Original Characters:
Piolissë: A Teleri cousin on Artanis’s mother’s side
Halatir: Piolissë’s betrothed
Nandeloss: A Teleri mariner, first mate on Celeborn’s ship
Veomacil: a Noldor elf

PLEASE review! That muse needs a serious transfusion of inspiration! I need energy! Must have it!

Chapter Three: The Cygnet

No sooner had the signal flags fallen than over two dozen elven mariners leapt to raise their anchors. Artanis could see her brother Angrod, hauling the heavy white rope hand over hand with great speed in his sleek boat, and the little swan-boat of Celeborn, where the silver-clad Teleri was cranking his anchor up. On the other side of Celeborn in a grey boat was Maglor, son of Fëanor. Artanis was startled to see him, though she supposed she should not be. It was unlikely that her cousins would pass up the opportunity to enter a contest, and Maglor of all of them had spent a little time in Alqualondë among the Teleri. To her surprised admiration, he drew up his anchor almost at the same moment as Angrod and Celeborn, and, greeted by a mighty shout of the spectators, the elves seized the sheets of their sails and tillers, and set their boats off at great speed over the waves.

“The water is rough today!” shouted Piolissë over the cheering.

“Of course!” cried Aredhel, waving vigorously at Maglor. “Far be it from Ossë to give them an easy time!”

Indeed, it seemed that the racers did have the blessing of Ossë, for though the Bay was rippled with white-tipped waves, and the wind was high, the boats skirted lightly over them at great speed, to the delight of all who watched. “Who is that elf next to Angrod?” asked Idril, pointing to another of the swan boats.

“That is Nandeloss, a cousin of Celeborn’s,” said Artanis.

“His boat is very fast!” said Aredhel admiringly. “Who shall win, do you think?”

“There are thirty of them, and the race is barely begun,” laughed Piolissë. “Look! There is Halatir coming up alongside Maglor!”

Halatir was Piolissë’s betrothed. Shading her eyes, Artanis nodded approvingly. “Maglor shall be hard-pressed to keep up with him.”

“Now at least some begin to pull ahead,” shouted Andama, one of the younger Telerin girls.

“But not all Teleri!” observed Idril with a sly smile, earning exclamations of challenge and encouragement from Teleri and Noldor alike.

“She is right,” agreed Artanis, pointing at the boats now ahead of the others. “I see three--no, five--of the swan boats, two white boats, and one grey boat.”

“But one of the white boats is sailed by a half-Teleri,” replied Andama. “I see only two full Noldor among the leaders.”

“Here they come!” shouted Wilwarin as the first of the boats began to sail past the low bluff where the maidens stood. Even the most reserved of them fell to the excitement of the race in total abandonment.

“Come on, Maglor!” shrieked Aredhel.

“Make haste, Angrod!” Artanis cried. “Do not lose them!”

Her brother’s gray eyes were narrowed with concentration as he kept one hand upon the tiller and the other holding the sheet of the sail. Indeed, he looked as well upon the sea as any of their full-blooded Teleri kin, and his white boat was at the very front of the fleet amidst a flock of small swan boats. On the other side of him, she could see Celeborn, expertly steering his cygnet over the waves. Sibling pride required her to cheer for her brother, but she had to admit that the sight of the Telerin prince made her breath catch. For he seemed the favorite of Ossë himself in his bare feet, grey breeches, and sleeveless silver tunic upon the bow of his boat, his silver hair streaming behind him in the wind, the spray of mist and foam glistening upon his bare arms and face.

“Artanis! Artanis! They are passing us! Let us catch up!” Piolissë shouted, tugging at her arm, and the daughter of Finarfin ran to join the other maidens dashing down onto the next beach.

She lost one sandal in the sand, the other beneath a piece of driftwood, but she cared not as she ran among the other maidens, all waving their arms and crying encouragement and praise to their favorites. Artanis, Idril, and Aredhel shouted at each other as often as at the racers, in a playful rivalry between the houses of their fathers--or uncles, in Idril and Aredhel’s case. Artanis kept pace with Aredhel easily, for though she did not hunt as often as her active cousin, run she could and run she did. The race continued around the great curve of the Bay of Eldamar, with the boats pulling ahead of the watchers when the wind filled their sails, but slowing enough for the maidens to catch up when they were forced to tack.

