Like a Shadow of Shifting Silver by Kimberleighe

Chapter 1: Of Horses and Half-Brothers

Hail to pandemonium_213 for grammar corrections & input. 

Read Chapter 1: Of Horses and Half-Brothers

Chapter One: Of horses and half-brothers

 

                “I do not think this is a good idea.”

It was the man who spoke, his arms crossed over his chest and a dubious expression on his face.  The early morning breeze pulled at his dark brown hair, causing it to brush against his shoulders.  His companion, a lady with braided chestnut-brown hair, simply shook her head, hiking up her skirts to step onto and then straddle the fence.  This railing enclosed a young black stallion that eyed her sudden movement with an air of hostility.

                “Nonsense, Nolo.  Your father asked me to see to Lintaráto.”  Her feet lightly landed on the grass within the corral.  “The horse cannot be that bad.  Those,” her eyes rolled at the mere thought of her next word, “stable boys exaggerate.”

Her confidence did nothing to erase the anxiety from his face.  He perched himself on the fence, his gaze alternating between the still horse and her.  She extended her hand, soft and soothing words causing the horse’s black ears to stand alert to her.  She smiled slightly at the favorable response, inching closer as she maintained eye contact with the beast. 

                “Hello, Lintaráto,” she murmured.  “See, you are not as rotten as those idiots said.” 

She took another step, now within range of the horse’s hooves and teeth.  She closed her eyes, putting her focus into the continued calm that emanated from her.

                “Anairë,” Nolo’s quiet voice bore a warning.

Suddenly, Lintaráto’s ears flattened, and he reared up his front legs, intent on bringing his hooves down on Anairë.  She swiftly moved backwards, audibly cursing her skirts as they caught around her legs.  She fisted the material in her hands, turning and climbing up over the fence to safety.  Lintaráto angrily ran after her, stopping short of the fence and snorting condescendingly at her.  Her jaw clenched as she glared at the beast, breathing deep to still her racing heart.  Reluctantly, she bowed her head respectfully to Lintaráto; he had won this round.  The horse shook his head, mane whipping free in the wind as he returned to his corner of the enclosure.

                “Well, this shall be quite a bit more challenging than I anticipated.”  She glanced at Nolo after she finished speaking.

                “It seems so.”  He raised his brows slightly, clearly amused.

She pushed him after a moment, culminating in a bout of relieved laughter.

                “Don’t give me that look, Aracáno.  They always complain about the wild ones,” she explained, uncaring when his arm fell around her shoulders. 

                “I think next time a bit of caution will be appropriate,” he replied, gently steering her towards the city.

The towers of Tirion aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as silver rods.  They moved swift through the streets to the marketplace, already filled with activity in the early waxing of Laurelin.  Anairë smiled at the warm scent of fresh bread mixed with the delicate fragrance of flowers.  Her feet unconsciously followed Aracáno past all the vendors and up a quieter street that led directly towards the Mindon.  The tower and its bright light always caused her to pause in quiet awe.  He barely gave it a second glance, pushing open the tall silver gates marked proud with his father’s device.

“Atar!”  He caught sight of his father, and raised a hand in a quick wave.

                Finwë quickened down the white stone stairs, an easy smile on his face as he greeted his son with a firm embrace.

                “Nolofinwë, your mother is looking for you.  When she found your bed empty this morning, it gave her reason for concern.”  The father and son were strikingly similar in their features, possessing the same straight nose, high cheekbones and dark brown hair.  Aracáno’s lighter ash-grey eyes and golden hued skin bespoke of his mother’s lineage.  “I suspected you might have gone with Anairë to see my latest acquisition.  What did you think?”

His question was not directed at his son, but rather Anairë. 

                “Lintaráto is beautiful,” she answered quickly.  “But I believe it will take a bit of time before he is ready for a race.”

At that, Finwë frowned.  “I had hoped to use him in the games this year.  Your father said he could definitely lead us to victory over Ingwë.” 

                “If anyone is able, Atar, it is Anairë,” Aracáno supplied quickly, glancing at his friend. 

                “Report to me as soon as you have any progress then.”  Finwë glanced over his shoulder, hearing footsteps.  “Ah, Nolo, waylay your mother.  If she sees Anairë, she’s liable to report it to her brother.  I will not stand second to him this time.  Tirion will defeat Taniquetil!”

Aracáno quickly turned and traversed the steps.  After a moment, his voice rang low against his mother’s laughter.

                “I will not disappoint you, Lord Finwë,” Anairë promised, turning back towards the gate.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, a warm smile on his lips.

                “I have all the faith in you, Anairë.”

                She re-traced her steps through the city, leaving the bustle for the quiet hills outside.  Passing through the gate that led to their property, she caught sight of her father out with a few of their horses, the fastest in all of Tirion.  He was knelt beside one, a hoof resting on his thigh for inspection.

                “How are they, Atar?” she called, easily scaling the fence to join him.

Sartion gave his daughter a fond smile as she approached.  He straightened, saying a few soft words to the mare before she ambled towards the grazing herd.

                “Lord Oromë has been generous,” he replied, embracing her firmly.  “Two foals and one colt.  Though Finwë beat me to that stallion.  I heard a rumor…?”  He punctuated his words with a raised brow.

                “Atar, I cannot divulge that,” she said, nodding her head with a proud smile.

                “My daughter, tamer of beasts.”  She could see her father’s delight.  “I assume your mother does not know.”

                “You would be correct, as always, Atar,” she replied easily.  “And I would appreciate if it stayed that way.”

                “You know she almost secured an apprenticeship for you with one of the weavers in Tirion.”  Sartion opened the gate, motioning his daughter through to the path that led home. 

                “Almost, Atar.”  Anairë could not help her broad smile.

Her father’s eyes narrowed at her expression, and he quickly shook his head.

                “No, no, do not tell me, Ana!”  He waved at the air, as if able to stop her words from reaching his ears.

                “No fear, Atar.  I had nothing to do with it,” she replied.

                “I suspect Nolofinwë did?”  Their banter was quick as they approached their dwelling.

                “Eärwen.” 

                “I should have known.”  He kissed her hair.

                “There you both are!”  Nénuilsë’s hands rested on her curved hips as she watched their approach.

Her mother was an image of springtime dressed in a mint green; tiny pink and white flowers wound within the numerous twists of her raven hair.

                “Amil.”  Anairë kissed her cheek quickly, sweeping past to her seat at the table.

                “Did you leave any dirt for the horses, child?” her mother clucked, eyes sharp at the dirty hem and dusty skirts of Anairë’s dress.

                “I tried, Amil.  I really tried.”  She ignored the scold, forgetting it as soon as she sat.

                “How are the horses?” Nénuilsë greeted her husband with a kiss.

                “With proper training, they will be perfect.  Perhaps even Finwë may want one for his grandson.  Nelyafinwë is nearly eight.  I am surprised he has not yet­­—”

                “Finwë will bring Curufinwë to you soon,” Nénuilsë interrupted with a small smile, clapping her hands together, almost gleefully.  “Indis sent word that Nerdanel is with child again.”

                “Another already?” Sartion raised his brows.  “Well, given the number of children Finwë has begat, it should be no surprise his son follows that example.”  He pointed his finger at Anairë.  “When it comes time to choose a mate, make sure he has few siblings.”

Anairë sent her father a skeptical look, unable to stop her eye roll.  He hid his knowing smile well, glancing down at his wife.  Nénuilsë’s eyes coolly regarded her daughter, but she remained silent.  Lately, it seemed to be one argument after another: her mother pushing for Anairë to act properly and find a decent husband.  Anairë stubbornly refused to even listen.  What use did she have for a husband?  Anairë pointedly ignored her mother’s frown.

                “Atar, really!  You assume I will even bother marrying.”  She used her fork to snag a few pieces of fruit, and then some toast.

                “That is true.  It will be a miracle if I have any grandchildren,” Sartion laughed, taking a seat at the table.

An attendant was quick to bring him his morning letters, setting them beside his elbow.  Sartion murmured his thanks.

                “Sartion, do not indulge her,” Nénuilsë admonished with a frown.  “Of my close friends, only Elenetyë and I are left without grandchildren.  Indis and Alyalótë are well on their way.”

Sartion sent his daughter a quick glance, shaking his head when she opened her mouth to respond.  She sighed, instead returning to her toast and her mother’s narration of Tirion’s gossip.

--

                Anairë fidgeted with the silk of her dress, hating the feel of the material clinging to her legs with every step.  Nénuilsë had hailed the dark burgundy color as lovely, mentioning something about it bringing out Anairë’s eyes.  Yet, it was cut too low, too tight, and too thin for her taste.  She caught sight of part of the group already seated at the outdoor restaurant, and quickened her step to join them.

                “Anairë?  Varda’s stars, you look like a lady,” the golden haired son of Finwë called out with a grin.

Her mouth twisted into a frown at the sudden rush of attention sent her way.  She nearly jumped when a hand fell warm in the middle of her bare back. 

                “You should have expected his comment,” Aracáno’s murmur made her relax and unclench her fists.  She had been ready to throttle the person who dared touch her so familiarly.

                “Amil has filled my closet with,” she motioned to the dress, “this.”

Anairë had returned from her morning ride to find her closet completely cleared of her comfortable work dresses.  In their place, her mother had placed the thin and fashionable creations like the one she had been forced to wear today.

                “Well, I cannot sympathize with you since my mother has done nothing of the sort,” he replied, eliciting a smile from her.  His gaze briefly ran from head to toe.  “If it’s any consolation, you look nice.”

She ignored her brief delight at his compliment, instead pushing her hair back over her shoulder.

                “I would rather be comfortable,” she grumbled, allowing him to guide her towards the table.

                “You two are always late,” Eärwen complained, touching a hand to her silver hair.

She wore a crown of white and purple flowers to match her dress.  Anairë went to her side, pressing a kiss to her cheek fondly.

                “You are simply always early, Eärwen,” she replied.  “Where are the others?”

                “Rilyendë is delayed at her father’s forge, something about Fëanáro,” Arafinwë explained the empty chair beside him.  “Findis and Irimë had their own business to attend to.”

                “And Lúlalcë is no doubt unaware of the time,” Eärwen laughed.  “She was caught up in her words last week and barely sent an apology yesterday.”

                Anairë took the chair Aracáno pulled out for her, his chivalry all part of a routine.  She leaned towards Eärwen, the women instantly caught up in conversation.  Arafinwë quietly conversed with a server, pointing to something on the menu.  Aracáno simply rested his arm across the back of Anairë’s chair, listening to the ladies.  Their wine glasses were quickly filled, and a spread of fruits and cheeses was placed on the table.  Service was always quick and generous for the children of Finwë.

                “Nolo!  Ara!” All attention flew to the red haired boy that rushed up to them.

Aracáno spared his nephew a smile, scooting his chair back to allow him into his lap.  Russandol’s cheery smile was shared with them all.

                “And where is your mother, Russo?” he asked, glancing back at the street.

                “Amil is with Grandfather Mahtan,” Russandol replied with a shrug, gaze moving from plate to place.  “I was with Atar.”

                “Then where is your father?” Arafinwë cut in, his eye also on the crowd in search of his half-brother.

                “In his forge,” Russandol pointed to a piece of fruit.  “I would like that.”

Aracáno stared at his brother, a frown crossing his face.  Silently, Arafinwë just shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head.  It was Anairë that responded to Russandol’s request, placing the melon on Aracáno’s plate for the child.  Russandol took it with a bright smile and polite thanks.

                “That is blocks away, Russo.  You should not wander,” Aracáno admonished.  “Come on, eat your fruit, and I’ll take you back to your father.”

                “Nolo,” Russandol whined, and then stopped, seeing his uncle’s stern face.

                “Are you sure it is a good idea to interrupt Fëanáro at his work?” Arafinwë spoke quietly, keeping a pleasant tone to his words, though his expression revealed his uncertainty.

                “No, but we must return Russandol to him,” Aracáno replied, reaching over to sip at his wine. 

Anairë knew the prospect of disturbing Fëanáro in his forge would drive her to drink heavily before such an attempt.

                “Take him to your father, Nolo,” Eärwen said.  “Fëanáro probably hasn’t even noticed-”

                “Eärwen,” he cut her off, indicating Russandol’s awareness of their conversation.

                “I want to see Grandfather’s horses,” Russandol announced, glancing at Anairë, aware she was his most likely ally.  “Please, Uncle.”

                “It cannot hurt, Nolo,” Anairë murmured.

Aracáno sighed, his gaze caught with Anairë’s.  She simply raised her brows, glancing at Russandol.  The grandson of Finwë wore his most pitiful and pleading expression.  Aracáno’s unyielding expression softened at the corners of his eyes before he nodded.

                “I suppose we can send a messenger to Fëanáro,” he finally said.

Russandol leapt up with a laugh, grabbing his Uncle’s hand impatiently. 

                “Come on, Nolo!  Come on!”

                “I’ll handle the messenger, Nolo,” Arafinwë waved a hand at his brother, remaining seated beside Eärwen.

Anairë laughed at Aracáno’s uncertain face until Russandol tugged at her hand.

                “Anairë, come with us,” he pleaded.

She could not refuse, sweeping him up to set him on Aracáno’s shoulders. 

                The second Mingling Hour was nearly upon them when they returned to the House of Finwë.  Russandol ran ahead of them, eager to share his day with his mother and father.  Aracáno smiled tiredly at Anairë.

                “Finally, we can return him to his parents,” he murmured, pushing open the gate.

                “There you are!”  Fëanáro descended the steps like a dark cloud, his sharp eyes hard on his half-brother.  Then his stare moved on to his son.  “Nelyo, what were you thinking!”

                “Brother, he simply grew bored,” Aracáno offered a thin smile to his brother, placing a hand on Russandol’s head.

With a flick of his wrist, Fëanáro motioned his son to his side, kneeling down.  Anairë watched the man’s quiet assessment of his son, his words soft as he brushed the grass and dirt from Russandol’s robes.  For all of Fëanáro’s pride and arrogance, when he spoke with his son, his hands and words bore a tenderness usually reserved for his jewels.

                “He seems to be in one piece,” Fëanáro finally said.

                “Did you expect less?” Anairë could not stop her sharp retort.

Fëanáro’s gaze cut straight through her.  “When you are involved,” he began.

                “Atar, Atar! Anairë and I rode horses,” Russandol interrupted, running around the courtyard in a childish pantomime of riding.

                “Did you?”  The frown deepened on Fëanáro’s face.

                “Russo is a natural,” Aracáno added.

Russandol beamed with pride.

                “Of course he is.  He is my son.  Now, inside, Nelyo, your mother is waiting impatiently.”  Fëanáro waited until his son was out of earshot, and then he stepped close to his half-brother, finger pressed sharp into Aracáno’s chest.  “Do not ever take my son from the city again without my express permission.”

Aracáno’s sharp intake of breath indicated his surprise at his brother’s gesture and words.

                “Ara sent a message to you telling you where we went.”  Anairë reached out to push away Fëanáro’s hand from his brother.

His sharp glare cut her, causing her hand to pause in its path towards him.  Aracáno’s hand firmly closed around her wrist, his thumb and forefinger tight against the pulse.

                “Yes, telling me you were taking my son from the City.”  Fëanáro’s rage focused directly on her.  “How dare you assume I want my son first, in your company, and second, atop a horse!  What if he had been hurt?”

                “Hurt?  You are an idiot if you think—” she began sharply, taking offense that he thought so little of her expertise.

                “An idiot?”  They were face-to-face now, his steely eyes glaring down at her. 

                “Anairë,” Aracáno interrupted before she could respond.  He moved his hand to her shoulder, drawing her back with more force than usually necessary.

                “Yes, you are if you think Nolo or I would allow any harm to come to Russo,” she finished.

Fëanáro’s skeptical gaze moved to his half-brother, and he simply shook his head, as if he did not believe her words.  After a pregnant pause, Aracáno offered his hand peacefully to his half-brother, moving closer to him in speculation of acceptance.

                “I apologize, Brother, for causing you worry.  It will not happen again.”  He met his brother’s gaze evenly.

                “You are right, Nolofinwë.  It will not.”  Fëanáro ignored his hand, and walked away.

                Aracáno silently watched his half-brother’s quick lope up the stairs and inside their father’s halls.  For once, Anairë found herself unable to read his expression; he remained distant and proud, cheeks flushed at Fëanáro’s slight.

                “How can you let him speak to you like that, Nolo?” she demanded, angry both with Fëanáro’s utter arrogance and Aracáno’s resignation. 

He blinked once, and she watched his shoulders shrug as his hand fell to his side.

                “Arguing with him will not change his mind, Anairë,” he answered.

                “No, but continuously submitting to him—”

                “I am not yielding to Fëanáro,” his interruption was fierce.  For a moment, even she drew away from him, surprised by the vehemence of his expression and tone.  “I will not distress my father with our petty arguments.”

He glared at her, mouth drawn into a thin line.  She wet her lips in an effort to hide her sudden apprehension.  Her hand clasped his quickly, seeing him about to leave her alone in the courtyard. 

                “Nolo,” she forced the next words from her.  “I should not have said that.  I, I am…”  Apologies were not her strong suit; she had no need for the words, having little reason to ever apologize.  However, for him, she would make the exception.  “…sorry.”

His expression did not change as he regarded her.  The seconds passed long like minutes, and she shifted awkwardly in the silence. 

                “You have never apologized to me before,” he stated.

                “And I intend to never do so again,” she retorted, watching a small laugh lighten his expression.

He squeezed her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.  Unbidden, she felt the warmth spring to her cheeks. 

                “Come with me to dinner,” he urged, already leading her towards the stairs.  “Findis has missed you.”

                “If Findis could tear herself away from that lady she’s been-”

                “Quiet, Ana.  She is none too keen on it being common knowledge,” he cut in.

                “Then she should mind the looks she sends Silmalírë,” Anairë replied, smoothing her dress with a sigh. 

                He did not relinquish her hand as they passed through the halls towards the large dining room.  Finwë stood close to the door in a quiet, yet heated discussion with Arafinwë.  It ended as soon as Finwë caught sight of them.  She removed her hand from Aracáno’s when Finwë’s gaze lingered on it.

                “Anairë, Russo has been regaling us with his afternoon,” Finwë held out a hand to her, beckoning her to him.  “Do you think your father has any yearlings he’d be willing to part with?”

The brothers left the two alone, conversing quietly once they were far enough from their father.

                “I think my father will part with any of them, if you request it,” Anairë pressed a kiss to his cheek with a smile.

                “Splendid,” Finwë raised his voice, attracting Russandol’s attention.  “Tomorrow, Nelyo, we shall find you a horse.”

The exuberant child drew his grandfather away with his laughter.  Anairë’s attention was quickly stolen by the kiss suddenly placed on her cheek.  The scent of lavender gave away the owner.

                “Hello, Anairë,” Findis grinned broadly at her, dark hair braided simply.  “You are lovely in silk.”

Anairë caught sight of Silmalírë, and sent her a welcoming smile as well.

                “I cannot stand it, Findis,” Anairë replied in an undertone.  “Yet, Amil is convinced that I should be dressed in silks, satins and tulle.”

                “Dear Anairë.”  Findis linked an arm with her, laughing.  “Any other lady would be ecstatic to have a mother like Nénuilsë .”

“Well, Anairë is no lady,” Silmalírë took Anairë’s other arm with a smile.

                “I cannot argue,” Anairë laughed, allowing them to steer her towards the group, centered around Fëanáro and Nerdanel.

                Dinner was loud and full of laughter.  Russandol entertained his grandparents and mother with his never-ending story of his afternoon.  Even Fëanáro could not hide his smile at his son’s enthusiasm.

                “Nelyo, you will have to finish your tale in the morning.”  He placed a hand on the boy’s head.  “It is far past your bedtime.”

                “Atar,” began the wail, and signaled the commencement of the dispersal of guests. 

Nerdanel and Fëanáro swept their son off in a flurry of goodbyes.  Findis made the excuse to walk Silmalírë home, and the two ladies departed arm-in-arm under the Mindon’s silver light.

                “I intend to call early before Laurelin’s Hour, Anairë, so tell your father to be ready.”  Finwë paused beside her, his gaze caught on his eldest daughter and her companion.

Anairë caught the crease in his brow, and simply placed a kiss on his cheek, distracting his attention.

                “He will be waiting,” she assured, turning to Indis to repeat the parting gesture.

                “I suspect then that you shall not join us for a luncheon tomorrow?”  Indis smiled knowingly.

Anairë was known for the variety of excuses she could make to apologize for her absence from the formal luncheons.

                “I cannot say.”  Anairë returned the smile.

                “Till tomorrow then.”  Finwë placed an arm on his wife’s waist.

Aracáno was waiting beside the gate for her, falling into step beside her.

                “I can find my own way home, Nolo.  I do not need an escort,” she assured with a small smile.

He had always insisted on walking her home, ignoring her protests.  Secretly, she knew she would never turn away his company.

                “I am well aware, Ana,” he replied, hands clasped behind his back.

She laughed softly, and they disappeared down the street into the silver night.

---

Chapter End Notes

 

Notes/Characters:

A note on time: Tolkien is specific in The Silmarillion about the wax/waning of the Trees, but I would clarify some terms that I use.  Laurelin/Telperion’s Hour will refer to the hour in which that tree is most bright.  The Mingling Hour obviously refers to the two instances per day where the light mingles.  I am also working under the assumption that the units of time (seconds, minutes, hours) are comparable to what we (in the ages of the Moon and Sun) are used to.

Anairë: (nicknamed Ana) daughter of Sartion and Nénuilsë.
Aracáno: (nicknamed Nolo) also called Nolofinwë, middle son of Finwë.
Lintaráto: ("Swift Champion") name of one of Finwë's horses.
Finwë: lord of Tirion and father of many children.
Sartion: father of Anairë and esteemed horse trainer.
Nénuilsë: mother of Anairë.
Nelyafinwë: Maedhros, also called Nelyo, Maitimo, and Russandol (Russo).
Fëanáro: eldest son of Finwë and soon-to-be father of many children.
Elenetyë: wife of Olwë and mother of Eärwen.
Alyalótë: friend of Nénuilsë; mother to Sorniswë.

Arafinwë: (nicknamed Ara) youngest son/child of Finwë and Indis.
Eärwen: daughter of Olwë and Elenetyë.
Rilyendë: friend of Anairë's; daughter of a smith.
Findis: eldest child/daughter of Finwë and Indis.
Irimë: third child of Finwë and Indis.
Lúlalcë: friend of Anairë's; poet.
Silmalírë: Findis' partner

Chapter 2: Things familiar and friendly

Huge thanks to surgicalsteel, scarlet and pandemonium_213!

