Seeing Stars by Narya

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Seeing Stars

“This one is pretty.”

Meleth started from her reverie. The speaker was a soft-voice woman with a sweet yet shrewd face, and waves of gleaming gold hair. Her hand rested on a lamp with a design of pale roses – delicate, peeping buds in the same pink blush as a winter sunrise.

“Thank you.” Meleth remembered to smile, and returned to her work.

The woman continued to browse the shop, touching lightly on first one lamp, then another. Presently she remarked, “I don't see any with boats.”

No, you would not. But it was not an unusual request. “I have a number with seaside themes – starfish; dolphins and whales; sea-goblins in rock pools...”

“But no boats.”

“No.”

“And no stars?”

“No.” A cool note in her voice. “I'm sorry.”

To her surprise, the woman's fair face broke into a smile as apologetic as it was lovely. “No; I'm sorry. I am not being entirely fair to you. You see, I know who you are. Elenwë asked me to visit you, since you never returned her letters.”

Meleth set down her brush. “I did not mean to be rude...”

“No.” The woman crossed to her work bench and sat beside her, one elegant hand resting gently on Meleth's arm. “No, of course not. I didn't mean that at all.”

She ought to resent the contact, Meleth knew – the familiarity, the presumption. But she looked at the slender fingers, the shell-like nails, the skin like poured cream, and she found that she could not.

“Forgive me.” The woman removed her hand, and instead held it out for Meleth to take in greeting. “My name is Amárië.”

 

 

The months that followed her rebirth had been managed so quietly and efficiently that Meleth could barely recollect how she came to Alqualondë. With no family on this side of the Great Sea, she had come under the care of the Guides whose part it was to counsel those who left Mandos through the beginning of their new lives, and the Healers who specialised in the work of the mind. She had refused their initial suggestion – that she might work as a nursemaid in one of the great houses of Tirion (it had taken great restraint not to tartly inform one young Noldo that she was old enough to have nursed his forefathers). Undeterred, they had gently steered her towards her erstwhile pastime of lantern-making.

It had been easy enough to fall into. Without conscious thought her hand sketched the scenes of her past – the waters of Cuiviénen; the great sea-creatures glimpsed on the journey to Aman; Vinyamar's towers; Sirion's shell-strewn shores – then made fair copies in vellum and ink. Those that seemed best she set on cylindrical frames and attached to rotating stands, and wove Music about them; her Guide gave some to the lampwright Calandil, to sell as nursery trinkets to his patrons; in what felt like moments she was running a shop overlooking the Sea, crafting and selling the spinning lanterns that had once delighted her for their simplicity and beauty alone.

She did not recall acquiescing to the idea outright. Now each day was much like the next; she worked from morning to evening, then retired to the simple rooms above her shop, and took care not to look at the stars.

 

 

There should have been no question of her accepting the invitation to the house in the hills north of Tirion. She had a shop to mind, lanterns to craft, and rooms to tend (though sometimes, her mind whispered of her life under the glittering skies of Cuiviénen, and the sharp wild taste of the air). And at night her thoughts strayed to Amárië more often than she would like. Heat would creep through her, and her hand would drift between her legs, and she muffled her cries as her body arced and she teased herself slowly to climax...

She had not known she could feel such things any more. But Amárië was wed. Meleth knew the ways of this land well enough; it would be unwise to fuel the infatuation.

In the end, Calandil made her go.

“But the shop -”

“I can find someone to mind it.” He placed his hands on his hips. “You need different scenery. It will do you good.”

At that, she laughed. “You sound like I once did, sending fretful children out for a walk.”

Calandil's blue eyes grew impish. “Well? Is it working?”

 

 

“I'm so glad you came.” Amárië had sent a wagon to meet Meleth in Tirion, and now kissed her cheeks, cold from the sharp night air. Meleth felt herself blush in spite of the chill. “Finrod is away in the north with his cousins. Every time he leaves I feel glad of the peace, and yet without fail, after two days of driving poor Sáriel to distraction with my chatter, I find myself longing for his return.”

“Sáriel?” Meleth echoed, since some response seemed to be needed.

“My housekeeper.” Amárië took Meleth by the hand and led her towards the house – a handsome edifice, though not ostentatious, with simple square walls of pale stone and a dome atop its centre. It seemed at peace with the land, somehow, despite being the only building for miles. “She's a treasure, but her ideas are rather old-fashioned. When I speak to her of my reading or my theories or what I've observed in the night sky, she looks at me as though I've lost all my senses.”

“I see.” Meleth didn't.

Amárië chuckled. “I'm running away with myself again. You see, I'm an astronomer. I study the stars – among other things.”

Meleth felt a cold hand around her heart. “My lady...”

