Olwë's Home for Wayward Elves by Morcondil

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Chapter Three

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CHAPTER THREE.

We walked to the seashore under Laurelin’s waxing Light. The waves that crashed against the beach were dappled with gold. Refracted spangles danced across Nécandil, Írissë, and I as we made our way across smooth white sands. Ahead of us, a group of two dozen Falmari gathered around a bonfire. The breeze carried the sound of their music and laughter toward us.

Írissë had helped Nécandil and I dress for the occasion. He wore the dusky purple gown from my closet and a garland of daylilies on his brow. The kohl around his eyes was vastly improved. I wore a long tunic of silver-netted cloth over loose trousers—they draped in such a way that the illusion of a full skirt was created. “It’s like wearing a dress,” Írissë explained, “but without all the trouble of one.” She told me she commissioned similar attire for riding or working at our uncle Fëanáro’s forge. I looked beautiful; for once I didn’t feel like a gangly weed in a rose garden. Írissë herself wore only a simple kirtle and bodice in white. (Obviously.)

We approached the crowd, and the Falmari greeted us with joy. One of them piped a fanfare on a reed pipe. Three willowy youths surrounded Nécandil and pulled him into the throng. I saw that these friends exhibited the same sort of fey allure as did Nécandil—they inhabited the same crossroads where male and female intermixed without care for convention. I watched them, mesmerized by their fluid movements and wise eyes. Treelight mingled with firelight, dancing across lean bodies. These Teleri would not be considered beautiful in the gilded drawing rooms of Tirion, but here on the beach, with the waves roaring and the reed pipes playing impish melodies... here, they were exquisite.

“They’re splendid, are they not?”

Írissë stood near me, surveying the revelers. She was near enough that I could feel the warmth of her bare arms radiating to mine. She also seemed captivated by Nécandil and his friends. There was a distant, worshipful expression in the depths of her eyes.

Jealousy licked at the edges of my conscious thoughts. “Do you love him?” I asked. (This was not an unreasonable query; Írissë declared herself in love with a new man every week.)

She laughed silently: a soft exhalation. “No, Artanis, at least not in that way. He is...he is like a precious gem that one savors but does not dare set into a necklace or ring, for fear the gold could never match the beauty of the stone itself. Nécandil is not someone I could ever take to bed.”

I knew exactly what my cousin meant, for I felt the same. Falling in love with Nécandil would only spoil things.

The pipes changed tune, and a harp added its voice to the song. They played a lively reel that had taken all of Aman by storm. A cheer rose from the crowd. Írissë and I began to clap. I did not care for dancing, but the melody was infectious. A swarthy young man in a green robe approached the two of us. Wordlessly, he reached his hands toward my cousin. She sprang lightly away with him and joined the dancers, who circled around the fire and splashed in the tide. Laughter nearly overpowered the music.

I watched from just beyond the circle of firelight. In Tirion, I often felt stiff and uncertain in large gatherings. Not so here. I was content to observe, and I did not fear Eärwen’s pinched expression when she saw I preferred not to engage.

The music rose and fell. I clapped my hands and joined in the singing when I knew the words. During a pause between dances, Nécandil brought me a flask of wine. He did not stay with me for long, and I did not mind when he went. Even as I stood alone, I was still part of the group. If any of the Falmari thought my behavior odd, they kept it to themselves. I didn’t doubt that the gossip in Alqualondë was just as potent as in Tirion, yet it didn’t worry me. There was no pretense here on the shore.

After a time, I finished my wine and strayed away from the bonfire. The tide was going out, and the retreating sea revealed a stretch of bare sand. Gleaming pink and white shells dotted the beach. I collected a few to bring back with me to Tirion. I skipped rocks across the waves while the musicians began a sad lament of lost love—another popular song, with lyrics written by the poet Elemmírë. We were far from Corollairë, and Varda’s stars shone fiercely overhead.

As my feet wandered, so did my mind. My thoughts raced from my nearly completed studies at the Royal Academy to what I hoped to eat for breakfast, and then back again. I thought of my life as it stretched before me in a regimented progression:, apprenticeship, marriage, children. None of it appealed to me, but I could not articulate why. So preoccupied was I that I didn’t see the figure approach until he stood next to me, knee-high in the pounding surf.