Read Chapter 2: Things familiar and friendly

 

Chapter Two: Things familiar and friendly

 

                Telperion’s light had always been Anairë’s favorite.  As they made their way out of the city and down the path to her parent’s home, the silver light was slowly choking out any trace of gold.  The white towers of Tirion gleamed like sharp, silver needles.  Anairë waved to her parents, seeing them both sitting on the porch, enjoying a quiet moment. 

                “Coming?” she asked, pausing beside the gate.

                “I should go home,” he replied, lifting his hand in a polite wave to her parents.

Anairë waited only a moment more, already knowing he would fall into step beside her.  Together, they approached the grey stone steps that rose to meet the row of towering columns that held up the overhang.  Long and flimsy banners of sheer grey linen curled in the wind between the columns.  When Anairë had been a child, she had run among them, smiling at the soft touch-kisses the material had pressed to her cheeks.  Now, she pushed them aside carelessly.

                “I was wondering when you would deliver her home.”  Sartion rose once they were close.

The two men caught arms firmly.  Nénuilsë stood as well, setting aside her empty wine glass, and awaiting the Prince’s attention. 

                “You are always welcome to keep her, Nolo.”  Nénuilsë smiled when the son of Finwë pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

                “Amil, I am not a pet!”  Anairë protested good-naturedly, feeling her father’s arm fall around her shoulders.

                “Indeed you are not, daughter,” Sartion agreed softly.

She pressed a loving kiss to her father’s cheek with a smile.

                “Sit with us, both of you.  I will fetch two more glasses.”  Nénuilsë bustled inside before Aracáno could reply.

Anairë took a seat on the couch, curling her legs up onto the cushion.  Aracáno was content to stand.

                “My father would like to stop by after Telperion’s hour,” Aracáno said quickly.  “He is interested in a mount for Nelyafinwë, and perhaps, Fëanáro will request your expertise to teach him.”

                “Of course.  Finwë knows he needs but ask,” Sartion nodded. 

In their time beside Cuiviénen, Finwë and Sartion had been close friends.  Now, in the peace of Valinor, they fought over horses and shared fine foods.  Her father’s widening waistline was a testament to it.

Nénuilsë returned with two more glasses and a fresh bottle of wine.

                “Sit, sit, Nolo.”  She pushed Anairë’s feet off the cushion with a pointed frown.  “Honestly, I cannot believe you put up with her.”

                “She has stopped biting.”  Aracáno took the seat beside Anairë.  She promptly pushed him into the cushion.

                “Really, Nolo!”  Her exclamation was lost amid her father’s loud and hearty laughter.

                “Those were terrible times, if I recall,” he chuckled.  “How did we cure you of that, Ana?”

                “Yes, Ana.  How did we?”  Aracáno smugly regarded her.

She fought the urge to smother him with a pillow, gaze locked with his.  She would never remind her parents that it was Nolo who, at the age of six, had finally grown tired of her angry bites and turned his teeth on her.  Strangely enough, it was this incident that had cemented their friendship.  She caught the glimmer of affection in his eyes, and forced her attention back to her parents. 

                “I cannot recall.”  She accepted the glass of wine from her mother. 

Aracáno made no attempt to correct her, simply settling back beside her, their shoulders brushing.

The sky was nearly silver-bright when Aracáno finally bid them farewell.

                “Should I walk you home?” Anairë teased him, closing their short gate behind him.

                “Perhaps a different day,” he laughed softly, leaning over the gate to kiss her cheek. 

Anairë returned the gesture fondly, her hand soft against his cheek.  He lingered just a moment longer than usual under her touch, fingers ghosting over her cheek as he swept her hair back over her ear.  She ignored the rush of warmth that followed his touch.  When his lips lifted in a mix of amusement and curiosity, she pushed his shoulder to initiate his journey home.  He shook his head with a laugh; Anairë watched him until the city swallowed his shadow whole.  Her cheek was still aflame with memory.  She blamed the wine.

--

                The house was still quiet when she rose after a few hours of rest.  She slipped out before her parents awoke to Lintaráto’s pasture.  He greeted her coolly still, unwilling to allow her any closer than before.  She swiftly filled his water trough with fresh from the bucket she carried. 

                “I will be back, Lintaráto,” she promised, taking note of the time.

Finwë had already arrived by the time she returned home.  He stood, slightly taller than her father, speaking seriously to him.  For, not the first time, she was reminded of his simple regality, dressed in dark blue with his silver device bright over his heart.  Aracáno shifted awkward, his gaze flickering to her immediately.  When both her father and his turned at Aracáno’s word, she had the distinct impression that she may have been the topic of their conversation. 

                “My lord.”  She joined them, a chaste kiss pressed to the King of the Noldor’s cheek.

                “Have you been to see Lintaráto?”  Finwë’s smile was quick.

                “Of course, and he is just as surly as yesterday,” she declared.

                “You shouldn’t be going alone,” Aracáno began, his face suddenly concerned.

                “I think I can manage one horse alone, Nolo,” she interrupted, her irritation flaring up immediately.

                “He tried to trample you,” he reminded quickly, as if she had forgotten.

                “Did he?” Sartion asked, alarm filling his face.

Anairë inwardly cursed Aracáno, ignoring the reasonable voice in her head that defended his worry. 

                “Tried, Atar.  He will not get such a chance again.”  Anairë openly glared at Aracáno.

Sartion observed his daughter for a moment before turning to Finwë.

                “Could we bring him here, Finwë?  If Anairë is to train him, I would feel-” Sartion began.

                “Atar, I am not some green stable hand.  I can handle this stallion no matter what Nolo says,” she interjected, face flushed with exasperation.

Anairë did not continue her argument, quieting under her father’s stern frown.  She caught the drawn out look between her father and Finwë.  From experience, she knew that neither was about to take her protests into consideration.

                “Anairë,” Finwë placed an arm around her shoulders, his tone calm, and his gaze gentle.  “I have all the faith in you, but Lintaráto is a spirited horse.  If you are thrown or hurt, we might not know immediately.  I cannot have you injured with the upcoming games.”

                “But,” Anairë began, fighting the urge to cast off his arm.  His tone and expression revealed that he was not speaking as Finwë, friend of her father’s, but rather Finwë, her King.  His mouth had tightened at the edges, his keen grey eyes distant and cool.

                “Nolofinwë, arrange for Lintaráto to be moved here.  Sartion, I trust there is somewhere private that no spies of Ingwë or Olwë can find?” Finwë’s tone carried a sense of finality to it.

                “Already done,” Sartion replied.  “Ah, and what timing!  There is Curufinwë with his son.”

The elder men moved to greet the father and son.  Anairë glared bitterly at Aracáno, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.  He shifted uneasily, watching her carefully, but offering no excuse for his words.

                “Well?  Are you pleased, Nolofinwë?” she nearly spat the words, her jaw clenched tight against the emotions building up in her chest.

                “Anairë.”  He reached out a hand to touch her arm.

She yanked her arm away from him, ignoring the shock that darkened his face.

                “I never thought you would dare undermine my capabilities-” she hissed, watching the group of men approach, their attention thankfully focused on the horses and Russandol.

                “Oh, come off it, Ana.”  He stepped closer to her, his firm voice betraying his own exasperation.  “I am concerned for your safety.”

                “To the Void with your worry!  Go concern yourself with someone else!” she exclaimed.

She did not miss the hurt play across his face before he nodded stiffly and left her standing alone.  She sighed, closing her eyes briefly as she realized the sharpness of her words.  Yet, she did not call after him; she did not run and murmur an apology.  He would have accepted it, slipped his arm around her shoulders and forgotten the disagreement.  Though she knew his reaction, she could not bring herself to admit regret.  He had already received one apology more than she had wanted to give.  So, Anairë retreated back to Lintaráto’s secret pasture.  Carefully, she climbed over the fence, standing against it.

“May I join you?” she asked the quiet stallion.

When he remained silent, she assumed his assent, and sat in the grass, leaning back against the fence post.  Lintaráto turned his gaze again to the distance, and she too gazed at flimsy clouds creeping up over the horizon.

                “I am sorry to keep you corralled like this,” she said.  “You hate it, don’t you?”

The horse ignored her, and Anairë scooted down to lay in the tall grass.  She watched the sky fade into its silver-gold mesh.  Above, the stars shone faintly.  Her mother used to tell her tales of Arda, and her awakening under the stars.  Sometimes, Anairë wondered what the world would look like without light. 

                “He is a fine horse.”  Laurelin’s golden hour was close when the silence of the meadow was interrupted by her father’s voice.

Anairë wished for the grass to hide her further, and closed her eyes childishly.

                “I can see you plainly, Ana,” Sartion commented, as if he read her thoughts.

He opened the gate, slipping inside the enclosure.  His hand fisted over his heart, and he bowed to Lintaráto, quietly praising the fine stallion and asking permission to remain.  Anairë was not surprised when the horse nickered his grudging consent; any beast seemed to simply trust her father.  Sartion lay down beside his daughter, looking up at the golden sky.  They lay stretched out under the dim firmament, listening to the whisper of wind in the grass, to the birds whistling sweet in the trees and to thunder in the distance.

                “No one meant you any disrespect, Ana,” her father murmured.

                “Atar, I am just as capable as any man,” Anairë began.

                “And no one understands that more than myself,” Sartion interrupted, and then added.  “Or Finwë or Nolo.  Not one of us sought to undermine your talent, and your gift.”

She turned her face, the grass soft under her cheek as she regarded her father.  He watched her patiently.

                “I do not need to move Lintaráto,” she whispered.  “I can do this, Atar.”

Sartion’s eyes revealed he already knew her proficiency.  He had never doubted his daughter, encouraging her to follow her passions. 

                “And yet, Finwë has ordered it, and as his subject, you would do well to obey him,” he replied.  “He is reluctant to even think of you suffering an injury in the months before the Games.  That alone should remind you how high you are in his regard.”

She knew her father was right.

                “I should go and find Nolo,” she sighed, sitting up slowly.

                “Yes, you should.  He spent the hours alone with Fëanáro as a result of your departure.”  Sartion stood, brushing off his robes.  “And that is punishment enough, Anairë.  Finwë has indulged—”  He stopped himself, his eyes narrowing as he remembered his audience. 

                “Tell me,” she bade.

Sartion shook his head once, and she knew he would speak no further ill against the House of Finwë.

                “Go and see Nolo,” he replied.  “And perhaps begin the conversation with the phrase, ‘I’m sorry’.”

                “Those are not words I care to use,” Anairë replied haughtily. 

Sartion laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulders and kissing her hair.

                “Someday, you will learn the importance of them, Anairë.  Someday.”

                “Today is not that day, Atar.”

                “Tomorrow, then?” Sartion asked as they left Lintaráto to his pasture.

                “Highly doubtful.”

--

                Anairë entered the Mindon’s courtyard with slow steps, still unsure if facing Aracáno already was a good choice.  She pushed open the gates to the House of Finwë, catching sight of its lord and lady sitting on the terrace.  The serious looks on their faces as they spoke caused her to wonder if interrupting them was a wise idea.  Perhaps, she would come back later.  She was about to turn and leave when the King of Tirion’s gaze settled on her.  He momentarily looked surprised, and then pleased to see her, nudging his wife with a soft word.  Indis turned, and her smile was bright, all earlier solemnity forgotten.

                “Anairë!”  Indis waved, beckoning her to join them. 

Anairë lifted her long, daffodil-yellow skirts to quickly stride up the steps.  She ran a hand over the cool white stone railing before stepping onto the balcony among the fragrant blooms.  Indis had filled the planters with flowers of all colors and heights, creating a garden paradise outside of the home.

                “I did not mean to interrupt,” Anairë began, allowing her words to trail off in a manner she had seen her mother utilize on many an occasion.

                “Nonesense!  You are never an interruption.  To what do we owe this pleasure?” Indis asked, motioning to a seat.

Anairë smiled politely, remaining standing behind a chair.  “I came to see Aracáno.  Is he here?”

The couple exchanged a glance before Finwë nodded, settling back against the cushions.

                “He went directly to his rooms when we returned, so I would assume he is still there,” Finwë answered. 

                “May I?” she inquired, careful to not overstep some boundaries.

While she was no stranger to his room, she was in no mood to reveal that to his parents. 

                “Of course, Anairë,” Indis nodded.  

Anairë turned away without another word, moving inside and through the maze of halls.  The first story housed the offices of Finwë and the rooms he used for dinners and entertainment.  She moved deftly to the second story where the bedrooms were.  She paused before his door, taking a deep breath before setting her hand on the knob.  She entered his room cautiously, looking around before closing the door behind her.  Moving to the spiral staircase in the middle of the room, she could hear him plain above her; he was pacing.  His quick steps set the beat of her heart.  Silently, she moved up them, pausing to watch his to and fro.  When he did not initially notice her, she found herself caught up in her observation of him.  Like all the children of Finwë, he’d been granted a noble fairness of face and body.  He moved, even now in agitation, with a grace she admired. 

                “You are making me dizzy,” she said, forcing herself out of her thoughts.

His steps audibly faltered, but he did not yet look at her.  Instead, he resumed his pacing, ignoring her completely.  Anairë’s eyes narrowed; she did not appreciate being disregarded.  Instead of launching into a verbal attack, she took note of his tense shoulders and agitated hands.  He was angry.  She knew how it had begun: at his lips.  It always began there; he would press them thin together, and slowly the tightness would spread to his eyes and then jaw.  When the tension had engaged his entire body, sending him into restless motion, there was only one cure she knew.  She glanced at the flimsy material of her dress and then shrugged, leaving her soft slippers by the stairs to approach him barefoot.  Stopping a good five paces from him, she stretched her arms over her head, attracting his attention.

                “Don’t, Anairë,” he warned in a low voice, deducing what she was about to do.

                “Then stop,” she shot back.

He did not stop, so she stood completely still, coiled and waiting.  When he drew closest, she launched herself at him, tackling him to the ground.  He lay there stunned before slipping his arms around her to reverse the position.  Anairë wriggled out of his grip with a grin, standing.  Fluidly, he rose to his feet, kicking aside a lonely boot to clear the floor space.  They circled each other, silently assessing and anticipating movement.  She feigned right, but he slipped out of her reach; he moved to grab her, and she danced away with a laugh.  She reached out, slapping playfully at his hands.  He caught them once, a warning and reminder of his physical speed.

                “Submission only, Nolo.  I won last time,” she teased.

                “I let you.”  There was a hint of amusement as he slid past her defenses.

His hands were a hot caress around her waist.  With a start, she ignored a sudden jumble of delight and arousal, glad for the distraction of the pile of pillows he dropped her into.  She paused to catch her breath, glancing back at him as she realized his statement.

                “What?”  Her leg kicked his feet out from under him.

He fell unceremoniously onto the pillows beside her.  She grabbed his arm, pulling it between her legs in an attempt to lock in a submission maneuver.  Yet, she was no match for his strength.  In a second, she found herself lying on her stomach, ankle twisted in his hands.  He always forgot her increased flexibility and smaller size over his other wrestling partners.  Her foot connected with his arm and he released her in surprise, falling backwards onto the floor.  He grunted, arms outstretched so he resembled a human cross.  Anairë fell across his shoulders with a grin, breathing rapidly after such an exertion.  He did not bother to push her off, instead relaxing against the floor. 

                “Do you submit?” she inquired.

Something flashed across his face.  Her head tilted curiously as he seemed to lean up towards her, intent on diminishing the space between them before he thought better of it.  Then he dropped his head back to the ground.

                “Never,” he replied, hand sliding to rest in the curve of her back.  Lately, she seemed unable to ignore his touches; they set her skin tingling with some sensation she had yet to interpret. 

She sighed, but made no move to continue their sparring.  They both knew the outcome: he would win, she would demand a rematch, and it would never end.  Silence fell awkward between them.  Anairë picked at a loose thread on his tunic, glancing at him only once.  His light eyes watched her patiently; he knew why she had come.

                “You should not have-” she began suddenly, intent on clearing the air between them.

                “And you should not have assumed the implication of my words.”  His interjection was quick.

She clenched her jaw, annoyed at his interruption.  She rested her full weight on his chest as she sat up, and took satisfaction in hearing his groan.  She cursed under her breath, scowling when she saw the thin fabric of her skirt had ripped on one side, revealing her pale legs.

                “It seems then we were both at fault.”  Some part of her hoped that by pressing the two sides of ripped material together, they would fuse. 

                “No, you are simply being stubborn and defensive, Anairë.  I would never say or do anything to diminish anyone’s opinion of you,” he pushed to his feet, holding out his hand to her.  “And you are well aware of that.”

                “I know,” she admitted grudgingly, taking his hand.

They stood across from each other, silent in their stares.  She slid her arms around his waist in a silent apology; he sighed before he squeezed her close.  Contentedly, she turned her head up slightly to look at him, her grin freezing as she realized the close proximity of their faces.

                “I think Findis should be able to supply you with a dress,” Aracáno said after a moment of gazing at her.  He did not step away, seemingly comfortable with her in his arms.  Anairë fidgeted out of the embrace, unsure and unwilling to reveal it.

                “Why?  I could walk home.  It’s just my leg,” she grinned as she showed off her pale calf.

He laughed, swatting at her leg.  “Your mother will have a fit,” he reminded.

                “She will be furious either way,” Anairë shrugged, relieved (and strangely disappointed, but she dared not dwell on that thought with him so close) they had returned to familiar and friendly territory.

                “My parents are liable to sit us down again if you leave my room looking disheveled.”

                Anairë grimaced at the memory.  It had occurred not long before she had celebrated her coming-of-age.  Following a bout of wrestling, they had emerged from his room, both grinning and wild.  Indis had happened upon them, and had directly taken them to Finwë’s office.  There, they had been subject to a long lecture regarding propriety and image.  The reprimand had been focused more at Aracáno, yet Finwë had not allowed her any respite, reminding her of the requirements of a mature lady, of virtue and respectability.  When Finwë had begun to hint about physical consummation, Anairë had never been so glad for Fëanáro’s interruption.  Now, fifteen years later, she still had no wish to repeat such a conversation.

                “Findis it is then,” she assented.

                “Nolo?  Anairë?”  Indis’ voice drifted up to them.

                “Yes, Amil?”  Aracáno wasted no time in moving to the staircase so his mother could see him.

                “Your father wants to speak with both of you.  I suspect it is about the Games since he is being irritatingly vague,” Indis replied, her voice tinged with annoyance.  “His office, at once.”

                “Ah, Indis,” Anairë passed Aracáno, swift to descend the stairs.

                Indis simply pursed her lips with a sigh, seeing the state of Anairë’s dress.  Anairë smiled sheepishly as the lady inspected the rip.

                “I told Nénuilsë it was foolish to put you in these,” Indis said.  “I knew between the horses and Aracáno, you would rip them to shreds.  At least you are not terribly exposed.  Findis should be able to lend you a dress so you are not walking the streets like a ruffian.”

                “Aracáno would be eating his eyes if I was so revealed.”  Anairë sent him a teasing grin as he joined the women.  “Amil would be horrified at him seeing my lily white knee.”

Indis laughed, the sound echoing sweet and fair in the room. 

                “Go find Finwë, both of you,” Indis herded them both towards the door, squeezing her son’s shoulder to gain his attention.  “I am glad to see your mood so improved, Aracáno.”

                “It is not every day that Anairë tackles me out of my anger,” he replied easily.

Anairë sighed heavily, catching Indis’ raised brows.  The wife of Finwë made no comment, simply pointing them towards the stairs to Finwë’s office.

                “You are an ass,” Anairë murmured, her elbow jostling against his ribs.

                “Guilty, Ana.”

 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Notes/Characters:

Anairë: (nicknamed Ana) daughter of Sartion and Nénuilsë.
Aracáno: (nicknamed Nolo) also called Nolofinwë, middle son of Finwë.
Lintaráto: ("Swift Champion") name of one of Finwë's horses.
Finwë: lord of Tirion and father of many children.
Sartion: father of Anairë and esteemed horse trainer.
Nénuilsë: mother of Anairë.
Nelyafinwë: Maedhros, also called Nelyo, Maitimo, and Russandol (Russo).
Fëanáro: eldest son of Finwë and soon-to-be father of many children.
Elenetyë: wife of Olwë and mother of Eärwen.
Alyalótë: friend of Nénuilsë; mother to Sorniswë.

Arafinwë: (nicknamed Ara) youngest son/child of Finwë and Indis.
Eärwen: daughter of Olwë and Elenetyë.
Rilyendë: friend of Anairë's; daughter of a smith.
Findis: eldest child/daughter of Finwë and Indis.
Irimë: third child of Finwë and Indis.
Lúlalcë: friend of Anairë's; poet.
Silmalírë: Findis' partner

Chapter 3: The Art of Drinking Gratuitously

Continued thanks to surgicalsteel and scarlet for their help and support!

Read Chapter 3: The Art of Drinking Gratuitously

Chapter 3: The art of drinking gratuitously

 

                Eärwen and Anairë walked arm-in-arm among the artists, admiring the works on display.  Along the westernmost corridor (aptly named the Artist’s Corner), Tirion’s artisan community put their finished creations out for review.  Anairë watched the ivy eat away at the white stone walls while Eärwen explained the composition and loveliness of a canvas they stood before.  At some point, Eärwen would realize she had lost Anairë’s attention, and move them down the street.  Anairë meant no disrespect, but rather, she simply enjoyed the beauty of the art.  She did not need to know the symbolism, or listen to a long explanation regarding style to suddenly realize the artist’s vision.  If it was beautiful, it was so.  No words could change that.

                “I am glad you came today.”  Eärwen tugged Anairë closer with a smile.  “I worried I would lose you to the boys and their games.”

                “They do not allow me to play with them,” Anairë replied with a sigh and frown.  “Sorniswë says I would be crushed if someone tackled me, and of course, he has no wish to explain to Aunt Alyalótë if I was hurt.”

The game in question consisted of one team kicking a ball from one end of the field past a defending team in order to kick the ball through a goal.  However, players of the opposing team were known to tackle, trip and use really any means necessary to prevent the offensive team from scoring.  While Anairë usually played in the Games- the rules deemed it mandatory to have an equal number of the sexes on each team- when Tirion’s men decided to enjoy a game of football, she was sidelined, no matter how loudly she protested.  Those games tended to end with more bloody noses and bruises than goals.

                “They are just worried you will beat them,” Eärwen reassured and tossed her silver locks, for once free of flowers and ornament, over her shoulder.  “Let them have one sport, Ana.”

                “If I must.”  She tried to smile, but her heart longed for the competition.

When Eärwen laughed, Anairë caught the stares that lingered on the exquisite daughter of Olwë.  The sea-blue material of Eärwen’s dress draped thick across her bodice and hips, thinning to sheerness at the edges.  She floated across the white stone paths like a lost wave.  Beside her, Anairë felt heavy as a rock. 

