Chapter Text
It was getting close to midnight. The stars shone brilliantly overhead, and in the refreshment tent, much reminiscing was occurring. Fingolfin was there with his brothers, and all their wives. They sat on cushions at the back of the tent, drinking Fingolfin’s celebration wine and Feanor’s Shikey whiskey.
“I just can’t believe it,” Fingolfin was saying. “My daughter is married! It seems like only yesterday that she was a tiny elfling!”
“They grow up so fast,” Feanor said, trying to pour himself some more whiskey. It was difficult, because Nerdanel had cuddled up and fallen asleep on him. His one arm was around her, and could not be freed. And Feanor couldn’t open the bottle one handed.
“They truly do!” Fingolfin sighed in nostalgia. He kindly opened the whiskey and refilled Feanor’s glass for him. “Oh, the trouble they used to cause, as little ones. The mischief they got into!”
Feanor accepted the glass of whiskey and drank it down in one gulp. His cheeks turned red and he licked his lips. “For once, you are actually right brother. And now...they are mature and responsible”.
Finarfin, who was covered in mud, drew his fingers through his sticky, messy hair. “Mature. Responsible,” he deadpanned.
“Oh come now, love!” Earwen nudged him playfully. “It’s just youthful high spirits”.
Fingolfin smiled, then looked thoughtful. “Actually, I think I would like to check up on my children,” he said. “It has gone rather quiet outside. I do hope they haven’t overdone the wine”.
“Yes, make sure that they are not being led astray by Feanor’s sons,” Finarfin teased.
Feanor nearly dropped his whiskey glass, he was so shocked. “Such slander!” he said, holding Nerdanel closer. “Our children are always well behaved!”
“Of course they are,” Fingolfin chuckled. He stood up and smoothed his cloak. “Are you coming as well dear?” he asked Anaire.
“Certainly,” Anaire replied, putting her glass down. They waved to the other elves, then stepped gracefully out of the tent. As Fingolfin was closing the flap, he overheard Finarfin speaking.
“Now Feanor, I think we need to have a word or two about a certain imaginary pencil…”
“Oh! I think we had better leave them to sort that out on their own,” Anaire said, as Finarfin’s speech was followed by a yell of laughter from Feanor.
Fingolfin smiled, and the two of them strolled along, looking around for their children. They found Turgon first, inside the soup tent. Most of the soups had been eaten, with Finrod and Galadriel finishing off the last bowl of cream of pear. Turgon was flopped on a heap of cushions; still shirtless, and possibly flushed from Feanorian wine, but this could not be seen, as the mud had dried on his face. Elenwe sat next to him, a few mud stains on her elegant dress. She had her arm around Turgon, as he rambled away, quite content and relaxed.
“...we have over two hundred towels at the castle. I love sorting them!” Turgon was saying. “I used to arrange them by colour, but last month Uncle Finarfin bought me a set of striped towels. I’m...not quite sure how to sort those ones”.
“Oh darling, I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with an ingenious method,” Elenwe said; smiling fondly as she caressed Turgon’s hair.
“Oh my! What happened to Turgon?” Fingolfin breathed.
“Worry not, Uncle!” Galadriel said. “We are looking after him”.
Finrod nodded. “That means keeping him away from any more wine”.
“Well...that’s good,” Fingolfin murmured. Anaire smiled and led him back out of the tent.
“Let’s leave him there for now; he is quite well, and in good hands, it seems”.
Fingolfin and Anaire discovered Argon next. He was sitting around Feanor’s camp fire, with Maglor and Adar. He also had dried mud all over his face. And he also appeared quite drunk, as his head was lolling against Adar’s shoulder. Maglor was playing his lute and singing beautifully. Adar was also singing, not at all beautifully, and the words were ribald too. Argon was trying to sing, but he kept giggling at everything and anything.
“Good gracious! Is Argon drunk too?” Fingolfin stared at his youngest child in shock.
“I believe so dear,” Anaire replied. Argon noticed his parents. He grinned and waved at them, before sliding right down; his head going on Adar’s lap. Adar propped Argon up again and put his glasses back on for him.
