Chapter Text
They were at council when Eönwë arrived, which meant Ingwion was kicked back in his chair with his eyes fixed somewhere over his father’s shoulder, listening intently to everything everyone said, including the low murmurs his father was not intended to hear.
His notes were in a shorthand of his own devising which conveniently–and intentionally–looked like doodles.
Eönwë appeared in the doorway, holding an elf by the collar like a scruffed kitten.
Ingwion’s head tilted, setting his circlet askew. In the moment before anyone else on the council realized the Herald was there, Ingwion had time to take in the Sinda: his hair was an interesting shade of dark silver, something almost iridescent about it, like the silver of his hair was somehow tarnishing, and his eyes were deep set and dark. His mouth was twisted in both malcontent and discomfort, Ingwion thought, and he was dripping blood to the floor, though the site of the injury wasn’t immediately obvious.
The High King broke off, looking at the Herald, and then Eönwë strode across the room to drop his charge at Ingwë’s feet. “High King,” Eönwë said gravely, “Lord Manwë requests that you see to justice in this case, as the jurisdiction is clearly more yours than his.”
“I see,” Ingwë said, though he clearly did not. “Tell me, friend, what it is you have brought to me?”
“This is Narcon Yúyalhano, called Eöl in the old tongue,” Eönwë said.
Ingwion traced the dark-elf’s name in his notes, down the margin. He knew the story, of course, though his given name was new.
“He has broken the command of Lord Oromë, who banned him from the Woods, and he has harassed Lómion Maicitilo and Irissë Areteldë, and assaulted Eldatanno Pereldion. His injury was sustained in the altercation, when he was asked to leave and would not do so.”
Ingwë nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I will see that justice is served. Ingwion,” he said, turning to his son.
Ingwion sat up as if only just noticing their visitors. “Oh, hi Eönwë.”
Eönwë smiled briefly at him.
“Take him to healers, please,” Ingwë said. “Keep him well watched.”
Ingwion bowed politely to his father and gestured sharply for Eöl to follow him.
The surly dark elf did so with a soft snarl.
At the healers, Ingwion asked mildly, “What’s hurt?”
Eöl thrust his hand in the healer’s direction. The shaft of an arrow had been broken off on either side of his palm, pierced straight through.
“Uh,” the young apprentice said, looking at the privacy screen.
“He’s a criminal under guard,” Ingwion said benignly. “So we can go behind the screen, but I have to go with you.”
Her eyes got big.
“Shoo,” Liltissë, the head healer, said kindly. “I’ll take this.” She ignored Eöl entirely in favor of his bleeding hand, and he snarled at her when she took his wrist. She snarled back, unperturbed.
Eöl looked taken back.
Liltissë took that moment to push the shaft from his hand, so his affronted face crumpled into pain immediately.
Ingwion caught Eöl’s free hand when he, seemingly by instinct, swung at Liltissë. Eöl turned on him with a snarl, and Ingwion carefully subdued him, pinning the smaller elf to his chest with his good hand caught between their bodies.
Liltissë casually reclaimed his injured hand with an absent, “Thank you,” to Ingwion, and started singing over the wound.
Ingwion looked down into Eöl’s eyes.
His pupils were narrowed down to pinpricks, and his dark irises were bronze-flecked. His teeth were gritted, though in pain or fury it was hard to say. “Sorry,” Ingwion said quietly. “But it’s better if you don’t hurt yourself or the healer.”
Eöl gave a low, wordless growl, but didn’t struggle in Ingwion’s hold.
When Liltissë was finished, Ingwion released Eöl immediately.
Eöl sneered at him, but when Liltissë demanded his attention to discuss the care of his hand wound, he gave it to her with little enough ill will.
The steward found Ingwion as they were leaving the healers. Ingwion was trying to decide what to do with Eöl–they didn’t have a prison in Valmar–when he appeared. “High Prince,” he said evenly. “I’ve prepared quarters for our guest.”
“Perfect,” Ingwion said gratefully, and gestured for Eöl to follow.
Eöl sneered at him again, but went into his rooms without a word.
Ingwion didn’t follow him in. It would be his space, and Ingwion wouldn’t violate that without need. When Eöl shut the door in his face, Ingwion silently took the key from the steward and locked the Sinda in.
He and Ahyano exchanged a glance, and Ingwion shook his head. Then he returned to his father, and the council meeting, pausing to fix his circlet while he knew he was alone.
Ingwë didn’t address Eöl until supper that night. “What did you think?” he asked Ingwion
Ingwion shrugged. “Surly, rude, and considers himself deeply ill-used,” he reported. “But easy enough with the healers, and seemed willing to listen to Liltissë’s expertise.”
“Or he really wants the use of his hand back,” Ilwen said.
“Or that,” Ingwion agreed.
“Are you holding a trial?” Ilwen asked Ingwë.
Ingwë shook his head. “I wasn’t asked for a trial; I was asked for a ruling.”
“Disobedience to the Valar,” Ingwion said. “Harassment of other elves. Reckless endangerment,” he added wryly. “And he apparently assaulted Eldatanno.”
