Shifting Landscapes by HannaGoldworthy

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Their love was great, ere evil befell.

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The exile of Curufinwë Fëanáro, and the subsequent removal of his children and his sire to the fortress of Formenos, caused a great deal of upheaval, and not only in the more important issues (such as who would rule as King of the Noldor in his absence).  Rooms in the royal palace of Tirion upon Túna were assigned to the rank of those staying within them, which meant that, on top of everything else that was happening, the entire house of Ñolofinwë found themselves in the middle of a tiresome move to the chambers of the family of the King.

 

Findekáno supposed it could have been worse; the family of Arafinwë had been recalled to Tirion after decades of being scattered across Valinor, while he and his siblings only had to shift their things up the stairs.  Still, he found himself incapable of resting in his new quarters; this had not been his home growing up, but Maitimo’s, and though he had visited often before the exile and felt welcomed here, now he just felt as if he was intruding.  The hard work of becoming Crown Prince and Heir Apparent, even for a short amount of time, was exhausting, but he felt like he could become better accustomed to his duty if he could only find some way to rest.

 

After a week of trying to endure, he quietly gave up the losing battle and retreated down the stairs again, stealing quietly toward his old quarters.  Going by rank alone, he judged that the space had likely gone to Findaráto, who was in Valimar at the moment and would not begrudge his cousin one night in rooms not presently in use.

 

Or, he had thought they were not in use.  When he arrived, he found the door flung open; a quick look inside found the windows in a similar state, with the entire room bathed softly in Telperion’s waxing light.  A number of easels were positioned in several tactical spots around the room, bearing rough sketches of one particular mountain Findekáno remembered from the view out of these windows, situated just south of Taniquetil.  The occupant, a young woman with Arafinwë’s golden hair, flitted fitfully from one easel to the next, making notes and muttering to herself as she moved.  The covers on what used to be his bed remained untouched; apparently he was not the only one who found no rest.

 

Once again, the feeling of having intruded weighed upon him despite her door being opened; Findekáno lifted a hand and rapped his knuckles as quietly as he could manage upon the lintel-piece, for it seemed that this young woman was the only member of the house of Arafinwë awake (or at least stirring) at this hour.

 

She whirled, and recognition clicked into place for him; this was Artarissë, Angaráto’s daughter.  Findekáno had seen her from afar at holy days and family gatherings, but while he was close friends with her father, her mother was soft-spoken and introverted, and she seemed to have taken after Eldalótë in that respect.  He was not sure whether he should introduce himself or not, and could not seem to find anything else to say.  Fortunately, she began the conversation without hesitation.

 

“Did I disturb you?  My sincere apologies, cousin; sometimes I make more noise than I realize.”

 

He allowed himself a small laugh, and shook his head.  “No, I was awake anyway.  I hadn’t expected to see anyone here, however.”

 

“Ah, yes.  Neither had I.  It’s impossible for me to sleep in my room with all the city noise, and Uncle’s bedroom has the best view of Antaro.  I had thought to complete a painting while he is elsewhere.”

 

“A painting or seven.”

 

She grinned.  “Antaro is a vain little mountain.  He can only be painted from at least seven angles.”

 

Her enthusiasm for what was obviously a favorite subject was contagious; Findekáno found himself returning her grin even as he turned reluctantly from the door.  “Well, it’s good to see someone making use of the view, at least.”

 

Artarissë snapped her fingers in a rather tomboyish gesture of epiphany.  “That’s right…this used to be your room.  I can move, if you want to sleep here.  Varda knows it’s hard to get used to a new place.”

 

“I wouldn’t want to hinder your work.”

 

She smiled.  “There will be many more clear nights in Valinor.  I can simply come back tomorrow.”

 

“You were here first.  Stay, by all means.”

 

For a moment, they faced each other down, before breaking down into soft laughter at the same time.  “Tell you what,” Artarissë said, after recovering her composure.  “You take the bed.  I’ll be as quiet as I can, and continue painting.  Would you be able to sleep?”

 

Findekáno considered it, thought of how the silence had been deafening in his new quarters, and remembered how he had nearly worn a hole in Maitimo’s carpet over the past week.  “Better than I could manage in my new quarters.  It’s worth a shot, anyway.”