As they were drawing nigh onto the mouth of the Bay, the water was growing very rough. “Ai, that shall be a rough crossing,” exclaimed Aredhel, as the maidens came to a stop upon the last bluff, with the Bay on their left and the sea on their right.

Six boats had pulled far ahead of the others. Three were cygnets, sailed by Nandeloss, Halatir, and Celeborn of the Teleri. Two more were white, sailed by Angrod, Artanis’s brother, and Veomacil, another Noldor elf. The sixth was grey, sailed by Maglor, son of Fëanor.

“It seems the Teleri still have the advantage,” crowed Piolissë as the boats began making the turn.

“Be not so sure, there are three and three!” retorted Aredhel.

The boats were staggered in the passage along the mouth of the bay, with Celeborn, Halatir, and Maglor just in front, Angrod less than half a boat-length behind, followed by Nandeloss and Veomacil. All the boats began to tack inward toward the Bay as the wind changed, but suddenly-- “Ai! Look out!” Artanis cried.

A great, rolling wave came surging in from the ocean, growing smaller in breadth but gaining height as it passed between the encircling arms of rock and entered the Bay, bearing down upon the little boats. The leading boats were still tacking in the wrong direction, and seeing their peril, the mariners scrambled to angle their little crafts to ride it safely. Celeborn and Maglor managed to turn in time, but then a collective shriek of excitement and terror went up from the watchers as the crest of the wave struck Angrod’s white boat broadsides before he could complete his turn, flipping it clean over. “Angrod!” Artanis shouted.

The other boats managed to avoid being capsized, but Nandeloss and Veomacil were thrown off-course by the wave’s momentum and collided with Angrod’s still upside-down boat, pitching Nandeloss overboard and knocking Veomacil’s on its side. Several Teleri mariners watching from the decks of their ships made ready to leap into the water after the three elves, but to a collective cry of relief, Angrod suddenly appeared behind his boat and climbed on top, laughing helplessly. He pulled an also-laughing Nandeloss up with him, and Veomacil was also safely attached to the side of his boat. The three elves remained where they were, shouting encouragement at the other boats that continued to sail by, and waved at the maidens on the shore.

“So much for the House of Finarfin!” laughed Aredhel. “Shall we go back and greet them as they finish?”

“Aye! Come on! Halatir is still in the race!” shouted Piolissë as they raced back in the other direction.

“And I shall just have to cheer for Celeborn, then!” retorted Artanis.

The wind was against the boats for most of the turn back, so the spectators were able to reach the hill overlooking the finish in plenty of time. “Ai, I have not run so much in a very long time,” panted Piolissë, clinging to Artanis as she caught her breath.

Artanis laughed, for neither had she, but she felt exhilarated rather than exhausted. She had loved physical activity as a girl, and now she recalled why; the blood sang through her body as her heart pumped hard in her chest, and her lungs felt full and strong. As she ran along the beaches and over the bluffs, shouting to the racers, she felt that she was a sail, filled and lifted by the sea wind over the waves. *I shall ask Celeborn to teach me to sail a small boat,* she decided as they gained the final bluff above the finish. *Then I shall sail a boat in the next race!* She grinned to herself imagining her father’s reaction to such activity, but the thought of herself upon one of those speeding little craft, leaping over the waves and flying fast in the wind, was very pleasing indeed.

“There they come!” shouted Idril as the first boats came into view around the curve of the swan ships.

Two boats remained in the far lead: one swan and one grey. The wind had changed again and filled their sails, and as they negotiated the final bend, the two elves leaned far over with their grips tight upon tiller and sheet, their balance precarious at such speed upon the waves. “Ai!” cried one of the maids behind Artanis. “One of the Noldor challenges the Teleri!”

It was indeed Maglor and Celeborn, their boats directly side-by-side as they skipped over the waves. “Come on, Celeborn!” shrieked Piolissë.

“Come on, Maglor!” cried Aredhel and Idril.

“Faster, Celeborn!” Artanis shouted, running with the others parallel to the boats.

