Like a Shadow of Shifting Silver by Kimberleighe

---

Chapter 8: Lazy Day Customs

Summary: There's tension among the Eldar as the Games grow closer.

Thanks to klose, mollyapple and oshun for looking this over!

---

Chapter Eight: Lazy Day Customs

 

                The wind breathed past the peach linen curtains offering the barest respite from Laurelin’s intense heat.  Anairë lounged on a couch in a thin white dress; her skirts bunched up on her thighs to expose her pale legs.  Her book lay forgotten on the ground.  One arm rested across her eyes, the other on her stomach as she dozed, thoroughly exhausted from an intense practice earlier in the day.  Gentle fingers brushed her forehead, drawing her out of her light slumber.  She peeked past her arm, and then moved it to rest above her head, smiling lazily at the intruder.  Aracáno perched himself on the cushion beside the curve of her waist, stroking her hair with his fingers.  The touches threatened to lure her back into a nap. 

                “I am glad you are allowed such lazy days,” he said dryly.

Anairë only closed her eyes.

                “Amil is with your mother.  Atar is training the riders.  Eärwen is on the Island, and you are always in Council. I cannot possibly run another step.  What else am I to do?”

He surprised her with a gentle kiss.  Anairë tilted her chin up, willing him to continue. 

                “Come with me,” he answered.  “Your mother was going to send a bird, but I thought I would deliver the message in person.”

Anairë slowly sat up and stole another kiss from him.  So far, his kisses had proven to be a pleasant perk of their evolving relationship. 

                “The Prince of Tirion demoted to mere messenger boy?” she teased.

He reached over to smooth her hair, tangling his fingers in it to draw her in for one more hasty kiss.  He seemed to be just as addicted to the touch as she was.

                “For a moment alone with you?  Yes,” he replied.  “Though I may have alerted our keen mothers to—”

                “How enamored you are with me?” Anairë interrupted with a grin.

He laughed, but did not deny her words.  Instead, he cupped her face.

                “I like to think it’s mutual,” he replied.

She leaned forward, eagerly closing the distance between them.  She jealously protected moments spent like this.  She loved to kiss him; it was a challenge she never lost.

                “Do you even have to ask?”  She rose reluctantly, brushing at the wrinkles in her dress.  “I should change.”

                “Indeed,” he murmured, a soft tease underlying the word.  “You may want to take your time.”  His eyes never left her.  “My uncle and Lord Sarámo have travelled to visit with Atar.”

                “And not Olwë?” Anairë asked, surprised.

A brief shadow crossed Aracáno’s face.

                “He is scheduled to join us after the meal.”

                “Has something happened?”  It was extremely rare for all four leaders of the major cities to gather in one place without heralding rumors.  It was even more unusual for Lord Sarámo to leave Valmar.  She wondered if he had ever ventured so far from his City of Bells.

                “If it has, we will never know by dawdling and wondering,” he reminded.

                It took her no time at all to change and then return to him.  He was reading her book, the one she’d forgotten about.  He glanced up at her, snapping it shut without hesitation as she swept towards him.  The emerald green dress clung to her skin, a style Anairë had grudgingly become accustomed to.  She had twisted her hair up into a simple bun, showcasing tiny strings of emeralds crisscrossing her back. 

                “If you keep wearing these dresses, I am going to be tempted to think you’ve turned into a lady,” he said.

                “I advise you to resist that temptation,” Anairë replied easily.

Her hand slid into his naturally as they walked towards the City.  Laurelin’s light set the tips of the towers on fire.  The streets were emptier than usual, but a few still wandered through the marketplace.  She paused to marvel at a table filled with miniature silver figures.  When she picked up a lifelike sparrow, the artist appeared.  She cradled it in the palm of her hand, lifting it up to eye level to marvel at the detail.

                “You have an eye for beauty, Lady,” the man said before he noted Aracáno’s presence and bowed low.  “Prince Nolofinwë.”

Aracáno motioned for the man to straighten.

                “Your work is unique,” he commented kindly.  “What is your name?”

                “Vorosívë, my lord.  I am an apprentice to Master Narúlëon,” he answered.  “It would honor me if you would take one of my creations.”

Anairë found Aracáno’s gaze singularly on her.  He raised his brow, ignoring the eager artist. 