 

He was swiftly growing to become fond of Artarissë’s bright, uninhibited grin.  “Sleep well then, cousin.”

 

He drifted off almost as soon as he lay beneath his old sheets, lulled by their familiar scent and the feel of his old mattress.  Artarissë was good to her word in that she was quiet; even so, Findekáno’s dreams seemed only to be of watching her work diligently under Telperion’s light, darting silently from easel to easel.  When morning came, she was gone, suddenly, and the room seemed emptier for it.

 

***

 

Tirion grew no quieter, and Uncle Findaráto extended his stay in Valimar as much as was possible, so Artarissë received the use of his room (and his spectacular view of the Pélori) for much longer than she had wished.  Under her watchful eye, the landscapes began to take shape; Antaro was clothed in seven different robes, depending on the time of day and the beauty of the cloud formations that encircled him.  The only deficit, in her opinion, was that her and her mother’s hometown of Tarna Ornemalin, nestled as it was at the foot of Antaro, could not be seen from any place in Tirion.  She was more homesick for Antaro, however, with his gentle green slopes and playful weather patterns, so to document him as she could here was a balm for her disquieted nerves.

 

Findekáno, oddly enough, became as much a comfort to her as her painting.  She had not expected him to stay more than a night, but a week after his first appearance in Findaráto’s chambers, he materialized again.  This time, he had been there for longer than she, and she found him inspecting the canvas portraying Antaro on a clear, silver-blue night when she walked into the room to begin work.

 

“Any input you can give me would be welcome, cousin.”

 

He briefly glanced up at her, smiling.  “I have none.  You’re looking at the one grandchild of Finwë who has little to no talent in the creative arts; I’m afraid the only reason I’m drawn to this one is that I think it would look well with my draperies.”

 

“Draperies are an unsung art in themselves.  Once I am finished, you may have it.”

 

“You needn’t…”

 

“Consider it a taste of home.  You’d be surprised how much a particular view can shape a person.  You’ve likely been missing this more than you’re willing to admit.”

 

He looked at her then, every inch the shrewd child of the House of Finwë.  “Speaking from experience, are we?”

 

For a moment, she wished that her skin had the Trees-kissed burnished copper tone of her great-grandmother’s people, if only so that her blush would not be so evident.  “Is it that obvious?”

 

“Yes, but you’re doing much better with the adjustment than I am.  I don’t see you yawning through political meetings.”

 

“Mostly because I’m already asleep.”

 

“Are you really?  Well, that explains why you’ve never reacted to Artanis when she makes silly faces behind delegates’ backs.”

 

“Does she really?  What kind of faces?  She comes up with some of the best.”

 

Findekáno paused in thought for a moment, and then made an attempt to cross his eyes, and then roll one around in his head while keeping the other focused on his nose.  Artarissë giggled helplessly; her young aunt had pulled that very face multiple times while growing up, and Findekáno did an admirable job of reproducing it.  After a moment, he gave up on the childish contortion, laughing right with her.

 

“I’m glad you consider it entertaining.  It gives me a frightful headache.”

 

***

 

Time passed, and Findaráto had leased his own apartments in Valimar.  Findekáno was glad of that, for his meetings with Artarissë had become habit for both of them.  Her landscapes of Antaro were completed, and being shown as a series in one of the art shops; she’d also finished a number of depictions of the Trees at each hour, which were drawing some attention amongst a few notable critics.  In each case, she’d allowed him to select the piece he liked best, and both hung at strategic places on his bedroom walls.  She had been right when she’d said it would make the place feel more like home.

 

Of course, after those two things were completed, there came the inevitable creator’s block after it was finished.  Artarissë took this part of the process a bit more gently than some relatives he might mention, but the fact remained that she was restless, and seemed at a loss as to how to feel less so.  And, since he’d been the objective observer for so many of his siblings, his cousins, and most especially his half-cousins during this time of woe, he found himself slipping into that supportive role as easily as breathing.

 

“Perhaps if you did something besides landscapes?” he inquired gently, watching her pace across the floor at an unkind hour of the night.

 

She startled.  “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

 

“I never went to sleep, and it looks as though you have not slept for a while either.”

 

There was a heavy sigh.  “I’ve reached an impasse.  There’s nothing that seems to grab my interest any longer; I’ve done to death the two most popular landscapes in Tirion.”

