Chapter Text
For nearly three miserable days, Nówë had struggled through a vicious snow storm. He had put-off this journey for as long as he had been able to, but had finally set out on his small, leather-and-bark boat during a break in the relentless flurry, when the clouds had parted enough for a few stars to pierce the darkness; but that had been his last sight of them. Since then, it had been a monotonous, gruelling, bitter slog through near complete darkness. He guided himself across the lake with the land on his left, using his ears more than his eyes to estimate how far he was from the shore, and his instinct more than his memory to traverse the distance safely. Only once had he rested, dragging his boat and himself up onto the shore when exhaustion had overcome him. Using his paddle to dig out a hole within a deep snowbank, he had slept fitfully, waking to find his eyelids frozen shut.
But now, finally, Nówë’s journey was coming to an end. A faint, orange glow penetrated the thick darkness, just visible straight ahead from where he paddled out on the lake. A sigh of relief puffed from his lips at the sight. He had found his home out on the water, but he still appreciated the comforts found only under a roof; especially during times like this, when a cruel cold had descended with the northern winds.
For many days, storm after storm had battered the elves, each bringing successive layers of snow and ice. Nówë had watched anxiously as the animals hid away from the deadly cold and plants and trees were buried deep. If the Lake were to freeze, it would lock away his people’s vital access to the food within its waters. If that were to happen, they would have to abandon their small settlement upon the lake and seek succour with the main tribe of the Nelyar.
For now, thankfully, only the edges of the lake and some of its tributaries were turned to ice. Nówë could therefore travel in his preferred way, floating across the deep water, a skill and a craft he had invented mostly on his own. The Lake had called to him and led him to his current life spent apart from much of his own tribe, in his small group of like-minded elves who craved the solitude and peace of the waters. His work enriched his people, however, by connecting them with the other elves, the Minyar and the Tatyar, and allowing a safer exchange of food and tools and crafts; the waters held their own dangers, especially for the unskilled, but predators who could threaten an elf were confined to land.
His sister, however, had followed her own path. His Pair had a drive for adventure and independence that couldn’t be satisfied within the confines of the larger tribe, and she had many years prior left the main tribe of the Nelyar - bonded, son and daughter in tow - to build a home of her own. They lived now in their own longhouse some distance away from the Greathouse of Enel and Enelyë, just off the shore of the Lake, and next to a small river of clear, cold water whose source lay in the mountains to the east. Three more children had been born in that house, and then subsequent heart-bonds had led to a brood of grandchildren. Nówen’s settlement had grown to over twenty elves, and she complained every time they met about never having a moment of peace, despite clearly being fulfilled and happy.
Their paths may have diverged, but Nówë ensured he visited his sister with some regularity. In particular, he had been present for every birth, an obligation and an honour that had never been asked of him, but that he held sacred regardless. And it was this that drew him here now, despite the storm; a messenger had carried to him the news that Nówen’s first great-grandchild was due to be born. No snow, or cutting wind, or words of warning from worried friends was going to prevent Nówë from being there.
It might cost him some fingers at this rate, though. His hands were completely numb, and he had no idea how he was keeping a grip on the paddle. He kept his stinging eyes on the flicker of light and continued paddling, willing his limbs to obey.
Finally, the longhouse emerged from the gloom, the walls lit by firelight whose source Nówë could not yet perceive. Built of wood with a thatched roof, the structure had a large double door facing south towards the lake. Nówë thought longingly of the large fire Nówen would certainly have burning within her home. In this moment, he was not sure he had ever wanted anything more than to be huddled next to his sister’s fire. His body reacted to his desire without conscious thought, paddling faster through the water.
In time, he drew close enough to see the simple dock he and his nephews had built some decades before. He clumsily manoeuvred himself beside it, his fingers barely obeying his commands and his teeth chattering, and secured his boat to one of the posts. He threw up his leather sack of supplies onto the dock and hoisted himself up after it, with some difficulty, for the time-worn wood was covered in thick snow on top of a coating of ice. When he successfully got to his feet, he slung his sack over his shoulder and marched down the dock and onto land as quickly as he dared.
