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Chapter Text

For the first few days, Turukáno can hardly bring himself to look at the child.

Írissë lies in her bed, fading away hour by hour, and he can do nothing to help her, and she says almost nothing even when she has the strength to speak, only Turukáno, where is my Lómion? You must look after him when I cannot!

He does not allow himself to feel resentment towards a child of such a tender age, so small and so heartbroken that his mother is unable to talk to him, and yet some part of him simmers with displeasure that his sister may well be made a second Míriel by her son. Her son who hides under her bed whenever anyone comes into the room and peers out with too-sharp eyes.

Turukáno knows only the barest facts of what befell Írissë while she was gone, and most of those he has surmised rather than been told. Írissë has said only that Lómion is her son, and that if anyone comes claiming to be her husband then not to let him near her or the baby.

He cannot bear the weight of Lómion's eyes. The child doesn't speak, save possibly in whispers to Írissë when no one else is there, and yet Turukáno feels himself accused, judged for failing to return her to health. Directionless bitterness wells in his heart.

Cerualassë, head of healers, says when he asks her, "My king, we cannot keep her awake. It taxes her sorely. But her wish to live is strong -- I do not yet fear fading, the fate of Queen Míriel." Those last words, the forbidden name, are only whispered. "She will sleep, and sleep long, but there is hope of waking, if we attend her well."

And so he goes about his days in a haze of growing grief, unable to face his sister or his nephew or even his own daughter. Írissë may not die, but she has never feared death; it is this stagnation he wishes to free her from, this life without life, and somehow it has something to do with Lómion, and Turukáno cannot look at him.

The first time he hears Lómion speak is when Írissë stops waking, and it is a wail so loud he hears it from two floors away.

"Mama!" Lómion shrieks. "Ammë, Ammë, wake up! No sleeping!"

Turukáno bolts to Írissë's room and finds Írissë fainted, with Itarillë trying to calm her baby cousin and Lómion sobbing his eyes out and clinging to his mother.

"Little one, please," says Itarillë, careful not to touch the child as she tries to give comfort. "You will be all right, even if your Ammë is asleep. May I hold you?"

Lómion sniffles. "No. Only Mama holds me."

"Lómion," says Turukáno softly. The child looks at him, squeaks, and tries to bury himself in Írissë's side. Turukáno steps back. "Lómion, will you let us take care of you? You must be tired and hungry." When has Lómion last eaten? When has he last eaten?

I convinced him to eat breakfast this morning, and I had snacks delivered, which he ate most of, says Itarillë into his mind.

He goes to her, sure not to take a single step that draws him nearer to Lómion, and kisses her head. Into her hair he murmurs, "Thank you. I would I had been more help to you, these past days." She waves him off.

"Shall we go and eat dinner?" she says, directing the question to Lómion. "We can have mushroom and barley soup. You liked the mushrooms yesterday, didn't you?"

"...Maybe."

"Excellent," says Turukáno. "Will you allow me to bring you downstairs? Itarillë will come with us, and nobody will bother your mother."

Lómion goes silent for a long time. Then he says, in a tiny voice, "What about Adar?"

Itarillë glances at Turukáno, worry in her eyes. He says, "Not even your father will bother her if you don't want her to be disturbed. Do you want someone to watch the door, to be sure?"

Lómion nods.

"Itarillë, will you go and fetch Laurefindelë?" says Turukáno. "He will be a good guard. I can wait here with Lómion."

She also nods, and goes out, squeezing Írissë's hand one last time.

But then he is alone with Lómion, and his words dry up. Lómion stares at him with piercing dark eyes and doesn't move.

Stars above, the child is small! Only a toddler, not much older than ten years! He ought to be sitting in his mother's lap and babbling while she holds court or works at cutting wood and feathers for arrows, as any elfling of ten does, particularly a royal one.

(Itarillë, in Aman, was always cuddled in Elenwë's lap as she spun or sang or made study of the high and sacred geometries, the numbers which governed Arda, her passion. Turukáno, in those days, held Itarillë in his arms to show her his building designs and let her color them in. But that is in the past.)

"Who are you?" demands Lómion.

"I am your uncle, your Ammë's brother," he says, heart aching anew at the fact that he has been so neglectful that his nephew doesn't know him. "She asked me to take care of you until she wakes up. Itarillë is my daughter, your cousin, and she'll look after you, too. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Lómion says, "No. I want Mama. It's almost wake-up time."

"Little one, the sun is soon setting! Perhaps in the morning."

"Daytime is for sleep," says Lómion, as if Turukáno is the one being strange. "Nighttime is for awake."

"Usually we are awake during the daytime, here," says Turukáno. "It does grow dark in this shrouded room now -- I will open the window."

But when he draws the blinds open and cracks the window for air (only a little, for it is winter), Lómion shrieks and hides under the bed. Turukáno falls to the ground to look and see what's wrong, and finds Lómion hiding his face in his arms.

"What is it, little one? I didn't mean to scare you."

"Eyes," says Lómion. "Ow."

"Oh! Is it too bright? I'm sorry," says Turukáno. If Lómion is used to being active at night and sleeping by day, he must be unaccustomed to direct sunlight, and snow glare may be unfamiliar, too.

Lómion makes a movement that looks something like a nod.

"I'll close the curtains back up most of the way, and then you won't have to burrow like a little badger," he says, and goes and darkens the room.

"I'm not a badger," says Lómion vehemently as he crawls out, his tiny scowl a perfect copy of Írissë's. "Mama says I'm her little mole."

"You are a perfect little mole," Turukáno soothes. "Will you let me pick you up? I don't want you to trip when we go downstairs."

Lómion looks at him for a long moment and says, "Yes."

Turukáno scoops him up and holds him tight, trying to make up for days and days of neglect with a single hug, and Lómion melts into him, warm and small and more precious than anything. He feels tears soak into his robe as Lómion's breath hitches, but he says nothing, only hums and bounces and rubs circles on his nephew's back.

A knock comes at the door and Itarillë enters. Tension leaves her shoulders when she sees him holding Lómion, and Laurefindelë follows her in.

Turukáno turns so that Lómion can see over his shoulder to the door. "Look, Lómion," he says softly. "This is Laurefindelë, who will guard your Ammë and keep people from bothering her. He is her friend."

Lómion gives a little nod of approval and sniffles again before putting his face in Turukáno's shoulder.

Laurefindelë sits down in a chair. "I will watch over her, don't worry."

"You better," mutters Lómion. "I can put a curse on you if you don't. Mama is asleep and can't tell me I shouldn't."

Turukáno blinks. Why would such a little child know anything about curses, let alone how to put them on someone? He might be exaggerating, but -- no, Lómion is earnest. Well, it is a question for another time.

"Do we have a baby seat?" he asks Itarillë as they come to the family dining room.

"Yes. I also sent for Mistress Sáramerillë to come after dinner to see about making clothes, as well as Mornalelyë of the Harp for gifts and toys. My seneschal Voronwë is combing through cupboards for hand-me-down clothes to wear in the meantime. I have asked Housekeeper Cadwareth to make up the room beside Aunt Írissë's, and my handmaiden Meleth will stand in as a nurse. Antar the scribe will meet with you tomorrow."