 

“Perhaps a still life, then?” he said lightly.  “I do greatly enjoy apples, if you’d like to give me a bowl of them for my chambers.”

 

The jest worked; she quirked a wry half-smile in his direction.  “Your quarters are mainly blue; would the red not clash with your draperies?”

 

“There’s always orange apples…I believe I remember complementary colors from my art lessons.”

 

“Yes, but you favor red ones.”

 

He frowned.  “Do I?  I hadn’t noticed.”

 

Her color deepened fetchingly before she turned to gaze out the window a little too quickly.  “It’s an idea to consider, I suppose.  Thank you, cousin.”

 

Findekáno regarded the back of her golden head, trying to work out the appropriate words to say to her.  A memory worked itself to the forefront of his mind, when Makalaurë had endured a similar block after completing his first symphony.  “Perhaps, instead of trying to force the issue, you’d get more inspiration by taking a trip outside of Tirion?”

 

She ventured a look back to him.  “I’d like to go back to Antaro again,” she murmured.

 

“There is a ‘but’ implied at the end of that sentence, and I feel it has something to do with me.  I’m sure I can manage in your absence, cousin, painful as it may be.”  He was striving for melodrama, and it had the intended effect of brightening her blue eyes even as they rolled.

 

“Actually, Fin, I was more concerned as to how I would manage without you.”

 

He had not been expecting that response.  “I?  I do no more than sleep in the same room while you work.”

 

“Lies and slander, cousin.  I’ve never met anyone who actually talked with me about my work as much as you have.”

 

“By ‘talking,’ you mean I have you reteach my art fundamentals that I never bothered to remember.”

 

“And letting me know when the conditions are going to be just right to paint.  And somehow keeping the household staff from ousting me when I’m in a creative fit.  And just being here, really, and chatting about our days; you don’t know how much of a help you have been to me.”

 

He was touched that she had noticed, despite himself.  “You’ve been a help to me as well, Riss.  I confess that I will miss you.”

 

“And I say that you needn’t, for I want you to come with me.”  When his eyebrows raised and his mouth opened to protest, she cut him off with a lifted hand.  “Just for a week or two.  Don’t lie – you’ve been as restless as I have.  Surely your father can spare you for that amount of time?”

 

Instinct still dictated for him to refuse her, but something about how the light reflected against her brilliant hair and bright eyes forced him to reconsider.  “I can see no reason why he couldn’t.  I’ll discuss the matter with him tomorrow.”

 

***

 

Artarissë never sold a single portrait.  That is not to say she did not draw portraits; indeed, her notebooks were cluttered with images of her family and friends, and she had often painted family portraits when asked.  No, she simply never requested money in repayment for this type of work, nor did she display it in any galleries, or even sign the piece when finished.

 

This eccentricity stemmed, like many things, from her mother.  Anyone with an eye for art could have recognized Eldalótë’s work in the great portraits of the House of Arafinwë, but she never acknowledged it publicly.  And Artarissë could see why, in the softness depicted in her father’s eyes as he looked at the painter.  That experience was too intimate to sell, for glory or for profit; so it should be for families who were not royal, but wanted to keep pictures of those they loved, at notable times in their life.

 

It was this characteristic and diligently cultivated foible, however, that made Findekáno’s repeated appearances in her sketchbook so alarming to her.  There were glimpses of him walking in the gardens; abandoned drafts of his disarmed expression as he slept; playful doodles in the margins of her actual work that seemed to fit almost too well.  He was Antaro in the flesh; she found that there was not a single image of him that she could consider redundant.

 

This trip proved only to expand her collection, for Tarna Ornemalin seemed to fit Findekáno like a glove.  He seemed more at home in this small mountain village, far from the growing unease in Tirion.  He grew to know the names of everyone in the market.  He laughed with her mother’s parents, often late into the night.  He roved the halls of her family’s estate constantly, grinning, for Grandmother had never bothered to clean or paint over Eldalótë’s or Artarissë’s childish scribbles on the walls; when asked, he said that he was beginning to tell the difference between their styles, even at that early age.