                “Cheer up, Ana,” Eärwen lowered her voice.  “I’m sure the boys will join us later.  You will only have to indulge my fancies a little longer.  I promise.”

                “Does Arafinwë intend to escort you to tonight?” Anairë leaned her shoulder into Eärwen’s with a knowing smile.  When Fëanáro and Nerdanel’s news had become public knowledge, Finwë had invited all the Elves and Ainur to celebrate in his family’s joy.  At Laurelin’s Hour, the festival would begin. 

                Eärwen’s cheeks flushed pink, but she feigned ignorance.  She idly adjusted the bright rose-red silk gathered solely on Anairë’s shoulder.  The silk clung tight to the slight curve of her chest and hips in a way Anairë found comfortable and appealing.  Eärwen had begged to dress Anairë, but again, she refused, knowing Eärwen would put her in some flimsy creation and pin her hair with flowers like some romantic maiden.    

                “I haven’t the faintest idea to what you’re referring to, Ana.  Though, I do intend to see how inebriated we can convince Ara, Nolo and Sorniswë to become.”  Eärwen’s blue-grey eyes shone bright with mischief.

Anairë laughed freely as Eärwen outlined her plan.  They paused beside a cart to purchase two small cups of fruit sweetened with a sprinkling of sugar. 

                “And they believe I am incorrigible,” Anairë grumbled lightly as she bit into a sweet strawberry.

                “Perfect, isn’t it?” Eärwen laughed, her lips already red like the cherry caught between her teeth.

                “What’s perfect?”  Arafinwë had crept up behind them.

Eärwen’s lips quickly closed over the piece of fruit and she drew out the stem before turning to gaze sternly at the youngest child of Finwë.  His gaze lingered longer than necessary on her lips, prompting Anairë to roll her eyes.

                “Ara!  It is unseemly to sneak up on two ladies,” Eärwen admonished.

Arafinwë did not look the least bit chastised.

                “I beg pardon then.”  He held out his elbow to her.  “May I steal Eärwen away, Ana?”

                “I hardly think you should be asking me,” Anairë replied, exchanging a glance with Eärwen.

Of course Eärwen assented and took the arm offered to her with a gracious smile.  Anairë watched them pass quickly through the rest of the street, and off on their errand.  Her feet immediately turned for a separate part of the city: the Gardens. 

“Anairë!” a young voice cried out before she could enter the fragrant lane with its vendors and soft music.

Her hand was caught by a smaller one, and Anairë could only smile down at Russandol.

                “Hello, Russandol,” she said, easily sweeping him up off his feet.

Thankfully, it was Nerdanel who accompanied the boy.  Dressed in a shade of violet that emphasized her vibrant auburn hair, the woman glowed contentedly.  Her dress curved tight to reveal the tiny bump of the baby growing within. 

                “Anairë, I hear I have you to thank for Maitimo’s newest hobby.”  Nerdanel greeted her with a distant smile, kissing the air beside Anairë’s cheek.

                “And Uncle Nolo,” Maitimo-Russandol quickly corrected his mother. 

                “Yes, and Nolofinwë,” Nerdanel added, her eyes alight with amusement.

                “Then he is enjoying the horse?” Anairë asked.

Russandol launched into a detailed account of his mount, walking ahead of them and only looking back every so often to empathize his words.  However, Anairë found herself absolutely unable to follow what he was saying. 

                “What is he telling me?” Anairë whispered to Nerdanel.

Nerdanel laughed softly, leaning her head towards Anairë’s.

                “Sometimes, I cannot decipher his words either,” Nerdanel replied.  “I am lucky.  Fëanáro just understands Maitimo.”

                “Congratulations, on the upcoming child.”  Anairë inwardly commended herself on remembering her manners.

Nerdanel simply smiled.  “Thank you, Anairë.”

                “There you are!” Two voices rang out in unision.

                Anairë fought the urge to laugh, seeing the complete surprise on Fëanáro and Aracáno’s faces at their harmonious exclamations.  The half-brothers regarded each other coolly until Russandol skipped up to them, a hug first for his father, and delighted laugh for his uncle.

                “It seems we have been found, Anairë,” Nerdanel spoke first, her hand slipping into her husband’s.

Fëanáro watched her dispassionately.  Nerdanel tilted her head to the side, her smile sweet as communication passed silent between husband and wife.  Then traces of warmth infused his expression and he pressed a swift kiss to the back of her hand.  By the time he spoke, he was nearly smiling.

                “You cannot hide from me, Wife,” Fëanáro replied.  “Come, Nelyo.  Your Grandfather is expecting us.”

                “We shall see you again shortly, Anairë,” Nerdanel lifted her hand in a parting wave.  “Nolofinwë.”

                Anairë watched them go before turning her attention to Aracáno. 

                “You were looking for me?” she asked.

                “I heard Eärwen had dragged you to the Artist’s Corner,” he answered, well-aware of Eärwen’s proclivity for long-winded discourses on art.

                “Ara stole her away,” Anairë replied, grinning when Aracáno shook his head with a snort.  “Is he as infatuated with her as she seems to be with him?”

Aracáno did not answer, but Anairë caught his grin before he looked away.  She easily took his hand, leading him towards the Gardens.

                “Anairë.”  He began to pull away.

                “Please,” she begged.

                “One song, and that is all.  No doubt we will be dancing all night,” he grumbled, but allowed her to lead him down the street.

                The Gardens was actually not a garden at all.  The large courtyard was shaped in a circle, and some planters high up on the surrounding walls overflowed with ivy and colorful flowers that trailed over the white stone like paint splotches.  Flower vendors brought fresh cut flowers in daily, but its real beauty was the fountain in the center of the square.  It loomed tall and dark, a testament to the skill of the stone masons.  It had been crafted from obsidian black rock brought from the south, rumored to have been created only by fire.  Water bubbled over tiers, a steady yet ever-changing rhythm.  Musicians played a lively tune, and many men and women joyfully danced to the music.  Immediately, Anairë drew Aracáno into the fray of dancing, giving herself up entirely to the music.  She couldn’t keep the smile from her face, closing her eyes when the vibrant colors of the Garden blurred together and trusting her feet to lead her.  Aracáno’s hands were soft to catch hers and fleeting around her waist.  For a while, Anairë allowed herself to lean into the touches, to fully enjoy this without dissecting the sensations and emotions.  Dancing was like riding to her; it came naturally.  There was a sense of freedom as she spun nimbly, pieces of her hair coming loose from the pins.

                When the song ended, they found a bench and collapsed onto it.  She laughed and leaned into his shoulder; his arm fell around her.  She contentedly sat with him, watching the other dancers twirl to the lively beat.  He made no comment when her head rested on his shoulder, simply leaning his cheek against the top of her head.  This, to Anairë, was absolute contentment.  Quietly, they sat as the sky shifted colors above them and the dancers spun the earth.

                “We will be late if we tarry much longer.”  Aracáno began to move his arm away.

Anairë caught his hand, firmly keeping his limb in place around her.  She didn’t look at him, keeping her eyes on the dwindling dancers.  She did not yet want to leave, to end this moment.

                “Let us be late.  Fëanáro will not care.” 

                “My father will.  It would not do for Indis’ eldest son to be late to his brother’s celebration.”  The trace of bitterness in his tone revealed that such a topic must have been brought up.  His hand tightened around hers.  “You do not want to disappoint Atar, do you?”

                “I could never disappoint Finwë,” Anairë protested with a small smile. 

He returned it, and she dawdled under the warmth of his smile.  His expression shifted again, from friendly to something else. 

                “Stay beside me tonight?” he asked.   

                “Islinyë is not available?”  She did not bother to hide her absolute disdain of the fair haired daughter of Finwë’s chief advisor. 

She remembered visiting the market on her mother’s errand three days ago, and hearing his familiar laughter.  She had turned and stopped cold in raising her hand to greet him.  Aracáno was happily walking arm-in-arm with Islinyë.  Anairë had paused on the street, purposefully engaging a vendor in conversation about the slender silver bracelets he sold.  She kept a furtive eye on the couple, ignoring how absolutely immature her spying was.  When Islinyë laughed, Aracáno’s gaze lingered on the fair haired lady’s profile.  Anairë felt a rush of possessiveness warm her cheeks.  Though she had heard rumors of Finwë pushing for his middle son to wed, Anairë had simply assumed them false.  Anairë spared the vendor a polite nod as he continued to expound on the loveliness of his crafts.  She held the slender silver band in her hands, gazing at it in an effort to keep herself composed.  She had no claim to Aracáno; he could see whomever he wished.  The disappointment hit her hard, and she felt an overwhelming need to get out of the city, to get away from its couples and romance.  Quickly, she thanked the vendor for his time, intent on disappearing down an alley.

                “Anairë!”  She had groaned inwardly when he called her name.

He looked delighted to see her, leaving Islinyë to approach her quickly.  Anairë lifted her bag of irises and daffodils onto her shoulder, regarding him coolly.  When Islinyë dared to come close, Anairë’s sharp gaze kept her at bay.

                “Aracáno.”  Anairë did not miss Islinyë’s frown, and so deliberately ignored the lady.

He paused to gaze at the delicate silverwork, running fingers over a few of the pieces and stopping on the one she had replaced.

                “Are you looking for a bracelet?” he asked, also seeming to forget his companion. 

                “No, just browsing,” she answered, her satisfaction growing as Islinyë’s pout deepened.  “And you, are you out looking…” Her gaze flickered noticeably to Islinyë.  “…for anything?”

He raised his brows, his expression shifting from glad to awkward to realization.  He seemed to remember his companion, stepping back to include her.

                “Islinyë and I were wandering through the market,” Aracáno explained.

                “Well,” Islinyë quickly said, sliding up to Aracáno’s side to wind her arm around his.  Anairë felt her jaw clench, first at the way the lady’s tentacle like fingers clenched his upper arm.  Then she caught Aracáno’s double quick blink to hide his displeasure.  “We had spoken about walking through the Circle of Stars.”

                “Oh?”  Anairë’s brows arched in disbelief.  She could not help the sarcastic edge to her tone.  “How terribly romantic of you, Nolo.”

The Circle of Stars was one of the tallest points of the City and boasted a view unlike any other.  It was a well-known locale for many of Tirion’s courting couples to meander through.  Countless silver and gold rings had been exchanged there.

                “Isn’t it?” Islinyë agreed, staring doe-eyed up at Aracáno.

He had the good grace to hide his discomfort, returning Islinyë’s smile politely.  Anairë let out a loud sigh.

                “Islinyë, can you please excuse us?”  She moved a few steps away, already expecting her demand to be met.

Islinyë opened her mouth to voice her disapproval, but then Aracáno placed a soft hand over hers, gently prying her fingers away from his arm.

                “For just a moment.”  His gentle smile seemed to heal whatever hurt Islinyë felt she had suffered.

                As soon as the blonde lady was far enough away, Anairë stepped close to him, her voice low.

                “You cannot possibly be gladly escorting her around Tirion, Nolo.  She is terrible,” she hissed.

                “Atar sets up these engagements, not I, Anairë.  Don’t be so quick to judge her.  She is rather smart, and a singer,” he replied, his hand falling on her arm. 

She moved only enough to allow his hand to slide away from her.  Her skin was only too aware of his touch, and she would not allow it to betray her. 

                “Honestly, Nolo.  You could see yourself married to her?  She’s boring,” Anairë challenged, her arms crossing over her chest.

                “It’s really none of your business.”  He mimicked her pose, maintaining an ambiguous expression.

Her quick inhale was loud in her ears.  The words had stung.  She caught the softening of his expression, and knew he would apologize in a moment.  However, she could not wait and simply walked away from him, leaving him to his lady.  She would never tell him how bitterly the tears had stung her eyes on the walk home. 

                “Dare I detect a hint of jealousy, Ana?”  Presently, he treaded in dangerous territory and was well aware of it.

                “How do you feel about my foot up your arse?” she retorted.

He laughed loudly, the sound echoing in the nearly empty courtyard.  The musicians paused at the sound, their smiles brief as they took their instruments and moved towards the Mindon’s light.  Aracáno rose quickly, extending a hand to her.

                “I would rather your company than Islinyë’s,” he stated honestly.

                “Of course you would.”  She took his hand to spring to her feet with a knowing grin.  “I already told you she was terrible.”

                “Can you say nothing nice of other ladies?”  He held her hand firmly.

                “I cannot lie.”  She sauntered a bit closer.

                “It’s a wonder you have any friends.”  He waited stationary for her.

                “I don’t need friends, Nolo.”  She kissed his cheek, hesitant to add.  “I have you.”

She didn’t wait for his response, swiftly slipping her fingers from his to move up the street.  She glanced over her shoulder with a grin, and, upon seeing him still there, stuck with a small smile on his face, she beckoned him.

                “Come on, Nolo.  We cannot be late!”

---

                The gates of Finwë’s halls were thrown wide open, and a steady stream of men and women entered into the laughter and celebration.  Music drifted up and up, enchanting the golden skies.  Aracáno straightened his collar before they entered in the gates, immediately drawn towards some tables set on the outer edges of the dancing. 

                “There’s Ara,” he pointed out his brother.

Eärwen and Arafinwë already seated at a table with Sorniswë and a few other friends, wine glasses filled.  Gauging by the pink of Eärwen’s cheeks, she was already a few glasses in.

                “How drunk do you think Ara and Eärwen can get?” he whispered.  “Or how drunk they need to be to stop this endless flirtation?”

                “I think with enough wine they’ll confess their love,” Anairë replied.  “Will you be able to keep up, Nolo?  Ara is quite a drinker.”

                “Worry about yourself, Ana.”  He feigned pride, gazing down at her.  “I seem to recall carrying you-”

                “Hush, Nolo!” she exclaimed, cheeks red.

At one of Findis’ begetting day celebrations, she had challenged Arafinwë to a drinking contest.  While she won, she also had the pleasure of being carried home by Aracáno, a small fact he never let her live down.

                “Ana, Ana, come and dance.  Silmalírë is already complaining of her feet,” Findis interrupted them, her fingers wrapping around Anairë’s wrist.  “She and Nolo can be a pair tonight in their absolute aversion to dance.”

Aracáno held out his arm to Silmalírë. 

“Finally, a kindred spirit!”

Anairë didn’t hear Silmalírë’s response since Findis drew her away into the dancers. 

                It was hours later and Anairë could feel the wine warming her to the bone.  She giggled with Findis as they danced, fleeting fingertips teasing soft skin.  The desire was plain in Findis’ eyes, and Anairë wondered if it was just as visible on her face.  Long ago, they had shared a secret: over a filched bottle of wine, Findis had been Anairë’s first kiss, first fumbling in the dark.  Yet, something had not been completely right, and they had not pursued anything further.  Anairë had rejoiced when Findis disclosed her love (and the return of that love) with Silmalírë.  However, some nights, when the wine flowed free, Anairë could not completely resist the utter enchanting beauty of the eldest child of Indis.  Findis held Anairë’s hand tight as they left the dancing, leaning in so her lips barely brushed the curve of Anairë’s ear.  She shivered in response, trying to ignore the desire to turn her head and look at Findis.  They both would regret it if she did.

                “It has always been clear to me why Nolo is so enchanted with you,” Findis murmured, a slight slur to her words.  “You are lovely in Laurelin’s light.”

                At that, Anairë’s head did turn to gaze at Findis.  Even through the haze of wine, she was sure she’d heard Findis correctly. 

                “Ah, the two of you are swaying as if in a breeze,” Silmalírë joined them, slipping a stabilizing arm around Findis’ waist. 

Aracáno stood behind her, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed Anairë’s state with amusement. 

                “Hello, hello, my love.  Have I been ignoring you?” Findis’ words were a jumble, ending in a kiss pressed against her lover’s cheek.  She spied her brother and reached out to him.  “Nolo, oh Nolo, I was just telling Ana how enamored you are with her.”

                “You…what?” came his apprehensive response.  Gone was his delight, replaced with awkwardness foreign to him.

                “They’re both a little deep in the bottle, Nolo,” Silmalírë explained, almost apologetically.

                “No, I am not that drunk.  I know what she said,” Anairë walked as steadily as she could towards him.

                His apprehension faded as he watched her weave until she stood directly in front of him.  Anairë placed a hand flat on his chest to steady herself.  Then she found herself under his intense scrutiny, and the wine had loosened her tongue.

                “Are you?” she asked.

Aracáno placed his hand over hers seriously.  Anairë could feel the edges of her vision beginning to darken and leaned towards him quickly.  He gathered her up in his arms, and before she drifted off into a blissful sleep, she thought she heard him say one word, his lips soft against her ear.

                “Madly.”

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Characters/Notes:

 

Eärwen: daughter of Olwë and Elenetyë.

Anairë: (nicknamed Ana) daughter of Sartion and Nénuilsë.

Sorniswë: cousin of Anairë’s and son of Alyalótë; closest friend of Arafinwë.

Alyalótë: sister of Nénuilsë; mother to Sorniswë.

Arafinwë: (nicknamed Ara) youngest son/child of Finwë and Indis.

Nerdanel: wife of Fëanáro, mother to Nelyafinwë.

Fëanáro: eldest son of Finwë and soon-to-be father of many children.

Finwë: lord of Tirion and father of many children.

Nelyafinwë: Maedhros, also called Nelyo, Maitimo, and Russandol (Russo).

Aracáno: (nicknamed Nolo) also called Nolofinwë, middle son of Finwë.

Islinyë: daughter of Finwë’s chief counselor

Findis: eldest child/daughter of Finwë and Indis.

Silmalírë: Findis' partner.

Chapter 4: Madly, madly

Credit to elfscribe, pandemonium and oshun for their suggestions and support!

Read Chapter 4: Madly, madly

Chapter 4: Madly, Madly

 

                One, two, three.  One, two, three.  The hooves beat out a rhythm.  Anairë could see the stallion wander close to the fence and watch her galloping approach with interest.  Her hands pulled gently at the pale gold of Mélasúrë’s mane.  Obediently, the horse slowed to a walk, returning Lintaráto’s greeting with ambivalence.  Anairë slipped off the pallid yellow mare, leading her into the paddock with little resistance.  The horses greeted each other with a tender brush of their noses.  Anairë leaned her elbows against the fence, watching the meeting with interest.  If only she could convince Lintaráto to trust her, then perhaps he could be ready in time for the Games.  So far, he had resisted each of her father’s tricks.  Anairë hoped that Mélasúrë could help calm the wild horse.

                “There you are.”  The voice close to her shoulder surprised her.

Anairë turned abruptly, at first irritated by the intrusion.  It fell away when she realized her companion.  Aracáno leaned against the rail beside her, watching the horses as well.  His dark blue robes were long, stiff and terribly formal, decorated with the silver crest of his father’s house.  He must have been in Tirion’s councils again, filling the space Fëanáro left empty. 

                “Was I lost?”  She tried to smile easily, but knew it fell flat.

For the past month, there had been a sense of self-consciousness between them.  The next time they met following the Festival, he had reminded her, in great detail and with much laughter, how he had delivered her home to her father.  When he had inquired how she was feeling, his eyes had asked if she remembered, if she knew.  Like a coward, she had complained of the combination of too much wine, dancing and Findis, saying nothing about the word that spun her thoughts.  Madly.  He had laughed, but a glimmer of disappointment remained every time he looked at her.  Anairë wondered if he knew about her dishonesty, but most of all, she questioned if he had been telling the truth, or if she had even heard him correctly.  Madly.  She was being driven crazy by a single word.  It confused her, the fact that this word affected her so. 

                “Anairë,” he repeated. 

                “Yes?” she mumbled.

                “Are you alright?  You’ve been out of sorts lately.”  When he looked down at her, Anairë felt a sense of longing.  She told herself it was just the play of light across his face.  Again, she found herself detesting the absolute fear that kept her mouth firmly shut.

Impulsively, she leaned her shoulder against his, linking arms with him.  He caught her hand, interlocking their fingers loosely.  She tightened the grip just enough to feel his palm curved with hers.

                “Altacáno,” Anairë said meaningfully, glad she had an easy excuse ready.

                “Ah.”  Aracáno nodded.  “Has he been rough on you?”

Altacáno was their football trainer.  He tended to run them through different plays for hours, until Anairë was sure she would be running them in her dreams.  Her entire body ached daily from his practices. 

                “He is relentless.  And you, our fearless captain, have not been at practice.”  She pushed him slightly.  “Where have you been?”

                “Atar is tired of his sons being notoriously absent from the government of Tirion, so he has asked me to take on some duties,” Aracáno replied morosely.  “I wish Ingo was the elder now.”

                “How dare you even entertain the thought!” Anairë scolded.  “You are no doubt doing splendidly, Nolo.”

                “I would rather be on the field with you,” he replied lightly, although he seemed grateful for her honesty.

                “I wish you were there as well.”  Anairë’s gaze was caught by the sudden movement of the horses.  They were playfully chasing each other, flirting and neighing freely.  “While Sorniswë is quicker than you, I don’t always know where he is.”

                “What do you mean?”

                “We have played so long together, Nolo.  I always know where you are on and off the field,” she admitted. 

                “Really?”   He looked skeptical.  “Then close your eyes.”

She opened her mouth to protest, and closed her eyes at the exact same time.  The horses’ hooves drowned out any sound of him moving through the grasses.  He was still there though; she reached out to her left, grasping the edge of his robe. 

                “See?”  She lifted her chin victoriously, opening her eyes when she felt his hand slide up her arm.

When his fingers glided softly to her jaw, she did not move away.  Instead, her neck curved into his touch, betraying her innermost desire. 

                “Nolo,” she whispered.

                “Let’s go away,” he mumbled, and then his voice strengthened.  “Come with me to Alqualondë.  We can go, and Atar has that small home outside of the sea-city.”

A small home to him was a modest palace adorned with pearls and other gems, and a staff of attendants to see to his needs.

                “We cannot go alone,” she reminded him, recalling Indis’ wrath the last time they had dared.

                “I will ask Ara and Sorniswë.  You find out which of the ladies will come.”  He seemed sure, allowing his hand to rest on her shoulder.  “But I have no intention of spending the time with them.”

                “Of course not.”  Anairë grinned at him.  “They will all want to simply lounge beside the waves.  We will have to explore the coast.”

                “Perfect.  Shall we meet at the East Gate at Laurelin’s Hour?”  He glanced into the sky, taking note of the time.

                “We shall.”  She clicked her tongue.  Mélasúrë reluctantly ambled towards her rider.  “Ah, come Mélasúrë.  I promise to return you to him.”

                “They would produce fine foals, and fast ones,” Aracáno noted.  “Have you asked Atar?”

                “Not yet.  I would have Mélasúrë compete in the Games before any stallion covered her.”  Anairë easily pulled herself on top of her horse and then looked down at him.  “Do you intend to walk, Nolo?”

