Like a Shadow of Shifting Silver by Kimberleighe

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Chapter 7: Alqualondë and Audacity

Huge thanks to elfscribe for feedback and suggestions! 

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

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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.

 

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Chapter End Notes

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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.