 

And, lately, he took to accompanying her on her daily hike to the top of Antaro.  She truly was glad he did, for Antaro afforded a one-of-a-kind view of the Trees, Taniquetil, and the Harbor all at once; the look on his face when he’d first turned north had been priceless.  But she was beginning to draw only him, when she had wanted to rekindle some sort of creativity for art…art that she could show others, at least.  He was becoming a distraction she could not afford, and yet she could not bear to turn him away.

 

“Is there a trade I may make for your thoughts?” he asked on one such outing, as these odd little troubles were running through her mind once more.  She came back to the present with a start, saw him laying languidly just beneath her on the incline of Antaro’s peak, apple in hand, Laurelin’s light reflecting quite becomingly off of the gold in his hair and the exuberance in his eyes.

 

“Not one you can afford.”

 

“Ah!  Then it’s a guessing game.”  He sat up quickly, a merry grin on his face as he stroked his chin in mock consideration.  “Let me think…you’re uneasy because you still haven’t worked past your creative block.”

 

“I have so!  I’ll have you know that I’ve followed your advice and completed a few still-lives.  Flowers, if you must know.  My mother sends word that she adores them.”

 

“Very well.  Perhaps you are worried about that dark cloud over Formenos?”

 

She considered him incredulously.  “I think Fëanáro and his brood can handle a rainstorm, Fin.”

 

“Yes, but it’s an eyesore.”

 

“It is weather.  It will pass.”

 

Findekáno did not look too sure – and, to be honest, neither was she, for the cloud was indeed fairly dark and had appeared out of nowhere.  But he shrugged, and continued on with his line of questioning.

 

“Perhaps you are in love, then?”

 

That cut a bit too close for comfort, but she decided to play along so that he would not look too closely at her sketchbook.  “You’ve got me,” she said in the driest tone she could muster.  “I’m head over heels in love with someone and haven’t a single idea what to do about it.”

 

“Hah!  I am in the same boat.  Tell me – how would you broach the topic with such a person?”

 

She focused on her work again, feeling the heat rise humiliatingly in her cheeks.  “I just said I don’t know how.  And I’ll likely never do it, because I’m sure he’s already engaged to someone else.”

 

“Really?  To whom?  As far as I know, I’ve never been involved with anybody.”

 

The implication took a moment to set in, but when it did, it hit her as hard as if he’d thrown a rock at her.  “You know?”

 

“Yes.”

 

She felt her face contort into a frown.  “You snooped through my sketchbooks!”

 

He looked confused and flattered at the same time.  “No, never.  Your grandmother threatened me with bodily harm unless I promised to talk to you.  You have drawings of me?”

 

In frustration, she flung her pencil at him – it bounced harmlessly off his doublet.  “Ugh, that’s beside the point!”

 

“You do!”

 

“I said that was beside the point!”

 

“Can I see them?”

 

“You’re engaged to Maitimo!”

 

“What?  Where did you get that idea?”

 

“It’s obvious, Fin.  The whole of Tirion has been planning your wedding to him for yéni.”

 

“The whole of Tirion needs to learn to mind their damn business!”

 

“So it’s not true?”

 

“No!”

 

Somehow, they’d managed to stand without noticing, at least until this moment they took to breathe.  Findekáno ran a hand through his hair.

 

“Maitimo…he was my linguistics tutor.  I had trouble learning to read growing up, and he helped me learn a few techniques to overcome that difficulty.  He’s dear to me, yes, but not…like that.”

 

Relief sank slowly into her.  “So you’re not attached.”

 

“No.  Well, unless you are willing to let me court you…”

 

He was very accommodating when she seized him, and even more so when she kissed him.  And then, before the moment could continue much more than that, thunder rang in their ears, and she gripped his hand and sprinted down the mountain as the black cloud they had seen before moved unpredictably in their direction.

 

“It’s just weather, Riss, it’ll pass!”

 

“Yes, but it will pass without electrocuting us!  I don’t want to spend a month in Lórien!”

 

“You just want to keep your drawings of me unspoiled!”

 

“That too, you undercooked goose egg!”

 

They laughed and twitted each other all the way back to her family’s house, blissfully unware of the screaming of the crows around them, or just how much trouble yet to come in their lives that was heralded by the sudden storm.

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Chapter End Notes

Double warning: oh, this most certainly is going to be an epic.  Strap in; I've been beating my head against this for longer than I would care to admit.