He laughed, and then carefully mounted behind her, his hands settling lightly on her hips.  Mélasúrë shifted with a snort under the extra weight.  Aracáno’s chest pressed close to Anairë’s back as he reached forward to brush his hand against the horse’s neck with a word of thanks.  In an effort to ignore the enjoyment of him so close, she elbowed him softly in the ribs.  In return, his fingers poked her side causing her to squirm.

                “Are you quite finished, Nolo?”  She managed a stern expression.

He regarded her, unaffected by her piercing glare. 

                “You are the one in control, Ana.  I am waiting on you.”

When Anairë unexpectedly urged her mare into a full run, his arms encircled her waist.  She laughed at the surprised curse exclaimed by her ear.  For the first time in weeks, she was utterly content.  In the short span that it took to reach the stables, Anairë realized that perhaps, maybe, just maybe, she too was madly entranced.

                Sartion greeted them both, giving the horse he led to one of the apprentice groomsmen.  Anairë caught the respectful bows from her father and his men as Aracáno dismounted.  With a subtle gesture of his hand, he motioned for the men to rise.  Today, he had no need for their formalities.

                “Is this an official visit, Prince Nolofinwë?”  Sartion asked, eyes darting between them and lingering on Anairë.

                “No, Lord Sartion.  I just came to see Anairë,” Aracáno answered, turning to offer his hand to her.

Normally, she would have scoffed at the gesture and smacked it away.  Today, she took it firmly, ignoring her father’s surprise as she was helped to the ground.  She brushed at the thin layer of dust on the side of her skirts, ignoring the men for a moment.

                “I see,” Sartion mused.

The men gazed evenly at each other.   

                “Do not lie, Nolo,” she chided with a smile.  She leaned in close to her father, glancing at Aracáno while she spoke.  “He came to see Lintaráto.”

                “Now, that is untrue, Ana,” he protested.  “I have little love for the horse.”

Her breath caught at the word love.

                “The councils are making you silver-tongued.”  Her voice was unnaturally quiet to her ears.

                “It is a hazard.”  Now she was sure their longing was noticeable.  He kept her gaze only a moment more, before sparing her father a polite smile.  “Would you mind if I stole Ana away for a few days?”

Both Sartion and Anairë looked surprised at the request.  Since she had reached her majority, Anairë had rarely asked permission for her travels to Valmar or Alqualondë.  She always indicated her destination and companions, but she did not need her father’s blessing to leave.

                “Where and with whom?” Sartion replied.

                “To Atar’s home in Alqualondë, and I’m not sure exactly who else shall accompany us,” he answered honestly.

Her father merely glanced at her, raising a brow. 

                “I doubt she would listen even if I told her no.”  Sartion nodded his assent. 

                “You are right, Atar.”  She kissed his cheek, waving away the stableboy who dared approach Mélasúrë with the intent of caring for her. 

                “Then I will meet you at the East Gate,” Aracáno replied. 

She watched the Prince’s departure, returning his wave when he reached the property gates.  It was hard to ignore how noble he looked in the sapphire blue color.  His robes were well tailored to show off his strong arms and lean waist.  She knew the pride he took in his body; it bordered on, at times, vain.  He had inherited only the best qualities of his parents, in Anairë’s opinion: the strong nose and brow, as well as the proud bearing and tall stature of Finwë; the gentle eyes, lips and temperament of Indis.  Her father’s hand squeezing her shoulder startled her from her admiration, and her wide-eyed gaze flew to him.  The knowing gleam, paired with a curious protectiveness, revealed he had noticed her stare.  Anairë pressed her lips together tersely, looking away at the silhouette of Tirion in the distance.  Part of her wanted to flee in complete embarrassment, but she had never retreated before and found herself unsure how to escape.

                “There are stars in your eyes when you look at him, Ana.”  His words were meant only for her ears.

Her cheeks flushed hotly as she looked up at her amused father.  Something in her expression caused him to lose his laughter and observe her seriously.  He steered her away from the stables, leaving Anairë’s horse with one of the more senior apprentices.  They silently approached the house, and were nearly at the entrance steps when he spoke.

                “When I met your mother, the world stopped turning, the stars became over-bright in the sky, and no longer was the darkness to be feared,” he began softly.  “I have only ever wished that you find someone who does the same for you.”

Part of her desired to loudly declaim his observation, to tell him she cared for Nolo only as a friend.  A larger measure of her heart ruled, quietly reminding her that her father would never betray her, and would not mention this, even to her mother.  So, she finally voiced her heart.

                “He is that one, Atar, but he is my dearest friend,” she whispered.  “I would rather spend the ages as a friend, than risk scaring him away with my true feelings.”

Sartion’s gaze was keen on her face. 

                “Oh, Ana.”  Her father hugged her close.  Anairë clung to him, suddenly feeling all the emotions she had so long pushed away, stinging her eyes with tears.  “That is a terrible way to live.”

                “What should I do, Atar?”  Her voice remained at a whisper, all her strength focused on keeping the tears off her cheeks.

                “I would not think in such absolutes, Ana, and,” he paused, offering her a small smile.  “I would speak to him.”

                Throughout the ride to Alqualondë, her father’s words repeated in her mind, a beat adjacent to the stride of the horses.  Thankfully, they were such a large group that no one noticed her pensiveness.  Beside Finwë’s daughters rode Silmalírë, Rilyendë, Lúlacë, and Eärwen.  They laughed merrily, sharing bits of the never ending gossip that lined Tirion’s streets.  Arafinwë rode ahead with his elder brother, Sorniswë and Sorniswë’s lady, a healer-apprentice of Lord Lórien.  Anairë hadn’t paid attention to her name, but that lady was caught up in a lively conversation with Aracáno.  Arafinwë and Sorniswë raced over the dunes.  Arafinwë let out a loud yell when they reached the top of the next hill and the glitter of the sea greeted them.  It was not much longer to the residence, an open dwelling with more rooms and finery than necessary.  Attendants were quick to greet Findis and Aracáno, and he offered an embrace to a few of them, speaking kindly and familiarly.  Anairë softly called the horses after her, leading them towards the enclosure.  She waved away the two men who came to her aid.

“Thank you, but I will do it,” she said firmly.

They instead saw to filling the water troughs and gathering up a number of blankets to place over the horses’ backs.

                “Ana, come on.  We are going swimming,” Eärwen called.

She cast a black shadow against the light sand, stripping off her thin dress and running free towards the foaming waves after everyone else.  Anairë closed the corral gate behind her, slowly walking through the sand.  She enjoyed the feel of the beach shifting under her toes.  Aracáno stood beside the pile of clothes, tossing his tunic into the mix.  Anairë noticed that while he had been absent from their practices, his figure had lost none of its tone. 

                “Are you coming?” he asked.

In a fluid motion, she slipped her dress over her head and threw it at him, standing comfortable in her undergarments.

                “Of course.  Hurry up, Nolo!”  She took off, running towards the waves.

She heard him behind her and pushed herself harder.  She laughed out her surprise as the water hit her legs ice cold.  His arms swept her up, intent on tossing her into the waves.  Instead, she clung to him, catching him off balance and sending them both tumbling into the water.  She laughed and then closed her eyes when the next wave crashed on them.    He pulled her up, eyes bright with his competitive spirit.

                “Care to race to the islands?” 

There were a few landmasses too large to simply be rocks, but too small to really count as islands, but they served as perfect places for resting between dives.

                “What will I win?” Anairë replied, pushing his chest with a grin.

                “I’ll convince Atar to let you keep Mélasúrë’s foals,” he finally said after a moment.  “And if I win?”

                “You won’t!”  She took off running, diving into the next wave and paddling towards the isles.

His shout echoed after her, but she knew better than to look back.  Her arms sliced through the water fierce and fast; she had never once given him a victory he did not earn.  One, two, breathe.  One, two, breathe.  The strokes set the rhythm of her breathing as she fought against the current that would drag her back to shore.  Her lungs burned when a wave prevented her from taking a needed breath.  With a gasp, she grasped the edge of the rock, looking around quickly to be sure she had reached it first. 

                “I win!” she announced to a gull perched nearby.

The bird simply twisted its head to the side, peering at her curiously.  Anairë hauled herself up onto the isle, watching Aracáno’s approach.  He threw himself onto the shore, breathing heavily.  Standing tall on the sand above him, she lifted her arms victoriously.

                “I win,” she repeated, smirking openly.

                “By luck,” he pointed out, glaring up at her.  “I got caught up in some seaweed.”

                “You will need a new excuse when I beat you on the way back.”

“Excuse?”  For a moment, his eyes glinted hard with pride.  “And what will be yours when I win?”

“I never make excuses, Nolo,” Anairë replied seriously, sitting beside him to watch the others lazily cut through the waves towards them.

“I know.”  He brushed sand off her arm.

If she had looked at him, she knew she would have confessed her heart there.  She was saved by Arafinwë bursting from the waves with Sorniswë, both demanding Aracáno’s attention.

                The dim Mingling Hour (for beside the Sea were the Lights ever softer and gentler) drew them away from the water and to the glimmering palace.  Findis had given the attendants the Mingling and next golden and silver hours for their own amusement.  It was a rare occasion for the children of the Eldests to be allowed to fend for themselves, and it seemed they intended to take full advantage of it.  Eärwen and Arafinwë bickered in the kitchen over what to prepare.  Every so often, Findis or Rilyendë would chime in, eliciting a laugh or heating the argument further.  Anairë watched quietly, a small smile curling her lips at the exchange. 

                “Eärwen, let Ara cook,” she finally cut in.  “You burn toast.”

                “Now, Ana, she has come quite a way.”  Arafinwë defended his lady quickly, earning a fond smile from Eärwen.

                “I was only twenty, Ana.  Tell me you didn’t burn any toast then.”  Eärwen gracefully crossed the kitchen to sit close to Anairë on the small loveseat.

                “I knew to let Nolo attempt such feats,” Anairë smirked, first at the silver lady, and then Aracáno.

His chuckle indicated he remembered the incident in question.

                “Didn’t you…” and with those words, Sorniswë launched into a quiet tale from their youth.

The laughter was frequent and joyous throughout the meal.  After some snooping around, Eärwen and Lúlalcë found a store of wine.  Sorniswë was quick to uncork the bottles, reading off the words on the label as if they should matter. 

                “We’ll have to replenish it before Atar notices,” Arafinwë noted to his brother. 

                “You mean, I have to replenish it,” Aracáno corrected.

                “Exactly, Nolo.  Thank you for offering.”  Arafinwë clapped his hand twice on his brother’s shoulder. 

Aracáno laughed and drew Sorniswë and his lady, Astarinyë, into their conversation.  Aracáno glanced only once at Anairë, brow raised in an invitation.  Instead of rising, Anairë leaned back in her chair, allowing her attention to be caught by the group outside.  On the veranda, Silmalírë produced her harp, and caressed the air with her soft alto voice.  Findis sat at her feet, watching her lover with an absolute awe that Anairë envied.  To have someone gaze at her in such a way…

                “You are unnaturally quiet,” Eärwen murmured as she placed a glass of the pale yellow wine in Anairë’s hand.   “Usually you are there between Nolo and Ara, leading the stories.”

                “Let Sorniswë have his turn.”  Anairë shrugged.

                “What’s the matter, Ana?  You are never this quiet unless there is something on your mind.  Even Nolo looks concerned.  He’s been watching you,” Eärwen pressed her.

Anairë’s gaze unconsciously jumped to Aracáno.  His stare shifted to Arafinwë as soon as he realized she’d caught him. 

                “I’m just tired, Eärwen.”  The excuse was weak.

                “Manwë’s balls, Ana,” Eärwen said the curse quietly and daintily.  Anairë couldn’t help her brief laugh.  Eärwen rarely used such language, and even when she did, it sounded sweet and prim.  “I have been your friend too long to accept that lie.”

                “I know.”  Anairë looked deep into her glass, wishing it was large enough to dive into.  “You have been spending far too much time with Ara, Eärwen.  That curse almost sounded like you meant it.”

Eärwen’s next colorful phrase caused her cheeks to flush and Anairë to break out into a loud fit of laughter. 

                “Ai, Cousin.  What is so funny?”  Sorniswë asked.

Anairë noticed his arm had slipped around Astarinyë comfortably.  She smirked at Eärwen before answering.

                “Eärwen called me a-” she began.

                “Anairë, don’t say it.  It’s terrible!” Eärwen exclaimed, clapping a hand over Anairë’s mouth.

Of course, Eärwen’s refusal only fueled the inquiries.  After a while of fruitless interrogation, it descended into a guessing game invigorated by wine and good company. 

                “What did she say?” 

Anairë glanced at Aracáno leaning casually in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen.  She shrugged, turning her attention to the basket of bread.  She snagged a piece, tearing off a portion to eat.  Then she returned her gaze to him, finding he was sitting at the table, clearly having no wish to report her answer to his brother.

                “I will never tell,” she replied mysteriously, taking the seat beside him.

                “Ah, I forget sometimes that I am second to only one person.” His fingers traced the rim of his glass.

Anairë chewed her bread slowly, her eyes narrowing as she watched him. 

                “I cannot tell if you are being sincere or if this is a new approach to wheedling information from me.  All those hours in your father’s council makes me wonder what tactics you have learned,” she finally said.

His lips curved into a sly smile, and he drained the last bit from his glass.

                “I will never tell.”  He leaned back in his chair with a smirk.

                “Then we are at an impasse, Nolo.”  She offered him a piece of the bread.

                “So it would seem.”  Their fingers brushed when he took it.

Her fingers burned, but she ignored it, eager to address their next adventure.

                “So, I heard you talking to Eärwen about some caves?” 

Within minutes, they had composed a note and found their horses. 

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Characters/Notes:

Lintaráto: name of one of Finwë’s horses. 

Mélasúrë: Anairë’s horse.

Anairë: also called Ana; daughter of Sartion and Nénuilsë.

Aracáno: also called Nolo or Nolofinwë; middle son of Finwë; second born of Indis.

Fëanáro: also called Curu or Curufinwë; eldest son of Finwë and Crown-Prince of Tirion; husband to Nerdandel and soon-to-be father of many children.

Findis: eldest child/daughter of Finwë and Indis; once studied under Estë.

Altacáno: coach for the football team.

Sorniswë: cousin of Anairë and son of Alyalótë; closest friend of Arafinwë.

Indis: Queen of Tirion; sister to Ingwë, King of the Vanyar; wife to Finwë and mother to four children.

Arafinwë: also called Ara or Ingo (in reference to his mother-name: Ingalaurë); youngest son/child of Finwë and Indis.

Sartion: father of Anairë; husband to Nénuilsë. 

Eärwen: daughter of Olwë and Elenetyë; princess among the Teleri.

Rilyendë: friend of Anairë’s; daughter of a smith

Lúlalcë: friend of Anairë’s; a poet.

Silmalírë: Findis’ partner; poet/singer; Vanya.

Astarinyë: apprentice of Lórien’s.  

 

Chapter 5: Confessions & Proposals

Thanks to the LC for their help, as always!

Read Chapter 5: Confessions & Proposals

 

Chapter Five: Confessions & Proposals

 

Alqualondë glimmered along the curve of the shore like a slippery eel bending beside the water.  The grey stone road served as a dark spine, leading up over the dunes to a tall cliff where it halted.  Overlooking the ordered swirl of homes and businesses on that high bluff sat the palace of Olwë glistening bright white among the green-yellow sea grasses.  Finwë’s builders had constructed it as a gift to the leader of the Teleri.  Far off in the sea, Anairë caught sight of the swift swan-ships bobbing towards the great Island.  Mélasúrë, as if sensing her rider’s distracted gaze, slowed to a walk. 

“I am sure we will pay King Olwë a visit,” Aracáno pulled his horse to a stop beside her.  “It would be rude for the Children of Finwë to travel so close without a proper visit.”

“Did your father tell you that?” Anairë teased him.

“Ara did,” Aracáno replied, his own disbelief revealed.    “I think he intends to speak to Olwë about Eärwen.”

The news was unsurprising to Anairë.  In fact, it seemed terribly overdue.

                “They are a smart match,” Anairë said.  “I heard Irimë and Veryómo have also been seeing one another.”

On the trip from Tirion, she had half-listened to the gossip. 

                “Veryómo already spoke to Atar about Irimë, unawares to her,” Aracáno replied.  “Yet, Atar will suffer no one to wed before Findis or I.”

                “It is tradition,” Anairë pointed out. 

                “It is ridiculous.  I would not push my children to marry in order.”  His tone carried an apparent disdain for the custom.

                “Children before vows?  What scandal, Nolo!” she teased him, eager to impart some humor to his scowling expression.

The joke worked like she hoped.  His gaze declared his appreciation for her glib words.  Instead of continuing their conversation, she urged Mélasúrë into a slow trot forward. 

They continued North past Alqualondë for a few more miles until Aracáno brought his horse to a halt.  Anairë slid off her horse, moving quickly to the cliff edge to gaze down at the sea.  Aracáno joined her silently, looking down at the barely visible caves openings white-foamed with water.  It was a steep drop down into the water, sharp rocks revealed when the waves ebbed.  It would be a tricky jump.

                “Well, shall we?”  He easily stripped off his shirt, beginning to undo the ties of his leggings.

Anairë followed suit, stripping down to her undergarments.  There was no time to admire his form, or to allow him a similar moment.  Her body surged with adrenaline, and she sent him a wild grin, walking backwards away from the ledge.

                “Ana,” he began seriously, but she was already sprinting towards the clouds, ignoring the warnings that he yelled. 

She brought her hands up over her head, angling straight towards the water.  The wind whipped cold as she fell; the frigid water slapped her into instant movement.  She broke to the surface with a loud gasp, wiping her hair back, and feeling the waves push her back against a rough rock.  She laughed loudly, punching the air with her fist victoriously.  A wave covered her head and she fought back to the surface, sputtering.

                “It’s cold, Nolo,” she cried, paddling to stay afloat among the waves. 

He stared down at her, obviously contemplating his manner of entry. 

                “Just jump.  Your balls will freeze either way.”  She impatiently pointed out.

                “My balls are none of your concern, Anairë,” he called back.

                “True, it seems you have none.  Jump!”   Another wave covered her head and by the time she resurfaced, he had dived in beside her. 

                “It is freezing,” he agreed, treading the water beside her.

                “Did you think I was lying?”  Anairë lunged, pushing his head beneath the waves.

She thought she’d caught him by surprise, until he, quick as a fish, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her down with him.  This descended into an energetic game of diving, and then a race up to breathable air. 

                “The caves,” he reminded her of their original intention.

Anairë took a deep mouthful of air before diving towards the gaping cave mouths.  Aracáno swiftly caught up to her, a curious blue light emitting from his hand.  It illuminated the stone teeth jutting out dangerously to catch them.  They maneuvered past other obstacles, until he pointed ahead to a place that they could surface.

                “What is that?” she exclaimed, swimming close to inspect the light in his hand. 

Their legs brushed together as she treaded the water beside him.  He put an arm around her waist in an effort to keep her close.  Usually, she would have ignored the touch, but this time, a thrill tingled up her spine at the intimacy.  She rested an arm on his shoulder comfortably, letting him support some of her weight.  He was more than capable of handling it.  His initial response was to tighten his grip on her waist.

                “Fëanáro sent it to Atar.”  Aracáno’s voice revealed his admiration as he undid the leather ties that kept the jewel tied to his wrist and handed it to her.  “He has encased light within his jewels.  Atar wonders if we might use them as lights for the tunnels beneath Tirion.”

Anairë marveled at the blue flame curling and flaring within the clear crystal casing.  It had been smoothed into a round shape that fit comfortably in her hand.  She grudgingly admitted to herself Fëanáro’s brilliance, but rather than voice it, she returned the light to Aracáno.

                “It is useful today.”  She looked around, and up at the endless cavern.

He lifted the light above his head, and Anairë let out an amazed gasp.  The ceiling glimmered when it caught the light.  Aracáno swam closer to the wall, using the ledge to pull himself up to closely inspect one of the stones.

                “Diamonds.”  He grinned back at her.  “Atar will be happy to hear of a new source.  I’m sure we can convince King Olwë to part with this wealth.  Or perhaps Arafinwë can.”

                “I did not come all this way for you to think only of politics.” Anairë splashed at him.

He fell back into the water, resurfacing directly in front of her.  He moved like one of Ulmo’s water spirits, swift and graceful through the water.  To herself alone, she admitted that he was as fair as one of the Water-Lord’s men.

                “Why did you come then?”  There was a strange seriousness to his voice.

                “You asked me,” she answered simply and then dived down into the darkness, hoping he would follow with Fëanáro’s light. 

He did pursue her into the depths, holding out the light for her.  They spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the diamond lined walls.

                Hours later, they emerged on the beach.  Anairë collapsed on the sand with a laugh, ignoring the gritty rasp against her skin.  He stood over her, shaking his head and smiling down at her.  Anairë propped herself up on her elbows, her smirk drawing him to kneel beside her.  He placed the crystal on her bare stomach.  She hissed at the coolness on her skin, flattening her stomach in an attempt to escape the touch.

                “Nolo!” she exclaimed, amid his rough chuckles.

His gaze lingered on the crystal casting blue shadows on her breasts.  She tossed a bit of sand at him, grinning when he flushed. 

                “By your gawking, you have surrendered this,” she said, only partially teasing.

She would never ask for something Fëanáro made.  He only sent her a brief nod.  She tied the gift around her neck, her hand lingering around it.  She caught his prolonged gaze again.  This time she did nothing to dissuade him, pretending to be caught up in her admiration of the jewel.  There was something different about his expression, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not detect the singularity. 

                “Of course,” he answered, looking to the east.

Dark clouds rolled over the sea, building higher and higher.  Thunder rumbled and faint flashes could be seen within the approaching storm.  Anairë could not help her smile; she loved the rain. 

                “We should find our clothes and horses before it hits.”  Aracáno pointed out, ever logical.

Anairë rose, twisting the water from her long hair and brushing the sand off her legs and butt.  He had his back to her, still frowning at the clouds.

                “I would rather let it rage around me here.”  Anairë opened her arms wide and threw her head back, as if to receive the sky.

                “Ana.”  His voice trembled low and unsure as he turned.

His eyes followed the curve of her body from her ankles up, and lingered on the crystal shimmering against her pale skin.  Anairë’s arms dropped to her sides as he slowly approached her.  His fingers traced the leather tie from the side of her neck over her shoulder to the jewel resting in the center of her collarbone.  Her skin betrayed her, small bumps immediately rising as if she was chilled by his touch, when in fact, he set her afire.  She could not muster any humor, lifting a hand to smooth his hair back over his shoulder.  It was as if some strange enchantment had caught and rendered her unable to move away. 