“It is quite alright, Maglor and I are taking care of him,” Adar reassured Fingolfin. Maglor nodded, then flopped against Adar in a tipsy manner.
“Let’s find our other children,” Anaire said, slipping her arm through Fingolfin’s.
“...very well,” Fingolfin said faintly. He let Anaire lead him over to the wine tent, where they discovered Fingon. He was covered in mud and leaves and still missing his shirt. He was fast asleep on Feanor’s chaise lounge, with Maedhros nestled up to him. Maedhros seemed to have a lot of ribbons in his hair, but like Fingon, was messy and dishevelled.
Fingolfin ran a hand through his hair, then looked at his wife. “Do I dare try to imagine what has happened to Fingon?”
“Don’t worry. It’s some kind of wood elf tradition”. Fingolfin jumped at the sound of Celegorm’s voice. He was leaning up against a nearby tree, cradling a half full bottle of wine.
“We’re keeping an eye on him. Never fear,” Curufin, who was lounging against Celegorm, gave Fingolfin a drunken smirk.
“Are we?” Celegorm asked. Curufin nudged him in the stomach. “Oof! Yes, yes we are”.
Anaire smiled. “Let’s leave him to sleep it off,” she suggested to Fingolfin.
Fingolfin nodded and followed Anaire into the wine tent. By now, he was terribly nervous of finding a drunken Aredhel inside. Instead, he discovered Caranthir, Feanor’s twins and Finarfin’s twins. They were sitting in a circle, whispering and giggling as they drank the last of the wine.
Fingolfin cleared his throat. “Excuse me…” he began.
Caranthir looked over his shoulder, not breaking the circle. “Uncle, shush!” he said. “We’re plotting!”
“And it’s private,” said one of Finarfin’s twins. “You’re not allowed to listen”.
Fingolfin nodded, discreetly putting his finger to his lips. He and Anaire left the tent, pulling the flap closed with a rustle.
“I am not even going to attempt to imagine what those five are up to,” Fingolfin said. “I am just grateful that Aredhel isn’t plotting with them”.
“Look dear, I can see her”. Anaire pointed a short distance away. There, just outside of the party perimeter was the House of Fingolfin chaise lounge. And snuggled up together on it were Aredhel and Eol.
Eol appeared reasonably tidy, with just a couple of leaves in his hair. Aredhel was as messy as her brothers. She lifted her head at the sound of her parents approaching, and smiled at them.
“Mother, Father, we found a silver squirrel! We followed it into the woods and it let me pet its tail”.
“That’s...that sounds charming,” Fingolfin said, sighing with relief. As dishevelled as she was, Fingolfin could see Aredhel was not drunk.
“How lovely!” Anaire enthused. “Squirrels are such darling little animals”.
“And lucky too,” said Aredhel. “Well, the silver ones are”.
“It is an ancient wood elf tradition,” Eol explained. “A real one, this time”.
Fingolfin wondered about the emphasis on real traditions, but he wisely decided not to ask. Aredhel yawned, then tucked her head under Eol’s chin. Moments later, she drifted off to sleep.
Eol kissed the top of Aredhel’s head and nodded at Fingolfin and Anaire. They smiled, knowing that they did not have to worry about Eol caring for Aredhel well.
“We’ll leave you both to relax,” Anaire whispered. She and Fingolfin crept away, so as not to wake Aredhel. They could see Eol’s parents by the soup tent, waving to them.
“Let us go and discuss our children growing up too fast,” Fingolfin said, even as he waved back.
Anaire agreed. “Mature and responsible,” she teased him.
Fingolfin thought about how three of their children were drunk. Two were shirtless. One was singing inappropriate songs with an orc uruk. And all four looked as messy as if they had been little elflings, romping and playing in the woods. Even as he stood there, he could hear Argon’s singing, and it wasn’t at all suitable for polite company.
Fingolfin looked at his wife, shook his head and laughed. “Well maybe, our children aren’t quite fully mature and responsible yet”.
“Not quite,” smiled Anaire. “But there is no rush”.
“Of course not,” Fingolfin agreed. “We love them just the way they are”.
And as they strolled over towards Eol’s parents, the silver squirrel sat on an oak tree branch, chattering away as it fluffed up its tail.
The End