Chapter Text
I.
The white walls rose before her as high and sheer as cliffs.
Artanis had thought Alqualondë beautiful—she knew no other home than the pearl-white city by the sea, where the gulls cried and the waves sang against the harbor stones. But Tirion upon Túna was wrought of light as much as stone. The morning shone upon its towers, and they gave back the radiance as though they had learned the art from the Trees themselves. She walked close beside her father, her small hand lost in his, and said nothing. There were no words in her yet for what she beheld.
"It is somewhat changed since last I came," Finarfin said, though whether to her or to himself she could not tell. His voice held that faraway note it sometimes took when he spoke of things before her memory. "They have raised the western tower higher. Your grandfather's house grows with the years."
The road climbed steeply. Artanis felt the difference in the air—thinner, brighter, as though they ascended toward the source of all light. Her legs ached, but she did not complain. She had asked to come, though her mother had hesitated. Too young, Eärwen had murmured, but Finarfin had only smiled and said that seven years was old enough to see one's grandfather's halls.
Now Artanis wondered if her mother had been right. The city overwhelmed her. The Noldor who passed them on the road were tall and fair and purposeful, their eyes bright with projects and plans. They seemed to burn with some inner fire that the Teleri did not possess, or perhaps did not desire to possess. She pressed closer to her father's side.
At last they came to the great steps that led up to the palace gates. The white stone was worn smooth by countless feet over long years, and graven with devices she could not read. At the top, a figure awaited them.
He was tall and dark-haired, grave of countenance but not unkind. His robes were silver-grey, and he stood with the stillness of deep water. When he saw them, something eased in his face.
"Arafinwë," he said, and his voice was warm.
"Nolofinwë." Her father released her hand and climbed the last steps swiftly. The two brothers embraced, and Artanis saw her uncle clasp the back of her father's head with a fierceness that spoke of too long an absence. They stood thus for a moment, and she looked away, feeling she should not watch.
When they parted, Fingolfin looked down at her. His eyes were grey and searching.
"And this is Artanis," he said. "You have grown since last I saw you—though you were scarce a year old then, and sleeping. You will not remember."
She shook her head. She wanted to say something—that she was pleased to meet him, that she had heard much of him—but the words tangled in her throat. He seemed to understand, for he smiled slightly and did not press her.
"Come," Fingolfin said, turning back to the great doors. "You are expected."
The halls within were vast and many-pillared. Artanis had never seen ceilings so high; she had to tilt her head back until her neck hurt to see where the carved beams met in the shadows above. Lamps burned with a steady golden light, but they seemed dim compared to the radiance that spilled through the tall windows. Everything spoke of age and craft. The tapestries on the walls, the patterned floor beneath her feet, the very air that smelled of old wood and starlight.
They passed through a corridor and emerged into a great chamber. At its far end, upon a low dais, two figures awaited.
The first was a woman robed in white and grey. Light caught in her hair, soft as morning mist. She rose as they entered, and her face was eager. The second remained seated—his hair dark as a starless night, falling straight past his shoulders. He watched them approach with eyes that had looked upon much and found little that surprised them anymore.
"Arafinwë," the woman said, and her voice trembled with joy. "And is this—oh, is this she?"
"Mother," Finarfin said, and he brought Artanis forward gently. "This is Artanis. Artanis, this is your grandmother Indis, and your grandfather Finwë, High King of the Noldor."
Indis descended from the dais and knelt before her, heedless of her fine robes upon the stone floor. She took Artanis's hands in hers, and her eyes searched the child's face with an intensity that should have frightened, but did not.
"At last," Indis whispered. "At last I behold you. Seven years have you lived under the light of the Trees, and only now do I truly see you." She reached up and touched Artanis's hair—bright gold, almost white in the lamplight. "You have your father's fairness, but there is something else… something of the sea, perhaps. Yes. You are your mother's daughter as well."
Artanis found her voice, though it came out smaller than she intended. "I am pleased to know you, Grandmother."
Indis laughed softly, and it was a sound of pure delight. "And I you, child. More than you can know."
"Indis," Finwë said from his seat. His voice was measured, neither warm nor cold. "Do not overwhelm the child. She has journeyed far today."
Indis rose, though she kept one of Artanis's hands in hers. "Of course. Forgive me. It is only—it has been so long."
Finwë stood then, and descended from the dais. There was a weight to him that pressed upon the room. He looked at Artanis with eyes that seemed to see through her, past her, to some point beyond.
