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Chapter Text

Chapter One: Of horses and half-brothers

 

                “I do not think this is a good idea.”

It was the man who spoke, his arms crossed over his chest and a dubious expression on his face.  The early morning breeze pulled at his dark brown hair, causing it to brush against his shoulders.  His companion, a lady with braided chestnut-brown hair, simply shook her head, hiking up her skirts to step onto and then straddle the fence.  This railing enclosed a young black stallion that eyed her sudden movement with an air of hostility.

                “Nonsense, Nolo.  Your father asked me to see to Lintaráto.”  Her feet lightly landed on the grass within the corral.  “The horse cannot be that bad.  Those,” her eyes rolled at the mere thought of her next word, “stable boys exaggerate.”

Her confidence did nothing to erase the anxiety from his face.  He perched himself on the fence, his gaze alternating between the still horse and her.  She extended her hand, soft and soothing words causing the horse’s black ears to stand alert to her.  She smiled slightly at the favorable response, inching closer as she maintained eye contact with the beast. 

                “Hello, Lintaráto,” she murmured.  “See, you are not as rotten as those idiots said.” 

She took another step, now within range of the horse’s hooves and teeth.  She closed her eyes, putting her focus into the continued calm that emanated from her.

                “Anairë,” Nolo’s quiet voice bore a warning.

Suddenly, Lintaráto’s ears flattened, and he reared up his front legs, intent on bringing his hooves down on Anairë.  She swiftly moved backwards, audibly cursing her skirts as they caught around her legs.  She fisted the material in her hands, turning and climbing up over the fence to safety.  Lintaráto angrily ran after her, stopping short of the fence and snorting condescendingly at her.  Her jaw clenched as she glared at the beast, breathing deep to still her racing heart.  Reluctantly, she bowed her head respectfully to Lintaráto; he had won this round.  The horse shook his head, mane whipping free in the wind as he returned to his corner of the enclosure.

                “Well, this shall be quite a bit more challenging than I anticipated.”  She glanced at Nolo after she finished speaking.

                “It seems so.”  He raised his brows slightly, clearly amused.

She pushed him after a moment, culminating in a bout of relieved laughter.

                “Don’t give me that look, Aracáno.  They always complain about the wild ones,” she explained, uncaring when his arm fell around her shoulders. 

                “I think next time a bit of caution will be appropriate,” he replied, gently steering her towards the city.

The towers of Tirion aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as silver rods.  They moved swift through the streets to the marketplace, already filled with activity in the early waxing of Laurelin.  Anairë smiled at the warm scent of fresh bread mixed with the delicate fragrance of flowers.  Her feet unconsciously followed Aracáno past all the vendors and up a quieter street that led directly towards the Mindon.  The tower and its bright light always caused her to pause in quiet awe.  He barely gave it a second glance, pushing open the tall silver gates marked proud with his father’s device.

“Atar!”  He caught sight of his father, and raised a hand in a quick wave.

                Finwë quickened down the white stone stairs, an easy smile on his face as he greeted his son with a firm embrace.

                “Nolofinwë, your mother is looking for you.  When she found your bed empty this morning, it gave her reason for concern.”  The father and son were strikingly similar in their features, possessing the same straight nose, high cheekbones and dark brown hair.  Aracáno’s lighter ash-grey eyes and golden hued skin bespoke of his mother’s lineage.  “I suspected you might have gone with Anairë to see my latest acquisition.  What did you think?”

His question was not directed at his son, but rather Anairë. 

                “Lintaráto is beautiful,” she answered quickly.  “But I believe it will take a bit of time before he is ready for a race.”

At that, Finwë frowned.  “I had hoped to use him in the games this year.  Your father said he could definitely lead us to victory over Ingwë.” 

                “If anyone is able, Atar, it is Anairë,” Aracáno supplied quickly, glancing at his friend. 

                “Report to me as soon as you have any progress then.”  Finwë glanced over his shoulder, hearing footsteps.  “Ah, Nolo, waylay your mother.  If she sees Anairë, she’s liable to report it to her brother.  I will not stand second to him this time.  Tirion will defeat Taniquetil!”

Aracáno quickly turned and traversed the steps.  After a moment, his voice rang low against his mother’s laughter.

                “I will not disappoint you, Lord Finwë,” Anairë promised, turning back towards the gate.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, a warm smile on his lips.

                “I have all the faith in you, Anairë.”

                She re-traced her steps through the city, leaving the bustle for the quiet hills outside.  Passing through the gate that led to their property, she caught sight of her father out with a few of their horses, the fastest in all of Tirion.  He was knelt beside one, a hoof resting on his thigh for inspection.

                “How are they, Atar?” she called, easily scaling the fence to join him.

Sartion gave his daughter a fond smile as she approached.  He straightened, saying a few soft words to the mare before she ambled towards the grazing herd.

                “Lord Oromë has been generous,” he replied, embracing her firmly.  “Two foals and one colt.  Though Finwë beat me to that stallion.  I heard a rumor…?”  He punctuated his words with a raised brow.

                “Atar, I cannot divulge that,” she said, nodding her head with a proud smile.

                “My daughter, tamer of beasts.”  She could see her father’s delight.  “I assume your mother does not know.”

                “You would be correct, as always, Atar,” she replied easily.  “And I would appreciate if it stayed that way.”

                “You know she almost secured an apprenticeship for you with one of the weavers in Tirion.”  Sartion opened the gate, motioning his daughter through to the path that led home. 

                “Almost, Atar.”  Anairë could not help her broad smile.

Her father’s eyes narrowed at her expression, and he quickly shook his head.

                “No, no, do not tell me, Ana!”  He waved at the air, as if able to stop her words from reaching his ears.

                “No fear, Atar.  I had nothing to do with it,” she replied.

                “I suspect Nolofinwë did?”  Their banter was quick as they approached their dwelling.

                “Eärwen.” 

                “I should have known.”  He kissed her hair.

                “There you both are!”  Nénuilsë’s hands rested on her curved hips as she watched their approach.

Her mother was an image of springtime dressed in mint green; tiny pink and white flowers wound within the numerous twists of her raven hair.

                “Amil.”  Anairë kissed her cheek quickly, sweeping past to her seat at the table.

                “Did you leave any dirt for the horses, child?” her mother clucked, eyes sharp at the dirty hem and dusty skirts of Anairë’s dress.

                “I tried, Amil.  I really tried.”  She ignored the scold, forgetting it as soon as she sat.

                “How are the horses?” Nénuilsë greeted her husband with a kiss.

                “With proper training, they will be perfect.  Perhaps even Finwë may want one for his grandson.  Nelyafinwë is nearly eight.  I am surprised he has not yet—”

                “Finwë will bring Curufinwë to you soon,” Nénuilsë interrupted with a small smile, clapping her hands together, almost gleefully.  “Indis sent word that Nerdanel is with child again.”

                “Another already?” Sartion raised his brows.  “Well, given the number of children Finwë has begat, it should be no surprise his son follows that example.”  He pointed his finger at Anairë.  “When it comes time to choose a mate, make sure he has few siblings.”

Anairë sent her father a skeptical look, unable to stop her eye roll.  He hid his knowing smile well, glancing down at his wife.  Nénuilsë’s eyes coolly regarded her daughter, but she remained silent.  Lately, it seemed to be one argument after another: her mother pushing for Anairë to act properly and find a decent husband.  Anairë stubbornly refused to even listen.  What use did she have for a husband?  Anairë pointedly ignored her mother’s frown.