                “I am only jesting, Nolo.” Her voice broke the spell, and her hand fell numb to her side.  He seemed disappointed, and she wondered if her face revealed the same displeasure.  She linked an arm with his, surprised when she found his skin warm.  “Come on.”

                They barely made it to their clothes and horses before the rain started.  He pointed out a grove of trees, and they took shelter, the City too far to attempt.  She first made sure the horses were warm, while he took care of starting a fire.  She picked up her dress, frowning as she shook out the sand from it.  He had already tied up his leggings, an unusual action since they rarely returned to their clothes this soon after a swim.  She tossed her dress back at the ground, hands going to her hips as she faced him.  He glanced at her, and then knelt back beside his pack.

                “Do you have an extra…”  She smiled when he anticipated her question and held out an extra tunic.  “Perfect.”

He tossed her leggings as an after-thought.  The temperature had dipped slightly with a cool wind sweeping down from the North.  She held her hands out to the fire, grateful for the extra warmth.  Lightening split the sky and Anairë waited for the sky to rumble out its dissatisfaction. 

                “Ossë is angry.”  Aracáno sat close to her, watching the play of light across the clouds and the wrathful waves crashing against each other.

Anairë leaned into him, relishing the warmth he provided.  Whereas Fëanáro’s fëa-fire shone in his eyes, Aracáno’s emanated from his body in an intensity that drew others to him.  He offered her some of the mix of nuts and dried fruit he had packed. 

                “Ah, I almost forgot.  Since I do have to replenish Atar’s wine, I thought there was no harm in taking a bottle for us.”  He rose to rummage around in his pack, producing a carefully wrapped bottle and two metal cups.

                “Such a lush, Aracáno,” Anairë teased, anticipating his incredulous expression.

                “When you carry me home, then you may call me a lush,” he retorted, sitting back beside her.

She smacked his arm, shaking her head.

                “I would never carry you home, Aracáno.  I’d leave you in the chair you passed out in,” she replied with a smirk.

His brows rose and he almost laughed.

                “Oh, would you?  Well, see if I am troubled to care for you next time.”  His expression attempted seriousness.

                “You will,” Anairë said confidently, sharing a grin with him. 

The gentle affection on his face as they gazed at each other affirmed her statement; Anairë was the first to look away.  Quietly, they watched the downpour.  Anairë counted the seconds between the flashes and rumbles, announcing the number to Aracáno until the storm drowned out her voice.  When his horse grew spooked, he rose to calm him.  Mélasúrë, though nervous, remained calm, familiar with the storms her rider tended to strand herself in.

                When the rain evened out to a musical patter and the lightening ceased to break the sky, Aracáno returned to the fire and refilled their glasses.  While the silence seemed comfortable, Anairë felt tense and uncomfortable.  Her mind continued to race through different ways to speak her heart.  They were alone.  When else would she have such a chance?  Yet, did she dare?  The air thrummed with the aftermath of the storm.  In a second, it would shift back, becoming calm and gentle, smelling of sea salt and grass.  With a deep breath, she made her choice.

                “So your father intends for you to marry.”  She broached the subject suddenly, and then regretted the question.

He blinked, freezing with his glass half-raised to his lips.  His expression unexpectedly grew distant and guarded as he stared at her.  Anairë pressed her lips together, knowing her uncertainty played on the edges of her expression.  She found herself wishing, for the first time, that she had her mother’s eloquence.  Aracáno took a long drink before responding.   

                “Yes, he went with me to speak to her father.”  His reply seemed reluctant.

Her quick inhale was audible.  “Oh,” she murmured, briefly wondering why he hadn’t mentioned this before.  “I did not know you were so serious about a lady.”

She was crestfallen.  She must have heard him wrong.  He had chosen a partner; he would probably begin publically courting her. Was it Islinyë?  Anairë felt her heart would be torn in two if he settled for such a boring lady.   Yet, another part of her argued that she should have expected it.  Had she believed he would ask her?  Something within her whispered yes. 

                “I have only spoken to my parents and hers,” he replied, shrugging and watching the horses.  “It does not matter; I do not think she will accept.”

                “What makes you think that?” she asked absently, playing with a thread at the hem of her borrowed tunic.

                “I know her,” he answered.

She could feel his stare, and knew she needed to meet it.  She needed to smile, tease him, and force everything back to how it had always been.

                “Aracáno, any lady would accept a silver ring from you.”  Her shoulder nudged his playfully, though her solemn voice was at odds with the action.  “It is with Ara they would hesitate.”  She sipped her wine, trying to feign nonchalance for her next question.  “What did her father say to you?”

                “He is amiable to the union.”  His gaze moved on to the rain.  “Yet, he is clear that the decision is his daughter’s to make.”

                “Have you spoken to her?”  Her curiosity, now allowed an outlet, was unquenchable.

                “Why are you asking so many questions, Ana?”   The sudden reversal of questioning caught her by surprise. 

Her gaze flew to his, and the truth was not an answer she was willing to give.  Not now at least.  Not if there might be someone else.  Somewhere, her mind logically whispered about the steadfastness of the heart, and how it chose only one.  She ignored it, caught up in the conversation.

                “Why are you so reluctant to tell me?” she challenged.

                “I am not reluctant, simply interested to know why you are so nosy,” he replied.

                “I am not being nosy,” she argued, frowning at him.  “It’s madly…”  She paused, suddenly aware of her word choice.  It had twisted her thoughts for so long, and now verbalized, the world seemed to pause.  Even he seemed to be holding his breath.  “Forget I asked, Nolo.”

The silence lasted only long enough for her to take a drink from her cup.

                “You were not as drunk as you claimed, were you?”  He watched her, and she could see the hurt thinly veiled behind his eyes. 

His entire demeanor had reverted to a distant and proud mask that eerily reminded her of Fëanáro.  His chin tilted up proudly, mouth drawn straight and gaze cool and condescending.  He was incredibly still, and it concerned her.  He had never intentionally dissociated himself from her like this before.  This was exactly what she had not wanted to happen, but she could not retreat. 

                “I know what you said, Nolo.”  She looked down at her hands.  “But I did not know how to tell you.”

                “You could have done it the next day.  You could have told me then instead of letting me think…”  She could hear anger in his voice.

                “Letting you think what?” she interrupted, fighting between being irritated or confused. 

Silently, he pushed to his feet, agitated and halfway into the rain before Anairë could speak and stop his flight.

                “Nolo, sit down!  I did not confess my dishonesty to anger you.”  Anairë felt her own outrage growing.  “I did it to tell you I’m…” but the words were stuck, and her tongue refused to work.

It angered her how hesitantly she approached this moment, how she could not simply say what she meant and await the outcome.  Never had she been so worried about the consequences of one of her actions.

                “You’re what?”  He could not hide how he craved to know her answer. 

                Sitting meant staring up at him, and Anairë would not allow him that advantage.  She stood proudly, arms crossed over her chest, over the borrowed tunic with Finwë’s crest bright on her heart.  The rain dripped through the thin covering of the trees, soaking them both.

                “I think I am madly in love with you, Aracáno,” she professed bravely.  “And perhaps I say this too late, but I cannot remain silent.”

She dropped her gaze away, her courage wavering in the silence.  When she heard his steps, her shoulders dipped down, assuming he moved away.  His soft fingers cupping her chin caught her by surprise.  She fought the urge to move her face away, to withdraw back behind her sharp exterior.  Her lips parted, ready to ask a question, but something about his expression held her tongue.  He looked as anxious as she felt.

                “I only spoke of you, Ana.”

She forgot how to breathe, staring dumbly at him.  She didn’t know how to respond, completely surprised as her mind turned over their conversation.

“You spoke to my father?” she whispered.

“The day Russo got his horse.”  He answered, moving his hand from her chin to her shoulder.

                “But not to me?”  It was as if pieces were slowly beginning to fall into place.

                “Why would I have, Ana?  Until today, you never gave any indication of your heart,” he pointed out.  “I spoke to your father to be sure no other had requested your hand.”

                “You idiot!  Did you ever plan to ask me about this?” she asked, anxious to inquire while he seemed so forthcoming.

                “I’ve always planned, Ana,” he answered.

They were still, gazes locked, his hand still on her shoulder.  Neither had moved any closer. 

                “Maybe you should.”  She shifted unperceptively closer, issuing the challenge quietly.

                “Would you ever think of marrying me?”  There was no hesitation in his voice.

They stared at each other through the rain.  She blinked furiously against raindrops, for once contemplating her response.  The idea was one she had entertained before; brief daydreams slipped through her mind, notions she had always dismissed as improbable.

                “Yes.”  Her voice was stronger than she felt.

He froze, staring at her as if he had heard incorrectly.  “Yes?”

Her chin tilted and she closed the distance between them. 

                “I said, yes, Aracáno.  I would accept a silver ring,” she repeated, her words gathering more momentum.

                “Are you certain?” His hands slid onto her waist.

It was as if he’d never touched her before, the contact burning hot through the wet tunic.  For the first time, she allowed herself to enjoy the sensations.  Anairë tentatively circled his neck with her arms, her glare a silent warning against repeating such an inane question.  A contagious smile spread across his face.  When his fingers tenderly caressed her cheek, her eyes slipped shut, leaning into the touch.

                “Then I will commission the rings once we return.” 

When she opened her eyes, he was watching her intently, as if determined to verify this was no joke.

                “Do not let Fëanáro craft them.”  She felt awkward and hesitant.  He nodded quickly, and she continued speaking.  “And, I do not intend to accept the ring right away.”

It seemed there was no way to keep the smile from his face as he continually gazed at her.

                “Am I correctly hearing that the anti-romantic Anairë intends to be courted?”

                “I am not anti-romantic,” she protested amid his laughter.  “And yes, I insist.”

                “Any other demands?”  His eyes revealed that he would suffer any injury for her.

                “A kiss.”  The words were bold from her mouth before she could stop them.

                She pressed her lips together quickly, as if trying to recapture the sounds.  Instead, his warm hands cupped her face instantly and his mouth was firm against hers.  When his hand curled around the back of her neck to keep her close, she forgot her hesitance, her response honest and passionate.  She smiled against his lips, unexplainably happy.  He leaned back, brow furrowed with concern.

                “What?” he asked.

                “I did not mean to call you an idiot.”  She gently pushed back a wet strand of his hair.

He laughed, strong arms sweeping her up to kiss her again.  The thunder boomed overhead, startling them both into motion.  They returned to the horses and wine, resuming their seats, though inches closer than before.  He tapped his cup against hers with a small smile.

                “I think I am beginning to see your love for storms.”

She laughed unreservedly, lifting her cup and drinking quickly.  When his arm rested around her, she made no complaint, instead gladly shifting into him and watching the waves.

                The gentle patter of rain lulled them both into an easy sleep.  When her vision cleared, the storm had not let up, even though they were well past Telperion’s hour.  She sat up, acutely aware that she was alone.  His horse stood quiet beside Mélasúrë, but Aracáno was not there.  She brushed her blanket to the side, rising and stretching her arms up over her head.  He couldn’t have gone far.  She greeted Mélasúrë, murmuring to her softly in an attempt to quell her anxiety.  They had said their declarations under Laurelin’s light.  How would it be beneath Telperion’s?  A rustle in the bushes nearby caught her attention.

                “Nolo?” she called, adrenaline surging through her.

                “What?” He grunted, coming into view.  With his tunic slung over his shoulder and hair wet, he had obviously gone swimming without her.

Anairë’s hands fell to her hips immediately, relying on instinct to overcome her anxiety.  He stopped a step away from her, mimicking her pose. 

                “You’re finally awake,” he said, heavily empathizing the word finally.

                “You could have woken me,” she replied, unable to stop the smile sliding across her face.

He held out his hand after he shrugged. 

                “I know the dangers of disturbing you,” he teased.

Her hand fit firmly in his and he drew her close, as if it were the most natural action in the world.  His surety calmed her fast beating heart and racing mind.  When his hand rested on the curve of her hip, Anairë titled her head to the side, noting his tired eyes.

                “Did you sleep at all?” she asked.

                “No,” he answered.  “I worried I would wake and find I had dreamed it all.”

Her lips were soft against his cheek in a fleeting kiss.  His content smile warmed her to her bones.

                “Silver tongued, indeed,” she mumbled, unable to ignore the strange satisfaction she felt.

They stood quiet for a moment more.  Then Mélasúrë let out a loud sigh, shaking her silver mane back.  Anairë released his hand to press her hand against her mare’s nose.

                “I think we could ride out in this.  It seems to be clearing,” he reported.

                “I am not afraid of a little rain,” she replied.  “But, Nolo…”

                “Yes?”  He glanced at her briefly.

                “What do we say when we return?” 

                “About what?” he asked, clearly confused.

                “Well, us,” Anairë replied.

A frown crossed his face and he shrugged.

                “We do not have to say a thing until we decide,” he answered simply.  “But I will not hide-”

                “Honestly, Nolo!” Anairë interrupted with a sigh.  “I was not asking because I want to keep it secret.  I simply,” she paused, lifting a shoulder carelessly before mounting Mélasúrë.  “I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do.”

He placed a hand on Mélasúrë’s nose, keeping Anairë from riding away.  His other hand found Anairë’s, and he held onto it firmly.  She looked down at him, feeling her anxieties slip away when she spied his easy smile.

                “Neither do I, Ana.  If there wasn’t a challenge, you wouldn’t be half as interested in this,” he teased her in a dry tone.

She protested; he argued her objection.  Their world continued to spin exactly as it had since they had met and climbed the tallest tree in Tirion.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Characters/Notes:

Eärwen: daughter of Olwë and Elenetyë; princess among the Teleri.

Aracáno: also called Nolo or Nolofinwë; middle son of Finwë; second born of Indis.

Anairë: also called Ana; daughter of Sartion and Nénuilsë.

Fëanáro: also called Curu or Curufinwë; eldest son of Finwë and Crown-Prince of Tirion; husband to Nerdandel and soon-to-be father of many children.

Olwë: King of the Teleri & Alqualondë; husband to Elenetyë and father to Eärwen.

Arafinwë: also called Ara or Ingalaurë (Ingo); youngest son/child of Finwë and Indis.

Mélasúrë: Anairë’s horse.

Ilsinyë: daughter of Finwë’s chief counselor.

 

 

Chapter 6: Bonfires & divination

Read Chapter 6: Bonfires & divination

                They followed the storm south to Finwë’s sea-palace, allowing them no respite from the thick drizzle of rain and fog that blanketed the coast.  By the time they arrived at the residence, Anairë had ceased to be amused by the relentless damp.  Aracáno, ever-prepared, had lent her his cloak to protect her from some of the rain, but now it hung heavy and sodden around her shoulders.  She dismounted and sharply regarded the two men who ran from the nearby stable to receive their horses.  As if sensing her ill mood, Aracáno quickly issued orders to their horses’ care.  When his arm slipped around her shoulders to steer her towards the house, she resisted, frowning at him and unnaturally irritated by his action.  He sighed, hands resting on his hips as he glared at her.

                “Do you plan to stand in the rain?” he asked.

                “No, but I do not intend to be dragged around.”  She began to walk towards the palace.

                “Dragged?”  He returned her frown.  “I’ll show you dragged.”

In a moment, he had hoisted her over his shoulder, carrying her like she weighed no more than Russo.  Anairë half-heartedly pounded a few fists against his back in protest.

                “You’ll never get away with this, Nolo,” she threatened.

                “I think we both know I will,” came his unconcerned response.

He deposited her on the top step under the overhang.  Anairë pushed back the hood, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared at him.  When the laughter and merriment of their friends inside drifted out to them, a sudden sense of anxiety pressed her chest, as if she wore a sign that revealed Aracáno held more than a little piece of her heart.  He stepped onto the bottom step, so they were the same height.

                “Should I fear your retribution?” he asked, compelling her full attention.  She heard a challenge in his voice.

Anairë leaned towards him, pushing past their usual closeness to a more intimate place.  Their foreheads nearly touched.  It was intriguing to watch his response.  He remained still, projecting a sense of ease, but his eyes grew dark and flitted between her eyes, the space behind her, to the side of her, and her lips.  When her hand slipped to his shoulder, his gaze halted on her face.  She softly pressed her lips against his cheek, trying not to smirk at the discovery of her newfound power.

                “Yes,” she answered in a whisper near his ear.

When she slipped back, she saw his smile matched hers. 

                “I do not fear you,” he mumbled.

He stole her breath away, boldly pressing a kiss to her lips.  It was then she grudgingly realized he too had noticed his new influence over her.  She held onto his shoulder, unwilling to let him go.  So one kiss melted into another and the tentative exploration continued.  A loud shriek of laughter, probably Irimë’s, caused them to break apart.  Anairë pressed her lips together and idly smoothed his damp tunic.  She needed to look at him, to be sure of his expression, but she found herself unnaturally nervous.  Her stomach fluttered anxiously; her heart beat fast.   A steady drip of water from the roof awkwardly counted out the passing moments. 

                “That does not forgive you, Nolo,” she finally said, forcing herself to look at him.

There was a sense of relief in expression when she spoke.  He stepped up the stairs to stand beside her.

                “I would be concerned if it did,” he replied, his arm again slipping around her shoulders to steer her towards the door.  This time she did not resist.  “Inside, Ana.  You’re shivering.”

They barely passed the threshold before Arafinwë rushed from another room, dry and resplendent in gold and white.

                “Finally!  You’re back!” he announced. 

Eärwen appeared beside him, obviously relieved to see the couple.  A few members of the household staff bustled in, taking stock of the soaked couple and disappearing, most likely in search of towels.

                “I worried Ossë had swept you both away in his rage.”  She moved to embrace Anairë and then stopped short, lips pursing as she realized Anairë’s damp state. 

Anairë took a teasing step towards Eärwen.  Eärwen immediately threw up her hand, refusing to allow Anairë any closer.

                “Ossë would not keep her, no matter how I begged,” Aracáno replied.

 Arafinwë laughed loudly, clapping his brother’s shoulder.  Anairë’s glare had little effect on Aracáno, and she found her crossness fade with each moment spent staring at him.  When her gaze briefly drifted to his lips, the knowing gleam in his eyes caused a flush to spring to her cheeks.  Arafinwë cleared his throat, abruptly reminding them of his presence.  He watched them with narrowed eyes; Aracáno met his brother’s stare with indifference.

                “I am glad he did not listen to you, Nolo.”  Eärwen took a towel from a waiting attendant, draping it around Anairë’s shoulders as she steered her friend further indoors.  The sons of Indis followed, talking quietly between themselves.  “Hurry and get changed.  If I smell correctly, dinner is nearly finished,” Eärwen said softly.  “I’m glad you’re back.  I have much to tell you.”

                “Then tell me,” Anairë ordered, instantly intrigued.

Eärwen shook her head, pointing down the hall.

                “Go and change, but I have claimed you for my own this evening.  Nolo will have to do without you.”

Anairë kissed her friend’s cheek fondly and traversed the halls to her rooms.  She noted the steaming bath with a grateful smile.  After sleeping on the beach, sand had found its way into the most unfortunate of places.  She piled the borrowed tunic and leggings with her undergarments, before stepping into the warm water with a sigh.  The tub was large enough that she could stretch out and submerge her head.  She closed her eyes, relaxing completely and ignoring everything else.  It was easy to forget all her anxieties and misgivings, to let them expand and bloat until they dissipated like the soapy bubbles skimming the surface. 

When she finally exited the tub and dried off, she was sure the dinner meal had already finished.  Her hair hung damp and long down her back.  She’d wrestled the tangles from her tresses, so they gleamed dark and smooth in the candlelight.  She paused beside the dining room, catching sight of a familiar blonde head.  Silmalírë’s eyes lit up when she caught sight of Anairë.

“So you are back,” Silmalírë greeted her with a kiss.  “Nolofinwë told us he left you in some dark sea cave.  Poor Sorniswë cannot decide whether to believe him or not.”

“My noble cousin!”  Anairë laughed, shaking her head.  “Where is everyone?”

“Outside, the men created fire,” Silmalírë sighed, rolling her eyes playfully.  “You would think they had uncovered the mystery of life.”

Anairë laughed harder, and they made their way out to the blazing bonfire.  She spied her cousin and waved to him.  Immediately, Aracáno and Arafinwë were snickering like mischievous boys; Sorniswë’s glare at them was fierce and stern.  He marched towards Anairë, the frown unnatural on his face.

                “Ana, I am glad to see you.”  Sorniswë swept her up with a smile. 

                “I heard I had been left in some- what was it- dark, sea cave?”  Anairë replied once her feet were firmly on the ground.

                “That was the story.  I did not believe it, Cousin.”  Sorniswë lowered his voice, glancing at Aracáno who was well within earshot.  “Though I’d be wary if Nolo asks to take you North.  He might leave you in the Ice.”

                Aracáno immediately protested, slinging an arm over Sorniswë’s shoulders.  Their playful argument descended into a wrestling match.  Anairë stepped past them, easily finding Eärwen sitting on the sand with Arafinwë.  The Princess of the Teleri quietly watched the waves, her head resting in the curve of Arafinwë’s shoulder.  Anairë wavered between interrupting them, catching the tender kiss Arafinwë pressed to Eärwen’s hair. 

                “Ingo, stop your flirting and come here.  I’ve got your brother in a head lock,” Sorniswë yelled impatiently.

Arafinwë barely wavered, pushing to his feet and running towards the wrestling men.  Anairë took his spot beside Eärwen, watching the long, black shadows stretch and fight on the white beach.

                “I swear, they are children, Ana,” Eärwen sighed.  “Ingo included.”

                “Did you really think he was any different?” Anairë leaned her shoulder against Eärwen’s.

                “Walk with me?” the princess whispered.  “I feel I will shatter into a thousand pieces if I do not speak to you, and soon.”

                “Dear Eru, Eärwen, I will not be responsible for piecing you back together.”  Anairë rose to her feet quickly.

                The two ladies left the bonfire far behind them, strolling arm-in-arm on the beach. 

                “Speak, Eärwen, and quickly.  You are making me worried,” Anairë said softly, once they could not even see the flames of the fire.

All of her concern faded when she caught Eärwen’s beaming smile. 

                “Oh, Ana.”  Eärwen danced away from her towards the white foam water.  “I am unbelievably happy, but Ingo made me promise to not-”

                “He is going to speak to your father.”  Anairë crossed her arms over her chest with a smirk.

Eärwen stopped her dancing.  She sighed irritably, her hands going to her hips accusingly.  The waves knocked against her ankles, but Eärwen barely noticed the caresses.

                “Did Nolo tell you?”

                “No, Eärwen.  I am not blind,” Anairë replied, approaching Eärwen.  “But, I cannot be happier for you.”

Eärwen’s expression returned to its former gaiety as she hugged Anairë.  Then she moved just as quickly away, resuming her dancing.  In a bright blue dress, her quick movements reminded Anairë of a little bird flitting through the endless sky.  With a laugh, Anairë joined Eärwen’s happy dance, caught completely up in her friend’s delight.