"Welcome to Tirion, Artanis," he said. His voice was courteous, but distant—the voice of one who has said such words many times and no longer feels their shape. "May you find joy within these walls."
She curtsied as her mother had taught her. "Thank you, Grandfather."
He nodded, and looked to Finarfin. "You have done well. She is fair and mannerly." It was praise, she supposed, but it sat strangely, as though he spoke of a craft-work rather than a child of his blood.
Artanis felt her grandmother's hand tighten slightly on hers.
"She is more than fair," Indis said quietly. "She is ours."
Finwë said nothing to this. He only turned and gestured to the side of the chamber, where tables had been laid with food and drink. "You will wish to refresh yourselves. There is much to discuss, Arafinwë, but it can wait until you have rested."
As the adults moved toward the tables, speaking of matters she did not understand, Artanis remained where she was for a moment. She looked up at the high windows, at the light that poured through them—golden and silver intermingled, the blended radiance of Laurelin and Telperion in their glory. The city outside sang with it. The very stones seemed alive.
But in her grandfather's eyes, she had seen something else. Not darkness, nothing so simple as that. Only a sort of stillness, like the surface of a pool that nothing could disturb. As though he had looked too long at things far away, and could no longer see what stood before him.
"Artanis?" Her father called to her, gentle. "Come. You must be hungry."
She went to him, obedient. But as she walked across the polished floor, her hand still warm from her grandmother's clasp, she thought: He does not see me at all.
The gardens of Tirion were not like those of Alqualondë. Here there were no flowers that smelled of salt spray, no low walls where one could sit and watch the waves. Instead there were shaped hedges and gravel paths, trees that grew in careful patterns, and beds of flowers that bloomed in arrangements of color that seemed planned by some master hand. It was beautiful, but Artanis missed the wildness of home.
Her father had been deep in conversation with Fingolfin for some time now, speaking of matters of state and craft that meant little to her. She had slipped away when no one was watching—not running, not hiding, simply drifting toward the open doors that led to the garden. No one had stopped her.
She found a bench beneath a spreading tree and sat, her legs swinging above the ground. The afternoon was warm, and the mingled light fell through the leaves in patterns of gold and silver. She watched them shift and dance, and tried not to think about how large and strange this city was, how long it would be before they returned home.
A rustling came from above.
Artanis looked up, but could see nothing through the canopy of leaves. Then movement, sudden and swift, and two figures dropped down on either side of her, hanging upside-down from a branch, their hair falling toward the earth like twin waterfalls of russet and copper.
She did not scream. She only stared.
They grinned at her, identical in face and mischief. Their eyes were bright amber, and their cheeks flushed with the exertion of whatever climbing they had been doing.
"You're her!" said the one on her left.
"You're our cousin!" said the one on her right.
"We heard you were here," said the first.
"We wanted to see you," said the second.
They spoke in quick succession, as though they were one thought split between two mouths. Artanis found herself smiling despite her bewilderment.
"I don't know you," she said.
"We're Ambarussa," they said together.
"I'm Amrod," said the left one.
"I'm Amras," said the right one.
"Though most people can't tell us apart," Amrod added.
"Which is useful," Amras said.
They swung themselves up and over the branch with practiced ease, then dropped down to land on either side of her on the bench. Up close she could see the differences—Amrod's nose was slightly more freckled, Amras's hair a shade darker. But it was true that they were nearly identical.
"You're from Alqualondë," Amrod said, and it was not a question.
"Does it smell like the sea there?" Amras asked.
"Always," Artanis said. "Even inside the houses."
"We've never been," Amrod said, with clear regret.
"Father says we will go someday," Amras said. "But he's always busy."
"Is it true you can see the stars reflected in the water at night?" Amrod asked.
Artanis nodded. "And sometimes the light of the Trees, when they bloom. The harbor turns gold and silver."
"I want to see that," Amras said softly.
There was a pause. The twins looked at her with open curiosity, but it was not unkind. They seemed to be waiting for something.
"Would you like to see the rest of the garden?" Amrod asked finally.
"There's a fountain that looks like it's on fire when Laurelin's light hits it," Amras said.
"And a place where the hedges make a maze," Amrod added.
"We know all the secret ways," they said together.
Artanis looked back toward the palace. She should not go far. Her father would worry. But the twins were smiling at her, and there was something in their faces—a welcome, an invitation into something she had not known she was seeking.