The firelight he had seen turned out to be beacons. These small fires were lit outside structures, with their sole purpose being to guide the way for travellers. Their presence told him two things: firstly, that his sister and her family prospered, able to spare good wood on beacons instead of rationing it for cooking and heating, even during this harsh winter. Secondly, that Nówen fully expected him to arrive, despite the fact that any sane elf was currently huddled under shelter. He couldn’t help but smile.
The beacons also illuminated another interesting detail of Nówen’s fortunes. Despite sitting in the same position, Nówë did not believe this was the same building he had seen on his last visit. That was only twenty or so years ago, too soon for the building to have degraded enough to be replaced. Surely, it was larger? And the last had certainly not had the richly carved arch over the doorway, depicting running elk and spear-wielding elves.
A question to ask later. For now, Nówë hurried up to the doors and banged his open palm against the wood; his fingers refused to form a fist. The musical murmur of elvish voices, drifting out from inside, was abruptly silenced. He waited for what was probably only a short count, but felt agonisingly long in the cold, before the heavy doors swung open.
Nówë flinched back, blinded by the sudden light and stung by the brush of hot air on his frozen skin. He squinted. Bathed in the light was his sister, straight-backed and proud and smirking at him with twinkling eyes. Two of her sons gaped at him, hands clutching the doors, and an array of her silver-haired children and grandchildren stood behind their matriarch, eyes wide in surprise. And then they all began to speak at once.
“Uncle!”
“Great-uncle Nówë!”
“I can barely believe it, Ammë; he really did paddle all the way here.”
“Here, Uncle, do you have all your digits still?”
Narwë, Nówen’s eldest son, clasped his own arms and theatrically shivered.
“Brrr! You’re mad, Uncle,” he declared. “It’s my first grandchild we’re expecting, and I still wouldn’t have travelled through this weather had I lived elsewhere. We really wouldn’t have taken offence if you had skipped the occasion!”
A young elf-maid, who by process of elimination Nówë knew to be his youngest grand-niece, despite the fact that it had been her birth that last brought him here and he recognised her not at all, shout-whispered to her elder brother: “I bet you the last of this year’s apples that the tips of his ears will fall off.” They shook hands, sealing the wager.
Charming, Nówë thought. Before he could become truly annoyed at being left freezing at the door while his kin indulged in slinging taunts and jokes at him, his sister spoke up, instantly silencing her unruly brood.
“Brother! What joy I feel at seeing you, safe and whole! Be welcome, beloved.”
Nówë shuffled inside, truly grateful to leave behind the howling storm. Narwë and his brother shut the doors behind him, and Nówë’s journey was finally ended.
By right, he should have said something in response to his sister’s greeting, but his teeth were chattering too hard for speech. Instead, his gathered kin moved forward to give their welcome; pressing their palms or foreheads to his, murmuring words of love. Someone took his pack from him. His heavy reed hat and cloak followed, and Nówë’s body burned as he began to thaw out. He was already unfastening the belts around his layered furs as the last elf drifted away, leaving just him and Nówen in the entrance. He pulled off his top layer of ice-encrusted pelts, letting them fall to the ground, and stepped into his sister’s embrace.
They fit together like a well-crafted wooden joint. He dug his fingers into the warm skin of her shoulders and buried his face in her loose hair. Despite the fact that holding him must have felt like embracing a carcass that had been stored in a snowbank, Nówen clung to him just as tightly. The stood together in silence, as the low murmur of her family’s voices lapped against them like the water at the lake’s shore. They had loved each other since before the first words; they needed none now to express all they needed to say.
Finally, Nówen shifted just enough to murmur in his ear.
“You have icicles forming in your nostrils.”
Nówë trembled with repressed laughter. He too turned his face to her ear and muttered: “All this wealth I see, sister, and yet the welcome I’ve received is less than in the past. Where is my mead?”
Nówen snorted. She pulled away from him and called out orders.
“Bring my brother some mead! And meat, we must have some leftovers from the meal. Clear a space at the fire! Find him some dry clothes!”
“No need for the last,” he said, as a trio of males jumped to obey. He resumed stripping off his leathers. “It feels as hot as the centre of a fire in here to me.”
He tossed his clothing negligently into a pile in the corner. A dark-haired, dark-skinned elf appeared at his side - an oddity in this house. A quick search of his memory told him that this was the bonded of one of his great-nieces; Penel, he thought his name was. He had been a very new addition to the family on Nówë’s last visit, for his heart-bond had not been even a season old.