Both elves stole glances at their supporters on the shore, and Celeborn, his hair like a silver banner in the wind, his strong legs bracing against the deck of his boat, grinned openly at Artanis, completely at home in the high wind and rough surf. The boats were sailing very fast now, and of the maidens, only Artanis and Aredhel were able to keep up in the final surge to the finish. The three boats remained there; Artanis could see Olwë in one, cheering unashamedly for Celeborn, and Fëanor and Finwë in another, shouting to Maglor. The cheers were reaching a fever pitch as the two boats, still completely abreast, came closer and closer to the end.

“Fly, Celeborn!” Artanis screamed over Idril and Aredhel’s shrieks to Maglor. Whether he heard her or not, she could not be sure, but at that moment, the Telerin prince pulled his sheet in very hard, tightening the sail to be pushed harder by the wind, and several of the Teleri exclaimed aloud. Artanis had learnt much of sailing from them and knew that while taking the sail in so would speed the boat, it also raised the risk of tearing the sail or tipping the craft, which would lose the race for sure. “Ai!”

But the sail did not tear, the cygnet did not tip, and Celeborn’s little swan flew ahead, to the elated screams of the Teleri. Celeborn shifted his weight, and the prow came further out of the water, pulling first half a length, then a full length ahead of Maglor. Shouting with delight, she stopped where she was parallel to the finish boats and cheered lustily as Celeborn’s cygnet boat flashed past Olwë’s boat, winning the victory for the Teleri.

Celeborn brought his cygnet gracefully to the beach and disembarked, to be greeted and swamped by a shrieking crowd of overjoyed Teleri. “And thus the kindred of my mother show you their worth, cousins!” Artanis crowed to Idril and Aredhel as they ran with the others to celebrate the returning mariners.

They found they could not begin to force their way through the crowd of elves to the mariners, so the maidens stood back and watched. “The Telerin Celeborn is very fair,” sighed Idril.

Aredhel laughed. “He is too old for you, niece.”

“Perhaps not! I am nearly of age!”

Artanis, on the pretext of rediscovering her shoes, went away from them.

***

It was long before Celeborn could free himself from his many admirers (including the King of the Teleri), but at last he escaped and went to the near beach where the minstrels had gathered, lanterns hung, and many of the Eldar were dancing upon the sand. The wine was flowing in abundance, and all the company was very merry, and so Celeborn hastened to join them, though his eyes searched the crowd. He had more than enough ladies offering their companionship after his display during the race, but he found himself uninterested in most of them. It was Celeborn’s nature to prefer familiar sights, faces, and pursuits to continuously trying new things, and it was this that he sought amid the celebrations.

At length, he did spy a familiar face amid the crowd of Teleri and Noldor, and it struck him with such a rush of relief that he wondered if he had not been searching for her alone all along. Artanis was wandering back down from one of the hills into the ground, holding one of her sandals in her hand with a puzzled look upon her face. Celeborn shook of several young lady admirers and went to her. “Have you lost something, kinswoman?”

“I fear I have,” she mused, shaking her head.

He seized the sandal and tossed it aside. “Then you shall have to be as one of the Teleri tonight, and dance upon the beach without shoes. Come!”

His exuberance must have startled her, for in truth he was far lighter of heart than usual. Still, the elation of the day’s victorious race, the light of the silver lanterns and the Trees, and wine and company ruled his heart, and he would not be dissuaded, but led Artanis into a mass of dancers. She acquiesced at last, and soon they wove in and out of the whirling couples, spinning and laughing and singing with the music. They kicked up the white sand in their bare feet, often sending pearls and other gems tossing into the air, and their silver and white and grey raiments gleamed in the light.

The dancers on the beach thought little of time, and nor did Celeborn, until Maglor came running up to him, laughing and shouting, “Very well, very well, Teleri swan master, you have proven your skill as a mariner, but let not a lady of the Noldor be kept from her father’s kin forever! Come, Artanis, let me have a turn!”

So Celeborn yielded his partner and watched Artanis dance away with Maglor. For a moment he was silent, listening to her laughter over Maglor’s fair voice singing, as the son of Fëanor swept his cousin along. Then at length he spotted Idril, Turgon’s young daughter, standing alone and watching him, so he went to her and invited her to dance.

Neither he nor most of the other elves dancing in the sand paid much heed to the elven lords who stood to the side talking, until the sound of slightly raised and ever-forceful voices reached their ears. Idril, returned to Celeborn after having a dance with Halatir, glanced over at the group of their arguing kindred. “What troubles them?”

