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“So will he let you keep them?”
Aredhel is a little mindful of her party-frock, but of course, Maman is not here and Papa will be too preoccupied to scold, so long as she does not streak the front of it with mud. She tucks it up about her knees with her left hand; with her right, she strokes the downy head of the nearest puppy.
Celegorm swipes his nose with the back of his hand. “I don’t think so. Athair says he hates dogs. It’s a wonder I’ve gotten to keep Breena, here.”
“She’s yours, now?”
“Who else feeds her? She used to like Maitimo best, but since he’s been…”
Aredhel knows that it is a sore subject with Celegorm, Maedhros going to the city. Fingon has said as much—Celegorm’s letters have hinted as much. Even now, on the night of the ceili, Maedhros and Maglor are only visitors at Formenos.
“I am sure there's a way to persuade Uncle,” she says, with more confidence than she feels. “Breena looks very tired from having so many puppies—don’t you, Breena? All her children will grow up into good, strong dogs who can keep your farm safe from anything.”
“I wish we had more coyotes around,” Celegorm says bitterly. “That would do it. A whole roving pack. Athair would want guard-dogs then.”
Dear Celegorm,
I dearly hope that when we meet again on our journey west, you have Huan with you. You know I am nowhere near as pious as Fingon—always forgetting my nightly prayers! But I’ve added a few to Saint Francis for you, that he may come.
“What are you planning on calling them?”
“Mother says I shouldn’t name things I can’t keep.”
This is sound advice, but Aredhel doesn’t particularly like it. She lets her dress down and stoops to lift the runt from Breena’s side—the one that made Fingon murmur over its odd-shaped head a few moments ago. “What about him?”
Celegorm looks up from his crouch. His sun-burned face is bright and open when he is thinking. When he forgets his frowns. He looks rather like Aunt Nerdanel, in fact.
“Well, I would want him to have a good name,” he says firmly. He did not take kindly to the suggestion that there was something wrong with the pup’s head. “Perhaps Huan—that is an old word for hound.”
“Huan.” Aredhel strokes the mewling creature between its ears. “Shall you be a great, brave dog, Huan? The best and biggest of all?”
I miss him. Probably more than I miss you—sometimes I think Huan smells better! Now, before you tear this letter into shreds, remember it shall be the last letter you may ever receive from me. We won’t have any more need, unless we have a feud and must make Argon and the twins pass notes between our wagons.
Feud is a poor choice of words, I know. Don’t let’s think of such things.
See you very soon, cousin.
Aredhel