                “Do you like that one?” he asked.

Anairë frequently heard her father ask the question of her mother before he bestowed gifts upon her.  It was completely foreign to hear the inquiry (and its perceived connotations) leave Aracáno’s mouth.  For that reason, she felt unfamiliarly flustered.

                “Oh, no!” she said, and then saw the ire flame up in the artist’s face.  “I mean, yes.  I’ve never seen such a realistic recreation.”

                “Then it is yours,” Vorosívë insisted.

Anairë intended to protest, but her gaze caught Aracáno’s pleased face.  For a split-second she paused, entertaining the notion of allowing the chivalrous gesture.  Her pride vehemently opposed.

                “I could not.”  She put the silver bird down reluctantly.

 Aracáno’s soft hand on hers stilled her motions.  The artist suddenly became immensely interested in rearranging his works.  Anairë’s attention was drawn back to Aracáno when he tightened his grip.  He stepped closer, using his other hand to sweep a stray piece of hair behind her ear.  Anairë tilted her chin proudly, daring him to argue with her. 

                “Please.”  She was woefully unprepared for his faint request.

Her attention focused on the silver bird beneath their hands.  Her thoughts swirled in a mix of yes’ and no’s that finally transformed into a firm perhaps.

                “It looks like Aiwincë,” she finally said with a smile, picking it up to show him better.

If he was surprised at her assent, he hid it behind a laugh.  Her smile widened as she remembered their first shared pet.  Aiwincë had been a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest.  Together, and unknown to their parents, they had cared for the bird.  She had dug up worms; Aracáno had smashed and fed them to Aiwincë.  Of course, their mothers found out about their pet, and the bird was sent off to Valmar to Oromë and his people. 

                “It does,” he confirmed. 

Anairë wandered to the side, half-listening to Aracáno offer Vorosívë compensation.  After continued refusal, he finally politely thanked the artist and joined her.  They wandered down the street, pausing to watch two actors perform a scene.  His arm draped around her shoulders, comfortably keeping her close to his side.  Unconsciously, she slipped an arm around his waist. 

                “I hope you do not intend to make a habit out of this,” she sighed in his ear.

She knew her lie; part of her enjoyed this.

                “Out of what?” he asked innocently.

                “Nolo,” she warned.

                “I hope you do not intend to make it so difficult every time,” he replied, keeping his voice soft. 

                “I do not need gifts, Nolo,” she added.  “I am more than capable of buying the things I want.”

                “I know.”  She felt his breath warm on her ear.  “But I want to.”

                “Then expect some from me.”  She leaned back to gaze at his face.

He briefly brushed his lips against hers once.  She waited two seconds before he returned for a longer kiss.

                “I will,” he replied.  “As long as you leave rings to me.”

Anairë just arched a brow.

                “We’ll see.”

                They entered the gates of Finwë’s Halls.  He slid her hand from his, placing it properly in the curve of his elbow.  Together, they entered the glimmering atrium.  The lords and ladies of the court arrayed the corners of the room in varying jewel tones.  Surprisingly, at the center of the room stood Olwë, silver-bright between golden Ingwë and fair Finwë.  Lord Sarámo’s erratic gestures as he spoke were accompanied with the tinkling of the bells woven into his long, black braids.  Finwë’s faint frown lightened when his gaze found his son.  He immediately beckoned them over.

                “Nolo, here I was wondering where you might have disappeared off to.  I might have known.”  Finwë sent a brief smile in Anairë’s direction.  “Lord Sarámo was asking after you.”

                “Yes, I had heard you have not been on the field.”  Sarámo’s voice was high and sweet like his bells.  “I was inquiring to your father if you would be playing this season.”

Aracáno did not initially respond.  His gaze was caught with Olwë’s.  The air around the Sea-King was palpably tense.  Finwë and Ingwë’s expressions seemed strained. 

                “I was on the field earlier today, and I will be there tomorrow.”  He kept his response short and vague.  He had indeed visited the field, perhaps stepped on it, but only to be lectured by Altacáno for his continued absences.

                “Yes, we were just speaking of tomorrow,” Ingwë cut in.  “Do you think your team is ready for some competition?”

                “As always, Majesty,” Anairë answered, catching Aracáno’s split second pause. 

