1468

It was one of those Days when Lalwen was overwhelmed by a burning desire to get out of Anairë's house. Under such circumstances, the untidiness and general anarchic atmosphere at her half-brother's had often served as balm to her soul. Lalwen liked Fëanáro and Nerdanel very much indeed, in a casual friendly way that had nothing to do with her frantic love for Nolofinwë.

So she went to see Nerdanel, who took her out into the garden for a cup of mint tea. The hostess seated herself in the large wooden swing on the terrace, the one that Curufinwë had built in the Days of his interest in carpentry. Lalwen crouched in the attitude of an eager honey-coloured spaniel on the gravel at her feet. She always enjoyed sitting on the ground. Fëanáro's house was one of the few places where she felt free to give vent to this childish pleasure.

She said as much to Nerdanel.

"Darling, do you ever feel as if your real kinship is with children? I do, all the time. As if one has only grown up by mistake. I identify myself with darling Arakáno much more than I do with Nolo, for example. Do you ever feel anything like that?"

"Perhaps. I don't know."

"It's very depressing to think that Arakáno might grow up to be as boring as Turukáno. When he was a child, it was quite an exciting period. We never knew what he was going to do next."

"Ah?" said Nerdanel, in a strangely distracted tone. "What sort of things did he do?"

"Oh, you know! Of course Turukáno is blessed with a charisma the size of the Great Sea. He used to have a band of little boys trailing after him, all trying to win his favour. And what mischief he would put them up to! I tell you, it was absolutely pitiful to see how poor little Laurefindë worshipped him. He simply never caught on to the fact that his idol would rather play with Findaráto any Day."

"Good." Nerdanel paused. "I mean, what a shame, of course."

"And then he suddenly changed into a perfect copy of his amma. About the time he turned thirty. Very strange. After he met Elenwë, there was no hope, of course. Marriage turned him into a smug idiot. I am so glad not to be married!"

"Mmmm, really?"

"Speaking of marriage, how is the young lovebird of the moment?"

"Who?"

"Your son, who got married thirty Days ago!"

"Curufinwë is well enough."

"I do feel sorry for you, dear, having to share a house with him and Losselótë on their honeymoon. Loving couples are hideous. I should know; I live with one. Two, actually. It's always 'Darling' this and 'Sweetheart' this. There's no end to it, I can tell you!"

"I see."

"And where is Fëanáro on this clement and well-omened Day?"

"In his forge."

"Doing-?"

Nerdanel sighed.

"Trying to achieve a clear image of the Middle-earth in one of his precious seeing-stones."

"Oh! And why is he doing that?"

"It's hard to say."

"You don't seem very animated today, darling."

"I must be tired."

Nerdanel stared unseeing into the branches of the enormous pine. She wanted to run and snatch the palantír out of Fëanáro's hands; but that kind of approach was bound to failure with her husband's stubborn spirit. It would be more likely to encourage him in his experiments and alienate him from herself.

Fëanáro, in essence, was a simple creature. Nerdanel had always inwardly laughed at those unable to see this. His behaviour followed a definite pattern: he would pick up some obscure field of elven endeavour, explore it, become an expert in it, redefine it - and then like a bored child move on to other things.

This was what had happened with his crazes for linguistics and pottery and sculpture and architecture and, surprisingly enough, cabinet-making. Even his interest in jewel-craft, in which he had had so much success, had tailed off a little over the eighteen Years since he had created his masterpieces in that field, the three radiant gems that he named the Silmarils.

The nature of Fëanáro's latest obsession was a little different. Nerdanel was not so cheerfully tolerant of it. Indeed, she could hardly consider it as anything less than an insult to the Valar and their judgement in removing almost half of the Quendi to Aman. It was all very well to be curious about the Middle-earth, yes. But Nerdanel had heard enough of the dangers of that land to be wary of over-romanticising it. One would never guess, to hear some of Fëanáro's opinions, that his own grandfather had not survived the Great March.

"Oromë promised our fathers joy without limit," as he said, "where now we find ourselves fenced in by the sea!"

Lalwen got up and wandered over to a nearby sculpture. She could feel her sister-in-law willing her to go away.

.~.~.~.~.

Finwë and Indis were sitting in their own garden. This square of earth, completely enclosed by the royal palace, had lived through two different incarnations. Míriel's garden had been an indescribable confusion of all her favourite flowers, tulips, crocosmia, daffodils, hydrangea, geraniums and hundreds of roses in every possible colour, everything colourful, all blooming at once in the light of the Trees, but more than a little neglected, especially after her death.

Indis had felt it advisable to employ new gardeners and to pull up most of Míriel's feral plants. The creation of her own garden had served as a useful outlet for energies stirred up by the sight of Míriel's tapestries all over the palace. (It was tacitly understood that she was not to touch them.) Indis' garden was white.

Artanis approved of this colour scheme. The other Day, as they walked together, she had explained to her grandmother how dreadful it was that so few people really bothered to make a logical plan before laying out their gardens. There was nothing (said Artanis) more distressing to the soul than the sight of a garden that some horticultural idiot had made up as he went along. Gardening was an art form like any other and ought to be treated with appropriate respect.

"So," Indis had said, "you are learning something in the house of Yavanna, after all!"

"Grandmother! I am serious."

Indis was conscious of a vague worry about Artanis. She was so strong, academically so clever, bubbled so with idealism and an unformed desire to change the world - quite unlike Indis' other granddaughter, who had not as much ambition as would bring a butterfly out of its chrysalis and cared very little for the doings of other people, so long as she was allowed to do exactly as she liked. Artelda was easily contented. It would take only a little frustration, Indis felt, to make Artanis very unhappy.

Finwë's thoughts were far other, being mostly concerned with his new granddaughter by marriage. It was fourteen Years since Curufinwë had introduced Losselótë of Lórien to his extended family, glowing with pride for his good fortune, and yet Finwë had not quite accustomed himself to the idea of their marriage.

Losselótë was beautiful, yes, but so serious and so small. He could not remember ever seeing a smile cross her lovely little face. And her height, just over five feet, was surely on the fine line between delicacy and abnormality. She seemed to bring a small piece of shadow with her wherever she went.

Finwë had long since given up visiting Míriel in Lórien. It was not as if she was aware of his presence. He had better things to do than be reminded of the darkness that he had left behind in the Middle-earth. It would not do to make Indis unhappy... And yet the sight of Losselótë never failed to send a chill through his body.