“I noticed that,” Ingwë said. “I assumed he was bothering Aretelde and Lómion and Eldatanno intervened.”
“You could banish him,” Ilwen said wryly.
“I don’t think that would be a punishment,” Ingwë replied, frowning at his supper. “And I certainly don’t think he’d learn anything that way.”
“No,” Ilwen agreed. Mock sadly, she added, “That means we have to keep him here, though.”
Ingwë huffed. “Yes, and keep looking in on him to make sure he’s not causing problems.”
“I can do that,” Ingwion offered.
“Are you sure? I could assign a guard to him.”
Ingwion shook his head. “He’d curdle,” he said.
Ingwë cocked an eyebrow.
Ingwion fumbled for his explanation for a moment. “He’d. Hmm. He’d resent a watch set on him,” he said. “And he’d stew and get mad.”
“He’d curdle,” Ilwen agreed. “As if he wasn’t already rotten to the core.”
“There’s something in there,” Ingwion replied. “He’s a craftsman; there has to be something in there, or he couldn’t make the things he did.”
Ilwen scoffed, but acceded.
“You think you can bring it out?” Ingwë asked.
“I think I outrank him enough that he can’t resent me being set on him.”
“He is a proud creature, by the stories,” Ingwë agreed. “And an arrogant one.”
“If he thinks he can outwit me, all the better,” Ingwion replied. “He’s supposed to be brilliant; maybe I can help him learn a few things.”
“You have a good heart, Nierëa,” Ingwë murmured.
Ingwion smiled. It was rare even for his parents to use his given name since he’d come of age on the Journey. In most ways, he preferred the patronymic, and most of the Vanyar appeared to have forgotten he had a name at all, but every now and then it was nice to be known, by his parents at least, as himself.
“So he stays here,” Ilwen said. “And does what?”
“Put him to work,” Ingwion replied. “To keep him from the forges would be cruelty, I think.”
Ingwë nodded his agreement. “No weapons, though. Let him make tools and fittings; we always have need of those, and little harm could he do with them.” He hummed, thinking. “There are rooms in the crafters’ wing,” he said slowly, “Down near the forges. He could stay in them. Where is he now?”
“Visiting dignitaries wing,” Ingwion answered. “Ahyano turned the doorknob around, so he’s currently locked in.”
“Well done,” Ingwë said, “But once he’s been sentenced, he’ll be on parole.”
Ilwen frowned. “And if he turns out to be violent? He did kill Arateldë, after all.”
“A one off, I think,” Ingwion said. “Though by all accounts he was aiming at Lómion.”
“Because that makes it better,” Ilwen murmured.
Ingwion inclined his head. “Worse, perhaps,” he answered. “But I don’t think he’s indiscriminate. I don’t think we are in danger from him.”
“And Eldatanno?” Ingwë asked curiously.
Ingwion had forgotten, for a moment, the assault on Eldatanno. “That’s true,” he said. “I rescind the statement.”
Ingwë smiled at him. “We should ask him about it,” he observed.
“Eöl? Or Eldatanno?” Ilwen inquired.
“I meant Eldatanno,” Ingwë said, startled nearly to laughter. “Although I suppose it could be interesting to ask Eöl, too.”
Ingwion did wonder how the Sinda justified his actions in his head. “I may have to ask him, I think. When I look in on him.”
“Once a day, I think. In the forges, to make sure he isn’t forging anything he oughtn’t.”
Ingwion nodded his agreement. “Sounds good to me.”
Eöl was less simmeringly furious the next day when he stood before the court of Valmar as Ingwë read his sentence. He’d drawn a kind of haughtiness about him like a cloak, and he looked no one in the face, not even the king, as if above it all.
The only expression he made through the whole proceeding was a bare twist of his mouth, like he’d smelled something foul but was too polite to mention it, when Ingwion was named his custodian.
However, Ingwion was engaged with his father greeting the new ambassador from Alqualondë after the sentencing, so a guard showed Eöl to his new room and his bench at the forges.
It was nearing suppertime by the time Ingwion had a spare moment to go down to the workshops and check in on his charge.
“You may as well skip the pleasantries,” Eöl said as he came in. He was working on something with wire and pliers on his bench, facing the door.
Ingwion inclined his head in question.
“You’re not going to be my friend, so you might as well not try,” the Sinda snapped. “I’ve no interest in anything you have to say, and have no desire to share anything with you either.”
“How about a meal?” Ingwion said blandly. “Nambissë says you haven’t left this room all day.”
Eöl narrowed his eyes.
Ingwion gestured with the tray he was carrying.
“Fine,” Eöl snapped.
Ingwion went to the desk in the corner, already scattered with plans, and settled the tray in the middle. He left the chair for its owner and settled quite easily on the coalbox.
Eöl, lip curled in a silent snarl, took his chair and his supper with sharp, jerky movements.
Ingwion picked up his sandwich blandly. “Does the workshop suit you?” he asked.
“Will you change it if I say no?” Eöl sneered.
Ingwion shrugged. “I would speak to Nambissë,” he said. “About making you more comfortable.”