“Lady Artanis,” said a rough voice.

I stared at his face for the space of several heartbeats before I recognized him: Costamo. My fists clenched reflexively. I turned to walk away, back to the bonfire and the safety of the throng. I moved quickly, and my legs sloshed through the sea. Costamo’s voice called me back.

“Wait, my lady, please!”

I stopped, but did not turn to face him. In front of me, I saw Írissë and Nécandil twirling, hands clasped. The fire washed their faces in red and gold.

Costamo moved closer. I heard him splash as he came. “I apologize for what I said earlier,” he said to the back of my head. “It was unkind.”

I crossed my arms over my breasts, suddenly chilled. I didn’t want an apology; I wanted to be away from him. I heard his voice again: Tell me, does your cock ever trip you, or did they cut it off in order to pass you off as a girl? How had he known just where to aim his knife? (My mother had named me Nerwen, “man-maiden.”) Now, Costamo likely wanted to offer a long-winded excuse for his words. I didn’t care. He had wounded me where I was softest, and that was the end of it.

“All right,” I said. “You were unkind, and you have apologized for it. There, it’s finished. I wish you a prosperous life, Costamo.” I threw the words over my shoulder like darts. If I hurt him first, he could not strike at me again. Before he responded, I marched back to the bonfire without a backwards glance. Costamo called to me again, but his voice was lost amidst the clamor of the party and the sea.

I searched for my companions, feeling sick.

Írissë and Nécandil were chatting together on the far side of the bonfire, arms linked. Several of Nécandil’s friends had joined them. My cousin greeted my approach with a smile. “Artanis, you’re here!” Her voice was slurred slightly from drink and merrymaking.

I took hold of her hand. “We need to leave,” I said.

Írissë giggled.

“We need to leave,” I repeated. “Now.”

My words penetrated; Írissë’s eyes narrowed. She squeezed my chilly fingers and leaned to whisper in Nécandil’s ear. His sharp eyes studied me, but they were not gentle. He knew, and he was not pleased. The hairs along my arms stood up.

None of us spoke. The three of us came away from the shore in a single file, with Írissë in the lead. Laurelin was waning, and soon it would be time for the second Mingling. It was the hour when young children slept and everyone retreated to their homes. The twisting streets of Alqualondë were all but empty.

Strained emotions brewed. In front of me, Nécandi’s gait was stiff. I remembered what he had told me earlier in my bedchamber: I hadn’t been “fair” to Costamo. It was plain he was going to return to that theme once we returned to the palace.

Indeed, as soon as we had come into the open foyer of Olwë’s house, Nécandil ushered us into a nearby sitting room. Shelves ran the length of all four walls, and they were full of shells and smooth sea-stones. I would have liked to take a closer look at them, but this was not the time.

“Sit down, Artanis,” said Nécandil. His brow was furrowed, and his close-cropped hair seemed to stand on end.

I sat on a lavender silk chaise. Írissë sank down next to me; her knees brushed mine. It might have been comforting, but I felt sure that when it came to it, my cousin would share Nécanndil’s views. (No one was ever on my side.)

“What is it?” I asked the Falmaro.

He launched into speech: “I told you to be gentler with him, Artanis! I understand he was cruel and that he truly made a terrible impression on you earlier today. But you might consider that people lash out to wound others when they themselves are in pain.” He peered at me, and I felt that my very fëa had been revealed to him. “I should think you would understand that better than anyone,” Nécandil added.

I sat in sullen silence.

“I’m sorry,” broke in Írissë after a tense moment, “but who are we talking about?”

“Costamo Tautamion.” Nécandil barely spared her a glance, so intent was he on me. “He was the one Artanis slapped in the corridor. I saw him try to make amends at the beach, but your cousin dismissed him like some sort of vengeful queen.”

Now Írissë’s full attention turned to me. Her eyes were wide, like dinner plates. The combined weight of their stares made my nose prickle. “You slapped Costamo Tautamion?”

“Apparently.” I crossed my arms. (As I had anticipated, this was looking very much like an ambush.)

“But...but...” My normally voluble cousin was at a loss for words. “Have you no pity at all, Artanis?”

