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grundyscribblingTitle*: Someone To Watch Over Her
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Summary: Tindomiel is unsettled and looking for somewhere safe...
Word Count: 1250ish. (Editing in the LJ post window again. Bad habit.)
Fëanor was no longer startled when his young granddaughter visited, irregular as the occasions might be. Even once the history lessons she had been giving him on Beleriand concluded (and the history of Middle Earth in the two Ages after the destruction of Beleriand) she still stopped in from time to time.
He’s been waging a subtle campaign to get himself promoted to grandfather, and he was fairly sure it was working. He’s not frustrated by the process. After all, he was dealing with a girl who was granddaughter to both Artanis and Turukano, so of course she was too stubborn to just admit he was right.
So when she appeared, he brightened up. Her visits were always welcome distractions.
But as he took in her appearance, he realized something was amiss.
Normally she was cheerful, confident, and…rested.
Today she was none of those things. Instead, to his surprise, Tindomiel looked jittery, on edge, and had the slightly blurry eyes and subtle muscle tremors of an elf who has pushed themselves to go without rest too long.
“Good day, Tinwë,” he said cautiously.
“Actually, it’s good evening,” she said.
Yes, definitely tired. He could hear it in her voice. He wondered what would push her to such lengths. Nearly every elf did it at some point in their youth or young adulthood before they learned better. His sons certainly had.
For Nelyo, it had been too long in the library. Kano had lost all track of time when composing. Tyelko had been the exception to the rule – or if he had ever gone beyond his limits, it had been on one of his rambles without his parents present to witness it. Moryo had gotten entirely too worked up about clothing for that festival, and Curvo had been a serial offender who had to be checked on whenever he had a new project. The twins, to everyone’s relief, had taken it in turns to exhaust themselves, but grown out of it more quickly than any of their older brothers.
He would have thought Tindomiel past all this, however. She was grown, married, and from what he had seen, among the most level-headed of the younger generations of his father’s house.
“Ah,” he replied. “That explains why you look like you are in need of sleep.”
She blinked in apparent surprise.
“Yeah, about that…”
He gave her a moment. It was one thing to needle her in their back and forth discussions, it was quite another to push her when she was in such a state and clearly worried about something.
“Can I take a nap? Here, I mean?”
Fëanor tried not to let her see he was startled. As far as he knew, she could do that anywhere she liked in the Halls of Mandos. Why here, with him?
“Of course, if you wish to. But would you not be more comfortable at home? With your husband?”
Had they quarreled? Was that why she was here?
“I-”
There was a very long pause. Then Tindomiel spoke in a rush, for once sounding more like Turvo than Artë.
“Arwen just died a few days ago, and I don’t want to be bothered. Everyone’s just too much right now,” Tindomiel explained. “I don’t think anyone will look for me here, and even if they did, I know you’d chase them off.”
Well he’d bloody well have to, wouldn’t he, after a statement of confidence like that?
Not that he thought for a second that what she’d just said was the entire story. He’s raised seven sons, and had as many nephews and two nieces besides, not to mention a grandson and his nephew’s sons. He can sense when a child is only admitting to part of the truth. (Artanis had been something of an expert at it, and it had taken decades of practice to get to the point of recognizing when she was leaving bits out.)
“I am sorry, pitya,” he offered, aware that while it was inadequate, it should still be said. “What of your brothers and your other sister? Should they not be on their way to Aman now?”
The flinch told him that something was amiss with the surviving siblings. But they must still be surviving, or Tindomiel would be visiting them, not him.
“I think they’re on their way,” she whispered.
Something was very wrong – she was shaking. This was not just a young adult who had pushed themselves to stay awake too long.
“You can tell me after you sleep,” Fëanor suggested, but she crumpled even as he spoke.
“Morgoth’s hurting Anariel, and she may get killed or worse, and it’s my fault!”
Fëanor knew perfectly well he couldn’t touch anything in the room except possibly Tindomiel, if she allowed it. He found to his relief that she did when he wrapped his arms firmly around her and guided her to her usual stack of cushions.