"Who're all those people?" says Lómion.

"They are people we work with," says Turukáno, head spinning at all the things she's managed. "Itarillë, you truly thought of everything! Thank you, darling."

"Of course, Atto. I ought to be looking after my baby cousin," she says, but he still feels guilt over leaving everything on her.

"That's a lot of people," says Lómion as they come into the dining room and he's set down in the baby chair as Master Ruscundil, the head cook, sets out the food (and, to his credit, doesn't stare at Lómion). "I only know Ammë and Adar and the people without names."

Turukáno frowns, but chooses not to comment on Lómion's strange words as he pours soup and a sippy-cup of water for the child. "Thank you, Master Ruscundil. Here, little mole. Please eat as much as you want without getting sick."

Lómion attacks the food the instant he's given permission, and Turukáno thanks his lucky stars that the soup was already cool enough to eat. The already-dirty traveling clothes Lómion wears are a lost cause, though; he is only a toddler and cannot hold a spoon of soup that well.

Itarillë sips her own soup in a conspicuously graceful manner, and dips bits of bread in it, watching Lómion out of the corner of her eye all the while. When Lómion starts to mimic her, eating a little neater and uncoordinatedly dunking his own bread, Turukáno feels his heart melt.

"Where are you from, Lómion?" he asks after the little one has slowed down from inhaling the food to merely eating it.

Lómion blinks and straightens up. His answer sounds as if someone scripted it and drilled it into his memory. "I'm from Nan Elmoth, where my father Eöl is lord. He would want me to go to him or to his kinsman King Thingol."

A kinsman to Thingol! What was Írissë thinking?

"Do you want to go home?" says Turukáno.

"No. Mama's here and said I should be here." Lómion returns to his soup.

"And how old are you?" Turukáno asks. "When is your begetting day?"

"Almost twelve."

"We will have to celebrate," says Itarillë, undeterred by the lack of date. "Twelve years is a very important age! You will have a cake and music and games, if you want them, and everyone will shower you in gifts." Twelve is a sacred number to the elves, and therefore the twelfth anniversary of birth is a milestone. Many rites of passage are open only to elflings of twelve: among the Noldor, being introduced to craft so the child can begin to find their calling is one, and noble elflings start to be called by title in formal settings and meet their people as a future leader, to acquaint the little one with the idea of their future duty.

But Lómion has retreated into himself after the great effort of speaking so many words at once, and looks like to cry. "I only want Mama to be there."

"After we eat, why don't we go and see her?" says Turukáno, desperate to stave off Lómion's tears. "We will check with Laurefindelë, and then you can have a bath and go to sleep for the night."

Lómion nods, clearly too tired to argue that nighttime is for being awake. He eats the rest of the soup in silence and drinks all his water. He gets three slices into the clementine Itarillë peels for him before drooping so much that Turukáno has to declare dinner over and pick him up after cleaning his little face of soup.

Laurefindelë stands as they enter Írissë's room. "How was dinner?"

"We may have tired the little one out with our questions," says Turukáno. "Is all well here?"

"Mistress Cerualassë asks leave for herself and her people to come and go to look after Lady Írissë's health, but no one else has come in or tried to wake her."

"Is that all right, Lómion? Can the healers come see your Ammë if they stay quiet and don't bother her?" Turukáno asks.

"Yes. But only if somebody else is here to make sure."

Turukáno turns back to Laurefindelë. "Have word sent to the Tower of Snow. They can arrange guards for their lady, and pay their respects when Lómion and the healers agree she is ready for visitors. Ensure that the guards -- and the city guards -- understand that if anyone comes here claiming to be her husband he is not permitted in the Tower, if into the city at all." Lómion looks pleased, though it's hard to tell through the sleepiness.

"Let Meleth and I bathe him, Atto," says Itarillë, holding out her arms. "We'll bring him right back afterwards to say goodnight to Aunt Írissë, and you can put him to bed. Only if you want, Lómion."

"I don't want a bath or to go to bed," says Lómion.

"But you're covered in soup! You might get some on your Ammë," says Itarillë.

This seems to convince him, so Turukáno sets him down to toddle over to Itarillë, who leads him out. Lómion glances back at Írissë one last time before leaving, as if he hopes she'll wake and tell him to stay.

When they are gone, Turukáno collapses into a chair by Írissë's bed. "Laurefindelë, what do I do?"

"The same you did for Itarillë, I imagine," says Laurefindelë with gentle humor. "You have raised a child before."

"I mean -- how am I to look after him well? What do I know of what he needs? How can I keep myself free from the mistakes of--" He swallows, unwilling to speak against Finwë even now. "I would not have Lómion be a second Fëanáro, bitter and angry as his mother sleeps the years away. And I cannot know what Írissë would want for him, either."

"What could she want but for her son to be safe and loved in the care of his kin?" says Laurefindelë.

"And would you believe that if it was I lying asleep, and Itarillë in my sister's care?"

"Well, no, but you are a worrywart."

Turukáno sighs and rests his head in his hands. "I'll send for her friends from the Hunt of Oromë to see if they have any rites done for children. I do think she'd want him to be given those, and he is almost twelve."

"Then you must start introducing him to the many crafts he might choose. I would hardly be surprised if Lady Írissë brought him here at this age for such a purpose," says Laurefindelë. "The celebration you can leave to us, though! We lords and ladies of the council would be delighted to arrange it for the little prince."

"The rest of you may have to fight Itarillë for it," notes Turukáno. "It seems she's been running my household and winning Lómion's trust and making him eat for the past week. If she wanted to, she could usurp me without trouble." But he's nothing but proud of his daughter, with her shrewd mind and clear-sighted eyes; if she ever decided to usurp someone they would likely deserve it.

"We were all certain she'd do some high treason as a young woman, just as part of growing up," says Laurefindelë.

"How do you know she didn't?" says Turukáno.

"At that age, she would've bragged."

Turukáno shrugs. "Well, she's getting along well with Lómion already. It's all I could ask for, that she's already taken to him so kindly like a younger brother."

As if to prove his point, faint singing floats down the hall: Itarillë and Meleth singing a bath-song for Lómion. Laurefindelë smiles, and Turukáno can't help but do the same.

They sit in silence until the ladies return with a fresh and clean toddler in deep blue sleeping clothes, Lómion nodding off in Itarillë's arms while his shiny black braids glisten in the lamplight. He brightens, though, upon seeing Írissë, and waves his arms in her direction, so Itarillë sets him down on the bed by his mother.

"Lómion, we have set up a room for you next door," says Turukáno. "I think you would sleep better without guards and healers coming in and making noise."

This, as it turns out, is what sparks Lómion's first real tantrum. The mere thought of sleeping away from Írissë, coupled with his tiredness and denial thereof, make him say the most words he's said since arriving in Ondolindë, and all of them at top volume.

(But, Turukáno notices gratefully, none of them are any of Írissë's customary curse words.)

"Shh, Lómion," he says when there's a break in the screaming, even though he wants nothing more than to cry himself when he sees Lómion's tear-stained face. "You've had a very long day. Even if you don't want to sleep, you can rest your eyes in the other room, where it'll be darker since nobody will need to check on your Ammë. Then you can come back."