I was missing something. “Is Costamo someone I should be aware of? And is he somehow exempt from the consequences of foul words to strangers?”

Írissë flopped back against the arm of the chaise and groaned dramatically. She smacked her forehead with an open palm. “Artanis, do you ever pay attention to anything besides your own self?”

“Of course I do!”

“Do you really?” My cousin’s voice was skeptical.

I looked to Nécandil, standing by a shelf of smooth agates. His face was a picture of bemused frustration—the very same expression Arafinwë wore when dealing with my misbehavior.

I felt indignant and stupid, and I was angry because I so greatly disliked feeling stupid. “Well, can one of you explain the mystery of Costamo to me? It’s ridiculous to expect me to prostrate myself before him if I don’t know why I’m doing it.”

With a huff, Nécandil came to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of me. His silvery gaze met mine and held it. My discomfort grew.

“You have heard of Elemmírë, have you not?” he asked.

“Of course I have! I’m not a complete dunce.”

Elemmírë was the most famous writer and poet in all of Aman. She had come to Tirion a few years ago and performed for Finwë himself, where my grandfather had demanded an unprecedented five encores. I had been too young to attend the concert, but I remembered my brothers’ fascination with the Vanyarin woman—they seemed to be equal parts smitten with her and in awe of her. Findaráto had begged her to take him on as an apprentice, but she had refused. (None had ever dared refuse Findaráto before.) Rumor had it that her weekly poetry readings in Valmar were so crowded that many spectators swooned from the crush.

To think I wouldn’t know of Elemmírë was preposterous.

Nécandil continued: “Costamo’s parents are attachés to King Ingwë’s court, and he lived with them there. He and Elemmírë shared some of the same tutors. As might be expected, Ingwë had her installed at court permanently once her talent manifested. Then I suppose things progressed as they usually do, and Costamo and Elemmíre were betrothed. It was quite a big to-do, Artanis. I remember hearing about it even at my parents’ home in Tol Eressëa.”

“That was around the time Artanis decided to have a fencing match at a party Lady Eärwen held in the Gardens of Lórien,” interjected Írissë. [1]

I pursed my lips at her.

“Right, of course.” Nécandil rolled his eyes. “Anyway. This is all rumor and speculation, but it seems the betrothal was mostly a feat of maneuvering on the part of Costamo’s parents, and maybe Elemmírë’s as well. After a few months, Elemmírë broke the betrothal—publicly, at a reception held in her honor. Poor Costamo is a proud son of eminent politicians, and he was humiliated. But not as humiliated as his parents, who sent him back to Alqualondë like a soiled handkerchief. Now he’s here as a guest of Olwë, but all his friends are in Valmar, and I don’t think he feels comfortable among us. They do things very different among the Vanyar, I suppose.”

“I have heard he hates everyone from Tirion or Valmar,” added Írissë. “He thinks city-dwellers are arrogant and self-serving. And yet he wishes to still be a city-dweller himself.”

“That’s more or less what I’ve gathered from him since he arrived,” confirmed Nécandil. His eyes still probed mine. “So you can see why perhaps you might be more compassionate, Artanis. I think he really was in love with Elemmírë, and to be rejected in such a fashion is no small thing. And his parents might have rallied around him rather than tossing him out like a broken dish.”

During the telling of this tale, I began to feel ashamed. I remembered Eärwen’s frequent speeches on the importance of putting oneself in another’s position, the better to understand them. (I found doing so more difficult than any of my elder brothers had done.) Now I found it easy to imagine of Costamo’s thoughts. Nécandil had spoken true when he said I knew what it was like strike out before anyone else could act against you. Yet I wasn’t willing to give up my moral high ground. I was tired and sulky, and Costamo had been unforgivably insulting.

After a while, I shrugged. “I have never heard of anyone breaking a betrothal.”

“Nor have I,” agreed Írissë. “Imagine how mortifying that would be!” She shuddered for effect.

Nécandil still watched me from his seat on the rug. He was not going to let the matter rest without some manner of promise on my part. Perhaps he had a point.

“Well,” I said to him, “do not expect me to like him, but I’ll try not to hit Costamo again.”