                “Atar, really!  You assume I will even bother marrying.”  She used her fork to snag a few pieces of fruit, and then some toast.

                “That is true.  It will be a miracle if I have any grandchildren,” Sartion laughed, taking a seat at the table.

An attendant was quick to bring him his morning letters, setting them beside his elbow.  Sartion murmured his thanks.

                “Sartion, do not indulge her,” Nénuilsë admonished with a frown.  “Of my close friends, only Elenetyë and I are left without grandchildren.  Indis and Alyalótë are well on their way.”

Sartion sent his daughter a quick glance, shaking his head when she opened her mouth to respond.  She sighed, instead returning to her toast and her mother’s narration of Tirion’s gossip.

--

                Anairë fidgeted with the silk of her dress, hating the feel of the material clinging to her legs with every step.  Nénuilsë had hailed the dark burgundy color as lovely, mentioning something about it bringing out Anairë’s eyes.  Yet, it was cut too low, too tight, and too thin for her taste.  She caught sight of part of the group already seated at the outdoor restaurant, and quickened her step to join them.

                “Anairë?  Varda’s stars, you look like a lady,” the golden haired son of Finwë called out with a grin.

Her mouth twisted into a frown at the sudden rush of attention sent her way.  She nearly jumped when a hand fell warm in the middle of her bare back. 

                “You should have expected his comment,” Aracáno’s murmur made her relax and unclench her fists.  She had been ready to throttle the person who dared touch her so familiarly.

                “Amil has filled my closet with,” she motioned to the dress, “this.”

Anairë had returned from her morning ride to find her closet completely cleared of her comfortable work dresses.  In their place, her mother had placed the thin and fashionable creations like the one she had been forced to wear today.

                “Well, I cannot sympathize with you since my mother has done nothing of the sort,” he replied, eliciting a smile from her.  His gaze briefly ran from head to toe.  “If it’s any consolation, you look nice.”

She ignored her brief delight at his compliment, instead pushing her hair back over her shoulder.

                “I would rather be comfortable,” she grumbled, allowing him to guide her towards the table.

                “You two are always late,” Eärwen complained, touching a hand to her silver hair.

She wore a crown of white and purple flowers to match her dress.  Anairë went to her side, pressing a kiss to her cheek fondly.

                “You are simply always early, Eärwen,” she replied.  “Where are the others?”

                “Rilyendë is delayed at her father’s forge, something about Fëanáro,” Arafinwë explained the empty chair beside him.  “Findis and Irimë had their own business to attend to.”

                “And Lúlalcë is no doubt unaware of the time,” Eärwen laughed.  “She was caught up in her words last week and barely sent an apology yesterday.”

                Anairë took the chair Aracáno pulled out for her, his chivalry all part of a routine.  She leaned towards Eärwen, the women instantly caught up in conversation.  Arafinwë quietly conversed with a server, pointing to something on the menu.  Aracáno simply rested his arm across the back of Anairë’s chair, listening to the ladies.  Their wine glasses were quickly filled, and a spread of fruits and cheeses was placed on the table.  Service was always quick and generous for the children of Finwë.

                “Nolo!  Ara!” All attention flew to the red haired boy that rushed up to them.

Aracáno spared his nephew a smile, scooting his chair back to allow him into his lap.  Russandol’s cheery smile was shared with them all.

                “And where is your mother, Russo?” he asked, glancing back at the street.

                “Amil is with Grandfather Mahtan,” Russandol replied with a shrug, gaze moving from plate to place.  “I was with Atar.”

                “Then where is your father?” Arafinwë cut in, his eye also on the crowd in search of his half-brother.

                “In his forge,” Russandol pointed to a piece of fruit.  “I would like that.”

Aracáno stared at his brother, a frown crossing his face.  Silently, Arafinwë just shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head.  It was Anairë that responded to Russandol’s request, placing the melon on Aracáno’s plate for the child.  Russandol took it with a bright smile and polite thanks.

                “That is blocks away, Russo.  You should not wander,” Aracáno admonished.  “Come on, eat your fruit, and I’ll take you back to your father.”

                “Nolo,” Russandol whined, and then stopped, seeing his uncle’s stern face.

                “Are you sure it is a good idea to interrupt Fëanáro at his work?” Arafinwë spoke quietly, keeping a pleasant tone to his words, though his expression revealed his uncertainty.

                “No, but we must return Russandol to him,” Aracáno replied, reaching over to sip at his wine. 

Anairë knew the prospect of disturbing Fëanáro in his forge would drive her to drink heavily before such an attempt.

                “Take him to your father, Nolo,” Eärwen said.  “Fëanáro probably hasn’t even noticed-”

                “Eärwen,” he cut her off, indicating Russandol’s awareness of their conversation.

                “I want to see Grandfather’s horses,” Russandol announced, glancing at Anairë, aware she was his most likely ally.  “Please, Uncle.”

                “It cannot hurt, Nolo,” Anairë murmured.

Aracáno sighed, his gaze caught with Anairë’s.  She simply raised her brows, glancing at Russandol.  The grandson of Finwë wore his most pitiful and pleading expression.  Aracáno’s unyielding expression softened at the corners of his eyes before he nodded.

                “I suppose we can send a messenger to Fëanáro,” he finally said.

Russandol leapt up with a laugh, grabbing his Uncle’s hand impatiently. 

                “Come on, Nolo!  Come on!”

                “I’ll handle the messenger, Nolo,” Arafinwë waved a hand at his brother, remaining seated beside Eärwen.

Anairë laughed at Aracáno’s uncertain face until Russandol tugged at her hand.

                “Anairë, come with us,” he pleaded.

She could not refuse, sweeping him up to set him on Aracáno’s shoulders. 

                The second Mingling Hour was nearly upon them when they returned to the House of Finwë.  Russandol ran ahead of them, eager to share his day with his mother and father.  Aracáno smiled tiredly at Anairë.

                “Finally, we can return him to his parents,” he murmured, pushing open the gate.

                “There you are!”  Fëanáro descended the steps like a dark cloud, his sharp eyes hard on his half-brother.  Then his stare moved on to his son.  “Nelyo, what were you thinking!”

                “Brother, he simply grew bored,” Aracáno offered a thin smile to his brother, placing a hand on Russandol’s head.

With a flick of his wrist, Fëanáro motioned his son to his side, kneeling down.  Anairë watched the man’s quiet assessment of his son, his words soft as he brushed the grass and dirt from Russandol’s robes.  For all of Fëanáro’s pride and arrogance, when he spoke with his son, his hands and words bore a tenderness usually reserved for his jewels.

                “He seems to be in one piece,” Fëanáro finally said.

                “Did you expect less?” Anairë could not stop her sharp retort.

Fëanáro’s gaze cut straight through her.  “When you are involved,” he began.

                “Atar, Atar! Anairë and I rode horses,” Russandol interrupted, running around the courtyard in a childish pantomime of riding.

                “Did you?”  The frown deepened on Fëanáro’s face.

                “Russo is a natural,” Aracáno added.

Russandol beamed with pride.

                “Of course he is.  He is my son.  Now, inside, Nelyo, your mother is waiting impatiently.”  Fëanáro waited until his son was out of earshot, and then he stepped close to his half-brother, finger pressed sharp into Aracáno’s chest.  “Do not ever take my son from the city again without my express permission.”

Aracáno’s sharp intake of breath indicated his surprise at his brother’s gesture and words.

                “Ara sent a message to you telling you where we went.”  Anairë reached out to push away Fëanáro’s hand from his brother.

