Insight by polutropos

Insight

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“You are too agitated,” Artanis said, without judgement. She combed her fingers through her brother’s hairtail, shaking free a shower of white sand. “You will never make the leap with a heart weighed down by cares.”

“Stop fussing, sister,” Angaráto yanked his head free, “I am fine. I am only out of practice.” He bounced in place a moment, visualising his leap. Or at least trying to. His distraction was transparent to Artanis: his head stayed squared over his shoulders, but his eyes darted here and there; he pulled his lips too tight, forgetting to breathe, so his in-breath hissed before he took off: one, two, three, and his feet came down far short of the mark. He slid and crashed onto the sand.

With a graceless flail and groaning, he rolled onto his back, limbs splayed in surrender, then heaved a great sigh.

Artanis came to stand beside him, looking down. She poked at his ribs with her toes. “Are you all right?”

Angaráto chuckled. “Oh, little sister. You always know, don’t you?” She shrugged, leaving space for him to continue. Everyone always talked, eventually, if you waited. “Would you like to know what it was this time? I am ashamed to admit it. I cannot abide that elf! He has only to look my way with his ruddy little cheeks and his sneering little lips and I…” Angaráto grabbed fistfuls of sand and tossed them at his feet. “Well: we saw Morifinwë in the marketplace, and he was giving the fishmonger – you know the one, Mother’s friend – a horrible time, complaining that she had purposely given him the smaller catch, accusing her of doing so because she was a supporter of Nolofinwë. She answered, with commendable humour, that she did not care at all who was king so long as there were people who wanted fish. That coloured Morifinwë perfectly crimson, and he began railing about lineage and honour and the memory of Míriel Therindë — Can you imagine! The poor woman is trying to sell her fish, and this haughty son of Fëanáro strides up to accuse her — because his fish was too small! — of callousness and treason!”

Angaráto was himself becoming rather flush recounting the tale. Artanis crouched to sit cross-legged beside him on the ground. His lips were pursed and his mouth shifted from side to side, as if he was trying very hard not to speak until he had fully considered what he wanted to say. Angaráto was not typically good at this.

“Well,” he sighed at last, “it will do no good trying to hide the whole of it, I suppose, certainly not from you. Besides, the whole marketplace saw it, everyone will hear of it eventually… I couldn’t just let it be, Artanis. It was unjust! So I… I pulled off his belt and smacked him with it,” he said in a rush, then cried, “Augh!” and covered his eyes in shame.

Artanis burst into laughter. “Ango! You child! That is worse that I imagined.”

“Not hard! Just to teach him a lesson in humility. And I did let him have it back.”

“You are a grown man, brother.”

“What would you have done?” His head lolled to the side so he could properly look at her.

Artanis considered. “Snuff out Carnistir’s temper first, I suppose.”

“Ah, so you’d have doused Prince Morifinwë in a bucket of salty, fishy water? Yes, that would have been clever.”

“No!” She smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “No, I’d have pretended I had business with the fishmonger.”

“And interrupted him? Oh, he’d not have taken well to that.”

“At first not, I am sure. But once I got a pleasant conversation going with the woman, he’d have no audience for his anger, and would quickly begin to feel a fool, barking about nothing for no one. Eventually, he’d sulk off like a sad dog with his tail between his legs.”

“Pfft! I should like to see that.” Angaráto propped himself up on one elbow. “But, I will grant it would have been better than what I chose to do. Few things would have been worse.”

Artanis smiled. She loved her brothers, dearly – but sometimes they were awfully obtuse. As far as she was concerned, they were all tossing themselves willingly into Prince Curufinwë’s pot of discontent and letting him stir them up into a boil.

A comfortable silence settled between them, and Artanis marked the easing of her brother’s agitation by the slow rise and fall of his chest. So she asked: “Why do you think he is like that?”

“Who?”

“Carnistir. Why do you think he is so quarrelsome?”

Angaráto snorted. “I don’t know. He’s always been that way. He was named for being angry.”

“Perhaps.” Artanis paused. Even she had to delve deep into her heart to find understanding for her disagreeable half-cousins. But who might she have become with a brash, implacable, hateful father like theirs? Who would strong and dauntless Angaráto have become, in a household full of bitterness and anguish?

“Or,” she said, “perhaps he was never shown another way. Whatever the case may be,” she stood, dusting the sand from her thighs, “it will do no good to blow wind upon the flames.” She offered her hand. “Try not to mind him, if you can, dear brother?”

“Very well.” Angaráto clasped her hand in his and allowed himself to be pulled up to standing. “I will try.” 

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Chapter End Notes

Read some of my thoughts behind this on Dreamwidth.