Like a Shadow of Shifting Silver by Kimberleighe

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Chapter 2: Things familiar and friendly

Huge thanks to surgicalsteel, scarlet and pandemonium_213!

 

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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.

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                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.”

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                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.”

 

 

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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