“I know not,” he said dismissively. “Pay it no mind. When Noldor and Teleri come together, there are always arguments.” He led her away, and they carried on without interest in the debate, though he was not surprised when he looked past his partner and saw Artanis drop out of the dance to go closer.

The music and dancing carried on away from the talkers until an angry cry of, “You forget yourself!” brought music, laughter, and song to an abrupt halt.

Idril gasped, and Celeborn turned around. Fëanor, his bright eyes flashing hotly, was standing in a most confrontational position, glaring at Finarfin, whose body looked less readied for a physical confrontation but not at all compliant.

“I forget nothing.” Finarfin’s voice was low and hard, but in the new silence upon the beach, it carried easily. “Your younger brother I am, but your chattel I am not, and you who speak so vehemently against thraldom cannot tell me that I may not venture an opinion differing from yours.”

Rage flashed in Fëanor’s eyes, “Yea, little brother, I would not stop your opinions, had you any, AND if I thought them truly yours and not the poison fed you by Fingolfin!”

“How dare you?!” Finarfin stood silent under the words, but Finrod might well have attacked his uncle had his father not thrust out an arm to forestall him. “You would better declare on what grounds you make such an accusation, Uncle, or else withdraw it!” All four of Finarfin’s sons were now standing directly behind him, their eyes betraying far more inclination to make the argument physical than Finarfin himself.

“Be silent,” Finarfin commanded his sons with a flick of his hand. He looked back at Fëanor. “But I shall not be, and neither in the face of your wrath, nor your slanders, shall I fail to speak my mind: you are wrong.”

“Indeed?” said Fëanor mockingly. “Very well, Finarfin, in that small hope that perhaps your mind is indeed your own,” and his tone grew distinctly dubious, “then I shall brand you not a puppet, but a fool.” With a shout of anger, Finrod again surged forward, but Finarfin once again bade him stay, and stood still in the gale of his eldest brother’s words. “If content you are, in fact, here in this pretty cage the Valar have made, then you are but hopelessly blinded by the sweet words fed by them and their pets whose daughter you married--”

“Fëanor, son of Finwë!” rumbled an enraged voice, and Olwë strode through the crowd of elves to the arguing brothers. Finarfin swiftly stepped back, motioning his sons away. “What say you concerning my daughter?”

There was a long silence, in which naught could break the eye-locked stance of the Telerin King and the heir to the throne of the Noldor. At long last, Fëanor smiled and bowed with a humble graciousness that rang false to all. “I do beg your pardon, Lord Olwë. I spoke in haste, and meant no slight to your most honorable daughter. I pray you will forgive me.”

Olwë’s eyes were dark and stormy as the sea, but at length, he nodded. “I forgive your remark, but bid you watch your tongue in the future. Well?” he turned to the elves, though his tone still conveyed his displeasure. “Return to your dances; this is a festive occasion.”

“I shall endeavor to end this mood I have so unfortunately bestowed upon all,” added Fëanor. “Oh my niece! Nerwen!” A startled silence fell again, and Celeborn saw Artanis’s eyes darken in turn as she met her uncle’s eyes. “Will you dance?”

There followed what seemed like an even longer silence, but at length, Artanis gave an unsmiling nod. Olwë spoke to the minstrels, who began playing again, and Artanis and Fëanor took their places among the dancers. Celeborn found that Idril had gone to her father’s side during the confrontation, and that he stood alone near the dancers with his fists tightly clenched. It helped not that he could clearly hear every word that passed between them.

“I do apologize, dear niece, if I offended you,” said Fëanor, his tone light.

Not looking at him, but concentrating upon her movements in the dance, Artanis replied, “I shall accept your apology, Uncle, when you have made one to my father.”

“So you too think my words slanderous?”

“That was my impression.”

They wove among the dancers in silence for several moments, then Fëanor laughed. “Thus my impression is that you think your father’s ideas to be his own?”

For once her eyes met his, and they flashed angrily. “My father may be less hot of head than you or Fingolfin, Uncle, but he is wise, and his children will suffer none to deny the sincerity of his words!”

“Sincerity, nay, child--”

“--I am no child, Curufinwë, and if you would treat me as such, we need not be dancing.”