"No! I'm not leaving Mama!" he shouts, but it's quieter than before.

"Your Ammë would want you to rest and be healthy," Turukáno says. "It doesn't have to be for very long. Take a little nap and when you're rested you can come see her."

Lómion sniffles. "Only a little nap. I'm not sleepy. My eyes hurt."

"Of course. I wouldn't want you to get a headache from the light," Turukáno soothes. "Why don't you give your Ammë a goodnight kiss, say goodnight to Itarillë and Laurefindelë, and then I'll bring you to your room?"

Lómion kisses Írissë's forehead and lets Turukáno pick him up. "Goodnight," he says, yawning, and Itarillë coos over him.

Turukáno decides to sleep in a chair in Lómion's room once he gets the little one to bed. He needs to be on hand to soothe nightmares and fetch water if Lómion is thirsty.

Chapter Text

It snows overnight, blanketing Ondolindë in white. Turukáno goes to the wardrobe, finding a good selection of clothes for Lómion, and pulls out the warmest to choose from.

Lómion was so tired last night (and is so young) that he sleeps with his eyes fully closed, rather than closing only his third eyelid. Turukáno has every intention of letting him sleep the day away if he needs it, though that would require calling Itarillë and Meleth to watch over him when the day gets busy later.

Lómion looks painfully like Írissë when he sleeps, their faces near identical though his skin is a much paler, cooler shade. He is a perfect child, Turukáno thinks, and knows she must feel the same way about the baby she created and gave life to. But he cannot forget her aversion to marriage, nor her doubt that she would ever have a child. What changed, out there in Beleriand, in the sixteen years she was gone?

He will get few answers from Lómion, he fears, but at least Írissë and her son are not where they were before. He must ensure that Lómion is raised with all the love and care that he deserves.

Turukáno shuts the curtains when Lómion stirs, mindful of his sensitive eyes. "Good morning, Lómion."

"Good morning," says Lómion, and sits up. He blinks owlishly at Turukáno in the dark.

"Would you like to get dressed? I'll crack the blinds and you can pick which of these clothes you like."

Lómion nods, so Turukáno opens the curtains a tiny bit, stopping when Lómion flinches.

"It's very cold today, so I picked out the warmest things. What color do you want?"

Lómion points at the black wool clothes, so Turukáno dresses him, noting that Lómion hasn't any jewelry. That will have to be fixed; no child of the Noldor should go about unadorned! Certainly not one of almost twelve years.

"I will have breakfast sent up while we go see your Ammë," he says. "Thank you for being patient and sleeping, Lómion." He kisses Lómion's soft baby cheek.

Lómion throws himself into Turukáno's arms again, as if he's been starved of affection for months rather than only a few days. But a few days is a long time for a child. Turukáno hugs him, and tries to initiate ósanwe to give him a mind embrace as well.

To his surprise, Lómion latches onto his mind with ease, and accepts the love happily. He even pokes and prods clumsily at Turukáno's mind, the way Itarillë did as a young girl before she learned precision, and Turukáno realizes he's got a magic child on his hands.

No wonder Írissë brought him home to be with his family, no matter her health -- a child of eleven whose eyes can read hearts and whose words can curse or bespell is in danger in wider Beleriand, where the ruthless might seek to control him. If he does not miss his guess, Lómion is descended in part from a Maia.

"Let's go and see your Ammë," he says. "There will be someone new guarding her, since Laurefindelë has many duties."

Lómion stops the hug and returns to looking as if he never asked for affection and doesn't want it, rather like a cat. But he takes Turukáno's hand and walks to Írissë, and even mumbles "Good morning" to her guard Dínalagos when prompted.

Turukáno sends Calarcala, a kitchen apprentice, to get breakfast, hoping that Lómion will like potato pancakes, and then sits by Dínalagos. "How is she?"

"The same, the healers say. I've turned away everyone else," she says. "Lord Penlod was upset about it, of course, but I'm sure he'll get permission eventually. Mistress Cerualassë asks that you find out from Lómion anything that might give a hint as to the origin of my lady's condition."

"I will ask him, when he is ready to speak of it," Turukáno promises. "But, Dínalagos, you were initiated into the ranks of the Train of Oromë by my sister; do you know what rites of the Hunt are given to children? She would want him given his due as a Huntress's child, and he says he is nearly twelve."

"There are blessings for newborn children, which I don't doubt that my lady performed, even if she was alone, and I will gather the other Hunters to consult on how best to bestow the twelfth-year blessings without his lady mother present," says Dínalagos, which is a weight off of Turukáno's shoulders. Írissë is devout, he knows, and wouldn't have her son sundered from her traditions.

"Thank you," he says, and turns to the doorway when he sees Calarcala with a tray. "Thank you, Calarcala, it looks wonderful! Lómion, can you say thank you for breakfast?"

"Thank you, Calarcala," he says dutifully. Turukáno watches him eat, and it seems that Lómion likes the food, or at least doesn't dislike it.

"Calarcala, will you tell Master Ruscundil that Lómion needs an extended taste-test sometime in the next week? I wouldn't want to give him any food he dislikes," says Turukáno. "Master Ruscundil may pick the date and time at his convenience."

"Certainly, my lord," says Calarcala, who like all the members of the House of the King is exempt from calling him Your Majesty because his position as the lord of their House is more immediate. Dínalagos, similarly, only calls Írissë Lady rather than Queen. She curtsies and goes out.

Lómion doesn't finish his breakfast, instead leaving one and a half pancakes and some fruit on the plate and setting it on the bedside table. "These are for you when you wake up, Mama," he says quietly. Turukáno pretends he doesn't hear; these words are not for his ears.

"Would you like to play outside, Lómion?" he asks instead. "Or would you like to meet some people first? You don't have to talk to them."

"Outside? But it's daytime," says Lómion, brow furrowed in exactly the way Írissë did as a child. "No going outside in daytime. And I already met people."

Turukáno wonders again what Nan Elmoth was like for Lómion, but pushes the thought away. "You can play outside if you want, as long as you're bundled up against the cold, and there are many people in Ondolindë. I know it isn't what you're used to, but I promise that they will be nice to you."

"But..." Lómion looks conflicted. "I can't leave Mama. That would be bad."

Turukáno kneels and takes Lómion's hands. "You are a dutiful child," he says. "I know your Mama must be very proud of you, and is happy you love her and want to watch over her. But you've made sure there are people to take care of her, and she brought you here so that you could play outside in the day and meet the people of her city and make friends. When she wakes up, someone will come and tell you first thing, before they even tell me or Itarillë."

"Are you sure?" says Lómion.

"I'm sure. And if you ever feel like there's too many new things or people, we can stop for the day and come right back here."

Lómion looks at Írissë again, then nods. "I want to meet people first."

"Then let's get your hands washed, and we can do just that." But he pauses, and looks about the room. There! Írissë's biggest jewelry box should have something Lómion can wear.

He pokes through it, and finds a silver cloak pin with the sigil of Nolofinwë, as well as a small necklace with black garnets and a set of golden hair ornaments.

Lómion's eyes widen when he sees them, and Turukáno says, "You can wear these until we can have new things made just for you. It's only right that you wear your mother's jewelry."

"But I'm not supposed to have jewelry," he says. "Adar says. I can have it if I make it."