His sharp glare cut her, causing her hand to pause in its path towards him.  Aracáno’s hand firmly closed around her wrist, his thumb and forefinger tight against the pulse.

                “Yes, telling me you were taking my son from the City.”  Fëanáro’s rage focused directly on her.  “How dare you assume I want my son first, in your company, and second, atop a horse!  What if he had been hurt?”

                “Hurt?  You are an idiot if you think—” she began sharply, taking offense that he thought so little of her expertise.

                “An idiot?”  They were face-to-face now, his steely eyes glaring down at her. 

                “Anairë,” Aracáno interrupted before she could respond.  He moved his hand to her shoulder, drawing her back with more force than usually necessary.

                “Yes, you are if you think Nolo or I would allow any harm to come to Russo,” she finished.

Fëanáro’s skeptical gaze moved to his half-brother, and he simply shook his head, as if he did not believe her words.  After a pregnant pause, Aracáno offered his hand peacefully to his half-brother, moving closer to him in speculation of acceptance.

                “I apologize, Brother, for causing you worry.  It will not happen again.”  He met his brother’s gaze evenly.

                “You are right, Nolofinwë.  It will not.”  Fëanáro ignored his hand, and walked away.

                Aracáno silently watched his half-brother’s quick lope up the stairs and inside their father’s halls.  For once, Anairë found herself unable to read his expression; he remained distant and proud, cheeks flushed at Fëanáro’s slight.

                “How can you let him speak to you like that, Nolo?” she demanded, angry both with Fëanáro’s utter arrogance and Aracáno’s resignation. 

He blinked once, and she watched his shoulders shrug as his hand fell to his side.

                “Arguing with him will not change his mind, Anairë,” he answered.

                “No, but continuously submitting to him—”

                “I am not yielding to Fëanáro,” his interruption was fierce.  For a moment, even she drew away from him, surprised by the vehemence of his expression and tone.  “I will not distress my father with our petty arguments.”

He glared at her, mouth drawn into a thin line.  She wet her lips in an effort to hide her sudden apprehension.  Her hand clasped his quickly, seeing him about to leave her alone in the courtyard. 

                “Nolo,” she forced the next words from her.  “I should not have said that.  I, I am…”  Apologies were not her strong suit; she had no need for the words, having little reason to ever apologize.  However, for him, she would make the exception.  “…sorry.”

His expression did not change as he regarded her.  The seconds passed long like minutes, and she shifted awkwardly in the silence. 

                “You have never apologized to me before,” he stated.

                “And I intend to never do so again,” she retorted, watching a small laugh lighten his expression.

He squeezed her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.  Unbidden, she felt the warmth spring to her cheeks. 

                “Come with me to dinner,” he urged, already leading her towards the stairs.  “Findis has missed you.”

                “If Findis could tear herself away from that lady she’s been-”

                “Quiet, Ana.  She is none too keen on it being common knowledge,” he cut in.

                “Then she should mind the looks she sends Silmalírë,” Anairë replied, smoothing her dress with a sigh. 

                He did not relinquish her hand as they passed through the halls towards the large dining room.  Finwë stood close to the door in a quiet, yet heated discussion with Arafinwë.  It ended as soon as Finwë caught sight of them.  She removed her hand from Aracáno’s when Finwë’s gaze lingered on it.

                “Anairë, Russo has been regaling us with his afternoon,” Finwë held out a hand to her, beckoning her to him.  “Do you think your father has any yearlings he’d be willing to part with?”

The brothers left the two alone, conversing quietly once they were far enough from their father.

                “I think my father will part with any of them, if you request it,” Anairë pressed a kiss to his cheek with a smile.

                “Splendid,” Finwë raised his voice, attracting Russandol’s attention.  “Tomorrow, Nelyo, we shall find you a horse.”

The exuberant child drew his grandfather away with his laughter.  Anairë’s attention was quickly stolen by the kiss suddenly placed on her cheek.  The scent of lavender gave away the owner.

                “Hello, Anairë,” Findis grinned broadly at her, dark hair braided simply.  “You are lovely in silk.”

Anairë caught sight of Silmalírë, and sent her a welcoming smile as well.

                “I cannot stand it, Findis,” Anairë replied in an undertone.  “Yet, Amil is convinced that I should be dressed in silks, satins and tulle.”

                “Dear Anairë.”  Findis linked an arm with her, laughing.  “Any other lady would be ecstatic to have a mother like Nénuilsë .”

“Well, Anairë is no lady,” Silmalírë took Anairë’s other arm with a smile.

                “I cannot argue,” Anairë laughed, allowing them to steer her towards the group, centered around Fëanáro and Nerdanel.

                Dinner was loud and full of laughter.  Russandol entertained his grandparents and mother with his never-ending story of his afternoon.  Even Fëanáro could not hide his smile at his son’s enthusiasm.

                “Nelyo, you will have to finish your tale in the morning.”  He placed a hand on the boy’s head.  “It is far past your bedtime.”

                “Atar,” began the wail, and signaled the commencement of the dispersal of guests. 

Nerdanel and Fëanáro swept their son off in a flurry of goodbyes.  Findis made the excuse to walk Silmalírë home, and the two ladies departed arm-in-arm under the Mindon’s silver light.

                “I intend to call early before Laurelin’s Hour, Anairë, so tell your father to be ready.”  Finwë paused beside her, his gaze caught on his eldest daughter and her companion.

Anairë caught the crease in his brow, and simply placed a kiss on his cheek, distracting his attention.

                “He will be waiting,” she assured, turning to Indis to repeat the parting gesture.

                “I suspect then that you shall not join us for a luncheon tomorrow?”  Indis smiled knowingly.

Anairë was known for the variety of excuses she could make to apologize for her absence from the formal luncheons.

                “I cannot say.”  Anairë returned the smile.

                “Till tomorrow then.”  Finwë placed an arm on his wife’s waist.

Aracáno was waiting beside the gate for her, falling into step beside her.

                “I can find my own way home, Nolo.  I do not need an escort,” she assured with a small smile.

He had always insisted on walking her home, ignoring her protests.  Secretly, she knew she would never turn away his company.

                “I am well aware, Ana,” he replied, hands clasped behind his back.

She laughed softly, and they disappeared down the street into the silver night.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Things familiar and friendly

 

                Telperion’s light had always been Anairë’s favorite.  As they made their way out of the city and down the path to her parent’s home, the silver light was slowly choking out any trace of gold.  The white towers of Tirion gleamed like sharp, silver needles.  Anairë waved to her parents, seeing them both sitting on the porch, enjoying a quiet moment. 

                “Coming?” she asked, pausing beside the gate.

                “I should go home,” he replied, lifting his hand in a polite wave to her parents.

Anairë waited only a moment more, already knowing he would fall into step beside her.  Together, they approached the grey stone steps that rose to meet the row of towering columns that held up the overhang.  Long and flimsy banners of sheer grey linen curled in the wind between the columns.  When Anairë had been a child, she had run among them, smiling at the soft touch-kisses the material had pressed to her cheeks.  Now, she pushed them aside carelessly.

                “I was wondering when you would deliver her home.”  Sartion rose once they were close.

The two men caught arms firmly.  Nénuilsë stood as well, setting aside her empty wine glass, and awaiting the Prince’s attention. 

                “You are always welcome to keep her, Nolo.”  Nénuilsë smiled when the son of Finwë pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

                “Amil, I am not a pet!”  Anairë protested good-naturedly, feeling her father’s arm fall around her shoulders.