“My apologies.” Celeborn felt his fists ball again involuntarily at the mocking tone. None should be permitted to belittle Artanis that way. “As I was saying, I doubt not that his words are sincere, but from whom did he learn them?”

“Of what do you speak?” her voice was growing harsh enough to make Celeborn and all others near Artanis wince.

“I speak merely of the dangers of accepting every sweet word given him by the Valar and by the servants of Valar without thought or question--”

With a sharp jerk, Artanis wrenched her hands from Fëanor’s and pulled sharply out of the dance formation. “My father is far wiser than you, however you would try to paint him a fool. You, son of Finwë, are the fool. I hear your own sweet words, but see your connivances. Your every move rings false, and I will have none of it. We shall dance no more, and speak no more!”

“Artanis!” Finarfin strode toward her, his eyes narrowed even as she trembled with rage. “Lord Olwë made it clear that there shall be no more unpleasantness tonight. You will behave yourself as becomes a lady and finish the dance with your uncle.”

That might well have been the end of it for any other elven maid, thought Celeborn, but not Artanis. She brought the festivities to a halt yet again with her curt reply of, “I will not.”

Finarfin might be of milder temperament than his elder brothers, but he did not suffer his children to defy him. Pointedly ignoring Fëanor, who stood still in the halted dance formation with an expression of innocence, the youngest son of Finwë strode up to Artanis and took her arm sharply. “You will. Or you will leave this place at once.”

With a slight yank, she removed her arm from his hand and gave a perfunctory bow to the other elves. “Then, my lords and ladies, I bid you farewell!” Lifting her chin at Finarfin and not so much as turning her face in Fëanor’s direction, she spun around and marched off the beach.

Celeborn found it rather difficult to stomach the sound of Finarfin making the obligatory apologies to Fëanor, Olwë--and just about everyone--for his daughter’s rudeness. *The only rudeness about tonight was Fëanor’s, and yours for not striking him for his impertinence in forcing Artanis to dance with him.* The thought slipped out before he could check it, and he smiled and shook his head. Few things could rouse Celeborn’s passions, and even fewer could raise his ire. Much of his passion he saved for the sea and his swans, but his ire…well, Artanis had a way of arousing it. But now it was on her behalf that he silently fumed.

*She is right about Fëanor. In every way right. His words are sweet but false, even as he condemns the Valar--it is as she said; he is indeed a hypocrite. Such arrogance knows no equal in all Aman,* he thought, listening to Fëanor graciously accepting Finarfin’s apologies.

“Do not be uneasy, brother mine, for I admire your Artanis--though you will forgive me if I think her better suited by her mother-name. Nerwen. Aye, that suits her. As hot of spirit and swift of action as any of our sons, yet her beauty knows no rival.”

Celeborn doubted that any of the others were deceived by Fëanor’s deft handling of the conversation, but apparently all were eager for a safe subject of discussion, and so elven beauty was seized upon. “If nowhere else, I agree with Fëanor here,” laughed Fingolfin. “Though I would say that if a rival might be found for Artanis, it would be Aredhel or Idril.”

“Mistake me not, the maidens of your house are fair,” conceded Fëanor. “But Nerwen…nay, I can find few objects in Aman, living or otherwise, that hold me in awe as her hair.”

“In that you are most right,” agreed Finarfin, as the others laughed somewhat forcibly. “I accuse none of shallow flattery when they saw she has caught the radiance of Laurelin herself.”

“Indeed, she is a maiden crowned in radiance,” declared Olwë, slapping Finarfin on the back. “It is no wonder that she has a will to match her fairness; she would be less beautiful if she did not.”

As more praise was piled on, Celeborn found himself growing quite irritable. *And they spoke earlier of shallow flattery and sweet words.* The mood of the feast had declined steadily since Fëanor had opened his mouth, and now with Artanis stormed out and everyone trying so desperately to be merry, Celeborn no longer cared to remain. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, he slipped out of the light of the lanterns into the soft, dimmer light of Telperion, to spend some time alone.

He at first tried to convince himself that he was wandering aimlessly, but soon was forced to admit that he was following the marks of light but angry feet in the sand. *She is troubled. I should make certain that she is well,* he thought, and set about tracking Artanis’s path more deliberately.