"Yes," she said.
They leapt up together and each took one of her hands. Their grips were warm and firm, and they pulled her gently to her feet. Then they were off, leading her down paths she had not seen, through archways of flowering vines and past pools where silver fish darted beneath lily pads. They chattered as they went, finishing each other's sentences, pointing out this tree or that statue, telling her stories of Tirion that tumbled over each other until she was laughing.
They showed her the fountain, and it did look like captured flame, red-gold and dancing. They led her into the maze and taught her the trick of it: always turn toward the light. They climbed a tree together, the three of them perched on a broad branch, and from there they could see over the garden walls to the city beyond, and beyond that to the plain of Valinor stretching green and gold toward the far mountains.
"Do you have brothers or sisters?" Amras asked.
"Three brothers," Artanis said. "Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor. They're older."
"We have older brothers too," Amrod said, pulling a face.
"Five of them," Amras said.
"They're not as much fun as we are," Amrod said.
"Except Tyelko sometimes," Amras amended.
"Tyelko's different," Amrod agreed.
Artanis did not know who Tyelko was, but she did not ask. She was content to sit there between them, watching the light change as the afternoon grew long. She felt something she could not name—a rightness, as though some piece that had been missing had quietly slipped into place.
"You should visit more," Amrod said.
"We'll show you everything," Amras said.
"All the best places," Amrod added.
"Promise you'll come back," they said together.
"I promise," Artanis said, and meant it.
The sun was sinking lower when they heard a voice calling. A steward in the livery of the king's household stood at the garden's edge, looking about with clear concern.
"Lady Artanis! Your father seeks you!"
The twins exchanged a glance, then looked at her ruefully.
"You have to go," Amrod said.
"But we'll see you at dinner," Amras said.
"If they let us come," Amrod muttered.
They climbed down from the tree—Artanis more carefully than the twins, who seemed to flow down the trunk like water. When they reached the ground, the steward hurried over, relief plain on his face.
"My lady, you must not wander off. Your father was worried."
"I'm sorry," Artanis said. She turned to the twins. "Thank you."
They grinned at her, identical again in their mischief.
"See you soon, cousin," they said together, and waved as the steward led her away.
She looked back once and saw them already scaling another tree, their russet hair bright against the green.
Inside, her father was indeed worried. He stood in the great hall with Fingolfin and Indis, and his face cleared when he saw her.
"Artanis! Where have you been? I turned around and you were gone."
"I was in the gardens," she said. "I met my cousins. Amrod and Amras."
Finarfin's expression shifted to surprise, then pleasure. "Ah. Fëanor's youngest sons. I'm glad you met them."
"I like them," Artanis said simply.
"They're good lads," Fingolfin said. "Wild as foxes, but good-hearted."
Indis had been watching Artanis with an odd expression—something between delight and sorrow. Now she looked at Finarfin.
"It is a strange thing," she said quietly, "to see those three together. Like looking at a pattern that has not yet fully emerged."
"What do you mean, Mother?" Finarfin asked.
Indis shook her head slowly. "I do not know. Only that when I saw her come through the door, still laughing from whatever game they played… I felt as though I had seen something that mattered. Something that will matter." She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. "Perhaps it is only an old fancy. Pay me no mind."
But Artanis, who was perceptive beyond her years, saw that her grandmother did not believe her own dismissal. And she thought of the afternoon, of the ease she had felt with the twins, the sense of something clicking into place.
Whatever it was, she knew her grandmother was right.
It mattered.
The markets of Tirion were a wonder.
Artanis had thought the harbor markets of Alqualondë busy and bright, but this was something altogether different. Stalls lined the streets in rows that seemed to go on forever, their awnings dyed in every color she could name and some she could not. Vendors called out their wares—silver work from Taniquetil's foothills, woven cloth that shimmered like water, gems cut to catch the light of the Trees. The air smelled of fresh bread and strange spices, of leather and stone-dust and growing things.
She walked close beside her father, her hand in his, and tried to see everything at once.
"They bring goods from all over Valinor," Finarfin said, guiding her around a cart laden with pottery. "From the Vanyar in the mountains, from the coastal settlements, even from the far forests where few venture. Tirion is the meeting place of all peoples."
A woman passed them carrying a basket of fruit that glowed faintly golden. A man argued good-naturedly with a jewel-merchant over the price of a brooch. Children ran between the stalls, laughing, and somewhere nearby musicians were playing—flutes and strings that wove together in a melody that made Artanis want to follow it.