"Do you mean your Ammë has never shared her jewels with you?" says Turukáno, scandalized.

"She did. But it's not allowed."

"It's allowed here," says Turukáno, pulling out more and more jewelry. His nephew needs to be adorned in the very best!

After some time, as Dínalagos watches, Lómion is covered in shining jewelry, and Turukáno takes off two of his own bracelets for him. Then and only then do they walk downstairs.

"Greetings, Mistress Sáramerillë, Mornalelyë, Antar," says Turukáno in the receiving chamber. "And good morning, Itarillë, Meleth. Lómion, do you want your own chair or to sit with me?"

Lómion grips his sleeve so tightly it threatens to rip, so Turukáno settles him on his lap and holds him, happy to cuddle him while they meet with everyone.

Sáramerillë bows and says, "Your majesty, I assume you need clothes for the young one? I have brought fabric samples."

"Please, lay them out so Lómion can choose. Can you make anything without taking measurements, though?" He doubts Lómion will take kindly to a stranger being so near.

"I can guess at his size well enough," she says, and lays out the fabrics.

Lómion picks through them, rubbing them with his hands and then sorting them in a rainbow. Turukáno lets him do as he likes.

"Mornalelyë, Lómion will need some toys of his own," he says. "Can you make him two plush moles? One of regular size, one very large, and both of them soft. A set of tengwar blocks, too, and cirth."

She curtsies. "Certainly. If you need anything else for him, your majesty, send word to my workshop."

"Thank you. I will let you know." He kisses Lómion's head and turns to Antar. "Antar, my friend, I don't doubt you know why Itarillë called you."

"Because you need the announcements written, the family books updated, and the letters sent out?" they say, eyebrow raised.

"Yes, exactly," says Turukáno. "My father and Findekáno must be told -- I will speak to the Eagles about it, if they will be so kind, so that Lómion can have presents from his grandfather when he turns twelve soon. The lords and ladies of the council need official announcement letters, and Lómion has to be put in our records without delay." Írissë will certainly kill him if he takes any longer to make her child an official part of the family.

Antar already has out note paper and a pencil. "What is his highness's full name, then, my lord?"

"I--" Turukáno frowns. "What is your father-name, Lómion?"

Lómion's voice is very small, but he keeps sorting the fabrics. "Adar didn't name me. He said he would when I was twelve and Ammë said he didn't get to if he waited."

Turukáno considers finding and strangling Lómion's father. "Put no father-name down, but leave room in the records. Lómion may choose someone to give him a second name if he wants one." Nolofinwë is the obvious choice, as Lómion's grandfather, but Lómion is old enough to make the choice of who should name him, even if he is too young for his essecilmë.

Antar writes this down. "Have you chosen his highness a tutor yet? I would be glad to teach him his letters."

"I hope to teach him myself for a time," says Turukáno, which earns him a pointed look from everyone present. "...But I suppose I cannot be available at all hours. Antar, if you and Meleth can work out a schedule?"

"Actually, Atto, about that," says Itarillë. "I was thinking I could move back into the Tower for a while, to help you look after Lómion and Aunt Írissë. You can't do it all yourself."

"You have your own House, my dear! Why leave your home to return to your father's?" he says. "As glad as I am to have you here, you have a life of your own."

She crosses her arms. "Just until Lómion's begetting day, then."

"Oh, all right. And Meleth, you are welcome to take up a room here for as long as you wish," he says.

Meleth says, "I think I will, your majesty, at least as long as my lady stays. I'll go and see Cadwareth later."

"Have you picked out your favorite fabrics, little one?" Itarillë asks Lómion, who has a beautiful rainbow laid out by texture and color.

Lómion nods and pulls out a range of colors in the softest materials. Most are dark -- black, blue, purple, and green -- but there are three exceptions. One is the exact thin wool fabric of Itarillë's sky-blue winter gown, one is the deep sapphire blue of Turukáno's satin robe, and the last is Írissë's very favorite white silk.

"Oh," says Itarillë, touched beyond words. Atto, he wants to match!

"Those are lovely choices, little mole," says Turukáno. "Mistress Sáramerillë, will you make him up some clothes in these fabrics, and a few outfits in the blue and silver of our House? And clothes to match us and Írissë. He will need one formal robe, too, for his party."

"Consider it done," she says. "And if you ever want to sort more fabric, your highness, my storerooms are in need of some good ordering."

Lómion smiles a little to hear it, and Turukáno is pleased to know a good way to occupy his little hands. "Thank you, mistress. I think Lómion may need a break now before he meets anyone new."

Lómion nods in agreement.

"Little cousin, do you want to play outside?" says Itarillë. "We can make snow art, and I think you could use the fresh air."

Soon the three of them are outside in the square by the frozen fountain, and Lómion (eyes veiled by his dark hairscarf pulled low) is tentatively patting the snow to be sure it won't bite him. Itarillë sits by Turukáno and speaks in a low voice.

"I had a bout of foresight last night," she says. "I fear for Lómion's future -- there is nothing concrete, nothing sure, but I know that if his father comes here then the good paths shall be harder than the bad. You mustn't let them meet or exchange words or even see one another if you can help it."

"I promised Írissë that Eöl would see neither of them, and he will not," he says. "If you come to know any more, Ityë, please tell me. I want only the best of fates for you and the little one."

Lómion seems to have heard some of it, for he tilts his head. "Ityë?"

"My nickname. You can call me that, if it's easier to pronounce," says Itarillë. "So long as I can call you by nicknames, too."

"Mama calls me nolpaincë."

Itarillë makes a little high-pitched sound, the same one she makes over baby chicks in her henhouse or particularly well-made glassblowing equipment. "Little mole! Oh, Atto, why didn't you tell me?"

"It's been busy! But Lómion, I have a few questions for you. You don't have to answer them," he assures.

Lómion blinks at him in a way that probably means go on.

"First, when is your begetting day?"

"The twentieth day after Midwinter," Lómion says promptly, as he scoops up snow and makes a ball.

A month and a half, then, to plan whatever sort of party he'll feel comfortable with. "And what brought you and your Ammë here? Why did you leave home?"

Lómion shuts his mouth and doesn't speak for a long time, only turns the snow over in his mittened hands. "Mama didn't want me to meet Father's court. And he was mean to her. So we came here instead."

"And did anything happen on the way? Anything that might explain why she's asleep?" He has far more questions; every answer from Lómion seems to spark a hundred more, but this is what's most important. Even so, Lómion's eyes grow wet, and he worries he's pushed too far.

"I think Father cursed her," he whispers. "Or maybe worse. Lots of bad plants grow in Nan Elmoth. He didn't want us to leave."

"I'm sorry," says Turukáno. "I won't ask any more about it. Do you want us to make snow shapes with you?"

Chapter Text

From then on, the days take on a routine. Lómion will wake up and be dressed by Turukáno, or if he is unavailable, Meleth, and go eat breakfast in Írissë's room, where he always leaves a portion of his food in case she wakes up hungry. Then Antar and Meleth bring him to a playroom and encourage him to practice his cirth (which he knows impressively well) and his tengwar (which he barely knows at all) and his numbers, drawing on paper or arranging letter and number blocks. They also teach him Quenya words, when they discover that he wasn't allowed to even hear Quenya at home before.