“I do not know how that foul vala can be attacking anyone,” he said fiercely. “But I am positive that whatever he may be doing is not your fault.”
He sat beside her, and allowed her to curl into his side, accepting whatever protection and comfort he could give.
The tale that came tumbling out was confusing – Tindomiel has not spoken much of California before, save to explain that she, her mother, and sister Anariel had lived there for a time and that it was a separate world, not part of Arda. Her explanation of the Key, the Slayer, and why Morgoth would be interested in either might have made more sense were she less tired and not crying while trying to tell him about it.
When she paused long enough that he could believe she'd finished, he sighed.
“I will not pretend I understood all that, Tinwë,” he told her. “But I do understand you need rest, and if you’ve come here because it’s one place Morgoth can’t break into, I commend your reasoning. And I agree that you should sleep.”
She sniffled.
“You won’t tell anyone?”
“Who would I tell?” he snorted. “I’m sure it’s no secret to the lord of the Halls. And I don’t socialize much with anyone else, confined as I am to these rooms.”
“Promise you won’t tell anyone else about this, and I’ll fix it so you can visit other parts of the Halls,” Tindomiel mumbled.
The attempt at secrecy implied there was quite a bit more to the story, but he wasn’t about to push. Trying to force children to share confidences never ended well. She trusted him enough to guard her, sooner or later she’d trust him with the full truth. He’s been in Mandos for Ages, no one could say he hadn’t learned patience.
“I am not going to take advantage of you like that,” he said sternly. “I just won’t tell anyone if it’s so important to you. Now stop talking and go to sleep.”
She gave him a slightly mulish look, one that promised an argument at some later date, but said nothing.
Her eyes drifted closed almost of their own volition.
Fëanor reflected that it was just as well he no longer had a physical body. If he did, this would certainly be an uncomfortable position to sit in for as long as he suspected would be necessary for Tindomiel to be properly refreshed and awake naturally. Fortunately, he had nothing but his fëa.
But he couldn’t quite help the smirk on his face.
He was definitely grandfather after this.
*Link goes to post on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
twistedshorts
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Summary: Tindomiel is unsettled and looking for somewhere safe...
Word Count: 1250ish. (Editing in the LJ post window again. Bad habit.)
Fëanor was no longer startled when his young granddaughter visited, irregular as the occasions might be. Even once the history lessons she had been giving him on Beleriand concluded (and the history of Middle Earth in the two Ages after the destruction of Beleriand) she still stopped in from time to time.
He’s been waging a subtle campaign to get himself promoted to grandfather, and he was fairly sure it was working. He’s not frustrated by the process. After all, he was dealing with a girl who was granddaughter to both Artanis and Turukano, so of course she was too stubborn to just admit he was right.
So when she appeared, he brightened up. Her visits were always welcome distractions.
But as he took in her appearance, he realized something was amiss.
Normally she was cheerful, confident, and…rested.
Today she was none of those things. Instead, to his surprise, Tindomiel looked jittery, on edge, and had the slightly blurry eyes and subtle muscle tremors of an elf who has pushed themselves to go without rest too long.
“Good day, Tinwë,” he said cautiously.
“Actually, it’s good evening,” she said.
Yes, definitely tired. He could hear it in her voice. He wondered what would push her to such lengths. Nearly every elf did it at some point in their youth or young adulthood before they learned better. His sons certainly had.
For Nelyo, it had been too long in the library. Kano had lost all track of time when composing. Tyelko had been the exception to the rule – or if he had ever gone beyond his limits, it had been on one of his rambles without his parents present to witness it. Moryo had gotten entirely too worked up about clothing for that festival, and Curvo had been a serial offender who had to be checked on whenever he had a new project. The twins, to everyone’s relief, had taken it in turns to exhaust themselves, but grown out of it more quickly than any of their older brothers.
He would have thought Tindomiel past all this, however. She was grown, married, and from what he had seen, among the most level-headed of the younger generations of his father’s house.
“Ah,” he replied. “That explains why you look like you are in need of sleep.”
She blinked in apparent surprise.