"Father, do you hear the music?" she asked.
"From the square, I think. Perhaps later—"
"Arafinwë!"
A voice cut through the noise of the market, and Artanis turned to see a tall figure approaching them. He moved with easy grace through the crowd, which seemed to part for him without effort. His hair was red as copper in firelight, falling long and straight past his shoulders, caught back from his face with a simple clasp. He was dressed more plainly than many in the market, but there was something about him—a presence, a sureness—that drew the eye.
"Maitimo," her father said, and there was warmth in his voice. "I had not thought to see you here."
"I had business with the smiths," the tall elf said, then his gaze fell on Artanis. His eyes were clear and keen, and when he smiled at her it changed his whole face. "And this must be Artanis. I heard you were visiting."
"This is my daughter," Finarfin said. "Artanis, this is your cousin Maedhros, eldest son of Fëanor."
Maedhros knelt so that he was level with her, which brought him down from his considerable height. Up close she could see that his eyes held kindness, and something else—a steadiness, like a stone that would not shift no matter how hard the wind blew.
"Well met, cousin," he said. "How do you find Tirion?"
"It's very large," Artanis said, then worried that sounded foolish. But Maedhros only nodded gravely.
"It is. I remember thinking so when I was young. Sometimes I still do." He glanced around the market. "But it has its wonders, if you know where to look."
Finarfin shifted beside her. "We should return to the palace. The morning grows late, and your grandmother will be expecting us for the midday meal."
"Must we?" The words slipped out before Artanis could stop them. She looked up at her father. "I wanted to see more. I wanted to find where the music is coming from."
Finarfin hesitated, clearly torn between duty and his daughter's eagerness. Maedhros rose smoothly.
"If you have business to attend to, uncle, I would be glad to show my little cousin around," he said. "I know the city well, and I promise to have her back to the palace in time for the meal."
Artanis looked at her father with all the hope she could muster. She wanted to stay, wanted to see everything, and there was something about Maedhros—a feeling of safety, of sureness—that made her trust him immediately.
Finarfin studied Maedhros for a long moment, then looked down at his daughter. Whatever he saw in her face seemed to decide him.
"Very well," he said. "But mind you don't let her out of your sight, Maitimo. And have her to the palace before the midday meal. Indis will not forgive me if I lose her granddaughter on only her second day in the city."
"You have my word," Maedhros said solemnly.
Finarfin kissed Artanis's forehead. "Be good. Listen to your cousin. I will see you at midday." He gave Maedhros a meaningful look, then turned and made his way back through the market toward the palace.
Artanis watched him go, then looked up at Maedhros. He smiled down at her.
"Well then, cousin. Shall we find that music?"
He held out his hand. She took it without hesitation. His grip was warm and firm, and she felt utterly safe.
They set off through the market together. Maedhros moved easily through the crowd, never pulling her along but always keeping her close. When the press of people grew thick he would shift to walk slightly ahead, his broad shoulders clearing a path. When they passed something interesting he would slow, letting her look.
"Those are star-glasses," he said, pointing to a display of crystal lenses. "For watching the sky on clear nights. My brother Celegorm has three of them—he's forever studying the movements of the stars."
"Do you have one?" she asked.
"No. I prefer maps." He gestured to another stall. "There—maps of Valinor and beyond. Though what lies beyond is mostly guesswork."
The music grew louder as they walked. At last they emerged into a square where a fountain danced in the center and a group of musicians sat on the fountain's edge, playing for whoever would listen. A small crowd had gathered, and some were dancing—simple steps, hands linked, circling to the rhythm.
"Do you dance?" Maedhros asked.
Artanis shook her head. "Not like that. Only the dances my mother taught me."
"The dances of the Teleri are different," Maedhros said. "Slower, I think. Like the movement of waves. Noldorin dances are faster."
They stood and watched for a while. The music was bright and quick, and the dancers smiled as they spun. Artanis found her foot tapping without meaning to.
"Come," Maedhros said. "There's more to see."
He led her out of the square and up a side street that climbed steeply. She had to concentrate on her steps, but Maedhros slowed his pace to match hers and kept her hand steady. At the top they emerged onto a wide terrace that looked out over the city.
From here she could see all of Tirion spread below them—the white towers, the winding streets, the markets like a patchwork of color in the heart of it all. Beyond the city walls the plain stretched green toward the distant Trees, whose light crowned the horizon.