Nówë was handed a hollowed horn brimming with golden mead, which he openly admired. In his home, elves drank from wooden bowls. A drinking horn was a symbol of status among hunting folk, for not many could obtain one. This ribbed, spiral horn must have come from one of the large rams that lived high in the mountains; difficult prey.
“Was this your prize?” he asked, recognising a glint of pride in the elf’s grey eyes. The fellow grinned.
“My bonded’s,” he boasted. “She and her brother spent the past summer in the mountains. I crafted the piece.”
It was then that Nówë saw the fine detailing; delicate carvings along the horn’s natural ribbing, a smoothly rounded rim, and what appeared to be tiny coloured stones embedded in the outside in swirling patterns. What he held was a symbol of great skill in more ways than one.
“A fine craft,” he said, raising the horn in a toast before drinking from it. He smiled delightedly at the rush of sweetness over his tongue. “Fine, indeed!”
The elf practically glowed at the praise. Nówen chuckled and clasped her brother’s elbow to pull him gently towards the central fire. Another male of the household, this one silver-haired, darted in just long enough to press a hefty chunk of roasted meat into Nówë’s free hand before disappearing again. It was still a little warm. Nówë took a large bite and chewed happily as he allowed his sister to guide him along.
Now he was able to look around the interior, Nówë was fully convinced that this was a new build. The wood was still slightly fragrant with the scent of the forest. The packed earth floor was still smooth, free of any worn track marks. The beams that held up the roof were not yet blackened with soot. And, as he had suspected, it had definitely been expanded. The previous building had been one large room, with some leather hangings creating little alcoves along the walls to provide a bit of privacy for sleeping elves. This building was like two longhouses joined into one. Ahead of him was a large gathering space, a shallow pit filled with furs around a central fire, encased in a circle of wooden benches; and just behind it was a wall and doorway which led not outside, but into another room. He admired it. This was the first home outside of the Greathouse of the Nelyar that he had seen that was divided so. All around was evidence of an artistic hand, with utilitarian furniture and even the support beams delicately carved. He suspected he had just met the artist.
Nówen led him to a spot by the fire. He laid himself down on a soft wolf’s pelt, one of the log benches at his back, careful not to spill his drink. His sister dropped next to him. They sat in companionable silence, while Nówë listened in on the conversations of his much-missed kin all around him, picking up bits and pieces of the news of the last few years as he did so. He devoured the meat and licked the juices from his fingers, and washed it down with more of the excellent mead, feeling it warm him from the inside. Satiated, for a moment he simply closed his eyes and basked in comfort. The prickly heat from the flames and the soft tickle of the fur combined in a sensation on his bare skin that loosened all his tense muscles. He sighed happily.
“Welcome, brother,” said a voice in his ear.
Nówë jumped. His mead sloshed over the rim of the horn and drenched his front. A chorus of laughter rang out around the fire. He turned his head and found a small, wiry elf sitting on his left, even though he was certain there had been no one there when he sat down.
“Arwë! You snake, why must you always do that!” Nówë scolded. Nówen’s bonded smiled wickedly.
“Why, to entertain the children, of course.”
Said children cackled, their laughter echoing off the walls and roof. Arwë stretched and settled back into the furs with a wiggle, like a self-satisfied cat. Nówë scowled at him, peeved, swiping at the sticky mead on his stomach and thighs. He thought back - had Arwë been sitting at the fire the whole time and Nówë simply not seen him, or had he sneaked up while Nówë’s eyes were closed?
It could have been either. Arwë was one of the forest folk, a small group of Nelyar who had left the lake behind to dwell under the deep shadows of the trees. They had perfected the art of going unnoticed, like a hunting great cat perched perfectly still, waiting for the right moment to strike. It was a skill far beyond Nówë’s understanding. Once, he had been watching Arwë linger at the edge of the forest and witnessed him simply disappear from sight, seemingly without moving, as if he had dissolved into the shadows.
“I asked you to refrain from childishly needling my brother,” Nówen spoke up from Nówë’s right-hand side, voice cool. He watched with some satisfaction as her bonded winced slightly. Arwë sprang back up to sit cross-legged, pulling on an appropriately penitent face.