Ingwë’s blue-grey eyes settled on her as if he suddenly realized she was there.

                “Anairë.”  Ingwë drew out the last syllable of her name.  “Are you sure?  I seem to recall my son’s team completely dominated Tirion’s last year.”

                “Completely dominated?  That is quite the exaggeration, Ingwë,” Finwë cut in.

                “Indeed,” Anairë murmured.

Her comment went unheard as the men argued semantics.  Anairë directed a welcoming smile at Olwë.  He held out a hand to her, and she willingly left Aracáno’s arm to embrace him.

                “Anairë.”  Olwë’s voice was ever full of music.  He continued speaking in his native language, the words warm in her ear.  “I am glad to see you.”

                “As am I.”  She kissed his cheek.  “Did Eärwen come with you?”

                “They are travelling,” Olwë replied with a knowing smile.  “I rode ahead of them.”

                “I wonder what news could force you to rush from the coast,” Anairë countered flippantly.

Olwë did not respond.

                Anairë remained beside the Sea-King, listening to Finwë laud his middle son’s recent political accomplishments to Ingwë and Sarámo.  Aracáno humbly accepted the praise with a pleased gleam in his eyes.  Ingwë clapped his nephew on the shoulder.

                “And I thought your mother was exaggerating in her letters.  I should have stolen you away before your father realized what an asset you are,” Ingwë joked.

                “Realized?  I have always known my children excel at any task they set their minds to.  Look at Fëanáro.  He has never failed me,” Finwë began, his attention suddenly shifting to the entryway.  “Speaking of my eldest…”

Anairë watched Finwë usher Sarámo off towards Fëanáro and his family.  Fëanáro embraced his father firmly; Russandol laughed gaily as he was swept up into his grandfather’s arms.  Aracáno was left standing beside his Uncle.  Anairë clenched her jaw, seeing his expression fade into ambiguity as he watched his father with his half-brother. 

                “Well, Nolo.”  Ingwë’s voice drew her attention.  “I would gladly welcome you to come and observe Taniquetil’s court.”

                “Now, Majesty.”  Anairë slipped from her place beside Olwë to return to Aracáno’s side.  “I do hope you are not trying to steal Tirion’s finest away.”

Aracáno almost laughed, and to her, that was the only response that mattered. 

                “It does seem that way, Anairë.  We must keep a careful eye on the Vanyar.”  Olwë’s tone held little humor.

Ingwë’s laugh was weak, but he raised his hands, as if to prove his innocence.  The white sleeves of his robe slid back to reveal a wide silver cuff set with a brilliant sapphire.  Rumor had it that Manwë had gifted the bracelet to the faithful king.

                “I would never be so underhanded.”  The golden King directed his words at Olwë.

Olwë only grunted and shook his head.  Ingwë noticeably frowned, though he said nothing to the Sea-King.  Aracáno shifted awkwardly between the two kings.  Thankfully, Indis beckoned her brother to her, and Olwë drifted to speak to Arafinwë.  Then Anairë leaned close to Aracáno.  He tilted his head slightly towards her, indicating his attention as he continued to watch other lords and ladies mingle in the room.

                “Tell me you know why Olwë and Ingwë are at each other’s throats,” she whispered in his ear.

                “I do.”  He showed no indication of elaborating. 

                “Yet you do not intend to tell me.”  There was no sense in asking. 

                “I know how you will react, and Amil is watching us.”  An edge of a smile thinned his lips. 

Anairë barely turned her head, noting Indis in her peripheral.

                “She’s always watching us, Nolo.”  Her sigh bordered on a whine. 

Aracáno shifted to look at her briefly.  Increasingly, he wore versions of his father’s face, presently the sharp silver-edged gaze that demanded respect.  With Finwë, it was positively fearful; Aracáno’s pinned her to the spot, catching her off-guard.  She blinked, and the severity of his stare had softened.  When he looked away, she followed the line of his eyes to his father and half-brother. 

                “As is everyone else here.”  His reply caused her to survey the gardens.  “Amil has practically begged me to formally announce our…”  He motioned between them, as if the gesture explained everything.

                “Announce our what?” she asked innocently. 

To her amusement, a flush crept up his neck.  His scowl made her laugh, and she slipped her hand into his with a smile.

