Chapter Text
There was something about Tol Galen utterly unlike the rest of Ossiriand. The trees were the same, the rush of a river somewhere nearby, the sun freckling her skin through the leaves, all characteristic of the leagues of forest Nimloth had traversed to get there, but here they were lighter and more pure than anywhere in Beleriand had a right to be in such times. Her knives and boots she left by the door.
Lúthien was on her knees in the garden, humming to herself.
“Come taste the strawberries,” she said. “They grow so well out here, we’ve been eating them for weeks.”
After sampling one, Nimloth volunteered to finish the rest.
“You’ll have to challenge Dior for them.”
“It won’t be a very fair fight.”
“Wait ‘til you see him,” Lúthien said with a smile. “He’s outgrown you.”
Nimloth shrugged, her fingers sneaking into the bowl again. “Still not a fair fight. Unless he’s been training in elven techniques too?”
“No, just with Beren.”
“It might be worth considering. I’ve been speaking to the northern Laegrim about orc raids on the borders, and the situation has been deteriorating for them since the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.” She ate another strawberry and pondered for a moment. “Sorry, I don’t mean to spoil your peace.”
Lúthien reached out and pulled the ties from her hair, letting it cascade down in a mass of silver curls. It was plaited so much of the time that it refused to be straight anymore.
“There’s not much that can spoil the peace here,” she said. “We’ve heard reports of the troubles in the north, but they’re remote, as if they aren’t quite real.”
“Well that sounds familiar,” Nimloth said. “Talking to anyone in Menegroth about increasing the defences on the borders only yields vague concern and absolutely no results. Even after Beleg and Mablung came back from the Nirnaeth – they might as well have gone to Valinor.”
“It’s easier to believe the Girdle is unassailable and your duties a mere precaution than to admit there’s a cause for concern,” Lúthien pointed out. “I was in charge of Menegroth during the First Battle, when nobody quite knew what was happening - you remember?”
“I fought in that battle and even I didn’t know what was happening,” Nimloth said.
“Exactly. For most of our people, the Girdle means they don’t have to think about what they cannot change. I know you aren’t at court much, but perhaps if you were you might understand them better.”
“If I were at court more, I’d be seriously concerned about turning into a misanthrope. You’re much more patient with people than I,” Nimloth said, tilting back her head to feel the sun on her face.
“Oh I’m not suggesting you should; I preferred the open forest too. But it doesn’t hurt to have friends in many places. Anyway, how are your grandparents? And everyone else? It’s been a long time since you were here last.”
“Has it?” Nimloth hadn’t noticed. Perhaps she should have; there were lines on Lúthien’s face now, but they suited this version of her, kneeling in the strawberry patch, sun-browned and happy and more real, somehow, than the immortal creature dancing through a thousand songs.
“Everyone’s fine. Well, your parents are worried about Túrin, but Beleg is with him so – wait, when was the last time I came? Do you know about Túrin?”
“Yes, you were complaining about him.”
“Me, complain? Oh, of course, about him being useless on patrol.” Feeling somewhat chastened, she added, “he got better. And then killed Saeros and ran off. It was the most drama we’ve had since you died. But I doubt it helped your parents, losing him so soon.”
“Perhaps it’s time Dior paid a visit,” Lúthien said.
“He’s welcome to come back with me,” Nimloth offered. “Though I’ll be travelling fast across the eastern plains; some of the creatures you find there now make the sons of Fëanor look nice.”
“Did you not come with an escort?”
“I didn’t want one; it might attract attention. But you are sure he’s capable of defending himself?”
“I wouldn’t let him go if I thought otherwise,” Lúthien said.
“What’s all this about me?” Dior flopped onto the grass beside them. “Hi Nimloth.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be smaller than me for at least another decade?”
“Sorry to disappoint,” he said, grinning. “But seriously, where am I going?”
“Menegroth, to see your grandparents,” Lúthien said. “Nimloth is questioning whether your swordsmanship is proficient.”
“For what, duelling with courtiers? I don’t have that bad a temper, do I?”
“There are a fair few orcs between here and Doriath,” Nimloth said, watching for his reaction. Skill with a blade wasn’t worth much if he hadn’t the courage to use it.
“Oh. Well, I hope you’re defending me, Mother,” Dior said. He stretched out until he lay on his back, hands behind his head.
“And why would I not? I have full confidence in you, and in your father’s training. He could make an expert out of anyone,” Lúthien said, getting to her feet.
“I’m honoured.”
“Don’t worry,” Nimloth said, once Lúthien had returned to the house. “Your grandparents will have my head if you don’t get there safely, and your mother will do the same if I don’t bring you back.”
“So I’m safe because you have a strong sense of self-preservation? That’s not entirely reassuring.”
She flicked a daisy at his face. “Don’t come then.”
“And miss my chance to be the centre of attention? I think you underestimate how quiet this place is.”
“It was your ego I was underestimating. Not a mistake I’ll be making again.”
“Indulge me while I’m young and foolish.”
“You’re already the baby of the family,” Nimloth pointed out. “If you keep reminding people of it you’ll never be taken seriously.”
“No-one’s going to underestimate me,” he said, with the utter certainty of someone much older.
“Wait ‘til you get there in one piece before you go saying things like that,” Nimloth said.
“You don’t believe me? Let me prove it.”
“How?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“I’ll think of something on the way. But when I win, you have to teach me how to shoot properly. I’ve already mastered the sword.”
(On their journey, they forget about the wager. Nimloth shows him how to handle a bow the three days they spend holed up in a ravine waiting for an orc pack to pass. It’s something to ease the tension. Nimloth is coiled up like a trap ready to spring; at the slightest hint of movement she sends a knife flying across the gulley, only to impale an unwitting lizard.
Dior jumps. She forces a smile, says quietly, “sorry. I need distracting.”
He scoots over to sit beside her, hunched up below an outcrop he doesn’t entirely trust not to fall on them.
“What’s your plan? If they do find us, that is. How do we stay alive?”
“That’s the only way in from above.” She points. “It’s narrow, so we take them out one by one as they’re coming in, let the bodies pile up.” She glances at him. “You know what would be useful?”
Their ambush plot proves unnecessary, the archery lessons for nothing, but her light fingers on his as she corrects his technique are more than enough distraction.)