The Sandglass Runs by Dawn Felagund, NelyafinweFeanorion

No Interest in Fish

I suppose I am guilty of assuming my cousin was sexless. Sure, he has a daughter—Finduilas—so he must have copulated with his Sindarin wife at least once, but if you’d asked me, I would have estimated it had been only once.

Angaráto and Aikanáro performed their sexuality, at least when they were with us cousins, in their vocal lusts for certain women and boastful prattle, always trying to one-up each other and my brothers Tyelko and Curufinwë, but Artaher never made boasts or claims or seemed even to notice women beyond what was required to laugh at his brothers’ jokes. He was always modest, even a little pious, his clothing a season behind or just slightly awkwardly fitted like he didn’t care to be noticed much less admired.

I suppose at least drunken me notices him, though. During the complimentary breakfast buffet, Arafinwë makes excuses for Artaher and his “illness” (that word again! no one bothers to make or require excuses from me) that kept him from dinner with the family the night before. I have to excuse myself because the thought of correcting Arafinwë—no, Uncle, you are wrong; your son was gone because he was drinking whiskey and engaging in heavy petting with me on your daughter’s boat dock—in front of everyone makes me feel like all the blood in the upper half of my body has plunked down into my cock and balls, so I flee to the water closet.

Artanis has a schedule of activities at each of our places, printed on pale blue linen cardstock. BREAKFAST in the TIDEPOOL BUFFET is followed by SNORKELING (via the SPRING TIDE) out on her blasted reef. Artanis is long-limbed and golden in a pair of white shorts and one of the bikini-style bathing costumes debuted by the Teleri that have caused such consternation among the Noldor and the Vanyar. She leads us through an introduction to the fish we will observe on the reef, each illustrated by a brightly painted card. My mother comes to me with the sunblock. “You burned, all on your shoulders yesterday,” she whispers and makes me take my shirt off so that she can smear sunblock all over my shoulders and back. I cross my arms over my chest and refuse to look in Artaher’s direction, sneaking looks at my shoulders instead. She is right. My freckles have surfaced on my shoulders and upper arms; even the stupid sunburn couldn’t be regular, giving me hope it might smooth to coffee-and-cream worthy of any Arafinwion, but instead is splotched. I have no doubt that it will settle looking something like a piebald horse.

We are loading the boat, Artanis offering a helpful hand to each of her landlubber relatives as we step from dock to boat. The boat, called the Spring Tide, looks awful small for all of us. Her husband is driving; he is shirtless and as white as me, minus the freckles and sunburn. We all scramble for seats on the tiny boat with all the grace of crabs in the pot; I manage to finagle Findekáno between Artaher and me; he smells of the mimosa bar in the Tidepool Buffet and will be unnecessarily loud but—

“Artaher!” Case in point, he is already shouting at our cousin, who is right next to him. “Switch with me so I can switch with your father and get next to Nelyo!”

Which is how I end up on a lurching boat with my thigh pressed against Artaher’s. It is hard to decide which of us is more studiously avoiding the gaze of the other. His time in the sun yesterday didn’t leave him speckled and splotched, and he is tan as a Teler, which makes the blue in his eyes—what the fuck am I even saying? Practical Noldor all, we’ve tied back our hair to keep it out of the wind, except for him. The wind lifts it away from his face and neck and—

Artanis is struggling to find a place to store a stack of towels. “I’ll take them!” and I hold them in my lap, and she raises an eyebrow at me in genuine surprise and says, “Why, how kind of you, Carnistir!”

Artanis is explaining about personal flotation devices—only Arafinwë puts one on—and how to use the equipment. The boat hits a swell and lists, and Artaher grabs my knee to keep his balance. “Sorry!” he hisses and yanks his hand back.

—touched the inside of your thigh and then I realized you were—

I clutch my towels and press my knees together.

I swear with that brainless Sinda at the wheel the boat takes twice as long to reach the reef as I did swimming to it yesterday. In that time, Artaher’s shoulder jostles mine and, when we crest another wave, his knees fly open to keep his balance, and the whole length of his thigh—nearly bared by his bathing costume, as is mine—is warm and firm against mine. The golden hair on his legs is heavier than I expect. It would tickle against my hand if— I concentrate on clutching my towels.

Finally, we arrive at the reef and Artanis’s husband anchors the boat. “Please stay seated until—”

“Carnistir?” My mother looks at me in worry. I’m standing, holding the stack of towels carefully in front of my groin.

“I’m … going to swim back. I have no interest in fish.”

Whatever they might have to say about me isn’t for me to know. I dive into the water and relish the feeling of grabbing and pulling against the water, pummeling the sea with my feet, till the ache in my balls subsides and I wash ashore and take the towel proffered me by a beachboy and marshal my best Sindarin to ask, “Do you know where I’d go to schedule passage back to Alqualondë?”