Then he eats lunch with Turukáno and Itarillë, and tells them what he did that morning, showing off his drawings or writing to their applause, and afterwards they take him outside to play in the snow. Sometimes Lady Rainacanyë of the Heavenly Arch comes by, bringing her son Egalmoth (a young man of sixty-one) and daughter Aeglosser, who is not much older than Lómion, to play with him.

After running around in the snow and having a nap, Lómion comes in to sit on Turukáno's lap during council meetings and plays with more blocks or sorts a collection of sturdy glass pebbles that Itarillë made for him, and Turukáno pretends not to notice all the lords and ladies making faces at Lómion to make him laugh. But he has the best part of the situation anyway, getting to hold and cuddle Lómion while he works, and Lómion loves getting kissed on his head and having his hair petted, even when he's grumpy. Sometimes Lómion takes Turukáno's crown or circlet and examines the jewels and patterns for a full hour, tilting it in the light to see it glitter.

But he does get fidgety eventually, as all toddlers do, and between the post-meeting storytime and dinner he gets to have unstructured time to explore as he likes.

"Please stay in the Tower, the courtyards, or right out front in the square," Turukáno reminds him every day. "When you're more confident in knowing your way around, you can go further. But don't forget that we'll come and find you for dinner or more storytime, so if you get lost that's all right."

The first few days, Lómion goes right to Írissë and stays with her, or gets terribly lost and cries in relief when Turukáno comes to fetch him, but he figures out the layout quickly. Most days then, after exploring, he can be found in a warm corner of the kitchen with a plate of snacks from Master Ruscundil, watching the dancing shadows from the fires make shapes of animals and plants on the wall.

Lómion doesn't find it strange that shadows move when he wants them to, so Turukáno doesn't comment on it; he can't let Lómion feel odd or out of place. But he does start looking, quietly, for a magic teacher to help him, as Antar can only do so much, and Itarillë can teach the arts of the mind but not the rest.

After dinner, Lómion goes to Írissë to tell her about all he did that day, and plays quietly in her room until it's time for his bath. When he's clean and all the goodnights have been said, Turukáno reads to him until he falls asleep.

It isn't always easy -- some days, Lómion shrieks and cries at the slightest thing, let alone someone trying to cajole him away from Írissë -- but he begins to settle in, and his crying fits grow less common. Turukáno takes to carrying him around the city sometimes, when he has errands, and Lómion wears tinted glass over his eyes that Itarillë makes for him to protect him from headaches.

"Dear Atto and Findekáno,

I know it has been centuries since Írissë and I disappeared, and I cannot apologize for it, for what I did was the bidding of a Vala and a surety against the ill-fate we all were Doomed to. But it is my duty to break my silence now and correspond with you.

A new Prince of the Noldor has been born to our house: Írissë's son, Lómion. He will be twelve years of age on the nineteenth day of Narvinyë, but do not think that I have neglected telling you for so long! I only knew of his existence when Írissë returned with him from the wide world last month.

He has no father-name, and his father is not to know of his direction, for the man (Eöl, a kinsman of Thingol) is thought to have done some harm to Írissë: she lies in a sleep that we cannot wake her from. Our head healer says she does not fear fading, that this is only a slow healing, but I worry.

Nonetheless, Lómion is a good child, loving and curious and very dutiful to his mother. He follows Itarillë around like a duckling whenever he can, and can write his name in tengwar and cirth both. He is shy and quiet, and is only beginning to learn Quenya, but in Sindarin he speaks very well for his age. His favorite animal is the humble mole, which Írissë made his nickname, but he likes blackbirds as well. I have found out also that he is gifted in magic, and may one day equal Itarillë in ósanwe.

The Eagles have agreed to carry a package or two in case you want to send him begetting day presents, as I know you would ask. His favorite color is black, and he likes shiny things. Atto, I intend to ask Lómion if he wants anyone to give him a father-name, and you would be the traditional choice, so you may want to start thinking of names.

When he sits for his first royal portrait, I will send you a small copy. He looks just like Írissë, but his eyes are dark brown instead of dark blue, and he is pale like a little ghost.

I urge you to put him down in the family records as soon as you can. He deserves to know that all his kindred love and accept him.

Lómion and Itarillë have insisted on sending their own letters, but Lómion needed help spelling the words in his.

With all my love,

Turukáno."

He puts it in the envelope, alongside Itarillë's neatly-penned missive and Lómion's scrawl in six different shades of colored pencil, and hopes it's the right decision to risk the secrecy for family.

By the time Lómion's begetting day rolls around, his room is furnished lavishly with everything a child could want in colors Lómion likes.

The walls and ceiling are painted like a night sky, with silver and gold dots on the ceiling like stars and on the walls like fireflies. The curtains (a gift from Ecthelion) are heavy blue fabric that lets no light in, patterned with clouds, and the wardrobe (from Aiwerilya and her younger brother Tuilindo) and rug (from Írissë's folk in the Tower of Snow) are forest green and made to look, respectively, like trees and like moss. The lamps (glass from Itarillë, lights from Penlod) are shaped like Lómion's favorite flowers, and the bedside table (Aldaron) is fashioned to look like a tree stump, with carved and painted wooden toadstools growing at its edge. Lómion's sheets and pillows and blankets (Rainacanyë) have the device of the House of Nolofinwë and little embroidered moles, and on his dresser sits a music box (Talagand) which plays both dancing tunes and calming music that helps him sleep through the night.

But one of the finest things in the room is Lómion's bed, which Laurefindelë and Rôg spent days building. Lómion is old enough not to need a crib any longer, and the bed leaves room for him to grow. It is made of the finest black wood, its carved inlays are filled with silver and gold, and gems adorn the headboard to give Lómion a little crown as he sleeps. There are little shelves in it with pillows, too, for Lómion's plush toys to sit on when he isn't playing with or cuddling them.

Turukáno himself has built the low dresser, with drawers for clothes and pull-out boxes for toys, and the new rocking chair is a joint effort of Antar and Meleth. Lómion has his own chair, too, but it's normally kept with the desk in his adjoining playroom, where he writes and draws and pretends to do paperwork like his uncle (as Antar reports with delight).

The morning of Lómion's begetting day, Turukáno wakes up to his door opening and Lómion tiptoeing inside.

"Uncle!" he whispers. "I'm twelve! I already told Mama."

"Happy begetting day," says Turukáno, snapping awake at the reminder of the special day. "Would you like a hug?"

His answer comes in the form of Lómion tackling him and snuggling up in the blankets. "Is the party today? Will Ityë be there?"

"Ityë will certainly be there to help cut the cake and celebrate the day you came into the world," says Turukáno. "Why don't we get you dressed?"

Lómion scrambles up and rushes back to his room, going to the wardrobe as Turukáno follows him in, and points at his formal robes. "I want those. It's special today."

The robes are black silk, embroidered in gold thread with Írissë's sigil and in silver thread with ferns. Turukáno goes to Lómion's jewelry box, which is sparse now, but will be full by the end of the day, and draws out a circlet of gold set with opals, sent by Nolofinwë and (according to the accompanying letter) crafted by Tyelperinquar.

