Olwë's Home for Wayward Elves by Morcondil

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Chapter Two

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CHAPTER TWO.

I ripped my shirt and trousers off, hands shaking. I was furious. Not with Costamo. (I didn’t care one way or another about the foul-mouthed Teler.) Rather, I was angry with myself. I had come to Alqualondë with a plan firmly in place: to be on my best behavior. Yet within an hour of my arrival, I was already proving the gossips of Tirion right. Arafinwë’s daughter was an ungovernable hoyden, a disgrace. I imagined my parents’ quiet disappointment when they learned of my latest escapade.

Slapping strangers in the face was a new level of impropriety, even for me.

I stared darkly into the closet. It was packed full of pretty gowns in delicate, muted colors. Their gauzy fabrics mocked me. “This is hopeless,” I muttered.

“I wouldn’t go that far, my lady,” said a musical voice behind me, “but things certainly aren’t looking well for you.”

I whirled around. My hands clutched at my naked breasts.

The fey-looking Falmaro stood inside my bedchamber, leaning against the closed door. He carried a tray of food. His thin lips were stretched into a grin, and something in his expression made me want to smile back.

He gestured toward my naked body. “Maybe you should get dressed so we can have a proper chat over dinner?”

I blushed, feeling an unaccustomed twinge of modesty. I reached into the closet and found a green dressing gown. I tugged it over my unbound hair, which was still tangled from my ride through the Calacirya. Hoping my visiter didn’t think ill of me, I decided against a pair of soft velvet house-slippers.

While I dressed, the boy had laid out food at a table by the window. Olwë’s cooks had sent soft breads and ripe fruits and a bottle of deep red cordial. Beyond the table, seagulls circled above the water. My friend sat cross-legged on a wide bench; I sat next to him. For some moments, we both looked across the ruffled sea to the far, hazy horizon. The cry of the gulls mingled with the gentle tossing of the waves—a wild harmony unlike any to be found in Aman.

Many of my father’s family saw themselves as superior to the rustic Teleri and their sea chanties and fishing boats, but I thought perhaps the Noldor missed the point. What need was there for great towers or deep lore when you had the peace of the wide waters?

Eventually, my attention wandered from the view outside to my companion. He was methodically eating a bunch of green grapes. His strange looks were even more mesmerizing up close. I noticed that he wore delicate diamonds in his ears and that his eyes were lined (badly!) with kohl. My gaze roamed across his features without restraint, and only when I looked into his sharp eyes did I realize he was staring back at me. He arched an eyebrow, and I flushed again.

“Go ahead, my lady,” he said. “Ask me.”

“Are you...are you a man, or…?” I trailed off. The question was terribly rude—even I had enough manners to know that. But it seemed vital that I categorize this boy neatly, to place him firmly among one kind or the other.

The Falmaro shrugged. “I am myself,” he said. “Today, I wear trousers beneath my robe and put on rouge. Yesterday, it was a wig of dark curls and a circlet of rubies. Tomorrow, I might wear a skirt and challenge Costamo to a boxing match—or I might dress in a sateen doublet and sing dirty songs in the marketplace. I am me.”

“Oh,” was all I could say.

“Does it not seem odd, my lady, that so much of oneself is defined by that single distinction—nér or nís? There are so many species of bird and so many different words for the color of water. Why are there only two kinds of Eldalië? Don’t you think that’s rather limiting?” He watched me closely while he spoke.

“Oh yes.” I nodded fervently, for I could think of no argument against him. (In truth, I had never considered the binary nature of Elves.) I sipped cordial from a crystal flagon and tried to think of a way to make the conversation less awkward.

The Telerin boy reached out and patted my wrist. “You’ll grow accustomed to it—even my parents did, after a time. My name is Nécandil, by the way. And for the sake of conversation, I don’t mind if you call me a he.”

“I’m Artanis, and I’m a she,” I blurted. (This was not making things less awkward.)

Nécandil laughed. “I know who you are, my lady.” Of course he did; nearly everyone in Aman knew who I was. There were only three kings in Aman, and only a handful could claim to be descended from them. His hand still rested against my wrist. Impulsively, I turned my palm to twine our fingers. It was an easy gesture, one that felt right. I studied our joined hands. His skin was a dark copper, and my hand looked nearly translucent in comparison.