                “I hope I am not interrupting.”  Anairë almost sighed, hearing her mother’s voice.

                “Of course not, Lady Nénuilsë.”  Aracáno pressed a greeting kiss to her cheek.  “You look lovely, as always.”

Her mother wore a dress of the lightest lavender with a headband of amethysts nestled in her dark hair. 

                “You flatter me, Prince,” Nénuilsë tittered, and then her gaze turned to Anairë.  “And doesn’t my daughter look lovely as well?”

His appraising gaze set her heart beating quickly.  Anairë did not dare look at her mother; she was sure Nénuilsë’s expression was satisfied. 

                “She is stunning in emerald,” he finally agreed.  “I am lucky to have her beside me tonight.”

                “We are both lucky men tonight.”  Sartion joined them, greeting his wife with a kiss.  Nénuilsë did not bother to hide her delight at his appearance. 

                “Indeed you are,” Nénuilsë murmured, lovingly smoothing a crease in Sartion’s robes.

Sartion’s knuckles brushed his wife’s cheek tenderly. 

                “Ah, Sartion.”  A fat hand clapped her father’s shoulder.

                “Mísalvë,” Sartion turned and opened his arms wide to embrace the stout man.  “I see you’ve been enjoying the delicacies of the City.”

Mísalvë shook when he laughed.  His bright striped robes always reminded Anairë of a tent.

                “Indeed, indeed.  I treasure these brief moments when I descend the Mountain.  Our vines are not nearly as potent as Tirion’s or Valmar’s,” Mísalvë’s gaze travelled to Aracáno and then Anairë.  “Prince Nolofinwë, I hear you are soon to follow your cousin’s example.”

                “I’ve heard the same and more,” Aracáno responded with an easy smile.  “It seems one ceremony is never enough.”

                “Well, is there really a need for a ceremony?” Mísalvë raised his brows meaningfully. 

                “Mísalvë, that’s quite a thing to say,” Nénuilsë tittered, but there was censure in her tone.

                “I agree.”  Aracáno’s voice had lowered and grown sharp to match his gaze.  “I doubt my Uncle would appreciate such a comment.”

Mísalvë patted his round stomach with a laugh unaffected by Aracáno’s scowl.

                “Stand down, Prince.”  The counselor paused to take an offered glass of wine from a tray.  “I’ve mentioned as much to Ingwë, but he is adamant about our customs.”

                “As he should be,” Sartion said slowly, obviously thinking about each word he uttered.  “We have evolved from the people who awoke beneath the stars.”

                “Have we?  Or do we simply follow prescribed rules well?” Mísalvë replied, and then waved a hand.  “Ah, but see, I have chosen too serious a topic for tonight!  Forgive me!”

He fluttered about for a moment more before bustling off towards another group. 

                “Well, what an ass,” Anairë sighed.

                “Anairë,” Sartion frowned.

                “It is the truth,” Anairë argued.

                “It does not matter.”  Surprisingly, it was Aracáno who spoke.  He ran a hand over his hair with a sigh.  “He will not be the first or the last to make such a comment.”

                “So it is true,” Nénuilsë said.

Aracáno barely nodded.

                “What is?” Anairë asked, glancing between her parents and Aracáno curiously. 

Nénuilsë ignored her daughter’s question, wrapping her hand around her husband’s arm to steer him towards Finwë.  Aracáno rubbed his nose with a sigh.

                “Merenissë is pregnant.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Characters/Notes:

I’m going to start with the notes first.  Specifically, let’s talk about the last line.  Yes, I am daring to touch the idea that people bumped nasties outside of marriage in Valinor.  I subscribe to the idea that the Laws and Customs are similar to the Bible.  We know what it says, but not everyone listens.

 

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

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

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

Sarámo: Lord of Valmar and outlying lands.

Olwë: also called Olue (Telerin); King of the Teleri & Alqualondë; husband to Elenetyë and father to four.

Ingwë: King of the Vanyar & at Taniquetil.

Nénuilsë: mother of Anairë; wife of Sartion.

Sartion: father of Anairë; husband to Nénuilsë.

Mílsalvë: member of Ingwë’s council.

Merenissë: youngest daughter of Ingwë; betrothed to Nardil.