“It’s suitable,” Eöl said shortly, and stuffed another bite in his mouth as if to make answering further impossible.
Ingwion nodded, and they passed the rest of the meal in a silence Ingwion refused to feel awkward about. Eöl grew tenser and more irritated as the meal wound on in silence.
Ingwion continued to eat as if nothing in the world could trouble him.
Eöl finished first, and shoved his plate back onto Ingwion’s tray, drained his cup, and sat back in his chair with his arms crossed.
Ingwion chewed the last few bits of his sandwich, and then set his flatware carefully on the tray as well. Then he drank the rest of the juice, blotted his mouth with a napkin, and looked up at his charge. “A question, then,” he said.
“What?” Eöl snapped.
“What makes you better than anyone else?”
Eöl gaped at him, not quite spluttering, but nearer to it than he probably liked.
Ingwion held his ground and the other ner’s eyes steadily. As the silence stretched, he arched one eyebrow.
Eöl snarled, slammed away from his desk, and stormed back to his workbench.
Ingwion very carefully didn’t smile till he was out of the crafter’s halls entirely.
The next afternoon, Ingwion’s meeting with the University Board ran longer than anticipated; an alumni donor was trying to put stipulations on what kind of students qualified for the endowment scholarship he wanted to found, and though he hadn’t outright said he meant it to be Vanya only, the subtext was clear.
Ingwion finally said, “I’m sorry, if you can’t more clearly define your focus, the Board is going to overrule you and remove criterion five entirely.”
The ner poofed up like an affronted hen and snapped, “Then maybe I’ll take my funds elsewhere!”
The Board Head said, “If it gets me out of this interminable discussion I might be fine with that.” She glanced at Ingwion with an eyebrow raised.
Ingwion nodded. “Sir, it’s clear to all of us that you’re trying to limit your endowment to Vanyar of noble breeding without outright saying it.”
“So?” he snapped.
Ingwion sighed. “It runs entirely counter to the University’s charter, for one,” he said wryly. “Also it makes you look both classist and rude.”
“You are what is wrong with education today!” the ner snarled accusingly, pointing at Ingwion, and stormed out.
Ingwion looked at the rest of the Board. “Do you think he means me specifically or the whole Board?” he asked. There had been more complaints since Ingwion had joined the University’s Board, but he hadn’t been a member when they’d rewritten the charter.
“He certainly seemed to mean you specifically,” Rúnamë said wryly.
Ingwion sighed. “He probably did,” he agreed. “Sorry?”
“I’m not,” another board member said wryly. “If that’s his attitude, we don’t want his money.”
“Can we really afford to lose it, though?” someone asked from down the table. Ingwion didn’t look away from his contemplation of the ceiling to see who.
“Yes,” Rúnamë said. “We can.” She looked around. “Any other business?”
Ingwion shook his head as his colleagues voiced their negatives.
“Great, wonderful, same time next month?” Rúnamë said, and waved their dismissal.
Ingwion shed his circlet immediately and headed for the kitchens to get a tray and returned to the crafter’s halls.
Eöl ignored him while he set up the food and took his place on the coalbox, but he did finish whatever he was doing and joined Ingwion at the desk after a few moments.
He scowled at the stew, mouth twisted.
Ingwion looked down at his own bowl, but couldn’t see anything wrong with it and couldn’t imagine Eöl wouldn’t tell him if there was. He ate in silence.
Eöl ate the meat and cabbage out of the stew, leaving the broth and tomatoes in the bowl. Ingwion silently shifted another piece of bread Eöl’s way. “Did you find an answer to my question?” he asked as Eöl chewed furiously on the toast.
“Pure natural superiority,” Eöl sneered.
Ingwion held his gaze, one eyebrow raised slightly incredulously for just long enough for Eöl to register his utter disbelief, and then broke their gazes again to put everything back on the tray. He hummed noncommittally. “Because you’re Sindar or because of your specific ancestry?” he asked.
Eöl scoffed. “Both,” he snapped.
Ingwion nodded. “Okay,” he said, voice light and even. “Have a good evening,” and then he left again.
His parents were in the sitting room when he got back to the Royal Wing. “That good?” Ilwen asked.
Ingwion flopped onto the nearest sofa with a groan. “I hate everyone,” he announced, draping his arm across his eyes.
Ingwë patted the top of his head. “Eöl, the university board, or something else?”
“Yes,” Ingwion replied.
Ilwen scoffed. “I heard a few of the conservatives complaining about you again,” she said wryly. “Did you really call Lord Lahtamo classist?”
Ingwion hummed an affirmative.
“I agree with the assessment, though I might not have said it out loud,” Ingwë said.
“Oh me too,” Ilwen said. “But you’d have thought he called him a servant of Morgoth, mad as they all were about it.”
Ingwion sighed gustily.
“And how is Eöl?” Ingwë asked.
“Naturally superior to everyone else,” Ingwion replied.
“Oh, so he’s classist too,” Ingwë said easily.
“I hate everyone,” Ingwion repeated.
Ingwë patted his head again. “Kingship is service, my son,” he intoned pompously.
“You most of all,” Ingwion retorted.