"Lómion, you are twelve years old, and so you are officially counted as a prince of our people," he says, settling the circlet on his little head. "That means you can wear a circlet now. And starting tomorrow, you and I will go out to each of the Houses of Ondolindë so you can get to know them and what they do, in preparation for your future. Being a prince is a responsibility, but I know you will hold it well. Your Ammë will be very proud."

Lómion looks up at him with wide eyes, as if he can barely believe that he's a prince, even though several people started calling him by his title weeks early to get him accustomed.

"I don't know how to be a prince," he says in a little voice.

"That's why Ityë and I are going to teach you, so that when you're all grown up you can lead your people with honor," says Turukáno, taking Lómion's chubby baby hands in his own. "I have every faith in you, nolpaincë. Today is just the first day."

Lómion bites his lip, then nods.

"Then let's get you all ready, shall we?"

After breakfast, Lómion is the perfect image of a Noldorin prince on his twelfth begetting day: his hair is braided and adorned with beads, ornaments, and flowers; his clothes and jewelry are rich and fine and perfectly suited to him. Most important of all, his smile is bright, and he runs to Itarillë to hug her with a cry of "Ityë!"

"Ah, nolpaincë!" she says, laughing. "Would you like to come and see your little throne? It was mine when I was young, in Vinyamar by the shore of the Sea." She gestures at the child-sized throne on the dais, made of wood carved and painted and inlaid with all the skill of Vinyamar's craftsfolk.

(Turukáno is glad she insisted on keeping it when they left. "Will I not have a child someday, Atto?" she asked when they were packing, with the certainty of foresight. "And they will sit upon it when they are only seven.")

"Today you will sit on your throne and be given the twelve stones of the Eldar," she says, tapping his nose. "All elflings are given them, and you shall have the finest! Then we will celebrate, and you will begin seeking your craft."

Lómion climbs up into the throne, which is set with a large pillow, and settles himself in. Turukáno says, "Oh, we will need a portrait. Look at you!"

Soon the lords and ladies and their families file in, bowing politely to their new prince, and it's time to begin the ceremony. It is tradition to gift the elfling being celebrated the twelve most prized stones of the elves, from twelve different people, to bless the child. For Lómion, those people will be the representatives of the Eleven Houses, Írissë's seneschal standing in, and Antar, who has practically promoted themself to chief of staff in Lómion's not-yet-existent household, with the way they run things for him.

Lómion graciously receives the jewels: diamond from Turukáno, sapphire from Itarillë, emerald from Laurefindelë (who loves beryls), and so on, until the ruby and garnet and opal and turquoise and pearl and amber and jade and skystone and crystal are in his little jewel-box. He shakes it more than once to hear the sound, and stares at each gem, cut or new, as if they have hidden secrets he wants to uncover, as if he's found his craft already.

Laurefindelë has already taken out his sketchbook to draw a picture of Lómion on his special day, and he promises Turukáno to paint it and a copy later, so that Írissë and Nolofinwë can see him. It isn't an official royal portrait -- that will be in the spring -- but it's important, all the same.

Turukáno goes to Lómion next. "Little one, I have a question for you."

Lómion tilts his head.

"Remember how I said someone else could give you a father-name? If you were a newborn, your grandfather the High King would do it as a matter of course, but you're old enough to choose. I've asked him, though, and he'd be delighted to name you." In fact, Nolofinwë has already sent a letter containing the perfect name for Lómion, and Turukáno hopes Lómion will choose it.

"I want a Granddad name!" says Lómion excitedly.

"He wants to name you Tyelperihen, silver-eye, to match Tyelperintal your cousin, and for your keen eyes," he says. "Do you like it?"

"I love it," Lómion Tyelperihen breathes, his eyes wide. "I love it so so much, Uncle! I want to go tell Ityë now."

"Go ahead, then." He watches as Lómion hops off the throne and puts down his jewels so he can run and tell Itarillë his new name.

She smiles when she hears it, and urges back to his throne. "Atto, make the announcement! He's ready."

"May I have your attention, everyone?" Turukáno says, smiling just as widely to see Lómion bouncing in his seat with pride. "I hereby present to you Prince Lómion Tyelperihen, son of Queen Írissë! Let us have a toast."

All the guests and their children are drinking sparkling apple cider, since keeping wine away from a whole room of elflings is too much of an ordeal to be worth the trouble, and they raise their glasses. Parents urge their little ones to raise their sippy-cups for the toast.

Then the formal part is over and the children can play together. Lómion and Aeglosser and a pair of eleven-year-old twins, Calarcala's younger siblings, gather together on the lowest step of the dais with colored pencils to draw pictures of one another's toys.

Lunch is a splendid affair, but Lómion and the other children only have eyes for the cake, a three-tiered frosted confection with orange slices and chocolate.

"Can we save a slice for Mama?" says Lómion.

"Of course we can," says Turukáno, and it stings less than it did before, being reminded that Írissë is absent. Lómion is only trying to look after her in the best way he can -- the old, unfair bitterness is faded now. He likes to think it would have, even had Lómion not told him that Írissë's illness is curse or poison and not the ailment of Míriel (and he would hardly be surprised if she fell to that malady, when Lómion is a Maia-child in some part), because even that would not be Lómion's fault in the least. Looking at Lómion now, on his twelfth begetting day, he feels nothing but pride.

The slice is dutifully brought upstairs to Írissë in Lómion's little hands, careful not to drop it, and afterwards a gaggle of master artisans come to show him their crafts and let him try, at least try the kinds of things a twelve-year-old can do. Itarillë goes first, since she insists.

"See, Lómion, I take glass and arrange it into pictures," she says, cutting thin pieces of paper and gluing them together into an approximation of stained glass as Lómion arranges his own pieces. "You are due to visit my workshop in a few days, and you will see more then! But hold your art up to the light."

"Wow!" he says, and Itarillë ruffles his hair. There is less light than is typical for a party, in deference to his sensitive eyes, but it is more than enough to light up his picture, and those of all the other elflings going along with the craft-search. They will each have their own in time, but it's a good way to play.

Lómion likes building things with sticks (an approximation of wood-crafting) well enough, but it doesn't capture his attention as well as dancing and music, though he's too shy to sing. He likes hearing stories more than telling them, and although he enjoys being shown how to do calligraphy, he's soon off to the next craft. Drawing he likes as much as any child, and he looks adorable in his painting smock, but he likes plants even better, even though he seems mistrustful of them at first, as if they'll be rude to him.

But when Rôg hands him a long piece of gold wire, Lómion goes even quieter than usual, entirely absorbed. No one can get his attention as he twists it into incomprehensible patterns, but Turukáno can see how wide his pupils have gone.

After a while, he runs to his baby throne, where he left the jewel-box, and takes out some of the gems, wrapping them in the wire. He examines each stone first, careful and deliberate, and when he's finished he runs to Turukáno again.

"I made a bracelet for Mama," he says, holding it up. "Will she like it? And also can I have more wire so I can make flowers out of them?"

"Oh, Lómion," says Turukáno, "she will love it."

Chapter Text

"Today we will visit the House of the Hammer of Wrath," says Turukáno. "You will see Lord Rôg and his workshops, and learn what they do."

