Archive of Our Own ^beta

Thingol calls the three of them to a private audience and they arrive late and laughing as though they were still children to be scolded. They all know the matter at hand, anyway - there are few secrets in Menegroth that the king’s daughter and his nephews can’t find out between them.

“More Noldor,” Lúthien says, pretending it’s tiresome.

Her father corrects her, again: these are Teleri of Olwë’s kin. These are the brothers and sister of Angrod who already came to Doriath as a messenger. The children of Finarfin will be welcomed in Menegroth.

“They’re still Noldor!” Celeborn objects, a little louder than he’d intended. “Have we not dealt with enough of their kin claiming kingdoms all around us?”

Galathil says “Oh, shut up,” and Lúthien nods, the light of humour in her eyes belying her solemn expression. “If they’re here in Doriath then they can’t be claiming kingdoms elsewhere, can they?”

“Unless it’s Doriath they want.”

“Maybe you should ask them that when they get here.”

“Maybe you should ask them.”

“They are guests and we will receive them as such,” Thingol says, and the two of them fall quiet and Galathil smirks. “All three of you will be there in court robes this evening and you will all welcome them as your equals, the scions of a royal house. I will hear no comments about their kin unless they offer such and no demands to know their intentions. We will offer them shelter, for they have faced great hardship in their journey to our lands.”

Celeborn who has heard too many tales of the cosseted Noldor says “Yes, sometimes it rains."

 “Celeborn, take your brother’s advice and shut up or I’ll cement an alliance the way the dwarves do and marry you to Angrod’s sister.”

Celeborn concedes defeat and silence to the background of Lúthien’s laughter. 

They are Noldor. There is a dancing, unearthly light in their eyes and their golden hair is braided in twists and loops, although it seems less elaborately so than the host of Fëanor and tied only with thin, dull-coloured twine.  They all wear furs over faded and much-mended cloth garments, none of the finery of the Noldor that Celeborn has seen before; they themselves seem worn and tired. But they are still Noldor and they stand with their heads held high before the thrones of Doriath’s king and queen.

Celeborn sits at Melian’s feet, Luthien and Galathil beside him. The heavy torc he wears for such occasions presses uncomfortably on his shoulders and the wine-red robes feel a little ridiculous before guests dressed so pitifully. He resists the impulse to scratch where a cuff irritates his wrist and watches.

Thingol and Melian lead the conversation, speaking in an older, archaic Telerin that Celeborn knows only from old sagas. Angrod bows deep and introduces his brothers with their Sindarin names: Finrod, Aegnor. And the sister’s name is Quenya still: Artanis.

She is tall and golden-haired as her brothers. When they all lay down their arms at Thingol’s feet she leaves a horn-handled knife beside theirs. She alone bears a Quenya name, though; and she alone has a stole of bright white fur over her shoulders, fastened at her neck with a tarnished, broken silver brooch.

He watches. He says nothing.

Only later, as they are led to dine at the feast prepared and he is seated beside Artanis (Lúthien’s idea of a joke, he supposes), does he try to speak to her. She and her brothers seem so faded against the bright colours and light of Menegroth; she does not seem particularly ashamed but she surely sees, she can’t not see. There’s a pride and defiance in her sharp eyes as she glances about her. He does not wish her to feel that Thingol’s court are purposefully humiliating her and her brothers. He does not wish her to feel humiliated at all.

“Your fur stole,” he says, and she doesn’t understand the word so he touches it to show her what he means, hoping a little too late that such contact will not be considered inappropriate by her people - “it - this - it is very fine.”

She nods, tense and a little suspicious still but seeming glad of the gesture of friendship. “Thank you,” she says.

“A gift?” 

She blinks at him as if the question is as strange to her as the language. “No,” she says. “It is mine,” and then breaks to ask something of her brother who sits at her other side, and then returns with the word she sought: “My kill.”

He isn’t sure what the Noldor hunt, and he doesn’t recognise what manner of animal this came from - the fur is thick but coarser than he’d thought and pure white. Not a deer, he thinks. “Mountain hare?” 

But she does not know the word for hare in his language, it seems, and he certainly does not know it in hers; rabbit is the closest they can reach and this makes her snort at him as if he has suggested something utterly ridiculous. 

“Morco,” she says, and he shakes his head, apologetic, but then she twists around to point at the pillar at the far end of the table where beasts of Beleriand are carved in a winding procession. And then she rises from her seat and leads him by the arm to show him herself, tapping her fingers on the snarling figure of a bear standing tall upon its hind legs. “Morco,” she says, satisfied.

“A bear?”

“In the snow. North.”

“You killed a bear?”

“Knife,” she says, pointing to the blade he wears at his belt. Then she lifts her braided hair from her shoulder to show him silver scars of puncture wounds left by great teeth.

He runs his hand once again over the fur of her stole, bowing his head in appreciation of what it means. Pride tugs a smile from the corner of her mouth. 

“You realise I said that in jest,” Thingol tells him later. “I do not actually intend you marrying one of the Noldor.”

“I was merely being friendly to our guests as my king commanded, Uncle.” He’s a little drunk by then - more than a little, possibly - the feast has been long and the songs and the stories enjoyable, and the visiting children of Finarfin given as hearty a welcome as long-lost friends. And he’d had spoken to Artanis a few times more, but not in any manner other than as a host should, no more to it than that. 

Thingol had been ill at ease ever since news reached Doriath of the new host of Noldor arriving to join Fëanor’s. Understandable, yes, but surely no need to be quite so determined to see problems and plans and intentions where none exist. 

“I have raised you since your childhood,” Thingol says. “I know you.” But there’s no anger in it; he’s too relieved by how well the night has gone. “Ah, well. If you find yourself getting any ideas along such lines, simply remember the image of her covered in bear’s blood and that should dissuade you.”

Celeborn dismisses it with the wave of an arm, laughing, reassuring his uncle that there will be no need to dissuade anything; he has no intention of marrying one of the Noldor, of all the peoples of Middle-earth. 

(He will indeed find himself thinking of her covered in bear’s blood a great deal after tonight, but it will not dissuade him in the slightest.)