“Amárië. Please.”

“If you've brought me here to craft a lantern for your nursery then there are things that I cannot – that I will not –”

“Meleth.” Amárië paused on the steps up to the house, her grey eyes gentle and kind. “You misunderstand me.” A mischievous curling of her mouth. “You misunderstand the nature of my marriage. There are no children, nor are there likely to be, and you are here as my guest.” A beautiful unfurling flower of a smile. “Won't you let me show you around?”

“Very well.” Meleth's breath grew warm in her chest, and in her stomach bloomed a tentative thrill. “Amárië.”

 

 

The observatory was unlike anything Meleth had ever seen. A great telescope stretched up into the dome; behind it, a broad, curved, ladder-like structure offered a range of vantage points.

“There is a panel in the roof which lifts open onto the sky,” Amárië explained. “And then I can lie or sit on this -” she tapped the wooden ladder “ - and see what I may. Ingenious, is it not?”

“Indeed.” Meleth wished she could say something more interesting. In truth she was curious – but she was also afraid of what she might see, if she asked to look.

Amárië took her hand again, carefully. “Why lanterns, Meleth?”

“If truth be told, I hardly know. I learned the craft in Aman of old, before the Exile. It was...pleasing, in its simplicity.” She slid her fingers through Amárië's, and felt the smooth skin between her knuckles. “Why stars?”

“I was born in Aman before the Darkening. When we lost the Trees I grieved with everyone else, of course...but in time I came to see that the stars had never burned more brightly. I wanted to be near them. I wanted to understand.”

Meleth could no longer help herself. “Have you seen him?”

“You mean Eärendil.”

“Yes.”

“In a way.” Amárië's voice was quiet and kind. “I cannot look through my telescope and see his face, or his ship – but the imperishable Light that burns upon his brow? Yes. That I have seen.”

Tears pricked and beaded in Meleth's eyes. “It was a cruel fate,” she whispered. “He would not have chosen so for himself.”

Amárië folded her other hand around Meleth's, and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

 

 

Dinner was light and simple, but beautifully prepared. They ate in Amárië's rooms, sharing platters of cured meats, fresh pears, rich cheese with honey, and warm buttered bread. Afterwards they stood in one of the great bay windows, and the housekeeper brought a jug of chilled tawny wine. Amárië's soft chatter put Meleth in mind of the whispering streams and frothing falls that had surrounded Cuiviénen long ago – comforting; beguiling; familiar and bewitching at once. Meleth said little, and listened to the tales of Finrod and Fingon's hunting escapades, of Amárië's continual struggles and debates with her housekeeper (“I'm not sure she even approves of my dressing myself”), and of the Halflings who had come to Aman at the start of the Age, of whom Finrod had grown so fond.

“I wish I had met them,” Meleth murmured.

“They would have done you good, I expect.” Amárië sipped her wine. “Somehow they seemed to do everyone good.”

The gauzy drapes fluttered as the night air sighed. A few stars shone softly through the delicate mesh.

“I truly had no thought of offending Elenwë,” Meleth found herself saying. “Is she angry? If she is then I ought to -”

“Meleth, my dear, she is neither offended nor angry. She was your friend for many years, and still considers herself to be so. She is concerned. That is all.” Amárië set her wine aside; slender fingers rested on Meleth's arm; a gentle thumb caressed her wrist. “I had no hidden motive when I asked you here. Certainly I did not intend to berate you, or cause you pain.”

“I could not have gone back to them.”

“I know. I know. One cannot simply gather the threads of one's old life and continue as though nothing has changed. I understand; I have seen it with Finrod, and with many others.”

The tears that had threatened began to spill. “Forgive me.”

The fingers travelled upwards, and tucked back her hair. “There is nothing to forgive."

Soft lips brushed her cheeks and found her mouth. Meleth tasted salt – and then honey, and spice, and wine. Amárië smelled like summer flowers; her golden hair tickled Meleth's neck, and her cool fingers slid deftly under her blouse.

“Amárië...”

She whispered the name she had not even dared to moan to herself, alone in the dark. Heat pooled in her belly, and a sweet, sharp need bloomed through her hips and groin. Amárië's hand slid up her thighs; lightly, sweetly, her fingers circled the hot aching bud between her legs, and Meleth cried out.

“Yes?” Amárië murmured.

Meleth could only moan in response. Her legs shook; her cheeks burned, and her breath was shallow and hot. Orgasm rose in her with a dizzying ferocity. She reached for support, found only Amárië, leaned against her, pressed her cheek to the silky gold head.

“Oh...”

It broke through her body like a wild summer storm. Amárië held her as she trembled; gasping, shattered, Meleth closed her eyes and saw stars.

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