Remnants by Grundy

Remnants

Read Remnants

“What under the stars?”

Carnistir was not the only one who looked up at his grandmother’s exclamation.

They were clearing out the storage room above his workroom.

Míriel had not reclaimed it on her return to life. Carnistir had tried to yield it to her shortly after their first meeting. It had only been given to him because she was not there to use it, after all. But Míriel had demurred, insisting it had been a gift and well given.

Carnistir had been startled to discover that her reaction when she first returned to Tirion had been almost the inverse of his own – in the Years of the Trees, he had tried, in using the room, to divine what he could of the grandmother who had died before his begetting. She, in her turn, had looked at the room that was hers no longer and done her best to learn anything it could tell her of the grandson she had never met.

She had occasionally used it when she was in Tirion, but that had not been as often as he had first thought, and rarely for very long. She and Indis had made their home in Valimar, where there were fewer painful memories to haunt them.

But now that they were both in the city and in residence, Míriel needed workspace of her own. As this wing was already established as a quiet area, she’d settled on putting her new space above his.

He had been happier than he’d expected to be at how well his suggestion had gone over that they might put in a staircase between the two, that they might compare ideas and work more easily when they were in a mood to do so.

Clearing the space was a group effort, primarily Carnistir, Míriel, Indis, with occasional assists from Tinwë, Airo, and Aryo – when they could evade Turvo. 

His adorable scamp of a grandniece, despite her ostensible punishment, was in high regard with all her Tirion grandparents. She had, after all, more or less singlehandedly returned a son each to his mother, Aunt Anairë and Uncle Nolo, and Aunt Eärwen and Uncle Ara, and lanced the metaphorical boil of Turukano to boot.

Her enforced stay in Tirion meant Carnistir’s other grandparents were getting to see a fair bit of her as well. While Tinwë cheerfully insisted she was not the child of Elrond who stood to be Rilmë’s favorite – Elladan was her prediction – his grandmother was delighted to have a granddaughter who would happily spend hours in the garden listening to stories and songs from before the Darkening. Mahtan had never shared Atto’s disappointment at any descendant who did not follow him into smithwork, being content to show them whatever curiosities he thought might strike their fancy, and Tinwë was an enthusiastic audience.

The only clouds in Tindomiel’s sky were her vexation at still not being permitted to go see the house her parents were building in the charming valley Uncle Ara had apparently had earmarked as Elrond’s since the early Third Age, and the annoyance that Turukano being similarly ‘grounded’ was more of a trial for her than for Turvo. (Fortunately for them all, she adored Elenwë. Her elders were quick to remind her of that whenever her irritation with Elenwë’s mate threatened to break into mischief. Carnistir was certain that was the only reason his most annoying cousin still had his hair – in its natural color – as well as his eyebrows and no tattoos, ‘temporary’ or otherwise.)

Spending time around Tinwë was also giving him some insight into just how Artanis and Irissë had managed to get away with so much their entire childhood. (And beyond. From what he could tell, both of them had also gotten away with a fair bit in Beleriand.) More than once he’d found himself not scolding the girl despite best intent because she was simply too amusing in her excuses, or because he secretly sympathized even if he knew better than to say so.

This afternoon, it was just her helping him and their grandmothers. They were nearly finished clearing the room, and might be able to start discussing decorating and fitting it to Míriel’s satisfaction.

“What is it?” was Tindomiel’s question.

The fragments Míriel was gazing at rather quizzically looked vaguely familiar to Carnistir, but clearly meant nothing at all to Tinwë.

“I do believe it’s my hydria from the Cuivienen days,” Míriel said with some amusement, holding up one of the largest pieces for everyone to see. “The question is what it’s doing in here, rather than being disposed of properly.”

She turned to her mate. Indis leaned over to have a closer look. Her expression suggested there was some story about the keepsake that hadn’t been shared with the younger generations.

“Yes, that’s it,” she confirmed, sounding mystified. “But I don’t remember it being broken.”

“It looks like it has been for some time,” Míriel replied. “Didn’t you say the things in this section must have been up here for Ages?”

“I could have sworn this was in among the things Naro had kept for you, and intact,” Indis said. “It should have been stored with the rest of your things when Ara packed up everything from the original wing when he started building.”

“Judging by the dust, it’s been here and broken since Treelight,” Carnistir said drily. “So it can’t have been packed up in the Second Age.”

He remembered it now – but like Indis, he remembered it in one piece. He also remembered who’d been caught several times ‘borrowing’ items from the room his father had insisted be maintained almost as a shrine in Grandfather’s house…

His father had been irritated enough by the known infractions. He would have been furious if any of those cases of ‘borrowing’ had ended in breakage. So it was no surprise the evidence had been well hidden.

Carnistir would dearly love to know how they’d managed it. Happily, he might actually find out. Three-quarters of his chief suspects weren’t around to ask, but the fourth was conveniently at hand.

Artanis had declared herself in no hurry to leave Tirion now that Aiko was back, which was doubtless mostly true. But she was also doing her level best to ensure Turvo’s punishment was a punishment to him. (Which was another instance of Carnistir secretly sympathizing. Turvo had darn well made his bed himself, so he had no right to complain if Artanis sprinkled a few more crumbs or some itching powder in it.)

Besides, Carnistir owed Artë for a time or two he’d taken the fall for something the Fearsome Foursome had done – generally at her instigation. Forcing her to fess up, even at this late date, would be rather satisfying.

“Tinwë, why don’t you ask your grandmother to join us?”

A quick brush against his mind clarified for her which grandmother he meant, and then her expression turned eager. Indis looked mystified, but Míriel curious and a bit amused.

“Grandmother’s on her way,” Tinwë reported with a smirk. “But I didn’t tell her why. These stories are always more fun when they come as a surprise!”