The tracks led him over two hills to a beach far enough from the celebrating elves to be shielded from the sound of music and laughter. Upon a white dune, Celeborn stopped and gazed down at the slender figure in the soft light, running with her skirt held up along the very edges of the waves, her hair like a stream of gold behind her. *Maiden crowned in radiance…perhaps Olwë’s words were true, despite the fact that his thoughts dwelt less upon praising a fair lady and more upon appeasing everyone.*

For she was radiant, more so to him than ever, though a day did not pass when he did not catch himself staring like a boy at her beauty. As it was, he would likely have stared all night, had she not seen him. At once she stopped where she was, the foam of the waves washing over her feet unnoticed, and she stood still looking at him. Discovered and disarmed, he came down the dunes to her side. Long she stared at him, her eyes brilliant and burning with that peculiar combination of intelligence and restlessness--and perhaps even a bit of wisdom. In a way, they were not unlike Fëanor’s eyes…*And have a care never to mention that comparison aloud, Celeborn, or you may find yourself missing an ear!*

Yet it was true, her eyes were easily as intense as Curufinwë’s, but the self-absorbed arrogance was not there. A restless temper and impatience for the shortcomings of others, yes, but nothing so repellant as Fëanor. Indeed…for all her vexing qualities…there would never be anything repellant about Artanis. Quite the opposite.

At length, she folded her arms irritably and asked, “Did my mother send you to seek me?”

“Nay, my lady--” he hastily cleared his throat, for his voice had sounded very strange even to him. Forcing himself to speak casually amid the sudden pounding of his heart, he assured her, “Nay, I am here at no one’s bidding. I came only to see how you fare.”

Her lips quirked, and she gave a humorless little laugh. “I shall fare better when my father’s eldest brother is back stewing in his stone caves, with his vaults and forges where he belongs, ever drooling over his beloved Silmarils.”

“I have never seen them,” said Celeborn.

She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “Of course not. One must grovel at his feet first to be permitted a viewing of his magnificent work--or have something he wants.” She scowled furiously, turning to stare out over the waters of the Swan Haven, then she suddenly turned back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think the next time he begins a conversation garnering praise for himself as the finest of elven craftsman, I shall point out that too few have been permitted to see his work for themselves. After all, for one with so much pride in his accomplishment, my kinsman shares them with precious few. And yet,” she gestured behind her, “there stand far greater and fairer crafts than those three rocks he so prizes.”

“Why, kinswoman, you do speak harshly tonight. I have heard his Silmarils possess the light of Telperion and Laurelin!” Celeborn said mildly.

“Aye, they possess the light--or rather they enable him to possess it!” she cried. “And beautiful they are to behold, I deny it not. But what are they? Rocks! Pretty, hallowed rocks, but rocks all the same.” Her scowl burned so fierce that he would have liked to ward it off with his hands. But her next words stunned him. “They are naught compared to your swan.”

“What?” a very strange feeling swept through Celeborn, starting somewhere in the pit of his stomach and spreading outward. “What mean you by that? You think truly…”

When she turned back to face him, from where she had been looking at the ships, her eyes had softened. “Yea, O mariner, I think truly the craft of your swans surpasses even that of the Silmarils. Their light is bright and pure and good, and they are hallowed by Varda and lovely to behold, and yet…your people have taken timbers, nails, ropes, and cloth, and breathed life into them. And your swans bear you upon their backs as they fish in the sea and beat their wings within the Bay of Eldamar. Light captured from the Trees is most fair, O son of the Teleri, but I find myself preferring the life that you have given to your ships.” She smiled wryly. “And you hoard them not.”

Breaking out of his initial astonishment at the fairest praise he had ever received from anyone, Celeborn laughed weakly. “Be not so certain, my lady. I would be ill-pleased indeed to let any other handle my swan but I.”

“I speak of hoarding, not of ownership and mastery, Celeborn. I think you would not begrudge any admirer a chance to ride upon your swan, and certainly not to view her.”

He smiled, “I suppose I would not. Unless said admirer was Fëanor, that is.”

She blinked at him, then they both began to laugh. “Ai, by Ilúvatar’s rule, I am far too philosophical this eve.”

“Shall we go to her and take her for a sail?” offered Celeborn. “The wind is still fair.”

