered as the wistful thought from Maeglin.

“Not ready for people?” she asked, snuggling in closer to him.

“Still thinking,” he replied. “It’s been a lot to take in.”

In addition to the not quite therapy session, after they’d retired, he’d asked questions about history and people after he’d died until she fell asleep. She hadn’t been able to answer all of them – for instance, she had no idea where the original steward of the Mole was these days. According to Elelmmakil, Aranwë, who was one of Gran Anairë’s nephews, served in that role now. The wrinkle of Maeglin’s nose when he heard that said Aranwë would not remain steward much longer, but Tindomiel suspected Enerdhil had no interest in taking the job permanently. And she had never heard of Canwien before, so had no idea where the woman might be now.

On the bright side, being related to elves in pretty much every major kingdom and her cranky Uncle Namo meant finding out shouldn’t be too hard. At least, once she was ready to be out and about again.

“We should probably have breakfast while you think,” she suggested. “If you don’t want me to go anywhere, I can always ask someone to bring it up.”

Maeglin nodded with a slightly distracted air that said he had meant it about still thinking.

She cast her mind toward their parents. In her parents’ rooms, she found only her mother. In Maeglin’s parents rooms…

She snickered.

He looked up at once.

“Your mom’s having at Grandpa Turukano,” she giggled. “Kinda sorry we’re missing it.”

“I am not,” Maeglin demurred.

“Are you sure? It sounds like there may be tears – his.”

“Positive,” he replied.

“We don’t have to see him if you don’t want to,” she reassured him. “Like, not just today. You can ignore him for an Age if you want. But you should meet Grandmama Elenwë. She’s really nice. You’ll like her. Very soothing company.”

“Not before breakfast.”

She grinned.

She was pretty sure humor was a good sign. So was him not saying no, even to Grandpa Turukano.

“I’ve asked Ammë if she would mind bringing it up,” Maeglin added.