                “Indeed you are not, daughter,” Sartion agreed softly.

She pressed a loving kiss to her father’s cheek with a smile.

                “Sit with us, both of you.  I will fetch two more glasses.”  Nénuilsë bustled inside before Aracáno could reply.

Anairë took a seat on the couch, curling her legs up onto the cushion.  Aracáno was content to stand.

                “My father would like to stop by after Telperion’s hour,” Aracáno said quickly.  “He is interested in a mount for Nelyafinwë, and perhaps, Fëanáro will request your expertise to teach him.”

                “Of course.  Finwë knows he needs but ask,” Sartion nodded. 

In their time beside Cuiviénen, Finwë and Sartion had been close friends.  Now, in the peace of Valinor, they fought over horses and shared fine foods.  Her father’s widening waistline was a testament to it.

Nénuilsë returned with two more glasses and a fresh bottle of wine.

                “Sit, sit, Nolo.”  She pushed Anairë’s feet off the cushion with a pointed frown.  “Honestly, I cannot believe you put up with her.”

                “She has stopped biting.”  Aracáno took the seat beside Anairë.  She promptly pushed him into the cushion.

                “Really, Nolo!”  Her exclamation was lost amid her father’s loud and hearty laughter.

                “Those were terrible times, if I recall,” he chuckled.  “How did we cure you of that, Ana?”

                “Yes, Ana.  How did we?”  Aracáno smugly regarded her.

She fought the urge to smother him with a pillow, gaze locked with his.  She would never remind her parents that it was Nolo who, at the age of six, had finally grown tired of her angry bites and turned his teeth on her.  Strangely enough, it was this incident that had cemented their friendship.  She caught the glimmer of affection in his eyes, and forced her attention back to her parents. 

                “I cannot recall.”  She accepted the glass of wine from her mother. 

Aracáno made no attempt to correct her, simply settling back beside her, their shoulders brushing.

The sky was nearly silver-bright when Aracáno finally bid them farewell.

                “Should I walk you home?” Anairë teased him, closing their short gate behind him.

                “Perhaps a different day,” he laughed softly, leaning over the gate to kiss her cheek. 

Anairë returned the gesture fondly, her hand soft against his cheek.  He lingered just a moment longer than usual under her touch, fingers ghosting over her cheek as he swept her hair back over her ear.  She ignored the rush of warmth that followed his touch.  When his lips lifted in a mix of amusement and curiosity, she pushed his shoulder to initiate his journey home.  He shook his head with a laugh; Anairë watched him until the city swallowed his shadow whole.  Her cheek was still aflame with memory.  She blamed the wine.

--

                The house was still quiet when she rose after a few hours of rest.  She slipped out before her parents awoke to Lintaráto’s pasture.  He greeted her coolly still, unwilling to allow her any closer than before.  She swiftly filled his water trough with fresh from the bucket she carried. 

                “I will be back, Lintaráto,” she promised, taking note of the time.

Finwë had already arrived by the time she returned home.  He stood, slightly taller than her father, speaking seriously to him.  For, not the first time, she was reminded of his simple regality, dressed in dark blue with his silver device bright over his heart.  Aracáno shifted awkward, his gaze flickering to her immediately.  When both her father and his turned at Aracáno’s word, she had the distinct impression that she may have been the topic of their conversation. 

                “My lord.”  She joined them, a chaste kiss pressed to the King of the Noldor’s cheek.

                “Have you been to see Lintaráto?”  Finwë’s smile was quick.

                “Of course, and he is just as surly as yesterday,” she declared.

                “You shouldn’t be going alone,” Aracáno began, his face suddenly concerned.

                “I think I can manage one horse alone, Nolo,” she interrupted, her irritation flaring up immediately.

                “He tried to trample you,” he reminded quickly, as if she had forgotten.

                “Did he?” Sartion asked, alarm filling his face.

Anairë inwardly cursed Aracáno, ignoring the reasonable voice in her head that defended his worry. 

                “Tried, Atar.  He will not get such a chance again.”  Anairë openly glared at Aracáno.

Sartion observed his daughter for a moment before turning to Finwë.

                “Could we bring him here, Finwë?  If Anairë is to train him, I would feel-” Sartion began.

                “Atar, I am not some green stable hand.  I can handle this stallion no matter what Nolo says,” she interjected, face flushed with exasperation.

Anairë did not continue her argument, quieting under her father’s stern frown.  She caught the drawn out look between her father and Finwë.  From experience, she knew that neither was about to take her protests into consideration.

                “Anairë,” Finwë placed an arm around her shoulders, his tone calm, and his gaze gentle.  “I have all the faith in you, but Lintaráto is a spirited horse.  If you are thrown or hurt, we might not know immediately.  I cannot have you injured with the upcoming games.”

                “But,” Anairë began, fighting the urge to cast off his arm.  His tone and expression revealed that he was not speaking as Finwë, friend of her father’s, but rather Finwë, her King.  His mouth had tightened at the edges, his keen grey eyes distant and cool.

                “Nolofinwë, arrange for Lintaráto to be moved here.  Sartion, I trust there is somewhere private that no spies of Ingwë or Olwë can find?” Finwë’s tone carried a sense of finality to it.

                “Already done,” Sartion replied.  “Ah, and what timing!  There is Curufinwë with his son.”

The elder men moved to greet the father and son.  Anairë glared bitterly at Aracáno, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.  He shifted uneasily, watching her carefully, but offering no excuse for his words.

                “Well?  Are you pleased, Nolofinwë?” she nearly spat the words, her jaw clenched tight against the emotions building up in her chest.

                “Anairë.”  He reached out a hand to touch her arm.

She yanked her arm away from him, ignoring the shock that darkened his face.

                “I never thought you would dare undermine my capabilities-” she hissed, watching the group of men approach, their attention thankfully focused on the horses and Russandol.

                “Oh, come off it, Ana.”  He stepped closer to her, his firm voice betraying his own exasperation.  “I am concerned for your safety.”

                “To the Void with your worry!  Go concern yourself with someone else!” she exclaimed.

She did not miss the hurt play across his face before he nodded stiffly and left her standing alone.  She sighed, closing her eyes briefly as she realized the sharpness of her words.  Yet, she did not call after him; she did not run and murmur an apology.  He would have accepted it, slipped his arm around her shoulders and forgotten the disagreement.  Though she knew his reaction, she could not bring herself to admit regret.  He had already received one apology more than she had wanted to give.  So, Anairë retreated back to Lintaráto’s secret pasture.  Carefully, she climbed over the fence, standing against it.

“May I join you?” she asked the quiet stallion.

When he remained silent, she assumed his assent, and sat in the grass, leaning back against the fence post.  Lintaráto turned his gaze again to the distance, and she too gazed at flimsy clouds creeping up over the horizon.

                “I am sorry to keep you corralled like this,” she said.  “You hate it, don’t you?”

The horse ignored her, and Anairë scooted down to lay in the tall grass.  She watched the sky fade into its silver-gold mesh.  Above, the stars shone faintly.  Her mother used to tell her tales of Arda, and her awakening under the stars.  Sometimes, Anairë wondered what the world would look like without light. 

                “He is a fine horse.”  Laurelin’s golden hour was close when the silence of the meadow was interrupted by her father’s voice.

Anairë wished for the grass to hide her further, and closed her eyes childishly.

                “I can see you plainly, Ana,” Sartion commented, as if he read her thoughts.