“So you did, my heart. But it is an old jest, Nówen, your brother does not mind.”
Arwë slapped a hand onto Nówë’s shoulder. Nówë certainly did mind; but it was a petty irritation, not worth causing a fuss over. He draped an answering arm across Arwë’s shoulders and attempted a smile.
“An old jest, indeed. You need new material, brother,” he joked. Arwë laughed lightly and shrugged.
“Readily, I admit - you have the greater wit. Here, let me top up your drink.”
Nówë handed over the half-full horn with his thanks. Arwë jumped to his feet and wandered off towards the other side of the room, where a space had been set up for the preparation of food and drink. Nówë watched him go and felt a familiar twinge of guilt. Not for anything he had done this day, but at his behaviour many years past, which had planted the seeds for his tense relationship with his sister’s beloved today. Really, he had no one to blame for Arwë’s antagonism but himself.
At his awakening, Nówë’s only relationship in the world had been with his sister. Over time, he had made friends among his fellow elves, but Nówen was by far the most important person in his heart, as he was in hers. Had they not been put in this world together? Were they not a Pair? Naively, he had thought it would always remain that way. Arwë supplanting him as his sister’s most beloved had been a world-rocking shock.
He still felt shame when he thought back to his behaviour then. He had found fault in every aspect of his sister’s chosen, and he had not bothered to hide it - from Arwë, anyway. Shamefully, he had bit his tongue in his sister’s presence, concealing his dishonourable behaviour from her. And in the end, of course, his jealousy changed nothing. His sister bonded with her shadowy hunter, and it had been him who actually began to drift away, lured by the Lake. Distance had eased the tension, and time had smoothed the sharp edges of their mutual hurt. What was left was a slowly ebbing resentment and an uneasy truce - and, truthfully, a mutual dislike. Nówë found Arwë to be rude, conniving, even mean-spirited on occasion. Arwë seemed to find him an unbearable bore. The years had given him some wisdom, though. He understood now that he had been judging him as a potential friend, which had been the wrong approach. Arwë made Nówen very happy; beyond basic respect, he owed Nówë nothing else.
Nówen stood and tapped him on the shoulder, pulling him from his musings.
“Come. While Arwë is fetching your drink, let’s introduce you to our expectant mother.”
Nówë stood without complaint, happy to put aside the thorny issue of his sister’s bonded. Nówen led him past the gathered family around the fire, some of them deep into their cups and all of them loud and raucous, and through the door to the other part of the longhouse.
“You arrived just in time for the birth, I think,” she told him. “The pains began shortly after we woke. Usually you arrive a few days before, Nówë.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Be grateful I arrived at all, sister,” he groused. Nówen smiled, but did not offer him, or his good fortune on the arduous trip, any thanks.
This part of the longhouse was divided into small alcoves, with large curtains of leather or woven grasses pinned between wooden poles to create privacy. Nówen led him to one of the furthest rooms and scratched at the curtain, announcing their arrival, before ducking inside. Nówë followed.
There were only three elves within the small nook. The floor was covered with yet more furs, on which they all sat. A heavily pregnant elf knelt with her hands clasped around her large stomach, eyes squeezed shut and breath coming in quick pants. The only male in the room was sat behind her, legs either side, hands running soothingly down her back.
Nówë and Nówen stopped immediately, recognising that she was dealing with a contraction. They all waited in calm silence while she rode the wave of pain. After a minute or so she relaxed, leaning back against the chest of the one who must be her bonded. The other elf leaned over with a wordless sound of sympathy and stroked her hair. They looked very alike; Nówë guessed that this must be her mother. Only when she opened her eyes did Nówen approach. Her bonded looked up and yelled in greeting.
“Great-uncle! You made it!”
Nówë smiled. “Yea, with some difficulty; but you surely knew I would not have missed the birth of your child. Congratulations, Tarwë, on both your bonding and your little one.”
Narwë’s eldest grinned. His bonded smiled shyly. She was a delicate elf, with big amber eyes and wispy hair the colour of honey. Minyar, surely, Nówë thought, for that shade of golden hair was unique to that group. That was interesting. He hadn’t known that Nówen’s family had close ties with the smallest and most insular tribe.
