Actions and Their Consquences

Of Complicated Relationships

After Dior had properly met Celegorm, she gradually became more comfortable in Himring. Curufin was still cold and spitefully resentful of her, and Caranthir was still distant, but her husband assure her that Caranthir had always been like that to everyone, and not to worry about Curufin who was just bitter because he had lost his wife in the Dagor Bragollach, and his son to Nargothrond. 

Maglor was quiet and charming and genuinely nice to her. Amras was bright and merry, seemingly overjoyed to no longer be the youngest, and quite willing to get to know her. Celegorm was a hunter, a lover of animals, and both of them got along very well. They had initially bonded over hounds, but as they had discovered more and more of the same interests, in horses, in hounds, in plants, in rolling plains and wild races across them, for all that she had the strength to do such rarely, they had become firm friends. The love of horses and hunting, she found, extended to Amras, and whenever she was well enough, the three often could be found riding wild races.

But it was Maedhros who, for all that she got along well with his wildest brother, she liked best. He was kind to her, and he understood the frustration that came of having to remain behind because she physically could not mount her horse that day. When she woke shivering and freezing and crotchety from a cold, he made sure to keep the fire in their cavernous room roaring, and ordered the kitchens to make chicken broth for her, feeding it to her himself as gently as if she were made of glass. And she reciprocated. When he woke in the night, rigid with terror and remembered pain, it was she who would light the lamps and hold his one remaining hand until his eyes focused and he could breathe again.

Dior was happy, with the sort of quiet contentment that leaves you always wondering if you really are happy, or just resigned. 

Then the letter came.

***********************

The great wooden doors of the keep were flung open with a bang, and three snow-covered laughing elves came in. 

"I totally won, and you know it!" 

"You did not! Stop being an ass Celegorm. Amras, back me up!"

"She's right Tyelko, I won." 

"No you didn't!" The trio clattered up the stairs, bickering merrily as they went. When they reached the corridor that held the different bedchambers, they seperated off, waving exaggerated goodbyes. 

Dior opened the door, and sighed to see Maedhros still diligently paring away the paperwork mountain he had been working on when she left. A pang of guilt went through her, for all that she had been there only seven months, Himring was as much her home as Menegroth, and she had waltzed off today leaving Maedhros with the lion's share of the work. "I'm sorry Maedhros."

He looked up, and gave her a grave smile. "It is fine Dior. You do not need to be cooped up in here forever, and you needed the fresh air today." Standing up, he pushed his chair back and cane over to her as she hung her cloak on a hook behind the door. "You didn't spend too long in the cold did you?" 

"No I didn't, promise." Sometimes she felt more like his ward than his wife, which admittedly did fit their relationship in most ways. 

"Good, you are barely recovered as it is. Come." He flung a warm robe over her shoulders and guided her to sit in one of the soft chairs by the fire, then gave her a pile of letters. "From Doriath, all for you my dear."

Dior eagerly ripped into the top one, her face aglow. "It's from Daernana and Daerada!'' She read it avidly, confused initially at its brevity. Then she read it again, her face paling. A third time, a sort of strangled sob escaping her lips. Then she slumped in a dead faint. Alarmed, Maedhros was only just in time to grab her before she slid off her chair and right into the fire. 

He laid her on the bed and waited as her eyelids fluttered. "Maedhros?" Dior's eyes focused. She saw the question in his, and flinched away. "Read it. I...I don't think I can..." 

And he did.

Dior Riswen, Lady of Himring, Princess of Doriath, Heiress of Ladros

Dearest little one,

We hope that you are happy in Himring, far away from our daughter and her husband, where you can be who you wish. As always, we are so dreadfully sorry that you must be the one to bear this punishment, and that you are so estranged from your parents.

And we are sorry to be the bearers of this news. Little one, you have a sister, named Elwing. And Luthien is dead. She died in childbirth, and Beren does not wish to see the babe. He is half mad with grief, and will in all likelihood soon follow Luthien to beyond Arda. 

Elwing is but a babe, and she is the image of Luthien. It is...painful to look on her, and we would not be able to give her the love that she needs. So we send her to you. Please Dior, raise your sister with the love that we cannot give her.

She will hopefully arrive at Himring a week after our letter.

With all of our love,

Daerada and Daernana

Lúthien...was dead. And her husband would probably follow her soon. He wasn't sure what to feel about it. They were pests, arrogant and petty certainly, but they were also his wife's parents, and though she resented them and had been belittled by them her whole life, she still had some kind of grim remnant of love for them. 

Then it hit him...Elwing, Lúthien's other daughter...here, to Himring. Dior was nineteen, a child still, too young to be married, and he was old and tainted and a Kinslayer. Plus his five brothers. Dior was weak physically, and he mentally. Neither of them was fit to raise a child, nor entirely willing. Yet Thingol and Melian, who had raised the Tinuviel and all but raised her daughter, purely for the resemblance that the innocent babe had to her deceased mother, would not raise her, and were sending her to her sister and said sister's Kinslayer husband and brothers. Great. Wonderful. This was a Finno level disaster. 

"Maedhros?" His young wife's voice was so quiet that he wasn't even entirely sure that he heard it. She was twisting her fingers together, warring emotions clearly visible within her.  "I...I don't know..." He knew the feeling all to well. Whether to rejoice at the death of one who had treated you ill, or to mourn the death of one who had given you life. She saw the understanding in his eyes, and grief won out as tears began to slip down her cheeks. Drawing Dior into a gentle embrace, he held her as the girl wept, and outside a storm raged.