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“Ill news?”
“I did not say so.”
“You might as well, dear one,” Earwen told him, setting down her book of poetry. Her hair was drying on her shoulders, and she had given up combing it because she was engrossed in her Wordsworth. “I can hear the frown in your voice.”
He ran his hands through his white-blonde waves. His peaky eyebrows were crooked with thought. They were the color of a young fawn, and Earwen delighted in kissing them, when she had a spare secret moment to do so.
They had many such moments, lately. Their marriage, though blessed by her father Olwe, had been a quiet affair. They were idling in a riverside cottage for the remainder of June.
Finarfin sat down on the settee beside her and closed Wordsworth gently. “All right, beloved. I have received a letter.”
“You sent a letter. Some weeks ago.”
“Yes. To my father. And now he has replied.”
“What did he say?” She was not thinking of poetry anymore.
“He has disowned me. Or hinted strongly that he will.”
This came as something of a shock. Earwen was not given to hysterics, so she propped her chin on her hands and was silent for a moment.
“You always speak of him so kindly.”
“I have no reason not to.” Finarfin smiled. It wasn’t bitter, but she thought that it was sad. “He is a loving father.”
“Does your marriage to a Telerin hussy displease him so much?”
“My failure to consult him displeases him. If he would consent to meet you—”
“Which he will not?”
There was a flush rising in Finarfin’s cheeks. They were eighteen, both of them. They flushed a good deal. “Not at present.”
Earwen could bear it no longer. She leaned forward and kissed him. “Loving would not treat you so.”
“It is…complex.”
She had met his elder brother; Fingolfin was serious, protective, kind. She had not thought him simple, but—
“I feel as if I am rescuing you,” she said. Not pertly; just as a matter of fact.
Finarfin spread his hands on his knees and regarded her with that shrewd, gentle look she adored. “I had a happy childhood,” he said. “But it was no thanks to my father.”
“There now,” answered Earwen. She reached out with her right arm to open the window casement. The breeze rushed in; grass-sweet.
“Oh, do not mistake me—he has made me happy. I love the man more than almost anyone. Almost, my love. But he could not have given that to me; could not have favored me with the security of innocent joy. My mother and Fingolfin did that.”
“I like Fingolfin very much.”
“As do I. I hope my father is not angry at him. He did no wrong, and deserves no punishment.” Finarfin sighed. “No, my father doesn’t understand how to make people happy. He thinks he wants to, but he has a knack, or an abiding desire, really, for something else.”
“What?” She pursed her lips, considering. “For what does Finwe Finwean long?”
“To dream good dreams.”
Earwen thought of Olwe. The difference. “Dreams are not as good as life, lived.”
“I married you for that sort of wisdom.” He was teasing. “My father has dreamed that we are happy—his three sons—but he has not known how to make us so. In part, this is because of my eldest brother, who is only half our blood, and hates us for it.”
“Feanor?” Finarfin had spoken of him before.
“Yes.”
“He dares to hate you? What a clod.”
“He has the most brilliant mind I’ve ever encountered,” Finarfin said, emphatically. “But you are right; he can be…foolish. He makes himself miserable more than anyone else. He made Fingolfin suffer, I know, and it grieves me…but Fingolfin has turned out as true as silver.”
Earwen nodded. “Every family has their troubles.”
“Indeed they do.”
She picked up her comb again. The wind was running its fingers through her hairs, and that would lead to fearful tangles. “Do not worry about all those troubles, just now. The question is—will your father forgive us?”
“Yes.” Finarfin’s shoulders settled. “And thanks to you, my love, I could bear it if he did not.”