“Does your family come from Alqualondë?” I asked.

“No,” said Nécandil. “My parents keep an orchard on Tol Eressëa, near the center of the isle. Most of my siblings are still there, though my two elder sisters have gone east to help build the new city of Avallónë.”

That caught my attention. I wasn’t familiar with most gossip in Tirion, but everyone knew that the Teleri had decided to build a new settlement as far away from Corollairë as possible. All the better to see Varda’s stars, they said. (We all knew that was only the half of it.)

“Have you been to Avallónë?” I asked.

The Falmaro shook his head. “Not yet, but my sister wrote to say that they’ve finished constructing the Mindelena[1]. She says the view from the top is unlike anything ever seen in Aman.”

“I should like to go. I’ve never been to Eressëa.”

Nécandil’s fingers squeezed mine. “Then perhaps we should make an adventure of it this summer. We could even invite Costamo along.” He grinned. Beneath the table, his foot nudged mine teasingly.

I recoiled, finding no humor in the thought of traipsing across Tol Eressëa in that company of that person. “What!” I cried. “Why? He can rot here in Alqualondë until the end of days, for all I care. Never say you’re in earnest, Nécandil?”

My new friend rolled his eyes at me (at me!) and withdrew his hand from mine. He stood, walked to the window, paced back. He seemed more upset than the situation warranted. “I was serious, Artanis. I don’t think you’ve been entirely fair to Costamo. He’s not...well, he isn’t at his best right now.”

I stood as well. We were of a similar height, and our eyes clashed. “I was not fair to him?” I hissed. “I cannot believe you side with that—that snake! Do you not recall what he said to me?”

“It’s not a matter of sides,” Nécandil began, but I cut him off.

“I see, it’s all my fault isn’t? It’s my fault I punched him, never mind what he said first.” My face was hot with temper. I barely noticed the words flying from my mouth. “It’s my fault I’m taller than I should be; my fault my hair won’t stay tidy; my fault I kissed a girl; my fault Tirion is filled with bored old gossips; my fault my parents are ashamed of me. It’s my fault that I cannot live up to some abstract concept of perfection that nobody will explain to me!” I sprung toward Nécandil; our noses touched. “If you want to talk about what is and isn’t fair, then maybe we should start with that!”

Nécandil blinked at me. His gray eyes narrowed. He drew in a loud breath. Then an amused voice cut him off:

“Well cousin, I can see that the sea air has done nothing to calm your spirits.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

My cousin Írissë was reclining across the bed. (When had she come in? Had she heard my entire tirade?) Her dark hair was bundled artfully on top of her head, and her white riding habit was spotless as always. Her cheeks were rosy; her eyes sparkled with humor. “Hello, Artanis,” she said to me, then: “I can see she’s been misbehaving already.” to Nécandil.

“You have no idea, my lady,” said Nécandil. “You missed the brawl in the corridor.”

“Oh dear,” said my cousin.

The two of them smiled at each other. I crossed my arms. Írissë was always making jokes, and I was usually the butt of them.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded (sulkily). “Weren’t you supposed to join Tyelkormo and Curufinwë’s hunting party?”

Írissë shrugged delicate shoulders. “Your brothers thought you might grow lonely here in Alqualondë by yourself, and they dispatched me to keep you company. But it does seem like you’re making so many friends already. Perhaps their fears were for naught!” One of her famous dimples appeared on her smooth cheek.

“Really?” I raised a disbelieving eyebrow. (My siblings knew as well as anyone that Írissë and I delighted in nothing more than bickering with each other.)

My cousin sighed dramatically. She flopped back onto the mattress like an actress in a Vanyarin melodrama. “Fine, fine!” she said. “I admit it! Tyelkormo and I got into a dreadful row over who was the better archer. It’s me, of course; we all know that. But he insisted we have a competition, and I had no choice but to humiliate him. He got dreadfully moody, so I tried to cheer him up. Except none of my usual tricks worked. He was quite rude about it all! In the end, I wasted a good bottle of perfume, not to mention that hideously expensive lace nightgown.”