It was the best I could do, and Nécandil seemed to know he had pushed me as far as he could. He grinned, almost imperceptibly. “I will hold you to that, Artanis.”

We fell silent. A clock chimed from somewhere in the house.

“Good, that’s settled! Now maybe we can get some sleep,” said Írissë briskly. “I require a great deal of rest to be this beautiful.”

The tension was diffused. We laughed together and trooped upstairs to our bedrooms.

#

I came late to breakfast, for I had slept long and fitfully. Even though I was one of the last to arrive, the food was still plentiful. The table was set out on a shaded porch near a trickling fountain. A gauzy canopy overhung the long buffet, and Írissë sat alone toward the middle. (Nécandil, I gathered, had already come and gone.) The queen and my many young cousins were playing in the garden below the terrace. Olwë also sat at the table, reading a slim volume of poetry, but he didn’t appear to notice my entrance. With a jolt, I saw my grandfather was reading Elemmírë’s latest work.

I flushed as I sat next to my cousin. She greeted me through a mouthful of porridge and honeyed dates.

I remembered the conversation that had taken place the night before and realized I would have to find Costamo and let him repeat his apologies. And if I wanted to appease Nécandil, I would likely have to apologize as well. Making friends (and keeping them) was a complicated business.

The food was good, and Írissë and I sat companionably together while the fountain laughed and sang. A cormorant wheeled through the sky above. I finished my own bowl of porridge and began attacking a plate of cinnamon-laced scones while Írissë started in on a tower of seed-cakes. Our silence was broken only by the intermittent ruffle of pages as Olwë leafed through his book.

Soft steps echoed across the flagged porch. I turned to see Costamo come out from the house’s interior. He was dressed for riding, his long braids looped neatly around his skill. I froze at the sight of him. I had not intended to speak with him in front of an audience, especially not the king.

My trepidation was misplaced. Perceiving that I did not wish to be spoken to (and likely fearing another rejection), the young Falmaro did not approach us. Costamo sat a few chairs distant from me and began to eat. He said nothing and did not look away from his plate. I bit into a scone, relieved. Írissë’s bare toes nudged my shin under the table. I met her eyes and shook my head. She gestured a go ahead motion with her hand.

“Not now,” I muttered.

Costamo did not appear to notice our pantomimed antics. I chewed loudly, and my cousin snorted.

“A brilliant poet, this Elemmírë,” said Olwë absently from the head of the table. He raised his head to take the three of us in. His smile was beatific. “I’m sure that you young people enjoy her writing as well?”

Costamo sat rigidly, spoon halfway to his lips. His neck reddened. Írissë’s eyes widened as she looked between the king and the younger Falmaro. I wished myself back in Tirion; surely the king could not be so dense? (Or perhaps this obtuseness was a sign he and I were related.)

The silence was hot and stifling. Olwë’s clear blue eyes were puzzled. It was evident he expected a response, but none were willing to give it.

Nonchalantly, I picked up a plum and bit into it. Sticky-sweet juice ran down my chin. I chewed, swallowed. “Elemmírë’s poetry is infantile and obvious,” I said to my grandfather. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.” (A lie—I kept the Vanya’s first poetry collection beneath my pillow in Tirion.)

Olwë arched a single silver eyebrow. “Indeed, Artanis? How interesting.” He said no more and returned his attention to reading. A smile trembled in the corners of his mouth.

Down the length of the table, Costamo seemed to wilt. He angled his face toward mine and tried to smile, but it was wobbly and weak. I nodded at him but didn’t smile back. Silently, I finished the rest of my plum. At my other side, Írissë applauded, eyes laughing. Costamo huffed and grew absorbed in his food once more.

I was pleased with myself, and it was not the grim pleasure I usually experienced after unleashing mayhem on the streets of Tirion. This was a softer, warmer satisfaction: the knowledge that I had eased a hurt rather than caused one.

I wondered if Arafinwë would be pleased.

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Chapter End Notes

[1] See With sword in hand for the full story of Galadriel scandalizing everyone after challenging a partygoer to a duel in the Gardens of Lórien.

Name Guide
— Arafinwë = Finarfin
— Artanis/Nerwen = Galadriel
— Fëanáro = Fëanor
— Findaráto = Finrod
— Írissë = Aredhel