"This is one of my favorite places," Maedhros said quietly. "When I need to think, I come here. You can see the whole shape of things from this height."
"It's beautiful," Artanis breathed.
"It is." He paused, then added, "But I imagine Alqualondë is beautiful too, in its own way. I have not been there in some time."
"It is," she said. "But it's different. Smaller. The sea is everywhere."
"I would like to see it again someday," Maedhros said. He looked down at her. "Perhaps when you are older, you can show me your home as I have shown you mine."
"I would like that," she said.
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Maedhros glanced at the light’s position.
"We should start back. I gave my word to have you to the palace in time."
They descended the terrace steps and made their way back through the city. Artanis was tired now—her legs ached from all the walking and climbing—but she did not complain. Maedhros seemed to notice anyway, for he slowed their pace even more and pointed out interesting things to distract her.
"That building there is the Hall of Records, where all the histories are kept. My brother Maglor spends half his life there, reading old songs."
"Do you have many brothers?" she asked.
"Six," he said. "I am the eldest. You've met the youngest—Amrod and Amras. They told me they climbed trees with you yesterday."
"They're fun," Artanis said.
"They are," Maedhros agreed, and there was fondness in his voice. "Trouble, often. But good-hearted."
As they neared the palace, Artanis felt a strange reluctance. The morning had been perfect, and she did not want it to end. Maedhros seemed to sense her mood.
"You'll visit again," he said. "And perhaps next time you can meet the rest of my brothers. Though I warn you—seven of us all together can be overwhelming."
"I don't think I would mind," Artanis said.
They reached the palace steps. Maedhros knelt again so he could look at her directly.
"Thank you for letting me show you the city, cousin. It has been a long time since I saw it through new eyes. I had forgotten how wondrous it can be."
"Thank you for showing me," she said. Then, on impulse, she hugged him.
He seemed surprised for a moment, then his arms came around her gently. When she stepped back, he was smiling.
"Go on," he said. "Your grandmother will be waiting."
Artanis climbed the steps, then turned to wave. Maedhros raised his hand in return, then turned and walked back toward the city, his red hair bright in the mingled light.
She watched him until he disappeared from view, and thought: I hope I see him again soon.
The flower beds in the eastern garden were arranged in patterns that drew the eye without revealing their meaning. Artanis had been walking the gravel paths for some time, studying them from different angles, and still could not quite grasp what shape they were meant to form. Circles within circles, perhaps, or petals radiating from some central point. It was like looking at something half-remembered, just beyond reach.
She stopped beside an old tree whose branches spread wide over the path. If she could see from higher up, she thought, the pattern might become clear.
The tree's bark was rough under her hands, its lowest branches within easy reach. She had climbed the apple trees in her mother's garden many times. This was no different.
She went up carefully, finding footholds where the bark had worn smooth, testing each branch before trusting her weight to it. The tree was generous with its holds, and soon she was high enough to see over the flower beds. From this vantage the pattern resolved itself—not circles, but a spiral, like a nautilus shell unfolding petal by petal toward its center. Someone had taken great care in its design.
Satisfied, she settled herself against a perfect confluence of branches that cradled her like a chair. The afternoon was warm, and the tree's canopy offered deep shade. Through the leaves she could see the mingled light of the Trees shifting and dancing. Birds sang in the nearby hedges-small grey ones with bright eyes and voices like silver bells.
She leaned her head back against the trunk and closed her eyes. Just for a moment.
...
The quality of the light had changed.
Artanis opened her eyes and knew immediately that more than a moment had passed. The shadows had lengthened, and the golden cast of Laurelin's radiance had deepened toward amber. She had fallen asleep.
Voices drifted up from below. Two figures walked the path beneath her tree—one tall and robed in the dark colors of state, the other shorter and fussing with a sheaf of papers as he walked.
"—cannot simply dismiss the petition," the shorter one was saying. "The guild-masters have been quite clear in their expectations."
"The guild-masters expect many things." Her grandfather's voice was measured, neither warm nor cold. "That does not mean all their expectations are reasonable."
"With respect, my lord, if we do not address their concerns—"
"Pengon." Finwë stopped walking. "We will address their concerns when I have had time to consider them properly. You may tell them I will give my answer within the week."
The advisor—Pengon—made a sound that was not quite agreement, but close enough. "As you say, my lord. Though I must note that Master Calantar was quite insistent—"
His eyes glanced upward, perhaps following the flight of one of the singing birds. They stopped on Artanis.