He opened the gate, slipping inside the enclosure.  His hand fisted over his heart, and he bowed to Lintaráto, quietly praising the fine stallion and asking permission to remain.  Anairë was not surprised when the horse nickered his grudging consent; any beast seemed to simply trust her father.  Sartion lay down beside his daughter, looking up at the golden sky.  They lay stretched out under the dim firmament, listening to the whisper of wind in the grass, to the birds whistling sweet in the trees and to thunder in the distance.

                “No one meant you any disrespect, Ana,” her father murmured.

                “Atar, I am just as capable as any man,” Anairë began.

                “And no one understands that more than myself,” Sartion interrupted, and then added.  “Or Finwë or Nolo.  Not one of us sought to undermine your talent, and your gift.”

She turned her face, the grass soft under her cheek as she regarded her father.  He watched her patiently.

                “I do not need to move Lintaráto,” she whispered.  “I can do this, Atar.”

Sartion’s eyes revealed he already knew her proficiency.  He had never doubted his daughter, encouraging her to follow her passions. 

                “And yet, Finwë has ordered it, and as his subject, you would do well to obey him,” he replied.  “He is reluctant to even think of you suffering an injury in the months before the Games.  That alone should remind you how high you are in his regard.”

She knew her father was right.

                “I should go and find Nolo,” she sighed, sitting up slowly.

                “Yes, you should.  He spent the hours alone with Fëanáro as a result of your departure.”  Sartion stood, brushing off his robes.  “And that is punishment enough, Anairë.  Finwë has indulged—”  He stopped himself, his eyes narrowing as he remembered his audience. 

                “Tell me,” she bade.

Sartion shook his head once, and she knew he would speak no further ill against the House of Finwë.

                “Go and see Nolo,” he replied.  “And perhaps begin the conversation with the phrase, ‘I’m sorry’.”

                “Those are not words I care to use,” Anairë replied haughtily. 

Sartion laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulders and kissing her hair.

                “Someday, you will learn the importance of them, Anairë.  Someday.”

                “Today is not that day, Atar.”

                “Tomorrow, then?” Sartion asked as they left Lintaráto to his pasture.

                “Highly doubtful.”

--

                Anairë entered the Mindon’s courtyard with slow steps, still unsure if facing Aracáno already was a good choice.  She pushed open the gates to the House of Finwë, catching sight of its lord and lady sitting on the terrace.  The serious looks on their faces as they spoke caused her to wonder if interrupting them was a wise idea.  Perhaps, she would come back later.  She was about to turn and leave when the King of Tirion’s gaze settled on her.  He momentarily looked surprised, and then pleased to see her, nudging his wife with a soft word.  Indis turned, and her smile was bright, all earlier solemnity forgotten.

                “Anairë!”  Indis waved, beckoning her to join them. 

Anairë lifted her long, daffodil-yellow skirts to quickly stride up the steps.  She ran a hand over the cool white stone railing before stepping onto the balcony among the fragrant blooms.  Indis had filled the planters with flowers of all colors and heights, creating a garden paradise outside of the home.

                “I did not mean to interrupt,” Anairë began, allowing her words to trail off in a manner she had seen her mother utilize on many an occasion.

                “Nonesense!  You are never an interruption.  To what do we owe this pleasure?” Indis asked, motioning to a seat.

Anairë smiled politely, remaining standing behind a chair.  “I came to see Aracáno.  Is he here?”

The couple exchanged a glance before Finwë nodded, settling back against the cushions.

                “He went directly to his rooms when we returned, so I would assume he is still there,” Finwë answered. 

                “May I?” she inquired, careful to not overstep some boundaries.

While she was no stranger to his room, she was in no mood to reveal that to his parents. 

                “Of course, Anairë,” Indis nodded. 

Anairë turned away without another word, moving inside and through the maze of halls.  The first story housed the offices of Finwë and the rooms he used for dinners and entertainment.  She moved deftly to the second story where the bedrooms were.  She paused before his door, taking a deep breath before setting her hand on the knob.  She entered his room cautiously, looking around before closing the door behind her.  Moving to the spiral staircase in the middle of the room, she could hear him plain above her; he was pacing.  His quick steps set the beat of her heart.  Silently, she moved up them, pausing to watch his to and fro.  When he did not initially notice her, she found herself caught up in her observation of him.  Like all the children of Finwë, he’d been granted a noble fairness of face and body.  He moved, even now in agitation, with a grace she admired. 

                “You are making me dizzy,” she said, forcing herself out of her thoughts.

His steps audibly faltered, but he did not yet look at her.  Instead, he resumed his pacing, ignoring her completely.  Anairë’s eyes narrowed; she did not appreciate being disregarded.  Instead of launching into a verbal attack, she took note of his tense shoulders and agitated hands.  He was angry.  She knew how it had begun: at his lips.  It always began there; he would press them thin together, and slowly the tightness would spread to his eyes and then jaw.  When the tension had engaged his entire body, sending him into restless motion, there was only one cure she knew.  She glanced at the flimsy material of her dress and then shrugged, leaving her soft slippers by the stairs to approach him barefoot.  Stopping a good five paces from him, she stretched her arms over her head, attracting his attention.

                “Don’t, Anairë,” he warned in a low voice, deducing what she was about to do.

                “Then stop,” she shot back.

He did not stop, so she stood completely still, coiled and waiting.  When he drew closest, she launched herself at him, tackling him to the ground.  He lay there stunned before slipping his arms around her to reverse the position.  Anairë wriggled out of his grip with a grin, standing.  Fluidly, he rose to his feet, kicking aside a lonely boot to clear the floor space.  They circled each other, silently assessing and anticipating movement.  She feigned right, but he slipped out of her reach; he moved to grab her, and she danced away with a laugh.  She reached out, slapping playfully at his hands.  He caught them once, a warning and reminder of his physical speed.

                “Submission only, Nolo.  I won last time,” she teased.

                “I let you.”  There was a hint of amusement as he slid past her defenses.

His hands were a hot caress around her waist.  With a start, she ignored a sudden jumble of delight and arousal, glad for the distraction of the pile of pillows he dropped her into.  She paused to catch her breath, glancing back at him as she realized his statement.

                “What?”  Her leg kicked his feet out from under him.

He fell unceremoniously onto the pillows beside her.  She grabbed his arm, pulling it between her legs in an attempt to lock in a submission maneuver.  Yet, she was no match for his strength.  In a second, she found herself lying on her stomach, ankle twisted in his hands.  He always forgot her increased flexibility and smaller size over his other wrestling partners.  Her foot connected with his arm and he released her in surprise, falling backwards onto the floor.  He grunted, arms outstretched so he resembled a human cross.  Anairë fell across his shoulders with a grin, breathing rapidly after such an exertion.  He did not bother to push her off, instead relaxing against the floor. 

                “Do you submit?” she inquired.

Something flashed across his face.  Her head tilted curiously as he seemed to lean up towards her, intent on diminishing the space between them before he thought better of it.  Then he dropped his head back to the ground.

                “Never,” he replied, hand sliding to rest in the curve of her back.  Lately, she seemed unable to ignore his touches; they set her skin tingling with some sensation she had yet to interpret. 

She sighed, but made no move to continue their sparring.  They both knew the outcome: he would win, she would demand a rematch, and it would never end.  Silence fell awkward between them.  Anairë picked at a loose thread on his tunic, glancing at him only once.  His light eyes watched her patiently; he knew why she had come.

                “You should not have-” she began suddenly, intent on clearing the air between them.

                “And you should not have assumed the implication of my words.”  His interjection was quick.