                After they poured all their energy into laughter and silly pirouettes, they collapsed and sat on the beach facing each other.   

                “When does Arafinwë intend to speak with your father?” Anairë piled sand on Eärwen’s foot absently.

                “Does it matter?” Eärwen sighed happily.

Anairë rolled her eyes at her infatuated friend, though a smile played around the edges of her lips.  She drew her bottom lips between her teeth, internally debating over whether she should share the happenings of her sea-cave adventure.  Thankfully, Eärwen was chattering, more to herself than Anairë.

                “Atar will surely say yes.  Then we shall have to wait until after the Games when Ingo celebrates his coming of age.  Oh, but fie!  Finwë is adamant about Findis marrying first.” She paused, whether to catch her breath or think, Anairë could not tell.  When she continued, Anairë tuned her out, focusing on her own thoughts.  Perhaps it was wiser to keep it secret.  Scarcely a day had passed, and Anairë was not keen on seeming as infatuated as Eärwen.  Then it struck her that Aracáno might mention something to Arafinwë, who in turn could keep nothing from his lady.  It would never do to have Eärwen hear it from someone else. 

                “Eärwen,” Anairë began tentatively.

The hesitance in her voice drew Eärwen’s attention.  She gazed at Anairë impassively, before her eyes narrowed.

                “Tell me now.”  Usually it was Anairë demanding a confession from Eärwen; the words seemed strange in Eärwen’s voice.

Anairë looked away for a moment, inwardly berating herself for being so easily read.  Eärwen shifted to sit on her knees closer to Anairë.  She took Anairë’s hands, turning them over to gaze at the palms.

                “Shall I unmask your confession?” she asked, half-teasing.  Her index finger traced the lines of Anairë’s left palm.  Usually Anairë would scoff at the Telerin belief that their hands told the tales of their lives.  Tonight, she remained silent, allowing Eärwen to softly sing and murmur the Telerin words of revelation.  “Interesting, you’ve recently made a life-changing decision.”

Anairë remained impassive when Eärwen glanced at her to ascertain the truth to that statement.  It was too vague an explanation to be an insight, yet her heart still pounded loud in her ears.

                “Oh?” Eärwen gasped, her smile wide as she trailed a single finger over a crease on Anairë’s palm.  Anairë fought the urge to close her hand when it tickled.  “It is a decision of the heart.  I cannot discern the level of intimacy, of friend or suitor.  It seems blurred.”

Anairë drew her hand away from Eärwen as if burned.  The two women stared at each other; Anairë rubbed her palm.  It tingled in a memory of Eärwen’s touch.

                “So what is it, Anairë?  Friend or suitor?  And why haven’t you told me you were interested in some man?  Is it a man?” Eärwen demanded, her questions quick as arrows.

                “Eärwen.”  Her voice sounded weak as if left her mouth.  “I intend to be courted.”

Eärwen drew in a surprised breath, her complete astonishment plain on her face. 

                “By whom, Ana?”  Her excitement was thinly veiled.

                “Nolo.”

                For the first time, Eärwen was struck speechless.  She blinked and breathed, but said nothing, which worried Anairë.

                “Say something, Eärwen.”

                “I cannot believe he finally spoke to you.”  Eärwen hugged Anairë tightly. 

                “You knew?”

                “Of course.  Ingo was attempting to nonchalantly inquire as to whether you and Telparyon—”

                “Telparyon?  Blessed Eru, no!  Your brother is more vain than you,” Anairë interrupted with a frown.

                “I would be offended, were it not true,” Eärwen sniffed.  “That’s beside the point.  Ingo attempted his inquiries and I, with my sweet charms, uncovered who desired to know that information.”

                “He spoke with my father already,” Anairë admitted. 

                “That does not surprise me.  Neither of you are apt to change your mind once it is made.”  Eärwen took Anairë’s hands again, forcing her to rise so they could begin their trek back towards the bonfire.  “I cannot express how happy I am for you both.  When did he finally tell you?”

Suddenly, Anairë found herself honestly detailing the past month to Eärwen.  It was liberating, to finally pour out a month’s worth of indecisive fretting, followed by the details of their cave adventure.  Eärwen listened with an infuriatingly smug half-smile, interrupting only once or twice with a sigh or exclamation.

                “There you both are!”

                Arafinwë must have been keeping an eye out for their return.  He approached them confidently.  Anairë caught the gentle softening of Eärwen’s face, the blush that barely kissed her cheeks, and the special smile that played on the edges of her lips.  Eärwen placed her hand in Arafinwë’s without a word, allowing herself to be drawn away.  Eärwen paused suddenly, glancing at Anairë as she realized they had not completely finished their conversation.

                “We’ll talk later,” Anairë assured her.

The three joined the circle of merriment.  Findis had a lyre and, to roaring laughter, was singing a highly irreverent ballad about a horse and its lord.  As always, a spot had been left empty beside Aracáno.  She slipped beside him, her shoulder nudging against him familiarly.  His arm fell intimately around her shoulders.

                “Did Eärwen tell you?” he murmured close to her ear amid the loud laughter.

Anairë nodded with a wide smile, leaning in close so their conversation remained private. 

“Will he wait for your father, or take you to speak with Olwë?”

                “He and I will go.  He already sent a bird back to Atar detailing his intentions.  I assume Atar will grant me some leniency so I do not have to report back to Tirion’s council next week,” he answered.  “Stay with me?  Irimë will go to Alqualondë, and I refuse to be left alone with my enamored siblings and their ladies.” 

                “That would be terrible,” she agreed.  “I suppose I can write to Atar and ask if he would continue caring for Lintaráto.”  She caught the subtle change of expression and raised a brow.  “Unless you have already done that for me?”

                “You took an obnoxiously long bath,” he replied.

Anairë chuckled to herself, shaking her head.

                “Well, it seems I must stay since you’ve given me no choice,” she looked up at him.

                “You act as if you ever had a choice.” He regarded her warmly.

She threw her head back and laughed freely.

                “The day you allow me no choice will be a difficult day indeed for you,” she said.

                “That I do not doubt that, Ana.” 

---

Chapter End Notes

Characters/Notes:

Finwë: King of Tirion and the Noldor; husband to Indis and father of many children.

Anairë: also called Ana; daughter of Sartion and Nénuilsë.

Aracáno: also called Nolo or Nolofinwë; middle son of Finwë; second born of Indis.

Irimë: third child of Finwë and Indis.

Arafinwë: also called Ara, Ingo or Ingalaurë; youngest son/child of Finwë and Indis.

Eärwen: only daughter of Olwë and Elenetyë; princess among the Teleri.

Silmalírë: Findis’ partner; poet/singer; Vanya.

Sorniswë: cousin of Anairë and son of Alyalótë; closest friend of Arafinwë.

Findis: eldest child/daughter of Finwë and Indis; once studied under Estë.

Rilyendë: friend of Anairë’s; daughter of a smith.

Telparyon: eldest son of Olwë and Elenetyë, and brother to Eärwen.  High-prince of Alqualondë.

Veryómo: second son of Olwë and Elenetyë, and brother to Eärwen.

 

Chapter 7: Alqualondë and Audacity

Huge thanks to elfscribe for feedback and suggestions! 

Summary: The group travels to Alqualondë, and enjoys some friendly competition.

Read Chapter 7: Alqualondë and Audacity

Chapter Seven: Alqualondë and Audacity

 

                The Light of the Trees waxed and waned surely, marking the carefree days spent beside the sea.  Most of their group returned to Tirion having jobs or apprenticeships to attend to.  The others, high-born and currently responsible for little, squandered their hours in relaxation.  Warm winds swept up from the south, heralding the brief summer amid their endless spring.  Findis and Silmalírë had retired to their room complaining of fatigue with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.  Irimë convinced her brothers to accompany her to Alqualondë, so Eärwen and Anairë were left alone on the veranda.  Quietly, Anairë sat cross-legged on the white stone floor, stringing tiny pearls together with a deep frown.  One of her knees moved anxiously, another visible indicator of her irritation.  Eärwen sat on the divan behind her, legs resting on either side of Anairë’s shoulders as she deftly plaited dozens of tiny braids in Anairë’s hair.

                “Eärwen…” Anairë sighed.

                “Hush, Ana.  You promised to not complain about my choice of activities,” Eärwen replied, ignoring the whine in Anairë’s voice.

                “I did not think you would treat me like a child’s doll,” Anairë grumbled.  “This is ridiculous.”

                “Would you rather I read to you?  I came across this romantic novel while browsing the bookshop,” Eärwen chattered brightly.  “Oh, Ana, there’s this handsome Prince, but he is rude and unkind.  Really, he’s a pompous ass.  Now, a betrothal is arranged between him and this sweet and lovely lady…”  Anairë rolled her eyes and sighed heavily as Eärwen continued explaining bits of the plot. 
“…Yet, by the time he realizes that he loves her, she has broken off their engagement.  He goes to her, woos her and then…”  Eärwen leaned in closer to Anairë, signaling that her next words carried some sort of scandal.  “In a fit of passion, they dare to defy the gods and consummate…”

                “Eärwen!  Why are you reading that trash?” Anairë exclaimed, twisting around with a laugh.

                “Don’t poke fun, Ana.”  Eärwen frowned and tugged harder than necessary on the braid in her hand causing Anairë to face the sea with a wince.  “I love to read of a lady being wooed by some noble Prince.  Besides…” She leaned down to continue in a softer tone.  “…I think you secretly are warming up to the idea.  Where have you and Nolo been disappearing to?”

Anairë fought the urge to turn and glare at Eärwen, hearing the insinuation in her friend’s tone.  She and Aracáno had been riding up and down the coast, exploring the cliffs and bluffs between.  He always issued an invitation to his brother, sisters and their partners, but they all had declined each time.  Anairë was glad for the time alone; she would suffer no one beside Nolo to share their awkward moments.

Yesterday, they had swam out and lounged on the Islands.  He lay on his back, eyes closed and one hand resting on his chest.  Anairë was stretched out on her stomach, her hand pressed between her cheek and the sand as she unabashedly gazed at him.  When the wind blew a few pieces of hair onto his forehead, she immediately reached over and brushed them away.  His eyes opened only a fraction before he shifted onto his side and slid his hand across the curve of her back.  His arm rested comfortably against her.  When his fingers traced her spine, she fought the shiver that curled her toes.  Everything about that moment was familiar and at the same time completely new.  A week ago, she would have never allowed such an intimate touch, even from him. 

                “I am glad you suggested a swim,” she said. 

He simply closed his eyes, and she watched the edge of his lips soften into a semi-smile.  The gentle glow of the Mingling Hour caught the tips of his hair.

                “I thought you would be up for a bit of competition,” he replied.

                “Which I won.”  She smirked when his eyes immediately flew open.

                “No, sir!” he exclaimed, a grin spreading across his face.  “I definitely beat you.”

Anairë arched a brow, knowing full well he had technically arrived at the shore a half second before her.  However, if he hadn’t cheated, she would have won.

                “Perhaps we will have to have a re-match,” she replied.

Her body betrayed her innermost desire by scooting closer to him instead of jumping up and demanding the contest straightaway.  He shifted to close the space between them.  When his arm slid away from her back, she opened her mouth to protest.  He took her hand, interlocking their fingers.

                “Later,” he murmured.

She had never been so content to agree.

                “Anairë!”  Eärwen’s irritated exclamation interrupted any further reminiscing. 

                “Yes?” she replied brusquely.

                “You did not answer my question, and now I am insanely curious to know what sort of excursions Nolo is taking you on,” Eärwen replied.

                “You have declined to join us, so I feel no need to share.”  Anairë picked up another pearl to string.

                “You are insufferable!” Eärwen sighed before laughing softly.  “I do hope you are behaving—“

Anairë refused to let Eärwen finish her sentence, swinging around with a laugh.  The pearls rolled over the floor freely.

                “Honestly, Eärwen!” she exclaimed, rising swiftly to her feet.

Eärwen only smirked up at her, but said nothing further.  She lounged back against the soft cushions, beckoning Anairë to join her.  Anairë settled beside her, resting her head in the curve of Eärwen’s shoulder.  Eärwen’s soft hum echoed the muted roar of the sea.  They idly lazed on the couch until they heard horses and then laughing voices.

                “Don’t you date, Ingo!” Irimë’s shriek drifted up to them.

Eärwen raised up to her elbows, looking behind Anairë and smiling slightly.  She nudged Anairë who sighed, glancing over her shoulder at the stairs.  Aracáno appeared ahead of his companion.

                “Telparyon!” Eärwen quickly rose to greet her brother.

The eldest son of Olwë stood as tall as Aracáno with silver hair like his sister’s.  He swept her up off her feet, causing Eärwen to laugh loudly in delight.  Anairë lazily held out a hand to Aracáno, smiling when he took it and sat on the couch beside her.

                “I see you have been busy.”  His fingers brushed the braids.

Anairë chuckled shifting to sit up.

                “Eärwen has treated me like a doll since your departure.”  Her tone implied that the blame was his.

                “You chose to keep her here,” he replied.  “Though I can assume Ara is greatly appreciative of your sacrifice.”

                “He spoke to Olwë?”  Her voice dipped lower as she watched the silver siblings.

Aracáno only nodded and then looked back as the rest of their companions joined them on the porch.  Anairë swung her legs to the ground, standing with a wide smile.  Her gaze was fixed on the awkwardly thin teen beside Telparyon and Eärwen.

                “Avarúsë.”  She embraced the youngest child of Olwë.  “Look at you!  You’re nearly taller than I am.”

His pale face flushed to the roots of his silver-white hair at her attention.  He escaped the hug quickly, crossing his arms over his chest.

                “I am nearly twenty-five,” he said softly to her feet. 

While the elder children of Olwë were gregarious and elegant, Avarúsë, in his painful adolescence, remained quiet and shy.  Telparyon placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder with a proud smile.  Avarúsë straightened his back at the touch, only a few inches shy of his brother’s height.

                “And he has joined Alqualondë’s team,” Telparyon announced.

                “Avarúsë, that is wonderful.  I will have to keep an eye out for you.” Anairë exchanged a grin with Telparyon as Avarúsë’s face reddened further.

                “He is a fierce defender,” Telparyon added.  “I’ve been on the receiving end of one of his tackles, and it is brutal.”

                “You should have seen it, Ana.”  Eärwen smirked at Telparyon.  “It took Telparyon a good five minutes to roll off the sand.”

                “It was not that hard,” Avarúsë mumbled, but his voice was lost in the mix.

Eärwen had already launched into a merry retelling of the tackle; Telparyon laughingly denied the dramatics.  Anairë watched an uncomfortable frown twist Avarúsë’s lips as he watched his elder siblings.  She caught his attention by placing a hand on his arm.

                “It must have been quite satisfying to take him down,” she whispered in Avarúsë’s ear.

That brought a genuine smile to his face and he met her gaze with a nod.  Anairë kissed his cheek, watching his cheeks bloom again.  There was adoration visible in his eyes when he gazed at her.  She caught the amused looks pass between Aracáno and Telparyon.  Her eyes narrowed in a silent warning if they dared to entertain any thought of teasing Avarúsë.  Eärwen stole away her brother’s attention with a smile and hug.

                “Where’s Veryómo?” Anairë addressed her question to Irimë.

The lady tossed an irritated glance back at her younger brother as if he was the reason for her unsaid troubles.  Unlike her siblings, Irimë’s hair neither matched the dark of her father, nor the gold of her mother.  It lingered in-between, a sweet, dark caramel color that was ever twisted up in a bun.  

                “Council with his father,” she answered with a sigh.  “However, Elenetyë has invited us to dinner.”

                “Which, I thought, we could follow with a friendly game?”  Telparyon added, his gaze moving to Aracáno.

Aracáno barely had nodded before Findis and Silmalírë swept out to offer their greetings to the sons of Olwë.  Within the hour, their party was travelling to Alqualondë with the intention of returning to Tirion from the Sea-City.  By the time they reached the Pearl Palace, Olwë and Veryómo had finished their council business, and received the party at the gates. 

                “Nolofinwë.”  Olwë greeted the eldest son of Indis first.  “I am glad you accepted my wife’s invitation.”  Olwë’s voice was ever full of music.  It reminded Anairë of summer and rain. 

                “We were honored to come.”  Aracáno took Olwë’s hand firmly.

Anairë watched the formalities with the eyes of one seeing them for the first time.  Aracáno had shifted from her easy-going friend to a Prince.  His shoulders were straight and tall; head held high and proud.  A smile drifted across her face as Olwë heartily embraced Arafinwë.  Elenetyë, Olwë’s wife, approached, dressed in a pale sea green dress that shimmered with every step.  Her white-blonde hair hung free in waves down her back.  She met Aracáno and Arafinwë’s bows with a smile.

                “Anairë, I owe you congratulations.”  Olwë’s warm embrace distracted her from watching Aracáno further.

She leaned back quickly, gazing at the Sea-King with a raised brow. 

                “And what great deed have I done?” she inquired.

Unlike Finwë, Olwë still carried the barest hint of stars in his eyes. 

                “I heard you have replaced Aracáno as team Captain.”

                “You are unfortunately misinformed, my King Olue.”  She quickly dipped into the sweet Telerin tongue, and paired her final words with an impish smile.  “Nolofinwë is still my captain, but I appreciate the promotion.”

                “She is co-captain, as always.”  Aracáno stepped in beside Anairë, clearly having heard the entire conversation. 

                “As always,” Olwë echoed. 

                “Now, now, no talk of that infernal game.”  Elenetyë shook a finger at the three of them as she slid into place beside her husband.  If Olwë was summer and warmth, then his wife was laughter and calm breezes.  Her voice was soft and mellifluous.  “Anairë, your hair is lovely.”

                “Your daughter was bored,” Anairë replied honestly.

                “To your benefit,” Elenetyë took her husband’s arm.  “Shall we?  I am absolutely famished.”

---

                Anairë felt all the air in her lungs leave forcefully as she was tackled into the sand.  She lay still, focusing only on drawing breath back into her aching chest.  Her heart pounded between her eyes, drowning out everything except her uneven breathing.  She pushed to her knees and then feet, accepting Avarúsë’s hand to help her.  Telparyon had not lied about the ferocity of his younger brother.

                “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Anairë squeezed his hand, forcing a smile.  Her ribs were throbbing painfully.

                “Never be sorry for a good tackle, Avarúsë.  I will expect worse when I face you at the Games,” she replied.

                “Let her be, brother!  She’s fine,” Eärwen finally cried out.  “Let’s get on with this game.”

Anairë loped back to join the frowning children of Finwë.  Currently, the score sat in favor of Olwë’s children, a first in the history of these games.  To make matters worse, their beach game had attracted more of an audience than usual. 

                “Are you—” The voice came from behind her.

                “I suggest saving your breath, Nolofinwë,” she interrupted, grinding out the words.

                “True, Nolo.  She’s likely to tackle you down to the sand if you continue,” Arafinwë added from his place behind Anairë.

                “I doubt she could knock me off my feet,” Aracáno replied.

Anairë whirled around, immediately face to face with Aracáno.  He ignored her deathly glare, wiping some sand from her cheek.  She smacked at his hand defiantly.

                “Save your lover’s spat for later, you two,” Eärwen teased, too loudly for Anairë’s taste.

By the red flush creeping up Aracáno’s neck, he apparently shared that thought.  He stared down the field at the silver Princess.

                “Someone needs to tackle her,” Anairë muttered with a frown.

                “I volunteer Ingo,” Irimë replied.

Arafinwë immediately straightened, glaring first at his sister, and then focusing on his brother.  Aracáno ignored both of his siblings, his attention firmly on Telparyon.  The eldest son of Olwë openly smirked at Tirion’s Captain.  Throughout the match, the two had been locked in an unsaid contest to outmaneuver the other.  So far, Telparyon had scored twice on Aracáno, a first in all the years they had been playing. 

                “I’m not tackling her,” Arafinwë protested.

Aracáno’s lips straightened into a thin line and he fiercely stared at his brother.  Arafinwë visibly tensed, crossing his arms over his chest in a poor shield.  

                “We know.  She’s been dancing around your defenses and scoring goals,” Aracáno said tersely.  “Tackle her if the need arises.  Or I will bring in Findis in your place.”

It was an idle threat, Findis was not athletically inclined, but one Anairë knew Arafinwë would not risk.  He grumbled inaudibly, but nodded, moving back towards the goal. 

                “He’s in your head, and he knows it,” Anairë said.

Irimë became suddenly scarce as Aracáno’s sharp gaze travelled to Anairë. 

                “Don’t.  Anairë.”  His tone was clipped.

Anairë ignored the warning, having never heeded one before. 

                “Tackle him, or I’ll bring Findis in for you.”  She poked his chest before quickly jogging to where Olwë waited with the ball.

                “Trouble, Captain?” Olwë’s kind tone eased away the greater part of her irritation.

                “As always.”  She glanced over her shoulder at Aracáno. 

                Then the ball was in play and they sprinted into action.  Anairë deftly maneuvered the ball around Veryómo, glancing briefly to see if Aracáno was free.  He had sprinted past Avarúsë, anticipating that she would pass the ball to him.  Instead, she pushed ahead, warring with Eärwen to kick the ball to Irimë.  A split second later, Anairë found herself sprawled in the sand, again struggling to catch a breath.  Telparyon.  He rolled off her, but remained seated beside her. 

                “Come on, Ana.  Up, up!”  He tapped her shoulder.

Anairë didn’t even bother to open her eyes, waving at his hand with a shake of her head.  The intense ache in her side had curled an invisible iron band around her lungs.   

                “Leave me here,” she ordered weakly.

                “Nolo, I think Ana intends to laze about during the game.”  She heard Telparyon call out. 

Part of her wished to throttle the eldest son of Olwë.  The other half of her was dreading Aracáno’s approach. 

                “I think we can safely agree that you have won this game,” Aracáno said, his voice growing closer. 

                “A victory for Alqualondë!”  Veryómo cheered.

Distantly, their audience applauded, and Olwë’s voice drifted across the sand as he congratulated his children.  She heard the steps in the sand, and then a foot nudged her shoulder.

                “Is there a reason you’re still on the ground?” he asked curtly.

Anairë opened her eyes, and attempted to sit up, failing with a grimace.  His expression shifted from frustration to concern as he knelt beside her.  His hands slid under the hem of her tunic, fingers probing and pushing her ribs.  She stared at the sky instead of his face, blinking quickly to maintain a tenuous control on her expression.  Gently, he helped her to her feet.

                “Nothing seems broken, but you’ll be sore for a few days,” was his unofficial diagnosis.

                “Altacáno is going to be furious at me,” Anairë groaned.

Aracáno slipped her arm over his shoulders as they walked slowly towards Olwë.