"Do I have to talk?" says Lómion, still sleepy because he stayed up late the night before with Dínalagos and the other Hunters to celebrate his twelfth year in the tradition of Oromë (which apparently was a secret but involved playing tag).

"I would appreciate if you said hello, thank you, and goodbye, but I won't ask you for more. You may ask as many questions as you like, if you have them."

"I want to wear those today," says Lómion, pointing at a pair of jeweled hairpins in the jewelry box on his dresser, which threatens to overflow even though Findekáno sent a second enameled box to store more. To be fair, the second box was half-full already with adornments when it was given.

Turukáno binds up Lómion's braids in a bun and secures it with the pins. "Today you must give your first gift as a prince, Lómion. Let's look in your jewelry boxes to find something to give Lord Rôg."

"Why?"

"We honor our people and their loyalty with gifts," says Turukáno. "From what I have heard, King Thingol does it in much the same way. It isn't the same as presents given just from one person to another. Today you will give him a gift, which someday he will likely give to one of his people in thanks, and they will pass it on, and someday it may even come back to you! It is right for a lord to be free with his gifts."

He doesn't expect Lómion to understand this right away, but it's good to start him thinking about it early. Lómion digs through the boxes for a suitable gift, but frowns at nearly everything he finds.

At last Lómion pulls out a gold armband decorated in jet. "It looks like what he wears at meetings," he says. "Can I give him this?"

"A very good choice. Are you ready to put on your cloak and go over? As soon as we're back, we'll have lunch and tell your Ammë all about it," he says.

Lómion peers at the forges and workshops at the Hammer of Wrath with the quiet curiosity of a child totally captivated.

"This is where we do big pieces," says Rôg, pointing to one room. "Things like equipment and parts of buildings and such, and big wrought-iron gates. We have rooms for regular sized works too, like swords and bowls, and more for fine and detailed work, like jewelry, and the jewelry room connects to the wing of stonecraft -- sculptures, stonecutting, gemcutting."

"Can I see the rocks?" says Lómion.

"Of course! Follow me." In a low tone, Rôg says to Turukáno, "When he knows his way around, tell him he's welcome to come by and watch the smiths or whoever he wants! Our House doesn't have any elflings right now, and everybody would be glad to see him."

"I'm sure he'll be here every week once he knows the way."

"Well, I have some steep competition," says Rôg. "Laurefindelë intends to let him play with the winter-born foals."

It takes them two hours to pry Lómion from the stone storage room, and even then, he only goes because he is hungry. Sereglang, foremost master of stone-lore, pats him on the head after telling him the names of everything he can reach, and they give him twenty-six stones to take home.

"You did very well today," says Turukáno on their walk back to the Tower. His walk, mostly, because Lómion is tired and has to be picked up. "I'm very proud of you! I know it's new to you, being a prince, but you're learning already."

"I want to show Mama my new rocks. Also I want to learn to write their names," says Lómion. He pulls one out of the bag and pushes it towards Turukáno's face. "This one is called cat's-eye quartz. I like cats."

"Lord Rôg says you're welcome to visit anytime, once you know your way around," says Turukáno, absolutely not already thinking about what kind of kitten to give him.

Lómion beams.

They sit for the royal portrait in summer, rather than spring, because introducing Lómion to Ondolindë is a longer endeavor than anyone thought. But Lómion is learning his tengwar, and can spell some words in cirth (as Antar and Meleth proudly announce), and every week goes to the House of the Hammer of Wrath to learn about stone and metalcraft, usually brought by one of his caretakers but sometimes, very carefully, alone.

Today, to sit still to be painted, he has silver wire in his little hands to shape into flowers as he pleases. Turukáno has Lómion sitting on his left knee, for in the custom of portraiture this says him to be the child of Turukáno's younger sibling, and Itarillë stands to Turukáno's right shoulder, for she is his heir.

The three of them glitter in their favorite jewels as Ortólos of the Fountain paints them, and Turukáno is sure that the portrait will be beautiful. In the meantime, Itarillë makes faces at Lómion to entertain him and he makes faces back, giggling. He's young for a royal portrait -- Itarillë didn't join the first family painting until she was nearly twenty -- but then, Itarillë has been raised entirely in the love of all her kin, and Lómion has not; he must be made to feel part of the family in every way.

Turukáno knows that the children (what a lovely thing, to be able to call them the children, even if Itarillë is a woman grown) must be speaking mind-to-mind, because Itarillë likes to make Lómion crack up in the middle of meetings and dinners. Sure enough, Lómion can't control himself and laughs out loud.

"What kind of joke is Ityë telling you this time?" says Turukáno.

Lómion looks at Itarillë, who says, "Go ahead!"

"Uncle, where do stones sleep?" says Lómion, eyes shining bright.

Turukáno makes a big show of thinking about it, then says, "I don't know, little one. Where do stones sleep?"

"In the bedrock!" Lómion collapses into giggles, and even Ortólos cracks a smile.

"A very good joke," says Turukáno, kissing his head. "Now let's try to sit still for a while, to let Ortólos have an easier time of it."

At the two hour mark, Calarcala comes in with snacks. Lómion pouts at the lack of cherries, but Turukáno is glad to keep everyone's clothes from getting stained.

Calarcala comes to Lómion, holding a pink crystal on a stick, and says, "Your highness, this is an edible sugar crystal that we made for you in the kitchen. But be careful! It may get sticky, so don't touch the crystal itself."

"Thank you," says Lómion, and puts as much of it in his mouth as can fit.

Turukáno pets his hair as he eats. Getting Lómion not to put rocks in his mouth has been something of an ordeal -- and Lómion's right that some stones look so pretty and edible -- and finally he has a way to satisfy that urge! He makes a mental note to ask Master Ruscundil if anyone in his kitchen can make chocolates that look like stones, too.

After a while, he notices that Lómion keeps sneaking glances at Ortólos's paints, in the way that means he's curious but doesn't want to talk.

"You can ask questions if you want to," he says, but Lómion shakes his head and snuggles closer to him. "Or you can tell me and Ityë and we can ask for you."

Lómion still looks unsure, but eventually whispers, "Lots of colors are made with rocks. Are those?"

"Ortólos, are any of your paints from mineral pigments?" says Turukáno.

"Why, yes. A number of these shades come from clay, and these blues can be made with skystone, though we've found other methods. Some of these paints have their minerals ground up just fine enough to paint, but not so much that one can't see them glitter," says Ortólos. "I have them all labeled in my main studio."

"Can I visit?" Lómion whispers. "I want to see how rocks turn into paint."

"I think that can be arranged," says Turukáno. "And Itarillë also works with color pigments, so you could see how they're different for glass and for paint."

"Can I, Ityë?"

"Of course," says Itarillë. "We'll have a sleepover at my house, and I'll show you everything you want!"

Lómion is pleased with this, and settles in to hold still while they're painted.

Eventually, Ortólos sets down the palette of paint and says, "I have finished painting his highness, so he can leave if he wishes. I know it's hard for younger elflings."

Turukáno folds instantly to Lómion's pleading look. "Go to Antar and Meleth, then, if you want to leave. They'll play with you until we're done."

"Thank you!" Lómion jumps out of his lap and rushes off.