“Nay, my father would see me and call me back. I wish not to deal with him or his censure.” She sighed and closed her eyes, idly running her toes through the wet sand. “Besides, I am well pleased with this beach.”

“I cannot recall having ever seen you stand still this long,” he could not resist saying.

Artanis opened her eyes and gazed at him for a moment, then was evidently in too tranquil a mood to be offended. “I would have thought you would be relieved not to be ever chasing me. Surely my restiveness must grow dull after a time.”

“Be assured, my lady, naught about you is dull.”

She glanced at him, startled by the vehemence in his voice. “I am glad to hear it.” She walked to the dry sand and sat down, her eyes upon the waves.

He had caught an odd catch in her voice, and observed, “I take it there are those who would disagree with me?”

“My father says my contentiousness is dull. He would have me ‘think more and speak less,’ as he puts it, but I wonder what is the point of thinking if I am not permitted to make known my thoughts.” Her eyes flickered with discomfort.

“I would hear any thought of yours,” he said softly, coming to sit beside her.

“Then out of our Noldor kin, our Teleri kin, the Vanyar, AND the Valar, you are alone,” she said bitterly. “All would have me be silent, whether I am content or no.”

“There are certain merits to silence, Lady. One hears best in that state, and it is said that one can only truly listen when one is silent,” offered Celeborn.

Her eyes flashed brighter. “To be sure, you are right, but what happens when one has listened enough and is ready to speak? Is one’s youth and one’s sex so inherent a barrier as to make any words one might say of lesser worth?”

“I said not so, and in truth I think none have said so,” said Celeborn, putting a hand upon her shoulder. “None can deny the strength of your mind.”

“If they do not deny it, then why should they find it so unbecoming?” she demanded, but suddenly shook her head. “Never mind it. I trouble you with my self-pity. It matters not.” Before he could speak, she looked at him and smiled, her eyes having softened again. “But you are very kind to listen to my carping.”

“It requires no kindness, Artanis. I enjoy talking with you,” Celeborn replied, even as his heart began to hammer within his chest again. He had suddenly become painfully aware of their proximity, of the soft light of Telperion’s waning blossoms upon her face and golden hair, of every catch and fall of her white gown and the smoothness of her skin--

Artanis suddenly jumped up, the rare stillness gone from her, and her usual restlessness returned. She cleared her throat delicately and said, “Well, I think now we have both tarried here long enough. I should return and retire before my father has the chance to lie in wait for me. Until later, my friend.”

Startled, he responded automatically in kind, and she darted back up the sand dunes onto the grass, running toward Lord Olwë’s pearl mansions with her gown fluttering about her like some white bird taking flight. He did not know how long he stood there upon the beach alone after she had gone.

***

In the house of Lord Olwë, shortly after…

She should have known her father would have anticipated her. For all their differences, Finarfin knew Artanis irritatingly well. He had returned early from the feast and emerged from a shadowy corner of the unlit room before Artanis when she entered. “Good evening, Daughter.”

Artanis resisted the urge to heave a loud sigh and said, “Good evening, Father.”

“Where you have you been these past hours?”

“Taking the air,” she answered shortly. She was not in the mood for a quarrel.

However, despite the vexation of having been in close proximity to Fëanor for the better part of a day (and despite having been repeatedly belittled by him) Finarfin evidently did not have a row on his mind either. He walked to the large window looking down upon Alqualondë and gestured to a low bluff far out along the Bay. “That is where I met your mother.”

*Curse him! Why does he have to be this way?!* Her irritation both grew and diminished even as she went to his side to peer at the place. “It seems an unlikely spot for a chance meeting.”

“I was on the shore. She was sailing, standing on the prow of her father’s swan and beheld me watching her.”

Artanis felt her lips curve into a smile in spite of herself. “And then what happened? Did you leap dramatically into the sea, swim to her side and proclaim your undying love?”

A soft chuckle answered her. “Nay, but I stood upon the bluff for the rest of the day until she came at last to meet me.”

This time Artanis did sigh. “And how long did it take you to ask for her hand?”

“A few weeks.”

“And Olwë gave his consent after so short a courtship?”

“He did. He was most pleased by the bond of his daughter to the House of Finwë.”