She clenched her jaw, annoyed at his interruption.  She rested her full weight on his chest as she sat up, and took satisfaction in hearing his groan.  She cursed under her breath, scowling when she saw the thin fabric of her skirt had ripped on one side, revealing her pale legs.

                “It seems then we were both at fault.”  Some part of her hoped that by pressing the two sides of ripped material together, they would fuse. 

                “No, you are simply being stubborn and defensive, Anairë.  I would never say or do anything to diminish anyone’s opinion of you,” he pushed to his feet, holding out his hand to her.  “And you are well aware of that.”

                “I know,” she admitted grudgingly, taking his hand.

They stood across from each other, silent in their stares.  She slid her arms around his waist in a silent apology; he sighed before he squeezed her close.  Contentedly, she turned her head up slightly to look at him, her grin freezing as she realized the close proximity of their faces.

                “I think Findis should be able to supply you with a dress,” Aracáno said after a moment of gazing at her.  He did not step away, seemingly comfortable with her in his arms.  Anairë fidgeted out of the embrace, unsure and unwilling to reveal it.

                “Why?  I could walk home.  It’s just my leg,” she grinned as she showed off her pale calf.

He laughed, swatting at her leg.  “Your mother will have a fit,” he reminded.

                “She will be furious either way,” Anairë shrugged, relieved (and strangely disappointed, but she dared not dwell on that thought with him so close) they had returned to familiar and friendly territory.

                “My parents are liable to sit us down again if you leave my room looking disheveled.”

                Anairë grimaced at the memory.  It had occurred not long before she had celebrated her coming-of-age.  Following a bout of wrestling, they had emerged from his room, both grinning and wild.  Indis had happened upon them, and had directly taken them to Finwë’s office.  There, they had been subject to a long lecture regarding propriety and image.  The reprimand had been focused more at Aracáno, yet Finwë had not allowed her any respite, reminding her of the requirements of a mature lady, of virtue and respectability.  When Finwë had begun to hint about physical consummation, Anairë had never been so glad for Fëanáro’s interruption.  Now, five years later, she still had no wish to repeat such a conversation.

                “Findis it is then,” she assented.

                “Nolo?  Anairë?”  Indis’ voice drifted up to them.

                “Yes, Amil?”  Aracáno wasted no time in moving to the staircase so his mother could see him.

                “Your father wants to speak with both of you.  I suspect it is about the Games since he is being irritatingly vague,” Indis replied, her voice tinged with annoyance.  “His office, at once.”

                “Ah, Indis,” Anairë passed Aracáno, swift to descend the stairs.

                Indis simply pursed her lips with a sigh, seeing the state of Anairë’s dress.  Anairë smiled sheepishly as the lady inspected the rip.

                “I told Nénuilsë it was foolish to put you in these,” Indis said.  “I knew between the horses and Aracáno, you would rip them to shreds.  At least you are not terribly exposed.  Findis should be able to lend you a dress so you are not walking the streets like a ruffian.”

                “Aracáno would be eating his eyes if I was so revealed.”  Anairë sent him a teasing grin as he joined the women.  “Amil would be horrified at him seeing my lily white knee.”

Indis laughed, the sound echoing sweet and fair in the room. 

                “Go find Finwë, both of you,” Indis herded them both towards the door, squeezing her son’s shoulder to gain his attention.  “I am glad to see your mood so improved, Aracáno.”

                “It is not every day that Anairë tackles me out of my anger,” he replied easily.

Anairë sighed heavily, catching Indis’ raised brows.  The wife of Finwë made no comment, simply pointing them towards the stairs to Finwë’s office.

                “You are an ass,” Anairë murmured, her elbow jostling against his ribs.

                “Guilty, Ana.”

 

 

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The art of drinking gratuitously

 

                Eärwen and Anairë walked arm-in-arm among the artists, admiring the works on display.  Along the westernmost corridor (aptly named the Artist’s Corner), Tirion’s artisan community put their finished creations out for review.  Anairë watched the ivy eat away at the white stone walls while Eärwen explained the composition and loveliness of a canvas they stood before.  At some point, Eärwen would realize she had lost Anairë’s attention, and move them down the street.  Anairë meant no disrespect, but rather, she simply enjoyed the beauty of the art.  She did not need to know the symbolism, or listen to a long explanation regarding style to suddenly realize the artist’s vision.  If it was beautiful, it was so.  No words could change that.

                “I am glad you came today.”  Eärwen tugged Anairë closer with a smile.  “I worried I would lose you to the boys and their games.”

                “They do not allow me to play with them,” Anairë replied with a sigh and frown.  “Sorniswë says I would be crushed if someone tackled me, and of course, he has no wish to explain to Aunt Alyalótë if I was hurt.”

The game in question consisted of one team kicking a ball from one end of the field past a defending team in order to kick the ball through a goal.  However, players of the opposing team were known to tackle, trip and use really any means necessary to prevent the offensive team from scoring.  While Anairë usually played in the Games- the rules deemed it mandatory to have an equal number of the sexes on each team- when Tirion’s men decided to enjoy a game of football, she was sidelined, no matter how loudly she protested.  Those games tended to end with more bloody noses and bruises than goals.

                “They are just worried you will beat them,” Eärwen reassured and tossed her silver locks, for once free of flowers and ornament, over her shoulder.  “Let them have one sport, Ana.”

                “If I must.”  She tried to smile, but her heart longed for the competition.

When Eärwen laughed, Anairë caught the stares that lingered on the exquisite daughter of Olwë.  The sea-blue material of Eärwen’s dress draped thick across her bodice and hips, thinning to sheerness at the edges.  She floated across the white stone paths like a lost wave.  Beside her, Anairë felt heavy as a rock. 

                “Cheer up, Ana,” Eärwen lowered her voice.  “I’m sure the boys will join us later.  You will only have to indulge my fancies a little longer.  I promise.”

                “Does Arafinwë intend to escort you to tonight?” Anairë leaned her shoulder into Eärwen’s with a knowing smile.  When Fëanáro and Nerdanel’s news had become public knowledge, Finwë had invited all the Elves and Ainur to celebrate in his family’s joy.  At Laurelin’s Hour, the festival would begin. 

                Eärwen’s cheeks flushed pink, but she feigned ignorance.  She idly adjusted the bright rose-red silk gathered solely on Anairë’s shoulder.  The silk clung tight to the slight curve of her chest and hips in a way Anairë found comfortable and appealing.  Eärwen had begged to dress Anairë, but again, she refused, knowing Eärwen would put her in some flimsy creation and pin her hair with flowers like some romantic maiden.   

                “I haven’t the faintest idea to what you’re referring to, Ana.  Though, I do intend to see how inebriated we can convince Ara, Nolo and Sorniswë to become.”  Eärwen’s blue-grey eyes shone bright with mischief.

Anairë laughed freely as Eärwen outlined her plan.  They paused beside a cart to purchase two small cups of fruit sweetened with a sprinkling of sugar. 

                “And they believe I am incorrigible,” Anairë grumbled lightly as she bit into a sweet strawberry.

                “Perfect, isn’t it?” Eärwen laughed, her lips already red like the cherry caught between her teeth.

                “What’s perfect?”  Arafinwë had crept up behind them.

Eärwen’s lips quickly closed over the piece of fruit and she drew out the stem before turning to gaze sternly at the youngest child of Finwë.  His gaze lingered longer than necessary on her lips, prompting Anairë to roll her eyes.

                “Ara!  It is unseemly to sneak up on two ladies,” Eärwen admonished.

Arafinwë did not look the least bit chastised.