“Congratulations to you as well. I just wanted to make your acquaintance, but if I am intruding, I will make myself scarce.”
“No, no, it’s well,” she said softly. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. My name is Elessë. This is my mother, Tassë.”
Tassë nodded and smiled at him. She and her daughter were almost mirror-images of each other; the only difference was a coppery-sheen to her hair. Nówë smiled back and hoped his sudden interest was not visible on his face. He recognised the name. This, then, was the daughter of Tama, son of Tata and Tatië, Eldest of the Tatyar, who left his parents’ tribe to live with his bonded among the Minyar. It was a love story that had ended in swift tragedy, for Tama had died shortly before his child’s birth. The rumours Nówë had heard were confused on what exactly had happened. He’d heard all manner of unfortunate accidents being blamed for his death, but some had insisted he had simply disappeared in uncertain circumstances. The tragedy and mystery of the tale had ensured it spread widely. Nówë wondered if Nówen knew the truth of it, but he would wait to ask her. He did not want to ask about a death on the eve of a birth.
And there was more of interest to him than just a sad story. Not long ago, he had heard an interesting rumour about the Minyar. A young Nelya from the Greathouse, who had hitched a ride across the lake on his boat, had insisted that the Minyar had begun to live fully dressed at all times, even under their roofs. Nówë had thought this unlikely, and since the information had come from a third party, he had dismissed it. But now here was a Minyarin elf-woman, dressed in enough clothes to protect her from a reasonable chill, even in the comfortable warmth of the longhouse.
All others in Nówen’s house were dressed in far less, mostly loincloths or simple skirts, or even bare as he was. In contrast, Tassë wore a tunic and long skirt of finely worked leather, and a shawl of delicate doeskin, covering her from shoulders to shins. He wondered what Elessë wore on a usual day? She was bare now, but that didn’t mean anything; it had always been custom among all their kindred for labouring elf-women to do the hard, sweaty work without the burden of clothing.
He leaned down to press palms with Elessë and Tassë, mind whirring. He wished he could ask them about it. What was the purpose? But now was certainly not the time. He was bound to get Nówen alone at some point. He would impose his curiosity on her instead.
When the introductions were over, Nówen reached down and caressed Elessë’s hair with casual intimacy.
“Sweet bee, how are you?”
“I’m doing fine,” Elessë answered. She seemed nervous; Nówë could only sympathise. He had seen enough of the process to make him fervently grateful that he would never have to do it himself.
“There will be many hours to go yet,” said her mother, reaching out to stroke her daughter’s hair as well, tugging possessively at the soft strands. “She’s progressing quite slowly.”
Elessë’s face crumpled a little. Nówen reacted immediately to it.
“That is nothing unusual. It is her first,” she said lightly. She leaned down and grasped Elessë’s hands, tugging at them lightly. “Come sit with the rest of us at the fire,” she invited. “We’ll play games and tell stories. It will make the hours pass far quicker.”
“I don’t want to bother anyone,” Elessë protested.
Nówen and her grandson let out identical snorts.
“Nonsense!”
“You are the most important person under this roof right now, Elessë. You’re meant to be bothering everyone else to do whatever you please!” Nówen declared.
“I’ll make them serve your every need,” her bonded promised. “And they’ll be grateful to do it!”
Elessë giggled.
“Of course, if you would prefer to stay here, you should do so,” Nówen continued. Elessë hesitated, her hands still lightly clasped in Nówen’s. Tarwë stroked her back.
“I think we should join the others, love. Grandmother is right, a distraction will be good.”
Elessë still looked unsure.
“But what if it progresses suddenly and I am not able to make it back here?”
“Then I will send the rest of them away,” Nówen answered, seemingly bemused. “You do know that you do not have to give birth in here, do you not? You can go wherever you wish. If you decide that mine and Arwë’s bed is the best place to bring your child into the world, then you go right ahead.”
Tarwë roared with laughter. Elessë’s eyes widened in shock before she laughed as well. Nówë grinned.
Nówen and her bonded were, in general, very practical people, but their one true extravagance was their bed. The last time Nówë had seen it, decades ago, it had been piled half a foot high with only the softest furs and the freshest fragrant grasses, and he assumed it had only become more luxurious since. He sensed that the bed was a frequent subject of envious teasing in this household.