"My lord." His voice was perfectly flat. "There is a child in the tree."
Finwë looked up.
Artanis froze. She had not meant to spy, had not meant to fall asleep, had not meant to be caught here like some errant bird. Her grandfather's gaze found her among the branches, and she felt suddenly, acutely aware of her disheveled state—her dress rumpled, her hair coming loose from its braid, her hands likely stained with bark.
"Lady Artanis!" Pengon suddenly clutched his papers to his chest as though they might be endangered by her presence. "What are you doing up there? You could fall! You could—this is most unseemly!"
But Finwë said nothing. He simply looked at her, his expression unreadable. There was no anger in his eyes, no disapproval—but no particular concern either. He regarded her with the same distant observation he might give to any unexpected occurrence: noted, assessed, filed away.
"Come down," he said at last. His voice was not unkind, but it held no warmth either.
Artanis began to climb down, more carefully now that she was being watched. Her hands shook slightly; whether from sleep or embarrassment, she could not tell. Halfway down she nearly missed a foothold, and Pengon made a strangled sound of distress.
When she reached the ground at last, she stood before them and tried to smooth her dress. It was hopeless. There were leaves in her hair and a streak of something dark—sap, perhaps—across her sleeve.
Pengon looked her up and down with horror. "My lady, you look as though you've wrestled a squirrel."
Despite everything, Artanis almost smiled. But her grandfather's presence kept her sober. She looked up at him, waiting for the reprimand.
It did not come.
"Go inside," Finwë said. "Find your father."
That was all. No lecture about propriety, no questions about what she had been doing. He simply dismissed her, as though she were no more significant than the birds in the hedges.
"Yes, Grandfather," she said quietly, and curtsied—though it felt absurd to curtsy while covered in tree bark and leaves.
She turned and walked back toward the palace, feeling their eyes on her until she passed through the garden gate. Only then did she let out the breath she had been holding.
Inside, the halls were cool and dim after the bright afternoon. She made her way toward the guest chambers, hoping to reach them before encountering anyone else. But her luck had run out. A servant passing in the corridor stopped and stared.
"Lady Artanis! Whatever happened to you?"
"I climbed a tree," Artanis said.
The servant's expression suggested this was not a sufficient explanation, but she did not press. "Your father is in the west wing with Lord Fingolfin. Shall I take you to him?"
"No, thank you. I can find him."
She did not want to find him. She wanted to find a basin of water and make herself presentable first. But her grandfather had told her to find her father, and she had learned already that in this house, one did not ignore such instructions.
The west wing was brighter, its windows facing toward Laurelin's light. She heard voices behind a half-open door and recognized her father's laugh—warm and genuine, the way he sounded when he was with people he loved.
She pushed the door open.
Finarfin and Fingolfin sat in comfortable chairs by a window, wine cups on the table between them. They both looked up at her entrance, and her father's expression shifted from pleasure to surprise to barely suppressed amusement.
"Artanis. What—have you been climbing trees?"
"Yes," she admitted.
Fingolfin's lips quirked. "Let me guess. The old oak in the eastern garden."
She nodded.
"That was always a good climbing tree," Fingolfin said. "I spent many afternoons in its branches when I was young."
Finarfin stood and came to her, brushing a leaf from her hair. "Did you fall asleep up there?"
"Only for a little while," she said. "Grandfather found me."
"Ah." Her father's amusement faded slightly. "And what did he say?"
"He told me to come find you."
Finarfin exchanged a glance with Fingolfin, something passing between them that Artanis could not read.
"Well," her father said at last. "Let's get you cleaned up before dinner. Your grandmother would never forgive me if you came to the table looking like you've been living in the forest."
He took her hand and led her from the room. As they walked the corridors toward their chambers, he said quietly, "Did my father seem angry with you?"
"No," Artanis said. "He wasn't angry. He wasn't anything."
Finarfin was quiet for a long moment. Then he squeezed her hand gently.
"No," he said, very softly. "He rarely is."
Artanis did not ask what he meant. She thought she already knew.
Her grandfather had looked at her the same way he looked at everything else—as though she were very far away, even when she stood right before him. As though nothing could quite reach him where he dwelt, in whatever distant country his heart had gone to.
She wondered if he had always been that way, or if something had made him so.
But she did not ask. Some questions, she was learning, had no answers that anyone wanted to give.