Like a Shadow of Shifting Silver by Kimberleighe

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Chapter 3: The Art of Drinking Gratuitously

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

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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!”

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                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.”

 

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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.