“No, no, I could never!” Elessë cried, still laughing. She pulled her hands from Nówen’s grip to wipe at her watering eyes. Nówen grinned, eyes twinkling, clearly pleased with herself.
“I mean it, sweet bee. Anywhere you want; and with as much privacy as you want, as well. If you want the entire longhouse to yourself, you may have it. I’ll send the rest outside to wait in the snow.”
It was Nówë’s turn to laugh loud and long. Nówen sent him a sly smile.
“No, grandmother, you can’t! They would freeze solid!” Tarwë protested, playing along. Nówen sniffed and turned her nose up in indifference.
“They can huddle around the beacons,” she offered. Her grandson and his bonded laughed.
“She means it,” Nówë told them, still chortling. He was not sure either of the youngsters knew just how true this was, for Nówen had once done something similar.
Narwë’s birth had been in his mother’s and father’s small tent surrounded by other Nelyar, for Nówen, Arwë and Nówë himself had all still lived with the tribe at the time. This was before any had begun building permanent homes, and the elves still wandered through the lands around the lake, carrying all they owned with them. His sister had been very unhappy with the experience, and Nówë had been the unwilling audience to her long list of complaints for what felt like years afterwards. It had been too cold; everyone had been too loud; the privacy provided by the simple leather tent had been insufficient. A small child, belonging to another family and clearly poorly supervised, had kept wandering in, curious about the goings on. Near the end, Nówen had overheard someone snidely complaining about the noise. According to Arwë, his bonded had been so enraged that she had tried to rise from the ground to go confront the unseen offender, despite being halfway through pushing out her son.
So, when Nówen was expecting her second child, she had made it clear the entire pregnancy that she expected the rest of the tribe to find somewhere else to be during her labour. No one had taken her seriously until the day came and her bonded and son were ordered to send people on their way. Somehow, they’d succeeded at it; even Enel and Enelyë had decided it was a good day for a long walk.
Of course, it had not been snowing when Arwen was born. Back then, children were never conceived in winter, not when shelter was sparse and food so difficult to find. No elf was drinking mead and lounging comfortably under a roof during the cold season in those early times.
“Enough, I concede,” Elessë laughed. “Very well. Let’s join everyone else.”
It had not escaped Nówë’s notice that Tassë had said nothing during the conversation. Elessë’s mother had simply listened in silence, her face a mask of polite interest that hid her thoughts. However, she stood readily to help her daughter stand. She and Tarwë each took an arm and gently lifted Elessë to her feet. She immediately dug the knuckles of both hands into the small of her back, bending backwards and stretching against her clear discomfort.
Nówë had never got used to the size elf-women grew to during pregnancy. He always felt a mix of awe and shock at the sight, and every time he thought that they couldn’t possibly get any bigger, they would do so. They could look almost comical; an opinion he had learned very early in his life to keep to himself. He was certain that Elessë had the largest pregnant belly he had ever seen. He couldn’t even imagine how uncomfortable it must be.
Elessë moved both hands under her stomach and huffed, as if she were lifting a heavy basket. With careful steps, she made her way back to the main gathering, her bonded and mother attentively beside her, Nówë and Nówen following behind.
When their small group reached the fire, the whole family let out a cheer of welcome. Elessë flushed. They scrambled to clear space for her, and despite her protests, she was soon sat comfortably among a mountain of furs and surrounded by the attentive women of the household, along with her bonded and mother. Nówë took his place again next to Arwë, who handed over his refilled drink. Arwë had furnished himself with his own horn, and he tipped a silent toast to Nówë before drinking deep. Nówë toasted him in return, appreciating the effort Arwë was making to soothe his ruffled feathers; likely though it was that Arwë’s only motivation was to remain in Nówen’s good graces.
“A story!” called Nówen, who still stood at the edge of the gathering. “One of you must have a tale worth telling.”
Her children and grandchildren laughed.
“Honestly, mother, you’re so overbearing at times,” Arwen playfully complained from where she sat beside Elessë. She shot her mother a dry glance whilst deftly twisting Elessë’s honey-locks into a braided bun. “Why don’t you tell us a tale? Or are we to always entertain you?”