                “I beg pardon then.”  He held out his elbow to her.  “May I steal Eärwen away, Ana?”

                “I hardly think you should be asking me,” Anairë replied, exchanging a glance with Eärwen.

Of course Eärwen assented and took the arm offered to her with a gracious smile.  Anairë watched them pass quickly through the rest of the street, and off on their errand.  Her feet immediately turned for a separate part of the city: the Gardens. 

“Anairë!” a young voice cried out before she could enter the fragrant lane with its vendors and soft music.

Her hand was caught by a smaller one, and Anairë could only smile down at Russandol.

                “Hello, Russandol,” she said, easily sweeping him up off his feet.

Thankfully, it was Nerdanel who accompanied the boy.  Dressed in a shade of violet that emphasized her vibrant auburn hair, the woman glowed contentedly.  Her dress curved tight to reveal the tiny bump of the baby growing within. 

                “Anairë, I hear I have you to thank for Maitimo’s newest hobby.”  Nerdanel greeted her with a distant smile, kissing the air beside Anairë’s cheek.

                “And Uncle Nolo,” Maitimo-Russandol quickly corrected his mother. 

                “Yes, and Nolofinwë,” Nerdanel added, her eyes alight with amusement.

                “Then he is enjoying the horse?” Anairë asked.

Russandol launched into a detailed account of his mount, walking ahead of them and only looking back every so often to empathize his words.  However, Anairë found herself absolutely unable to follow what he was saying. 

                “What is he telling me?” Anairë whispered to Nerdanel.

Nerdanel laughed softly, leaning her head towards Anairë’s.

                “Sometimes, I cannot decipher his words either,” Nerdanel replied.  “I am lucky.  Fëanáro just understands Maitimo.”

                “Congratulations, on the upcoming child.”  Anairë inwardly commended herself on remembering her manners.

Nerdanel simply smiled.  “Thank you, Anairë.”

                “There you are!” Two voices rang out in unision.

                Anairë fought the urge to laugh, seeing the complete surprise on Fëanáro and Aracáno’s faces at their harmonious exclamations.  The half-brothers regarded each other coolly until Russandol skipped up to them, a hug first for his father, and delighted laugh for his uncle.

                “It seems we have been found, Anairë,” Nerdanel spoke first, her hand slipping into her husband’s.

Fëanáro watched her dispassionately.  Nerdanel tilted her head to the side, her smile sweet as communication passed silent between husband and wife.  Then traces of warmth infused his expression and he pressed a swift kiss to the back of her hand.  By the time he spoke, he was nearly smiling.

                “You cannot hide from me, Wife,” Fëanáro replied.  “Come, Nelyo.  Your Grandfather is expecting us.”

                “We shall see you again shortly, Anairë,” Nerdanel lifted her hand in a parting wave.  “Nolofinwë.”

                Anairë watched them go before turning her attention to Aracáno. 

                “You were looking for me?” she asked.

                “I heard Eärwen had dragged you to the Artist’s Corner,” he answered, well-aware of Eärwen’s proclivity for long-winded discourses on art.

                “Ara stole her away,” Anairë replied, grinning when Aracáno shook his head with a snort.  “Is he as infatuated with her as she seems to be with him?”

Aracáno did not answer, but Anairë caught his grin before he looked away.  She easily took his hand, leading him towards the Gardens.

                “Anairë.”  He began to pull away.

                “Please,” she begged.

                “One song, and that is all.  No doubt we will be dancing all night,” he grumbled, but allowed her to lead him down the street.

                The Gardens was actually not a garden at all.  The large courtyard was shaped in a circle, and some planters high up on the surrounding walls overflowed with ivy and colorful flowers that trailed over the white stone like paint splotches.  Flower vendors brought fresh cut flowers in daily, but its real beauty was the fountain in the center of the square.  It loomed tall and dark, a testament to the skill of the stone masons.  It had been crafted from obsidian black rock brought from the south, rumored to have been created only by fire.  Water bubbled over tiers, a steady yet ever-changing rhythm.  Musicians played a lively tune, and many men and women joyfully danced to the music.  Immediately, Anairë drew Aracáno into the fray of dancing, giving herself up entirely to the music.  She couldn’t keep the smile from her face, closing her eyes when the vibrant colors of the Garden blurred together and trusting her feet to lead her.  Aracáno’s hands were soft to catch hers and fleeting around her waist.  For a while, Anairë allowed herself to lean into the touches, to fully enjoy this without dissecting the sensations and emotions.  Dancing was like riding to her; it came naturally.  There was a sense of freedom as she spun nimbly, pieces of her hair coming loose from the pins.

                When the song ended, they found a bench and collapsed onto it.  She laughed and leaned into his shoulder; his arm fell around her.  She contentedly sat with him, watching the other dancers twirl to the lively beat.  He made no comment when her head rested on his shoulder, simply leaning his cheek against the top of her head.  This, to Anairë, was absolute contentment.  Quietly, they sat as the sky shifted colors above them and the dancers spun the earth.

                “We will be late if we tarry much longer.”  Aracáno began to move his arm away.

Anairë caught his hand, firmly keeping his limb in place around her.  She didn’t look at him, keeping her eyes on the dwindling dancers.  She did not yet want to leave, to end this moment.

                “Let us be late.  Fëanáro will not care.” 

                “My father will.  It would not do for Indis’ eldest son to be late to his brother’s celebration.”  The trace of bitterness in his tone revealed that such a topic must have been brought up.  His hand tightened around hers.  “You do not want to disappoint Atar, do you?”

                “I could never disappoint Finwë,” Anairë protested with a small smile. 

He returned it, and she dawdled under the warmth of his smile.  His expression shifted again, from friendly to something else. 

                “Stay beside me tonight?” he asked.  

                “Islinyë is not available?”  She did not bother to hide her absolute disdain of the fair haired daughter of Finwë’s chief advisor. 

She remembered visiting the market on her mother’s errand three days ago, and hearing his familiar laughter.  She had turned and stopped cold in raising her hand to greet him.  Aracáno was happily walking arm-in-arm with Islinyë.  Anairë had paused on the street, purposefully engaging a vendor in conversation about the slender silver bracelets he sold.  She kept a furtive eye on the couple, ignoring how absolutely immature her spying was.  When Islinyë laughed, Aracáno’s gaze lingered on the fair haired lady’s profile.  Anairë felt a rush of possessiveness warm her cheeks.  Though she had heard rumors of Finwë pushing for his middle son to wed, Anairë had simply assumed them false.  Anairë spared the vendor a polite nod as he continued to expound on the loveliness of his crafts.  She held the slender silver band in her hands, gazing at it in an effort to keep herself composed.  She had no claim to Aracáno; he could see whomever he wished.  The disappointment hit her hard, and she felt an overwhelming need to get out of the city, to get away from its couples and romance.  Quickly, she thanked the vendor for his time, intent on disappearing down an alley.

                “Anairë!”  She had groaned inwardly when he called her name.

He looked delighted to see her, leaving Islinyë to approach her quickly.  Anairë lifted her bag of irises and daffodils onto her shoulder, regarding him coolly.  When Islinyë dared to come close, Anairë’s sharp gaze kept her at bay.

                “Aracáno.”  Anairë did not miss Islinyë’s frown, and so deliberately ignored the lady.

He paused to gaze at the delicate silverwork, running fingers over a few of the pieces and stopping on the one she had replaced.

                “Are you looking for a bracelet?” he asked, also seeming to forget his companion. 