*Here it comes.* Nonetheless, Finarfin’s gentle words had accomplished their intended purpose, cooling her temper to where she found herself unable to bristle at him. Feeling suddenly tired, she said, “I do not want to be nice to Fëanor.”

He looked sharply at her, and she raised her chin, expecting a scolding lecture. Instead, a smile broke across his countenance, and he laughed aloud. “As it happens, Daughter, neither do I, but we cannot always have what we want--or avoid that which we do not want.”

Artanis folded her arms petulantly. “Perhaps not always, but I fail to see why I must constantly make up to Fëanor. Why must I pretend to like him? He knows I do not.”

“Aye, he along with all of elvendom,” said her father dryly. “But that is beside the point. He is your uncle, heir to the kingship of the Noldor, and it reflects ill upon you brothers and I when you are so insolent to him.”

“Yet it matters not to you how he behaves toward me?” cried Artanis in frustration. “His words, his looks, they are almost…” she shook her head, searching in vain for a word that did not exist.

Finarfin’s voice grew softer. “Nay, child, I have not missed it. And truly I tell you that had I only your comfort to consider, I should hasten you away whenever he approached, and bid him keep well distant from you lest he be the first elf to die by the hand of another.” She laughed wryly, and he went on, “But we have not that good fortune.”

“And what is this so-pressing consideration, that I am forced to stomach his false flattery and his hands every reaching for my hair?” she asked bitterly.

Finarfin narrowed his eyes. “The unity of our people.”

She stared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.” Artanis looked away; she had not realized how hard she had tried to forget all this since coming to Alqualondë. Finarfin put his hand on her shoulder. “Daughter. With every passing day, the whisperings of discontent grow louder. Soon some shall began to speak openly of rebellion. How then do you imagine the Valar will respond?”

“You speak too generally, Father,” she protested. “Yea, there are whisperings; I am well aware of that. But would you call the desire to sail to Middle Earth and live in freedom rebellion? For by that standard you would brand me a rebel.”

“Artanis--”

“The Valar shall not answer a mere desire with punitive force, nor even restriction, more likely. If any ask openly to depart, I do not think they shall be denied.”

“Have you asked Manwë for leave?” asked her father in an odd voice.

She met his eyes steadily. “I have made my desire known to him, but I have not asked for immediate permission, for I need it not. Not yet.”

“You choose to linger despite this…desire?”

Artanis sighed. “I know you think me an impulsive child, Father, but I am not. And leaving…I know not how, but I am not ready. I shall ask Manwë’s leave when the time is right. I know only that the time has not yet come. Something…there remains something for me here, though I am unsure of exactly what it is. I shall go when my heart is ready.”

Finarfin was silent for some time, and she knew her choice grieved him. At last, he said, “Whatever my dislike of your going at all, I am glad you at least seek the good will of the Valar. But I fear not all of our people shall be sensible in that action, if leaving Aman can be called sensible at all.”

Ignoring the veiled jibe, she answered, “Many of our kindred are quick to bold words and pride, when spoken in whispers amongst themselves and like minds. But when at last they find themselves facing the Valar, their words may lose some of their challenge.”

“But the pride of some may be swelled to the point where none can quell it save Ilúvatar himself,” countered her father.

“You mean Fëanor,” she said, pleased with herself for resisting the urge to snort.

“And because he has by far the loudest voice of us all, many will follow him. You know well he has a way of…diminishing…those who would speak against him.” This time she did snort. He looked hard at her, but not without understanding. “Not do you see why I do not wish you to make public your quarrels with your uncle?”

“I am not afraid of him,” she said with a scowl.

Finarfin smiled wryly, “I am well aware of that, child. You have feared nothing since you were born. But many others do fear him, and to quarrel publicly with Fëanor will only lead to alienating you from those who respect him.” He narrowed his eyes as she muttered something uncomplimentary about anyone who would respect Fëanor. “Your mind and your ideals shall matter little if few among our kindred hearken to you.” Seeing her bitter face, he smiled. “I know it unpleasant, but for the good of us all, you would do better to keep abreast of him than to shun him openly.”

Artanis looked at his placid, honest face for several moments. At length, she shook her heart and remarked drolly, “It must be terribly dreary to always be right.”

He did not laugh, simply smiled and kissed her brow. “I must retire now. I return to Tirion with Laurelin’s first light.”

“Farewell, Father.”

*****