"Say thank you to Ortólos!" Turukáno calls after him.

"Thank you, Ortólos!"

For a while, it is quiet in the throne room.

Then Itarillë breaks the silence. "It really is too bad that Aunt Írissë isn't here to be in the portrait with us. But, knowing her, she may well wake up as soon as we finish, just to make it necessary to do things over again."

"Mistress Cerualassë says that Írissë has regained some color, and that her breathing is deeper and smoother," says Turukáno, trying not to imagine Írissë on her throne beside him, holding Lómion close in her lap and kissing his head whenever he laughs. "She says it is only a matter of time. I hope so."

To grieve her twice will break us, says Itarillë into his mind. You remember how Lómion was, that first week after she fell asleep for good -- half-dazed, crying whenever he remembered she wasn't there.

"She'll be very proud when she wakes," says Turukáno.

"Oh, that's for certain," says Itarillë cheerfully. "She'll have your head for giving him so many sweets, I don't doubt. I did catch you thinking about mineral-looking chocolates."

"Easier than keeping him from putting all rocks in his mouth."

She shrugs. "True enough. I'm taking him to the great library tomorrow, don't forget! And through the market on the way back. He needs to try more different foods."

"Thank you for making him feel at home." He adds, Have you Seen anything else in his future?

Nothing definite. There is an uneasiness in me, but I cannot see whether it is what will be, or what might be, or what might have been, in futures close but already stopped, she says. Each day the unease fades. Whatever ill fate he might have met, I think it is lesser than it was.

I am glad.

The painting is hung in the gallery, the first new portrait since Itarillë took up her place as Lady of the House of the Wing. Turukáno looks at it, joy and pride mingling with the bitterness of the absence of Írissë.

"Ai, sister," he murmurs, even though she is floors and floors away up in her room, "how perfect it would be, seeing our children play together, if only you were here!"

As summer turns slowly towards fall, Lómion comes back from the Hammer of Wrath in the afternoon and comes right to Turukáno's meeting room, without a care for whatever conferences he might be having (Lómion is too young to understand that yet). Turukáno helps him up into his lap without stopping his conversation with Rainacanyë, and Lómion snuggles in, pours out all the gemstones in his little bag, and starts sorting them.

This is a common happening, and Rainacanyë takes it in stride. Lómion's collection of stones grows every day, and he has taken to carrying his favorites everywhere and sorting the collection whenever he's given new ones, to determine whether he should include them in his favorites.

Normally he sorts by color first, but today, Turukáno notes, he carefully groups some stones of different colors together. It is methodical, though, not random, and he wonders why.

Rainacanyë leaves after half an hour and inviting Lómion to tea with Aeglosser and Egalmoth, and Lómion continues sorting as Antar and Meleth come in.

"So this is where you got to!" says Meleth. "He gave us the slip after coming back from Sereglang's stone workshop."

"I have a secret project," says Lómion, "but it's secret so you don't get to know yet."

"We know what it is," says Antar in a stage whisper.

Lómion squawks, outraged. "No! Don't tell him!"

"My lips are sealed," says Antar merrily. "What about you, Meleth?"

"Mine, too. But I could be persuaded to give a hint..." She trails off teasingly, laughing when Lómion starts tugging her sleeve pleadingly and asking her not to tell. "All right, all right. How is sorting your stones going?"

Lómion points at a group of stones that are mostly yellow and orange with one blue. "These are the same kind but not color. It's called topaz."

"Do you want to show your new trick?" says Meleth. "It's very impressive."

Lómion brightens and says, "Watch me!" and then carefully, deliberately, touches a finger to the biggest topaz, concentration written on his little face.

The stone lights up with inner fire, glowing like the jewel-lamps, but not a plain and unchanging light -- it moves like flame, like breath; it scintillates.

Lómion stops touching the stone, and it goes dark. He looks up at Turukáno for the approval and praise he wants.

"Very good!" says Turukáno, who really needs to find him a magic teacher. "What a wonderful new skill! Can you show me again?"

Lómion touches a piece of skystone this time, and when it lights it glows like the night sky.

"How beautiful!" says Turukáno. He kisses Lómion's soft cheek. "You have so many talents, little one. Do you want to sit in on my next meeting, too, or do Meleth and Antar have plans?"

"Kitchen time," says Lómion.

"Calarcala is teaching him to make rock candy," Antar explains. "Then we're going to practice letters and the names of colors in Quenya, and play some music."

"Then settle in for quiet reading time before dinner," Meleth finishes. "Unless your majesty had other plans?"

"Oh, no; I have a busy day ahead. He can come sit in and sort things again if he likes," Turukáno says. He kisses Lómion's head and lets him out of his lap.

Lómion packs up his rocks, hugs Turukáno, and hops down, ready for his afternoon adventures.

Turukáno hears about Lómion's secret project intermittently for nearly a month -- apparently he only works on it while visiting the Hammer of Wrath, which he has less time for now that the days are shorter, and he needs to be fitted for new winter clothes, and Itarillë keeps inviting him to her workshop and practicing ósanwe with him, and Turukáno takes him outside the city proper to teach him about the harvest, and Ingóle-heri (the eldest and wisest of all the elves of Ondolindë, so old that her name is more of a title than anything) teaches him magic.

The secret project remains steadfastly secret, though. Apparently it is something that Lómion wants to be a total surprise when he first shows it to his family, and Turukáno therefore won't pry.

So when Lómion comes to family dinner carrying a different box from the ones where he keeps his stones, Turukáno has no clue what to expect.

"This is my special secret project," Lómion announces, opening the box.

He pulls out a haphazard crown of fine metal wire, with polished gemstones set in it by wrapping the wire about them. Some seem as if they'll fall out in a light breeze, while others can barely be seen, covered by their bindings, and wire flowers are placed around the crown at irregular intervals. It is, in short, the most beautiful crown Turukáno has ever seen. And already such progress in skill, after the bracelet for Írissë only nine months ago!

"For you," says Lómion, pushing it to Turukáno. "This one's for Ityë and this other one's for Mama."

Turukáno takes off his circlet and replaces it with Lómion's crown. It fits perfectly -- someone must have given him the measurement and helped him shape the gold and silver wire just so. "I love it, Lómion," he says, touched more than he can say. "Thank you for your gift! It was made with great skill."

"The gems you picked are perfect," says Itarillë, examining her crown before putting it on. "I love sapphire and skystone! Did you make yourself one, too?"

He turns shy suddenly. "No."

"Maybe we can make you one, then, if you show us how," she suggests. "Overmorrow, perhaps? Does that sound fun?"

"We'd love for you to teach us, so we can make you something nice," Turukáno agrees.

Lómion's face is bright red, as it always is when people are a little too loving or appreciative of him and he can't handle it. "It sounds fun."

Turukáno can't help but scoop him up, then, heart so full he can hardly bear it. Lómion doesn't need to see him cry happy tears about being given such a wonderful and kind gift -- and what a gift it is, to know that Lómion loves him and Itarillë enough to make things for them that took weeks!

"Let us go and give your Mama her crown," he says, and hopes he doesn't sound too choked up.

Lómion only snuggles into him until he's comfortable, and doesn't say a word. With the content smile on his tiny face, he doesn't need to.