“Yeah, about that…”
He gave her a moment. It was one thing to needle her in their back and forth discussions, it was quite another to push her when she was in such a state and clearly worried about something.
“Can I take a nap? Here, I mean?”
Fëanor tried not to let her see he was startled. As far as he knew, she could do that anywhere she liked in the Halls of Mandos. Why here, with him?
“Of course, if you wish to. But would you not be more comfortable at home? With your husband?”
Had they quarreled? Was that why she was here?
“I-”
There was a very long pause. Then Tindomiel spoke in a rush, for once sounding more like Turvo than Artë.
“Arwen just died a few days ago, and I don’t want to be bothered. Everyone’s just too much right now,” Tindomiel explained. “I don’t think anyone will look for me here, and even if they did, I know you’d chase them off.”
Well he’d bloody well have to, wouldn’t he, after a statement of confidence like that?
Not that he thought for a second that what she’d just said was the entire story. He’s raised seven sons, and had as many nephews and two nieces besides, not to mention a grandson and his nephew’s sons. He can sense when a child is only admitting to part of the truth. (Artanis had been something of an expert at it, and it had taken decades of practice to get to the point of recognizing when she was leaving bits out.)
“I am sorry, pitya,” he offered, aware that while it was inadequate, it should still be said. “What of your brothers and your other sister? Should they not be on their way to Aman now?”
The flinch told him that something was amiss with the surviving siblings. But they must still be surviving, or Tindomiel would be visiting them, not him.
“I think they’re on their way,” she whispered.
Something was very wrong – she was shaking. This was not just a young adult who had pushed themselves to stay awake too long.
“You can tell me after you sleep,” Fëanor suggested, but she crumpled even as he spoke.
“Morgoth’s hurting Anariel, and she may get killed or worse, and it’s my fault!”
Fëanor knew perfectly well he couldn’t touch anything in the room except possibly Tindomiel, if she allowed it. He found to his relief that she did when he wrapped his arms firmly around her and guided her to her usual stack of cushions.
“I do not know how that foul vala can be attacking anyone,” he said fiercely. “But I am positive that whatever he may be doing is not your fault.”
He sat beside her, and allowed her to curl into his side, accepting whatever protection and comfort he could give.
The tale that came tumbling out was confusing – Tindomiel has not spoken much of California before, save to explain that she, her mother, and sister Anariel had lived there for a time and that it was a separate world, not part of Arda. Her explanation of the Key, the Slayer, and why Morgoth would be interested in either might have made more sense were she less tired and not crying while trying to tell him about it.
When she paused long enough that he could believe she'd finished, he sighed.
“I will not pretend I understood all that, Tinwë,” he told her. “But I do understand you need rest, and if you’ve come here because it’s one place Morgoth can’t break into, I commend your reasoning. And I agree that you should sleep.”
She sniffled.
“You won’t tell anyone?”
“Who would I tell?” he snorted. “I’m sure it’s no secret to the lord of the Halls. And I don’t socialize much with anyone else, confined as I am to these rooms.”
“Promise you won’t tell anyone else about this, and I’ll fix it so you can visit other parts of the Halls,” Tindomiel mumbled.
The attempt at secrecy implied there was quite a bit more to the story, but he wasn’t about to push. Trying to force children to share confidences never ended well. She trusted him enough to guard her, sooner or later she’d trust him with the full truth. He’s been in Mandos for Ages, no one could say he hadn’t learned patience.
“I am not going to take advantage of you like that,” he said sternly. “I just won’t tell anyone if it’s so important to you. Now stop talking and go to sleep.”
She gave him a slightly mulish look, one that promised an argument at some later date, but said nothing.
Her eyes drifted closed almost of their own volition.
Fëanor reflected that it was just as well he no longer had a physical body. If he did, this would certainly be an uncomfortable position to sit in for as long as he suspected would be necessary for Tindomiel to be properly refreshed and awake naturally. Fortunately, he had nothing but his fëa.
But he couldn’t quite help the smirk on his face.
He was definitely grandfather after this.
*Link goes to post on
twistedshorts
