Waiting for the Thunder by Kimberleighe

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Waiting for the Thunder

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                “When shall we meet again?” The question was thrown out like a challenge.

The speaker stood tall in the doorway, watching the hasty packing of the man inside.  Her chin tilted proudly, eyes bright with unspoken emotion as he stilled his hands.  The man let out a deep sigh, shoulders visibly deflating as he rose, facing her. 

                “You will not come with me?  With your children and their families?” He slowly approached her, gaze intent on her face, as if he was deciphering her expression.  She hated the way he could read her so easily.  Her eyes narrowed slightly and she shook her head once. 

“No, I will not follow Fëanáro in his vengeance, Aracáno.”  She did not move into the room, waiting for him to reach her. 

                “Anairë,” the words were a soft plea, hands sliding up her arms to rest on her shoulders. 

                Her heart begged her to reconsider, reminded her that she would hate being parted from him.  She looked out the nearby window into the darkness broken dimly by a few torches.  In the distance, she could see the gathering glow of those who would follow the eldest son of Finwë.  Thinking of Aracáno’s elder brother caused her lips to curl resentfully.  She had little love for Fëanáro.

                “My mind is set, Aracáno,” the words were bitter in her mouth.

She refused to allow the pain the words caused her to show.  He only smiled sadly with a nod, drawing her into an embrace.

                “When I return to you,” he began, smoothing her dark hair carefully.  Anairë closed her eyes, focusing only on the sound of his voice.  “It shall be with thunder and lightning.”

She smiled, leaning back to gaze up at him. 

                “Will there be rain?” she replied, caught up in the memories of past meetings.

                She remembered the introductions as children.  She had been bold and brash, gazing at the quiet middle son of Finwë and dismissing him immediately as boring.  As soon as their parents were occupied with idle chatter, she had snuck outdoors.  When she had climbed the tallest tree near Finwë’s home, he had followed her up the branches.  That alone had caused her to reconsider her previous classification. 

                “There is a storm coming,” were the first words Nolofinwë (as he had been introduced to her) had uttered to her.

Anairë remembered throwing her braids over her shoulders with a laugh.  She had stood tall, facing the dark clouds.

                “Let the thunder come,” she replied.

He had braved the storm with her, until the rain (and their parents) had driven them indoors.  They spent their childhood never far apart.

                She remembered hearing the rumors of his father pushing for him to take a mate.  Her heart had objected, sudden jealously sweeping through her as she listened to her mother gossip at the dinner table.  Anairë had always considered him hers; she could not share him with another lady.

                “Come to Alqualondë with me.  I have never explored the caves there,” his invitation had been sudden.

She never turned down an adventure with him, glad to be free from the city and its terrible gossip.  Aracáno’s mood had improved as the distance between them and Tirion increased.  They laughed freely, racing their horses beside the tall mountains of Manwë.  The underwater caves had proved to be worth the trip, yet they had been caught far from the city when the rain began pouring in sheets. 

                “There,” he had pointed to a grove of trees.  His hand had been hot through her dress when it rested on the small of her back. 

For once, she had not protested his touch.  It was only after some laughter, dinner and the wine she’d filched from her parents’ kitchens that she had dared broach the subject heavy on her mind.

                “I’ve heard your father intends for you to marry.”  For the first time, she wished for her mother’s eloquence.

                His light eyes had stared at her, blinking once as his expression suddenly became guarded.  Anairë looked away, mentally berating herself for bringing up the topic.

                “Yes, he does,” he had finally answered.  “But, I do not think the lady he intends would agree to it.”

                “Who is she?” Anairë’s question was quick.  The bitterness was not completely erased from her voice.  She watched the rain, suddenly agitated by the silence.

His fingers had been gentle, cupping her chin to guide her to look at him.

                “You.”

She had forgotten how to breathe.  When he withdrew his hand, she had caught a glimpse of pain in his expression.  She quickly grabbed his hand, forcing his eyes to return to her.

                “Why haven’t I been made aware of this?” her mouth finally worked.

                “I saw no reason,” he began.

                “You are an idiot, Aracáno,” she interrupted, catching his face darken at her words.  “Of course I would never agree to it.  You kept it secret.”

                His gaze remained concentrated on her, and she was surprised when his response was quick.

                “Fine, Anairë.  Would you consider betrothing yourself to me?  Becoming my wife?”

Usually she would sit in the silence while he debated his next words, but instead, she was the one mulling over an answer.  She tilted her head to the side.

                “Yes, Nolo, I would,” she kept her chin high to hide her uncertainty. 

                “Are you certain?” she could gather nothing from his expression.

Her brows raised in a silent warning.  Slowly, a smile spread across his face.  It was contagious, Anairë found.  His fingers touched her cheek gently.

                “Then I will commission the rings when we return,” his voice was low.

                “Do not let Fëanáro craft them,” she replied. 

He had laughed then, and nodded.  “I will make sure of it, Anairë.  Any other demands?”

                “A kiss,” she replied boldly.

Again, he surprised her, barely hesitating before leaning over, lips firm against hers.  The hand that had caressed her cheek curled around her neck, keeping her close.  She responded, fingers clasping his collar to keep him close.  She smiled against his lips, causing him to retreat, brow furrowed with concern.

                “What?”

She brushed back a stray piece of his hair.  “I did not mean to call you an idiot.”

He had only laughed and kissed her again.

True to his word, he had commissioned the rings once they returned to Tirion.  The years since had been filled with both joy and strife.  Gladly she had stood beside him, up until this moment.  Now they stood on opposite sides of an argument, neither willing to concede their position.  She returned to the present, to his hands soft on her hair.  Her arms tightened around his waist, wishing she could persuade him to stay.  His fingers tilted her chin up so their gazes met. 

                “We will meet again, Anairë,” he promised.  “I cannot long be parted from you.  You are my heart, my fire.”

She whispered her love, hearing her sons already calling for their father to hurry.  He strapped his sword to his waist, picking up the pack.  She stepped aside from the threshold so he could pass.  He wavered only a moment beside her, memorizing her face before disappearing down the hall.

The hooves of the departing horses thundered towards the sheer mountains of Manwë.  She was left in the silence, awaiting rain and the next flash of light to herald his return.