Írssë brushed an invisible speck of dust off her sleeve and smiled like a cat. Nécandil sat down on the bed next to her and began to arrange her skirts. I stared at the two of them, nonplussed. Then comprehension came galloping in, and I blinked. “You and Tyelkormo...? But your fathers are brothers! That isn’t done!”

“Kissing serving girls and then trying to drown them in a fountain to hide the evidence isn’t done either, Artanis.” She sniffed and eyed me severely.

Nécandil broke into laughter. I pursed my lips at him, and the laugh became a cough.

“I didn’t try to drown her!” I said. I stamped my bare foot on the carpeted floor. “She pulled us both in when she was trying to unfasten my trousers.” (Nécandil kept laugh-coughing.)

“That isn’t what the good ladies of Tirion are saying,” said my cousin. “And you know they’re never wrong.”

I groaned, then sank into an available chair. My fingers ran along the gold tassels of the cushion. My cousin and I had always had a difficult relationship—it’s what came of being the youngest children (and only daughters) in a family full of arrogant lordlings. Eärwen and Anairë had pushed Írissë and I together, thinking foolishly that our age and gender were all that was necessary to form a lasting friendship. Not that we were enemies. It was simply that Írissë was...annoying.

I crossed my legs, recrossed them. Nécandil seemed to be petting Írissë’s skirts. The sight made me jealous and petulant. I couldn’t blame him—she was beautiful and witty and unconventional in a way that did not horrify our elders. I peered down at my naked toes so I didn’t have to watch.

“So now what?” I said to my feet. “A jolly family vacation by the seaside?”

A soft hand came to rest on my tangled head. I peered through a twisted mane of silver-gold to see my cousin. Her expression was soft. “Don’t worry, Artanis,” she said. “I’ll help you.”

“Help me do what?” I muttered.

She stroked my hair, but her fingers tangled in the knots. She made a tsking sound in the back of her throat. “For starters, I’m going to show you how to braid your hair. Then we’ll learn how to dress—comfortably, but with style. Then maybe we’ll do something about your face. Have you ever considered plucking that mustache?”

She tugged me out of the chair and had me kneel on the ground while she tried to salvage my hair. I winced as she pulled at my scalp.

“What do we think of this?” Nécandil asked. He’d gone to the closet and taken out a ballgown of dusky crepe. He held it against his body.

“No,” said Írissë. “That color is no good for Artanis.”

“I mean for me,” said the Falmaro. “Some of my friends are having a party down by the harbor tonight. I thought we could all go and help our little protégé practice her manners in public.”

“Hmm,” mumbled my cousin. I couldn’t see her face, but I had the feeling she didn’t quite know what to make of our new Telerin companion. Knowing her, she was about to say something equal parts witty and offensive.

“Írissë, this is Nécandil,” I said quickly. “He’s been kind to me.” (Unspoken: “Do not be cruel to him.”)

“Hmph,” she said. Her clever fingers began to twist my hair back from my face. “I suppose we can be friends, Nécandil,” said my cousin, “but on one condition.”

“What would that be?” he asked. His silver eyes were wary.

“You have to do something about that ghastly eyeliner,” said Írissë. To my surprise, her sharp words were delivered gently.  “Do you know how to draw a straight line?”

The Falmaro, who had grown tense under my cousin’s inspection relaxed. (The kohl around his eyes really was terrible.) He smiled widely, and his face was beautiful. “Will you show me how, my lady?”

Írissë snorted.

My cousin finished my braid and tied it off with a silver thread. I stood and studied myself in a mirror on the wall: a definite improvement. Then my gaze dropped to the fuzzy hairs above my lip. I stroked them thoughtfully. “Do people really pluck these?” I asked.

Írissë waved her hands, first toward Nécandil, then toward me. “Valar protect me from these messy children and their sloppy habits,” she said to the ceiling.

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Chapter End Notes

[1] Mindelena — Quenya, my invention; roughly: “tower of the stars”

Name Guide
— Arafinwë = Finarfin
— Artanis/Nerwen = Galadriel
— Curufinwë = Curufin
— Írissë = Aredhel
— Tyelkormo = Celegorm