                “No, just browsing,” she answered, her satisfaction growing as Islinyë’s pout deepened.  “And you, are you out looking…” Her gaze flickered noticeably to Islinyë.  “…for anything?”

He raised his brows, his expression shifting from glad to awkward to realization.  He seemed to remember his companion, stepping back to include her.

                “Islinyë and I were wandering through the market,” Aracáno explained.

                “Well,” Islinyë quickly said, sliding up to Aracáno’s side to wind her arm around his.  Anairë felt her jaw clench, first at the way the lady’s tentacle like fingers clenched his upper arm.  Then she caught Aracáno’s double quick blink to hide his displeasure.  “We had spoken about walking through the Circle of Stars.”

                “Oh?”  Anairë’s brows arched in disbelief.  She could not help the sarcastic edge to her tone.  “How terribly romantic of you, Nolo.”

The Circle of Stars was one of the tallest points of the City and boasted a view unlike any other.  It was a well-known locale for many of Tirion’s courting couples to meander through.  Countless silver and gold rings had been exchanged there.

                “Isn’t it?” Islinyë agreed, staring doe-eyed up at Aracáno.

He had the good grace to hide his discomfort, returning Islinyë’s smile politely.  Anairë let out a loud sigh.

                “Islinyë, can you please excuse us?”  She moved a few steps away, already expecting her demand to be met.

Islinyë opened her mouth to voice her disapproval, but then Aracáno placed a soft hand over hers, gently prying her fingers away from his arm.

                “For just a moment.”  His gentle smile seemed to heal whatever hurt Islinyë felt she had suffered.

                As soon as the blonde lady was far enough away, Anairë stepped close to him, her voice low.

                “You cannot possibly be gladly escorting her around Tirion, Nolo.  She is terrible,” she hissed.

                “Atar sets up these engagements, not I, Anairë.  Don’t be so quick to judge her.  She is rather smart, and a singer,” he replied, his hand falling on her arm. 

She moved only enough to allow his hand to slide away from her.  Her skin was only too aware of his touch, and she would not allow it to betray her. 

                “Honestly, Nolo.  You could see yourself married to her?  She’s boring,” Anairë challenged, her arms crossing over her chest.

                “It’s really none of your business.”  He mimicked her pose, maintaining an ambiguous expression.

Her quick inhale was loud in her ears.  The words had stung.  She caught the softening of his expression, and knew he would apologize in a moment.  However, she could not wait and simply walked away from him, leaving him to his lady.  She would never tell him how bitterly the tears had stung her eyes on the walk home. 

                “Dare I detect a hint of jealousy, Ana?”  Presently, he treaded in dangerous territory and was well aware of it.

                “How do you feel about my foot up your arse?” she retorted.

He laughed loudly, the sound echoing in the nearly empty courtyard.  The musicians paused at the sound, their smiles brief as they took their instruments and moved towards the Mindon’s light.  Aracáno rose quickly, extending a hand to her.

                “I would rather your company than Islinyë’s,” he stated honestly.

                “Of course you would.”  She took his hand to spring to her feet with a knowing grin.  “I already told you she was terrible.”

                “Can you say nothing nice of other ladies?”  He held her hand firmly.

                “I cannot lie.”  She sauntered a bit closer.

                “It’s a wonder you have any friends.”  He waited stationary for her.

                “I don’t need friends, Nolo.”  She kissed his cheek, hesitant to add.  “I have you.”

She didn’t wait for his response, swiftly slipping her fingers from his to move up the street.  She glanced over her shoulder with a grin, and, upon seeing him still there, stuck with a small smile on his face, she beckoned him.

                “Come on, Nolo.  We cannot be late!”

---

                The gates of Finwë’s halls were thrown wide open, and a steady stream of men and women entered into the laughter and celebration.  Music drifted up and up, enchanting the golden skies.  Aracáno straightened his collar before they entered in the gates, immediately drawn towards some tables set on the outer edges of the dancing. 

                “There’s Ara,” he pointed out his brother.

Eärwen and Arafinwë already seated at a table with Sorniswë and a few other friends, wine glasses filled.  Gauging by the pink of Eärwen’s cheeks, she was already a few glasses in.

                “How drunk do you think Ara and Eärwen can get?” he whispered.  “Or how drunk they need to be to stop this endless flirtation?”

                “I think with enough wine they’ll confess their love,” Anairë replied.  “Will you be able to keep up, Nolo?  Ara is quite a drinker.”

                “Worry about yourself, Ana.”  He feigned pride, gazing down at her.  “I seem to recall carrying you-”

                “Hush, Nolo!” she exclaimed, cheeks red.

At one of Findis’ begetting day celebrations, she had challenged Arafinwë to a drinking contest.  While she won, she also had the pleasure of being carried home by Aracáno, a small fact he never let her live down.

                “Ana, Ana, come and dance.  Silmalírë is already complaining of her feet,” Findis interrupted them, her fingers wrapping around Anairë’s wrist.  “She and Nolo can be a pair tonight in their absolute aversion to dance.”

Aracáno held out his arm to Silmalírë. 

“Finally, a kindred spirit!”

Anairë didn’t hear Silmalírë’s response since Findis drew her away into the dancers. 

                It was hours later and Anairë could feel the wine warming her to the bone.  She giggled with Findis as they danced, fleeting fingertips teasing soft skin.  The desire was plain in Findis’ eyes, and Anairë wondered if it was just as visible on her face.  Long ago, they had shared a secret: over a filched bottle of wine, Findis had been Anairë’s first kiss, first fumbling in the dark.  Yet, something had not been completely right, and they had not pursued anything further.  Anairë had rejoiced when Findis disclosed her love (and the return of that love) with Silmalírë.  However, some nights, when the wine flowed free, Anairë could not completely resist the utter enchanting beauty of the eldest child of Indis.  Findis held Anairë’s hand tight as they left the dancing, leaning in so her lips barely brushed the curve of Anairë’s ear.  She shivered in response, trying to ignore the desire to turn her head and look at Findis.  They both would regret it if she did.

                “It has always been clear to me why Nolo is so enchanted with you,” Findis murmured, a slight slur to her words.  “You are lovely in Laurelin’s light.”

                At that, Anairë’s head did turn to gaze at Findis.  Even through the haze of wine, she was sure she’d heard Findis correctly. 

                “Ah, the two of you are swaying as if in a breeze,” Silmalírë joined them, slipping a stabilizing arm around Findis’ waist. 

Aracáno stood behind her, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed Anairë’s state with amusement. 

                “Hello, hello, my love.  Have I been ignoring you?” Findis’ words were a jumble, ending in a kiss pressed against her lover’s cheek.  She spied her brother and reached out to him.  “Nolo, oh Nolo, I was just telling Ana how enamored you are with her.”

                “You…what?” came his apprehensive response.  Gone was his delight, replaced with awkwardness foreign to him.

                “They’re both a little deep in the bottle, Nolo,” Silmalírë explained, almost apologetically.

                “No, I am not that drunk.  I know what she said,” Anairë walked as steadily as she could towards him.

                His apprehension faded as he watched her weave until she stood directly in front of him.  Anairë placed a hand flat on his chest to steady herself.  Then she found herself under his intense scrutiny, and the wine had loosened her tongue.

                “Are you?” she asked.

Aracáno placed his hand over hers seriously.  Anairë could feel the edges of her vision beginning to darken and leaned towards him quickly.  He gathered her up in his arms, and before she drifted off into a blissful sleep, she thought she heard him say one word, his lips soft against her ear.

                “Madly.”