                “If he finds out, I think he will direct his ire elsewhere,” Aracáno noted grimly.  “It was foolish of me to agree to a scrimmage.”

                “Especially when you haven’t played in weeks,” Anairë agreed.

He did not have time to respond as Telparyon drew close. 

                “Are you hurt, Ana?” Telparyon joined them, a knowing smirk edging his lips.

                “Oh no, Telparyon.  I enjoy allowing Nolo carry me off the field.  It’s so gallant of him.”  Anairë could not help her retort. 

Aracáno chuckled at Telparyon’s frown. 

                “All the silks and satins in Valinor cannot hide that sharp tongue of yours, Ana,” he replied.

                “It is more damaging than your pathetic tackles.”  She paired her words with a smile.

                “Oh, Ana, that was no tackle.  I simply missed you.”  Telparyon kissed her cheek.

At the familiar gesture, Aracáno had unexplainably tensed.  Anairë ignored it, treating Telparyon to a smile.

                “As her Captain, I’d appreciate if you simply used words next time.”  Aracáno kept Anairë within his grasp.

Telparyon’s hands rested on his hips as he regarded Aracáno silently.  Anairë was relieved to see Arafinwë approaching with a white robed healer.  Telparyon and Aracáno vacillated between friendly acquaintances and stubborn rivals.  They were too alike and competitive to ever consider each other a friend.

                “Veryómo was not complaining when your sister kept tackling him,” Telparyon replied lightly.  “And we are all aware of how she missed him.”

                “My sister weighs considerably less than you, in case you were not aware.”  Aracáno released Anairë to the healer.

                “I think Anairë is well aware of the hazards of the game, Nolofinwë,” Telparyon stated, and then added.  “Unless you think she cannot handle it.”

However, the healer was leading her away causing Anairë to miss Aracáno’s response.  Usually she would have stubbornly stayed, but the pain was triggering compliance.  The treatment of her injury was a familiar one: a quick examination to ensure nothing was broken, a potion for the pain, and then the order of rest for the next few days.  Anairë barely remembered reaching her room, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

                When Anairë awoke, she felt refreshed.  The pain in her side had already diminished to a dull ache.  She sat up, frowning when she noticed the late hour.  Breakfast would be served shortly.

                “How are you feeling?”  Eärwen breezed into the room, followed by two of her ladies. 

Anairë stretched her arms up over her head experimentally, wincing when the ache intensified.

                “Sore, but I will survive.  I dread to think we’ll be playing on Alqualondë’s sandy field this year.  Quite an advantage you Teleri have.”  Anairë kept her voice light as she watched the ladies diligently. 

They were laying out a dress and preparing a bath for her.

                “Mother wanted to be sure you did not show to breakfast still sandy and in your football attire,” Eärwen explained. 

Anairë laughed as she rose to strip off her clothing.  She immediately regretted the action- the laughing, not standing- and paused briefly, breathing slowly to move past the pain.  Eärwen’s presence did little to bother her as she disrobed and stepped into the hot bath.  Anairë was secretly glad for the help of the two ladies to bathe and dress.  When she surveyed her reflection, Anairë sent a smile at Eärwen.  The Sea-Princess had dressed Anairë in the style of the Teleri.  The silver material clung tight to the bodice, ending at the delicate beadwork beneath her breasts; from there, the fabric draped loosely around the rest of Anairë’s form. 

                “Did Telparyon and Nolo settle their feud?” Anairë asked bluntly.

Eärwen sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation.

                “After Atar and Amil retired, they managed to drink their differences away.  They were planning on a trip to Avallónë today,” she answered.  “Do you think you can manage a boat ride?”

Anairë linked arms with Eärwen.

                “I would not admit it even if I could not.”

Eärwen set a slow and unhurried pace down the halls towards the dining hall.  Anairë kept her smile in check when she noticed the pair of brothers that waited for them.  Aracáno did not wait for them to approach, striding towards them quickly.  His grey-blue robes snapped in the sea breeze.  He paused to greet Eärwen first with a quick kiss to the cheek, and then focused on Anairë.  She tilted her head to the side, feeling Eärwen slip away to where her golden prince awaited.  Aracáno held out his arm.

                “Sore?” was his one-word greeting.

Like she had dozens of times before, she took his arm.  They slowly drifted towards the dining hall. 

                “Not a bit, Nolo.”  He knew her lie.  “I hope you forgot to alert Altacáno.” 

He smiled down at her, leaning his head closer to her ear.

                “My message to him had nothing to do with you.  I thought he might find it interesting that Alqualondë’s field seems harder packed than I remember,” Aracáno replied softly.

                “Aren’t you a clever Captain?” She squeezed his arm with a smile.

                “I am my father’s son.”  His tongue-in-cheek response caused her to chuckle.

She didn’t regret this laugh. 

---

                Their return to Tirion was uneventful.  Anairë found her days spent between football practice and Lintaráto’s pasture.  She saw Aracáno sporadically at practices before he was swept back to Tirion’s politics.  When Altacáno dismissed them from practice, Anairë remained on the field, taking careful aim at the goal.

                “You’re hesitating.”

Anairë scowled at the missed shot, her hands immediately going to her hips as she turned.  Nolofinwë approached, still dressed in his formal robes.  When he stood before her, he offered her a single daisy.  His smile grew as she felt her face warm.  She tucked it behind her ear, aware Altacáno had paused nearby with Hísanúldë, lecturing the novice on the execution of some play.  Anairë made a mental note to seek the lady later, seeing the distress Altacáno’s stern rebuke was causing.

                “And you’re interrupting,” she replied, focusing on the other ball by her feet. 

In a second, he stole it from her.  Anairë didn’t bother to hide her smile, taking off after him.  She pushed him, taking back possession of her ball.  His arms slid around her waist, pulling her back and causing her to laugh loudly. 

                “Nolo!” she exclaimed, letting the ball roll on down the field.

He set her back on the ground, and she faced him, pushing away the stray strands of her hair that had come loose.  He placed a gentle hand on her cheek, drawing closer.  Her eyes automatically began to close, her lips curving in an anticipatory smile.

                “Anairë!  Nolofinwë!  Not on my field,” Altacáno’s sharp voice ordered.

                Aracáno easily stepped away from Anairë, looking towards their coach.  Altacáno stood on the sideline alone, arms crossed over his chest as he watched them.  His long and thin face regarded them with reproach. 

                “My fault entirely, Sir,” Aracáno said, striding to stand beside him.

                “I am well aware,” Altacáno replied.  “And I do not appreciate your absence.”

Anairë found herself much more interested in retrieving the ball than listening to the lecture Aracáno was about to hear.  She took her time, focusing on some ball handling maneuvers.  Every so often, she would glance at the two men, waiting until it seemed Altacáno had let out enough of his frustrations.  Finally, she came to a stop beside Aracáno, and listened to the final minute of the lecture.

                “And you…”  Altacáno’s gaze fell on Anairë.  “…You were hesitating.”

                Before she could protest, he reached down, picked up the ball by Anairë’s feet, and walked away.  She opened her mouth, but no words would come, so she frowned.  A quick glance at Aracáno revealed his smug smile.

                “I was not,” she mumbled.

He slung an arm around her shoulders, leading her back onto the field.

                “You were,” he replied, and shrugged out of his forest green robe, tossing it carelessly towards the sidelines.  “However, we can fix that.”

While he stripped down to his leggings (the attire most males preferred to play in), she located another ball.  She lobbed all but one towards his clothes.  When she returned to his side, all pretenses of play were gone.  They wiled their time away in instruction and mild competition.  When the hour grew late, they left the field, idly meandering down the road beside the City walls in the general direction of her parents’ home.  He carried his shirt and robe over a shoulder, uncaring to the admiring eyes of the few they passed.  His hand slipped into hers easily, and she swung their arms with a short laugh. 

                “You must be starving, Nolo.  Come and eat with us.”  She invited when they came to the gate to her parents’ estate.  “Though Amil may question your attire.”

                “I suppose I should put on my shirt.”  He placed his robe on her shoulder, slipping the garment over his head. 

                “Please do.  I do not care to stare at your pale chest all through dinner,” Anairë handed him back the robe with a smirk.  Then she realized the implication of her statement.  “Not—”

                “Is it that mesmerizing?” he interrupted with a rare impish grin.

Anairë laughed, taking his hand again to lead him towards the house.  She caught sight of her father, and waved to him.

                “Don’t flatter yourself so, Nolo,” she replied.

                Sartion and a few of his senior apprentices walked towards them from a nearby pasture.  Each of them was covered in varying layers of mud and dust.

                “Atar, what happened?”  Anairë wrinkled her nose at the pungent smell accompanying her father.

                “Damned rains,” Sartion swore, wiping his hands on a clean portion of his tunic.  “Some of the horses got caught in the mud, and it was an adventure to get them free.  I could have used you.  Did Altacáno keep you late again?”

Anairë ignored the questioning look from Aracáno at the mention of past late practices. 

                “I seriously doubt Amil will let you across the threshold, Atar,” she responded instead.

                “She has seen far worse,” Sartion replied breezily, dismissing his apprentices with a quick nod.  His gaze turned to Aracáno.  “I am glad you came, Nolo.  It saves me the effort of sending a message.  Are you staying for dinner?”

                “Anairë insisted,” Aracáno answered.

                “Perfect.”  Sartion glanced towards the stables.  “Then I shall see you both shortly.”

She risked the smell to kiss her father’s cheek, and then wrinkled her nose.

                “You positively reek, Atar.”

Sartion laughed heartily, waving them off towards the house. 

                “Of that, I am well aware, Ana.”

                Sartion strode away towards the stables.  The couple turned in the opposite direction, approaching the columned entrance.  Sheer peach linen strips blew in the wind, bright replacements for the former grey banners. 

                “Your mother is redecorating?” Aracáno noted, pushing the material aside.

                “As always,” Anairë replied, catching sight of her mother in the other room.

Nénuilsë had not noticed their entrance since her back was to them.  Her dark hair gleamed in an elaborate order of braids. 

                “Amil, I’m home,” Anairë called, and then hurried off to her room to change out of her practice attire.

When she exited her room, she found Aracáno alone in the sitting room, frowning at the newest sculpture her mother had commissioned.  The highest spike jutted from the floor to Anairë’s waist.  It resembled a featherless peacock, or a leafless branch, or perhaps, a strange combination of both.

                “It’s terrible,” Anairë whispered, placing a hand at his elbow.  “Amil is fancying this…”  She waved at it, attempting to remember some of the terms Eärwen had used.  “…abstract junk.” 

He only hummed, tilting his head to the side before shaking it.

                “What is it?”  She caught him glance around, before speaking, clearly making sure his inquiry would not be heard by her mother. 

Yet, Nénuilsë materialized beside them, expounding on the unique qualities of the piece.  Anairë watched him attentively listen to her mother.  Every so often, he posed a question, or nodded.  Nénuilsë happily answered his inquiries, her elation clearly expressed on her face.  Neither Sartion nor Anairë had the patience for Nénuilsë’s expositions on sculpture.  Sartion joined them, dressed in clean clothes and smelling fresh.  He easily distracted his wife with a smile and a kiss. 

                “Dinner is waiting, my love,” he interrupted kindly, turning his wife towards their dining area.

They dined on fresh chicken and rice, a simple meal followed by an elaborate dessert.  When Anairë slipped outdoors to enjoy the breeze blowing in from the sea, Nénuilsë waylaid Aracáno, resuming their critique of the offending artwork.  Anairë watched from her place on the couch.  Sartion approached with two glasses of wine.  He settled beside her, patting her knee softly.

                “I have barely seen you since you returned from the Sea,” he said softly.

Anairë rested her head on his shoulder, watching Aracáno charm her mother. 

                “Altacáno asked me to work with our newer players,” Anairë replied.  “We lost half the team with all those vow ceremonies last year.”

Sartion’s chuckle rumbled in his chest and he shook his head.

                “Only you would think love an unsuitable excuse to quit.”  He pressed a quick and loving peck to her hair.  “Speaking of which, I assume you addressed a certain matter with Nolofinwë?”

She found herself unexplainably unable to look at her father.  Instead, she chose to gaze into her cup.

                “Indeed, Atar,” she answered.

                “And?”  Her father seemed apprehensively amused.

                “I know he spoke to you.”  She chose to finally look up at Sartion. 

                “Yes, he did.  Hence the reason I suggested you speak with him.”  He took a long drink from his cup, his expression wavering indecisively between satisfied and pensive.

                “You should have told me,” she reproached.

                “I think not, Ana.  He may be a Prince, but I would have accepted a baker’s apprentice if that man made you happy.”  He paused, glancing to her mother and Aracáno.  “Your mother is aware of Nolo’s intentions.”

Anairë closed her eyes with a groan. 

                “Is she already planning the betrothal celebration?”

                “As quietly and unobtrusively as she can.  Which, given your mother, cannot last much longer.”  His eyes flitted to the approaching pair, sparing his daughter a brief apologetic smile.

He rose, greeting Nénuilsë with a brief kiss as she joined them.  Aracáno slipped around the couple, assuming Sartion’s seat.  His arm rested around her shoulders, and she leaned into the touch, pulling her feet up under her skirts.  Her parents chose to make no comment, but Anairë caught the satisfied gleam in her mother’s eyes. 

                “Nolofinwë, I hear Findis has gone to stay with your cousin?”  Nénuilsë quickly initiated the conversation.

                “Yes, Merenissë is set to wed in the week before the Games, so Findis offered to help her with the final preparations,” Aracáno answered.

Anairë was sure Findis’ departure to Taniquetil had more to do with a certain singer, and less with Ingwë’s youngest daughter’s nuptials.  A faint gleam in Aracáno’s eyes revealed he believed the exact same. 

                “That’s been quite a whirlwind affair,” Nénuilsë commented nonchalantly.

Yet, her mother did not make idle comments.  Anairë felt Aracáno tense beside her.

                “Indeed,” was all he offered.

Nénuilsë watched Aracáno shift uncomfortably.  Anairë knew her mother’s look well.  She was fishing for the true story.

                “Your mother insinuated that the vows have been rushed due to certain factors,” Nénuilsë continued.

Anairë immediately was curious to know what factors would expedite a vow ceremony. 

                “Then it seems my mother has already informed you of those reasons.”  Aracáno replied, raising a brow at her mother.  He seemed unwilling to provide any further information.

                “Indeed,” Nénuilsë murmured into her cup.

When Telperion began to brighten, he sighed, looking towards the City.

                “I fear we’ve kept you too late,” Nénuilsë said.

                “No, no, Lady,” Aracáno’s denial was quick as he rose.  “I had meant to excuse myself earlier.”

                “Your father is reportedly knee-deep in negotiations with Lord Nardil.”  Sartion stood as well.

Aracáno’s lips thinned in a worn smile.  Lord Nardil had the good fortune of owning the majority of the gold mines in Valinor.  The current contract between the King and Lord was due to expire, and such disbandment could catapult the price of gold to astronomical proportions. 

                “The City waits with bated breath for the outcome,” the Prince replied diplomatically.

                “Yes, I hear your brother has finally assumed his place beside your father,” Nénuilsë nodded.

Aracáno returned the nod shortly.

                “It is a matter dear to his heart.”  If he felt contempt for his elder brother’s sudden interest in politics, he hid it well.  “Atar is overjoyed to have the Crown Prince beside him.”

                “Here I thought that was your title,” Anairë cut in with a mischievous smirk. 

Both of her parents directed scolding glares her way, but Anairë ignored them.  Her gaze was caught on the subtle levity lightening Aracáno’s eyes.  He swiftly thanked her parents for the meal and scintillating company.  Then he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek and lingering there.

                “Your audacity never ceases to amaze me,” he muttered in her ear.

She laughed, pushing his shoulder.  He slipped past the sheer drapes, and she watched him until his hazy shadow disappeared.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

--

Characters/Notes:

Findis: eldest child/daughter of Finwë and Indis; once studied under Estë.

Silmalírë: Findis’ partner; poet/singer; Vanya.

Irimë: third child of Finwë and Indis.

Eärwen: only daughter of Olwë and Elenetyë; princess among the Teleri.

Anairë: also called Ana; daughter of Sartion and Nénuilsë.

Arafinwë: also called Ara, Ingo or Ingalaurë; youngest son/child of Finwë and Indis.

Aracáno: also called Nolo or Nolofinwë; middle son of Finwë; second born of Indis.

Telparyon: Eldest child/son of Olwë and Elenetyë, and brother to Eärwen; High-Prince of Alqualondë.

Avarúsë: Youngest child/son of Olwë and Elenetyë.

Olwë: also called Olue (Telerin); King of the Teleri & Alqualondë; husband to Elenetyë and father to four.

Veryómo: second son of Olwë and Elenetyë, and brother to Eärwen.

Elenetyë: wife of Olwë and mother of Eärwen.

Lintaráto: name of one of Finwë’s horses.

Altacáno: coach for Tirion’s football team. 

Hísanúldë: member of Tirion’s football team.

Sartion: father of Anairë; husband to Nénuilsë.

Nénuilsë: mother of Anairë; wife of Sartion.

Merenissë: youngest daughter of Ingwë.

Nardil: Noldor; owner of the largest silver mines.

Chapter 8: Lazy Day Customs

Summary: There's tension among the Eldar as the Games grow closer.

Thanks to klose, mollyapple and oshun for looking this over!

Read Chapter 8: Lazy Day Customs

Chapter Eight: Lazy Day Customs

 

                The wind breathed past the peach linen curtains offering the barest respite from Laurelin’s intense heat.  Anairë lounged on a couch in a thin white dress; her skirts bunched up on her thighs to expose her pale legs.  Her book lay forgotten on the ground.  One arm rested across her eyes, the other on her stomach as she dozed, thoroughly exhausted from an intense practice earlier in the day.  Gentle fingers brushed her forehead, drawing her out of her light slumber.  She peeked past her arm, and then moved it to rest above her head, smiling lazily at the intruder.  Aracáno perched himself on the cushion beside the curve of her waist, stroking her hair with his fingers.  The touches threatened to lure her back into a nap. 

                “I am glad you are allowed such lazy days,” he said dryly.

Anairë only closed her eyes.

                “Amil is with your mother.  Atar is training the riders.  Eärwen is on the Island, and you are always in Council. I cannot possibly run another step.  What else am I to do?”

He surprised her with a gentle kiss.  Anairë tilted her chin up, willing him to continue. 

                “Come with me,” he answered.  “Your mother was going to send a bird, but I thought I would deliver the message in person.”

Anairë slowly sat up and stole another kiss from him.  So far, his kisses had proven to be a pleasant perk of their evolving relationship. 

                “The Prince of Tirion demoted to mere messenger boy?” she teased.

He reached over to smooth her hair, tangling his fingers in it to draw her in for one more hasty kiss.  He seemed to be just as addicted to the touch as she was.

                “For a moment alone with you?  Yes,” he replied.  “Though I may have alerted our keen mothers to—”

                “How enamored you are with me?” Anairë interrupted with a grin.

He laughed, but did not deny her words.  Instead, he cupped her face.

                “I like to think it’s mutual,” he replied.

She leaned forward, eagerly closing the distance between them.  She jealously protected moments spent like this.  She loved to kiss him; it was a challenge she never lost.

                “Do you even have to ask?”  She rose reluctantly, brushing at the wrinkles in her dress.  “I should change.”

                “Indeed,” he murmured, a soft tease underlying the word.  “You may want to take your time.”  His eyes never left her.  “My uncle and Lord Sarámo have travelled to visit with Atar.”

                “And not Olwë?” Anairë asked, surprised.

A brief shadow crossed Aracáno’s face.

                “He is scheduled to join us after the meal.”

                “Has something happened?”  It was extremely rare for all four leaders of the major cities to gather in one place without heralding rumors.  It was even more unusual for Lord Sarámo to leave Valmar.  She wondered if he had ever ventured so far from his City of Bells.

                “If it has, we will never know by dawdling and wondering,” he reminded.

                It took her no time at all to change and then return to him.  He was reading her book, the one she’d forgotten about.  He glanced up at her, snapping it shut without hesitation as she swept towards him.  The emerald green dress clung to her skin, a style Anairë had grudgingly become accustomed to.  She had twisted her hair up into a simple bun, showcasing tiny strings of emeralds crisscrossing her back. 

                “If you keep wearing these dresses, I am going to be tempted to think you’ve turned into a lady,” he said.

                “I advise you to resist that temptation,” Anairë replied easily.

Her hand slid into his naturally as they walked towards the City.  Laurelin’s light set the tips of the towers on fire.  The streets were emptier than usual, but a few still wandered through the marketplace.  She paused to marvel at a table filled with miniature silver figures.  When she picked up a lifelike sparrow, the artist appeared.  She cradled it in the palm of her hand, lifting it up to eye level to marvel at the detail.

                “You have an eye for beauty, Lady,” the man said before he noted Aracáno’s presence and bowed low.  “Prince Nolofinwë.”

Aracáno motioned for the man to straighten.

                “Your work is unique,” he commented kindly.  “What is your name?”

                “Vorosívë, my lord.  I am an apprentice to Master Narúlëon,” he answered.  “It would honor me if you would take one of my creations.”

Anairë found Aracáno’s gaze singularly on her.  He raised his brow, ignoring the eager artist. 

                “Do you like that one?” he asked.

Anairë frequently heard her father ask the question of her mother before he bestowed gifts upon her.  It was completely foreign to hear the inquiry (and its perceived connotations) leave Aracáno’s mouth.  For that reason, she felt unfamiliarly flustered.

                “Oh, no!” she said, and then saw the ire flame up in the artist’s face.  “I mean, yes.  I’ve never seen such a realistic recreation.”

                “Then it is yours,” Vorosívë insisted.

Anairë intended to protest, but her gaze caught Aracáno’s pleased face.  For a split-second she paused, entertaining the notion of allowing the chivalrous gesture.  Her pride vehemently opposed.

                “I could not.”  She put the silver bird down reluctantly.

 Aracáno’s soft hand on hers stilled her motions.  The artist suddenly became immensely interested in rearranging his works.  Anairë’s attention was drawn back to Aracáno when he tightened his grip.  He stepped closer, using his other hand to sweep a stray piece of hair behind her ear.  Anairë tilted her chin proudly, daring him to argue with her. 

                “Please.”  She was woefully unprepared for his faint request.

Her attention focused on the silver bird beneath their hands.  Her thoughts swirled in a mix of yes’ and no’s that finally transformed into a firm perhaps.

                “It looks like Aiwincë,” she finally said with a smile, picking it up to show him better.

If he was surprised at her assent, he hid it behind a laugh.  Her smile widened as she remembered their first shared pet.  Aiwincë had been a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest.  Together, and unknown to their parents, they had cared for the bird.  She had dug up worms; Aracáno had smashed and fed them to Aiwincë.  Of course, their mothers found out about their pet, and the bird was sent off to Valmar to Oromë and his people. 