Nówen shook her head.
“You’ve all heard my best tales a dozen times over.”
“Alas, it’s true - grandmother only becomes more and more dull as she ages.”
More laughter. Nówen scowled at the speaker, a lad with a cheeky grin who Nówë recognised as Tarwë’s younger brother. His father casually leaned over to cuff his ear.
“All of our tales have been told enough times to turn them stale; how about something new?” Narwë suggested, ignoring his son’s yelp. “I say Nówë should share a story with us.”
Nówë was not enthused by the idea, for now that he was warm and filled with mead and meat, his body was aching in exhaustion from his journey. He would much rather finish his drink and have a doze. But before he could decline, Narwë’s brother spoke up.
“You must jest, brother! Well we know our uncle lives an even duller life than our dear mother.”
It was Nówë’s turn to scowl. But once again, before he could retort, Narwë jumped in.
“It is no jest! I am certain our uncle has tales enough to keep us enthralled up until the little one finally joins us.”
“Oh? You’re entertained by stories of paddling on the lake and getting rained on? You’ve changed, brother; it must come from becoming a grandfather. You seem destined for dullness yourself!”
“My grandchild is a blessing, and I will never bemoan any change they bring,” said Narwë, turning briefly serious, before continuing with needling his uncle. “And I’m sure that’s not all he does, Arno!”
“Hm, maybe you are right; possibly he has a story about catching a particularly fierce fish.”
His kin laughed, enthusiastically engaged, enjoying the back and forth. Nówë looked to his only hope for rescue from the onslaught, but alas; Nówen had settled herself at her bonded’s side and was draped across a grinning Arwë’s chest, watching him with sparkling eyes, clearly just as entertained as the rest. Nówë resisted the urge to sigh.
It was typical of his nephews to find their joy in hunting and little else. They had never properly appreciated the more peaceful things in life, no matter how he tried to teach them - ah, but that was their game, wasn’t it? He was being manoeuvred into challenging their disdain, the two of them working together to corral him into doing what they wanted, just as they did to their prey. Little rascals.
Well, they might not have much respect for his work as a tradesman, but it had prepared him well for just these situations. He did not let himself be tossed and turned by the manipulations of others; he kept his goal in mind and his course steady. Admittedly, you often had to concede some things in order to get what you really wanted when bargaining. Thankfully, his nephews had practically handed him an easy win.
“I admit, I have no stories of mighty hunts to appease you,” he said, falsely regretful. “I do not wish to bore my hosts, so I will leave it to another to entertain you.” Unlike these two stubborn boys, he had no problem in simply admitting to being boring. Not if the prize was that well-earned nap.
Narwë’s eyes narrowed. Before Nówë could feel smug about his victory, though, his nephew sprung a trap on him.
“Why do we not leave it up to my dear daughter to decide? Come, Elessë, what do you think? Would you welcome a tale from our uncle?”
Nówë turned with some dismay. Elessë smiled shyly at him.
“I would love to hear a story from you,” she confessed. “I’ve always been fascinated by the water.”
And then, as if she had planned it, she winced. Her hands flew to her stomach.
“Only if it is not too much bother!” she finished hastily, voice strained.
He was beaten. The whole lot of them rushed to assure her that of course it wasn’t, and Nówë would be happy to entertain her, and she mustn’t worry at all.
And, of course, he was happy to do so; even if it meant postponing that nap. He just childishly didn’t enjoy losing the game of wits with his nephews, who were grinning triumphantly at him and each other. He gave them a wry nod in acknowledgement of their win. He should have asked himself why, considering how little interest they held for them, had his nephews been aiming for his storytelling in the first place? Clearly, it had been for Elessë’s benefit. She had told him that she had been looking forward to meeting him; maybe it had been expressly for this purpose. But, oh, how typical of these fools to set up this pseudo-hunt instead of simply asking him! They could be incredibly childish.
“Of course, Elessë, I would be happy to. It will be a nice change to have an appreciative audience.” He couldn’t resist a final jab; Narwë and Arno were entirely too self-satisfied. He lifted himself onto the bench at his back so that he was clearly visible and waited until the pain passed before speaking again.
“If someone could fetch my bag? Before I get started, I thought I would pass out the gifts I brought with me.”
They cheered.