Like a Shadow of Shifting Silver by Kimberleighe

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Chapter 1: Of Horses and Half-Brothers

Hail to pandemonium_213 for grammar corrections & input. 

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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.

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                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.

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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