                “It does,” he confirmed. 

Anairë wandered to the side, half-listening to Aracáno offer Vorosívë compensation.  After continued refusal, he finally politely thanked the artist and joined her.  They wandered down the street, pausing to watch two actors perform a scene.  His arm draped around her shoulders, comfortably keeping her close to his side.  Unconsciously, she slipped an arm around his waist. 

                “I hope you do not intend to make a habit out of this,” she sighed in his ear.

She knew her lie; part of her enjoyed this.

                “Out of what?” he asked innocently.

                “Nolo,” she warned.

                “I hope you do not intend to make it so difficult every time,” he replied, keeping his voice soft. 

                “I do not need gifts, Nolo,” she added.  “I am more than capable of buying the things I want.”

                “I know.”  She felt his breath warm on her ear.  “But I want to.”

                “Then expect some from me.”  She leaned back to gaze at his face.

He briefly brushed his lips against hers once.  She waited two seconds before he returned for a longer kiss.

                “I will,” he replied.  “As long as you leave rings to me.”

Anairë just arched a brow.

                “We’ll see.”

                They entered the gates of Finwë’s Halls.  He slid her hand from his, placing it properly in the curve of his elbow.  Together, they entered the glimmering atrium.  The lords and ladies of the court arrayed the corners of the room in varying jewel tones.  Surprisingly, at the center of the room stood Olwë, silver-bright between golden Ingwë and fair Finwë.  Lord Sarámo’s erratic gestures as he spoke were accompanied with the tinkling of the bells woven into his long, black braids.  Finwë’s faint frown lightened when his gaze found his son.  He immediately beckoned them over.

                “Nolo, here I was wondering where you might have disappeared off to.  I might have known.”  Finwë sent a brief smile in Anairë’s direction.  “Lord Sarámo was asking after you.”

                “Yes, I had heard you have not been on the field.”  Sarámo’s voice was high and sweet like his bells.  “I was inquiring to your father if you would be playing this season.”

Aracáno did not initially respond.  His gaze was caught with Olwë’s.  The air around the Sea-King was palpably tense.  Finwë and Ingwë’s expressions seemed strained. 

                “I was on the field earlier today, and I will be there tomorrow.”  He kept his response short and vague.  He had indeed visited the field, perhaps stepped on it, but only to be lectured by Altacáno for his continued absences.

                “Yes, we were just speaking of tomorrow,” Ingwë cut in.  “Do you think your team is ready for some competition?”

                “As always, Majesty,” Anairë answered, catching Aracáno’s split second pause. 

Ingwë’s blue-grey eyes settled on her as if he suddenly realized she was there.

                “Anairë.”  Ingwë drew out the last syllable of her name.  “Are you sure?  I seem to recall my son’s team completely dominated Tirion’s last year.”

                “Completely dominated?  That is quite the exaggeration, Ingwë,” Finwë cut in.

                “Indeed,” Anairë murmured.

Her comment went unheard as the men argued semantics.  Anairë directed a welcoming smile at Olwë.  He held out a hand to her, and she willingly left Aracáno’s arm to embrace him.

                “Anairë.”  Olwë’s voice was ever full of music.  He continued speaking in his native language, the words warm in her ear.  “I am glad to see you.”

                “As am I.”  She kissed his cheek.  “Did Eärwen come with you?”

                “They are travelling,” Olwë replied with a knowing smile.  “I rode ahead of them.”

                “I wonder what news could force you to rush from the coast,” Anairë countered flippantly.

Olwë did not respond.

                Anairë remained beside the Sea-King, listening to Finwë laud his middle son’s recent political accomplishments to Ingwë and Sarámo.  Aracáno humbly accepted the praise with a pleased gleam in his eyes.  Ingwë clapped his nephew on the shoulder.

                “And I thought your mother was exaggerating in her letters.  I should have stolen you away before your father realized what an asset you are,” Ingwë joked.

                “Realized?  I have always known my children excel at any task they set their minds to.  Look at Fëanáro.  He has never failed me,” Finwë began, his attention suddenly shifting to the entryway.  “Speaking of my eldest…”

Anairë watched Finwë usher Sarámo off towards Fëanáro and his family.  Fëanáro embraced his father firmly; Russandol laughed gaily as he was swept up into his grandfather’s arms.  Aracáno was left standing beside his Uncle.  Anairë clenched her jaw, seeing his expression fade into ambiguity as he watched his father with his half-brother. 

                “Well, Nolo.”  Ingwë’s voice drew her attention.  “I would gladly welcome you to come and observe Taniquetil’s court.”

                “Now, Majesty.”  Anairë slipped from her place beside Olwë to return to Aracáno’s side.  “I do hope you are not trying to steal Tirion’s finest away.”

Aracáno almost laughed, and to her, that was the only response that mattered. 

                “It does seem that way, Anairë.  We must keep a careful eye on the Vanyar.”  Olwë’s tone held little humor.

Ingwë’s laugh was weak, but he raised his hands, as if to prove his innocence.  The white sleeves of his robe slid back to reveal a wide silver cuff set with a brilliant sapphire.  Rumor had it that Manwë had gifted the bracelet to the faithful king.

                “I would never be so underhanded.”  The golden King directed his words at Olwë.

Olwë only grunted and shook his head.  Ingwë noticeably frowned, though he said nothing to the Sea-King.  Aracáno shifted awkwardly between the two kings.  Thankfully, Indis beckoned her brother to her, and Olwë drifted to speak to Arafinwë.  Then Anairë leaned close to Aracáno.  He tilted his head slightly towards her, indicating his attention as he continued to watch other lords and ladies mingle in the room.

                “Tell me you know why Olwë and Ingwë are at each other’s throats,” she whispered in his ear.

                “I do.”  He showed no indication of elaborating. 

                “Yet you do not intend to tell me.”  There was no sense in asking. 

                “I know how you will react, and Amil is watching us.”  An edge of a smile thinned his lips. 

Anairë barely turned her head, noting Indis in her peripheral.

                “She’s always watching us, Nolo.”  Her sigh bordered on a whine. 

Aracáno shifted to look at her briefly.  Increasingly, he wore versions of his father’s face, presently the sharp silver-edged gaze that demanded respect.  With Finwë, it was positively fearful; Aracáno’s pinned her to the spot, catching her off-guard.  She blinked, and the severity of his stare had softened.  When he looked away, she followed the line of his eyes to his father and half-brother. 

                “As is everyone else here.”  His reply caused her to survey the gardens.  “Amil has practically begged me to formally announce our…”  He motioned between them, as if the gesture explained everything.

                “Announce our what?” she asked innocently. 

To her amusement, a flush crept up his neck.  His scowl made her laugh, and she slipped her hand into his with a smile.

                “I hope I am not interrupting.”  Anairë almost sighed, hearing her mother’s voice.

                “Of course not, Lady Nénuilsë.”  Aracáno pressed a greeting kiss to her cheek.  “You look lovely, as always.”

Her mother wore a dress of the lightest lavender with a headband of amethysts nestled in her dark hair. 

                “You flatter me, Prince,” Nénuilsë tittered, and then her gaze turned to Anairë.  “And doesn’t my daughter look lovely as well?”

His appraising gaze set her heart beating quickly.  Anairë did not dare look at her mother; she was sure Nénuilsë’s expression was satisfied. 

                “She is stunning in emerald,” he finally agreed.  “I am lucky to have her beside me tonight.”

                “We are both lucky men tonight.”  Sartion joined them, greeting his wife with a kiss.  Nénuilsë did not bother to hide her delight at his appearance. 

                “Indeed you are,” Nénuilsë murmured, lovingly smoothing a crease in Sartion’s robes.

Sartion’s knuckles brushed his wife’s cheek tenderly. 

                “Ah, Sartion.”  A fat hand clapped her father’s shoulder.

                “Mísalvë,” Sartion turned and opened his arms wide to embrace the stout man.  “I see you’ve been enjoying the delicacies of the City.”

Mísalvë shook when he laughed.  His bright striped robes always reminded Anairë of a tent.

                “Indeed, indeed.  I treasure these brief moments when I descend the Mountain.  Our vines are not nearly as potent as Tirion’s or Valmar’s,” Mísalvë’s gaze travelled to Aracáno and then Anairë.  “Prince Nolofinwë, I hear you are soon to follow your cousin’s example.”

                “I’ve heard the same and more,” Aracáno responded with an easy smile.  “It seems one ceremony is never enough.”

                “Well, is there really a need for a ceremony?” Mísalvë raised his brows meaningfully. 

                “Mísalvë, that’s quite a thing to say,” Nénuilsë tittered, but there was censure in her tone.

                “I agree.”  Aracáno’s voice had lowered and grown sharp to match his gaze.  “I doubt my Uncle would appreciate such a comment.”

Mísalvë patted his round stomach with a laugh unaffected by Aracáno’s scowl.

                “Stand down, Prince.”  The counselor paused to take an offered glass of wine from a tray.  “I’ve mentioned as much to Ingwë, but he is adamant about our customs.”

                “As he should be,” Sartion said slowly, obviously thinking about each word he uttered.  “We have evolved from the people who awoke beneath the stars.”

                “Have we?  Or do we simply follow prescribed rules well?” Mísalvë replied, and then waved a hand.  “Ah, but see, I have chosen too serious a topic for tonight!  Forgive me!”

He fluttered about for a moment more before bustling off towards another group. 

                “Well, what an ass,” Anairë sighed.

                “Anairë,” Sartion frowned.

                “It is the truth,” Anairë argued.

                “It does not matter.”  Surprisingly, it was Aracáno who spoke.  He ran a hand over his hair with a sigh.  “He will not be the first or the last to make such a comment.”

                “So it is true,” Nénuilsë said.

Aracáno barely nodded.

                “What is?” Anairë asked, glancing between her parents and Aracáno curiously. 

Nénuilsë ignored her daughter’s question, wrapping her hand around her husband’s arm to steer him towards Finwë.  Aracáno rubbed his nose with a sigh.

                “Merenissë is pregnant.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Characters/Notes:

I’m going to start with the notes first.  Specifically, let’s talk about the last line.  Yes, I am daring to touch the idea that people bumped nasties outside of marriage in Valinor.  I subscribe to the idea that the Laws and Customs are similar to the Bible.  We know what it says, but not everyone listens.

 

Anairë: also called Ana; daughter of Sartion and Nénuilsë.

Aracáno: also called Nolo or Nolofinwë; middle son of Finwë; second born of Indis.

Eärwen: only daughter of Olwë and Elenetyë; princess among the Teleri.

Sarámo: Lord of Valmar and outlying lands.

Olwë: also called Olue (Telerin); King of the Teleri & Alqualondë; husband to Elenetyë and father to four.

Ingwë: King of the Vanyar & at Taniquetil.

Nénuilsë: mother of Anairë; wife of Sartion.

Sartion: father of Anairë; husband to Nénuilsë.

Mílsalvë: member of Ingwë’s council.

Merenissë: youngest daughter of Ingwë; betrothed to Nardil.

 

 

Chapter 9: Lines in the Sand

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Read Chapter 9: Lines in the Sand

Chapter Nine: Lines in the Sand

 

                Judging by the subdued alarm growing on Aracáno’s face, she must have been staring at him for longer than she thought.  He stepped closer to her, nudging her arm slightly.  The warm touch brought her away from the thoughts swirling in her mind.

                “Breathe, Ana,” he murmured.

She automatically curled her fingers around the stem of the glass he pressed into her hand. 

                “How did it happen?” she asked before sipping at the sweet drink.

Aracáno blinked twice, staring at her.  A barely perceptible smirk brightened his eyes before they shifted to slide over the people behind her. 

                “I was under the impression that you understood those mechanics,” he answered before taking a quick drink.

His cheeky response drew a laugh from her.  She smacked his arm and shook her head in playful exasperation.

                “Seriously, Nolo.  You know what I meant,” she sighed.

                “Do I?  I’m quite certain the question you asked—” he feigned ignorance.

                “I see, you want to test my knowledge?”  Anairë interrupted.

Her gaze flew back to him when her mind caught up to what her mouth had said.  Aracáno’s gaze slid down her figure, sparking a warm flush to her cheeks.  She arched a brow, attempting to seem unaffected.  His smile told her that she was failing spectacularly.

                “Atar has been very clear with Ingo and I on the consequences of a similar indiscretion,” he replied.

For some reason, his answer evoked disappointment.  The sudden curiosity in his eyes revealed that she had not disguised that reaction well.  She cleared her throat, continuing to meet his gaze unwaveringly.  Every second made itself painfully known as she refused to look away.  Her skin came alive under his warm hand sliding across the curve of her back to gently request her closer.  She acquiesced, though maintaining her gaze elsewhere.

                “Do you have any idea how bewitching you are?”   His words were warm against her temple. 

She could feel the tremor of a smile against her hairline.  Her own lips spread in a pleased smile and she made no attempt to move from his arms.  It was surprising how comfortable she felt when he touched her, yet it was as if they had never been any different. 

                “I don’t see how this has anything to do with Olwë,” Anairë murmured suddenly.

                “Olwë’s reasons for being infuriated with my Uncle and Lord Sarámo are much different than Atar’s.”  His eyes narrowed.  “If I tell you, Ana—”

                “Yes, yes, I will not do anything rash.”  She waved her hand carelessly.

Aracáno’s disbelieving gaze elicited a glare from her. 

                “Lord Sarámo and Uncle Ingwë put in a request for a change of venue for the Games.”  Anairë’s grip tightened visibly around her glass. “And according to the laws of—”

                “I know the rules, Nolo,” she sharply interjected.  “That is why Ingwë asked if we were up for the challenge.”

A request for a change in venue backed by two or more teams immediately initiated a tournament in which the winning team would garner the honor of hosting.  Rarely did one team dare to insult the other by taking the honor of hosting the Games. 

                “Yes,” Aracáno answered, taking a brief sip of his wine and scanning the crowd.  “Tell me honestly, Ana, can we beat Ingwion’s team?”

Anairë’s eyes unwittingly sought out the fair haired Prince of Taniquetil.  He stood laughing between Tulcando, Valmar’s team captain, and Arafinwë. 

                “It’s not a matter of if we can,” Anairë replied fiercely.  “We will have to ensure they are out of the competition so Alqualondë can win.”

                “I plan to speak with Telparyon as soon as he arrives,” Aracáno said.  “I trust you can restrain yourself from insulting Ingwion?”

                “When have I ever been anything but kind to your cousin?”  Anairë glanced at him with a small smile.

He returned the smile, his fingers tipping her chin up as he shifted closer to her.  Anairë felt herself gravitate towards him.  She rested an arm around his waist.

                “Last year,” he reminded.  His gentle kiss discouraged any protest on her part.  “And the year before that, and before that.”

She just laughed, leaning her head back and feeling a few loose strands of her hair tickle her neck.

                “He started it,” she objected.

                “Of course.”  Aracáno did not look entirely convinced.

                “I think you may have just made that announcement your mother was begging of you,” Anairë said softly.

Aracáno surveyed the crowd nonchalantly.  Conversation had ceased, and many heads had turned towards them.  Anairë recognized her mother’s pleased gleam from across the room.  Oh, she would never hear the end of it now.  Aracáno distracted her attention by gently securing the loose strands of her hair behind her ears.  His fingers lingered on the curve of her ear sending a chill of bumps down her arms.

                “That was much easier than I thought it would be,” he replied.  “I’m finding myself inclined to repeat it.”

Again, she found herself laughing, but she did not evade the second kiss. 

                “You are incorrigible, Nolo.”

                “You started it,” he chuckled.

She smiled against his lips.  There was no use arguing; it was true.  Aracáno stepped to the side, keeping his arm firmly around her waist.  Quietly, they meandered through the crowd until they reached Arafinwë and the other Captains.

                “Nolofinwë!” Ingwion, blond and confident, greeted his cousin with a wide grin. 

                “Ingwion, Tulcando.” Aracáno returned the smile, clasping his cousin’s shoulder. 

Tulcando’s braids jingled with the soft music of bells as he nodded a quick greeting to the couple. 

                “And Anairë.  You’re never far from your Captain.” Ingwion held out his hand to her.

Anairë stepped from Aracáno’s embrace and placed her hand in Ingwion’s before Aracáno could prompt her.  She bowed her head to the Prince respectfully.  As much as Ingwion vexed her, he was still the son of the King of Taniquetil. 

                “My co-Captain, Prince,” she corrected.

Ingwion’s gaze darted between them.

                “Is that what you’re calling it?  I must say, well done, Nolo,” he said with a smirk.  “I always imagined Anairë’s reaction would be much different.”

                “To you, perhaps,” Aracáno responded simply.

The air between them was silent for a brief moment as the two Princes stared seriously at each other.  Ingwion’s lips split in a broad grin and he laughed.

                “My mistake.”  Ingwion squeezed Anairë’s hand before releasing it.  “When will you announce the betrothal?”

                “When there are rings,” Aracáno answered enigmatically.

Anairë enjoyed the annoyance flashing across Ingwion’s face.

                “Come now, Cousin.  Do not be so secretive!”  Ingwion pressed.

                “Don’t worry, Prince,” Anairë laughed.  “When I ask him, I’ll be sure to send a bird to you personally.”

                “When you ask me?” Aracáno’s question was echoed laughingly by Arafinwë and Ingwion. 

                “Oh, Brother, would you honestly expect any less?” Arafinwë cut in.

Aracáno held Anairë’s gaze for another moment.  Though his expression was serious, his eyes were light.  A fond smile instinctively curved the edges of her lips.  A familiar thrill shocked her to her toes.  She took a lazy sip from her glass, looking away at the crowd as Arafinwë struck up easy conversation. 

Tirion’s court had turned out to greet the lords and ladies from the other cities.  The distinctions were easy to see.  Taniquetil’s fair-haired lords and ladies shimmered in variations of white and grey.  Valmar’s nobility brought music wherever they went with the bells woven into their hair or on their sleeves.  Their skin shone brighter; these men and women basked daily in close proximity to the Trees.  Anairë wished for the gentle shades of Alqualondë blue and green to disrupt the warring brilliance of the others. 

                “Well, Co-Captains, is your team ready for competition?” Tulcando’s voice demanded her attention.

Anairë tilted her head to the side, gazing at the two Captains seriously.  Ingwion positively glowed at the question, his focus sharpening entirely to Aracáno.  Tulcando’s demeanor remained serious and stern.  When Aracáno did not immediately answer, Anairë took it as a sign.

                “Tirion is always up to a challenge,” she answered.  “I only hope you will realize what a foolish campaign this was, and is.”

                “Foolish?  It is a great honor to host the Games.  Why shouldn’t we battle for it?”  Tulcando replied, his cheeks growing flushed. 

                “But why now?” Anairë challenged, vaguely noting Aracáno shift closer to her.  “Would Valmar or Taniquetil have dared to challenge Tirion’s right?”

                “I think you misunderstand, Anairë.”  Ingwion’s tone was calm and his expression ambiguous as he maintained his focus on Aracáno.  “The Games have never been a political statement.”

Anairë fixed an incredulous stare at Ingwion and opened her mouth to respond.  Aracáno beat her to it. 

                “You forget your audience, Cousin,” Aracáno said quietly, his gaze caught on something behind Ingwion.

Anairë traced his stare to his parents and uncle.  Indis stood silently, a tense line driven between the men. 

                “What are you saying, Nolofinwë?” Ingwion asked sharply.

Aracáno’s gaze darted back to his cousin.  All traces of joviality had left his face.  It was unnervingly attractive, Anairë realized, to watch. 

                “It seems tedious to remind you of the current negotiations taking place,” Aracáno answered blandly. 

Anairë made a mental note to inquire about those negotiations later.

                “Why do you assume the request is meant to be taken personally?” Tulcando inquired.

                “Because it is,” Telparyon’s voice cut in.

Anairë enjoyed the brief flash of annoyance across Ingwion’s face.  Tulcando’s solemn expression did not change.  The silver haired Prince of Alqualondë situated himself between Arafinwë and Aracáno. 

                “You are mistaken,” Ingwion said.

                “You will regret this,” Telparyon replied.

                “Indeed,” Anairë echoed.

One soft word charged the air between the men.  Ingwion blinked slowly, almost as if he did not believe what he had heard.

                “Cousin?”  Ingwion questioned Aracáno as if she had spoken wrongly or out of turn. 

                “So Tirion makes its intentions known,” Tulcando mused with a frown. 

                “Anairë simply voices what we believe,” Arafinwë began quietly, glancing briefly at his brother.  “This is a foolish challenge.”

                “And I suppose Tirion will simply forfeit its right if your team wins?” Ingwion’s tone bore a sharp edge to it.

                “No,” Telparyon spit out vehemently.  “Alqualondë will not accept anything less than our own victory.”

Again, Ingwion looked to Aracáno to verify the truth of those words.  Aracáno nodded curtly.

                “I wish you well with that,” Ingwion bowed his head slightly.  “Excuse me.”

Tulcando and the Prince made their exit towards their respective city leaders.

                “Watch them scuttle to their Kings,” Telparyon grumbled angrily.

Arafinwë placed a hand on his shoulder.

                “They foolishly underestimate the strength of your team,” the youngest son of Finwë murmured.  “Let them.”

The quiet words seemed to placate Telparyon.  He held out a hand to Anairë. 

                “You are surprisingly quiet, dear Ana,” he said.

Anairë placed her hand in his, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

                “I was already warned against any unseemly behavior,” she replied. 

                “I see.”  Telparyon exchanged a knowing glance with Aracáno. 

                “Captains, with me.”  Altacáno’s gruff order came from behind them.

Telparyon forfeited his hold on Anairë’s hand.  She spared him a brief smile before falling in step beside Aracáno and the rest of her team mates.

--

---

Chapter End Notes

Characters/Notes:

 

Aracáno: also called Nolo or Nolofinwë; middle son of Finwë; second born of Indis.

Anairë: also called Ana; daughter of Sartion and Nénuilsë.

Olwë: also called Olue (Telerin); King of the Teleri & Alqualondë; husband to Elenetyë and father to four.

Sarámo: Lord of Valmar and outlying lands.

Ingwë: King of the Vanyar & at Taniquetil.

Ingwion: Eldest child/son of Ingwë.

Tulcando: Captain of Valmar’s football team.

Telparyon: Eldest child/son of Olwë and Elenetyë, and brother to Eärwen; High-Prince of Alqualondë.

Arafinwë: also called Ara, Ingo or Ingalaurë; youngest son/child of Finwë and Indis.

Indis: Queen of Tirion; sister to Ingwë, King of the Vanyar; wife to Finwë and mother to four children.

Altacáno: coach for Tirion’s football team.