I own nothing.

Aunt Irissë was carving something from the bone of a hart she caught; she had been for a while now, for the last three times that the host had stopped to rest. Itarillë didn't know exactly what it was she was trying to make; Irissë would not say, and it did not yet have a well-defined form. All Itarillë could tell was that she had hewn a small rectangular shape, and was currently trying to make a deep notch near one end with her carving tool. Itarillë liked to watch her at her carving, liked to listen to the soft, scratching sound of the tool against the bone, but she had something else to draw her attention now.

"Have you ever seen magic performed before, Itarillë?"

It used to be that her grandfather Nolofinwë would ask to have Itarillë with her during the long, endless marches, but he'd not asked for her since they had left the barren Ice sheets behind them and entered these sheer, forbidding mountains. Irissë took over watching her niece during the marches, and for reasons Itarillë did not quite understand was suddenly gravitating towards walking with their cousins from the house of Arafinwë; at least it was always easy to spot the sole dark-haired head amidst the sea of gold, though being around them sometimes reminded Itarillë too much of her mother for comfort. Everyone insisted that Itarillë not walk over the narrow, winding paths of the mountains; if it wasn't Irissë carrying her, it was Findaráto or Artaresto, and lately, Irissë and Artanis had been walking together, also for reasons she didn't understand.

In response to Artanis's question, Itarillë shook her head. They were sitting down outside of the cramped tent Artanis shared with her older brothers, beneath the light of a lantern hung on a pole. Irissë was sitting some short distance away atop a rock, carving still. "No, I haven't." Something about her cousin's expression shot a spark in her mind. "Can you do magic, Cousin Nerwen?" she asked excitedly.

All of a sudden, Artanis's face scrunched up, especially her forehead. Itarillë stared at her in confusion and from her perch, a noise escaped Irissë's mouth that wasn't quite a laugh. "Itarillë, Artanis doesn't like to be called that, remember?"

"Oh." Itarillë wanted to say that she heard Aunt Eärwen call Artanis 'Nerwen', until it occurred to her that Eärwen was the only person who called her that, and the rather scrunched face Artanis was showing now was probably the reason. "Sorry, Cousin Artanis," she apologized, with a sweet smile.

The lines eased out of Artanis's forehead, and she nodded slowly. "That's quite alright, Itarillë." So long as you don't do it again, Itarillë could practically hear her thinking. "And yes, I suppose that, depending upon your definition of magic, I can perform it."

Her excitement returned in full swing at that. Itarillë had head stories of magic, of course; any child born in the Undying Lands had, even though magic was not an art commonly practiced amongst the Noldor. Let the Vanyar and the Teleri have their hocus-pocus, she'd heard many say. We deal in reality and earth and stone and metal. But the thought of weaving magic, of casting enchantments and making charms and potions fascinated her to no end. Finwë had joked and said that it must have been the Vanyarin blood running true in her, something that had always confused Itarillë, as her own mother knew no magic at all.

Magic? I want to see it…

Itarillë reached out and grasped Artanis's arm, and did not notice the way her cousin attempted to jerk away, the way she leaned away from her. "Can you show me?" Itarillë asked eagerly. She had an image of her cousin making flowers spring up out of the ground, or of calling forth a light to ease the darkness than encroached on them from all sides. "Right now?"

With more gentleness than Itarillë would have expected, Artanis removed Itarillë's hand from her arm. She stared long and hard at her, glinting green eyes narrowed. "Right now, should I?" she murmured slowly, and her gaze went through and past Itarillë, staring into the darkness beyond the encampment.

Drawing her cloak more closely about her, Itarillë uncomfortably tore her gaze away from her cousin's fair, fell face.

Artanis was difficult to know. Frankly, there were times when Itarillë wasn't sure she should try to know her. Father said that such young girls as she should not form such strong opinions of people, but Turukáno's chastisement could not shake the feeling from his daughter's heart. She saw Artanis often in Aman, even if they did not speak nearly so often. Findaráto and Turukáno were close friends, and Findaráto seemed to have much the same relationship with his sister as Turukáno did with his. What this meant was that when Findaráto visited Turukáno and his family, Artanis was often with him.

Rarely did words pass Artanis's lips during her visits to Turukáno's home; she would hardly say anything at all, except to answer questions posed to her. She was still, remote, the wind playing with her radiant hair. Artanis was a bit like Irissë, her eyes always staring beyond buildings and trees, out into the distance, past the horizon, but there was an inscrutable way to Artanis that Irissë could never claim to possess. Ever-restless Irissë, always wishing to be somewhere else, was an open book, even to Itarillë. But Artanis, no one could claim to know her. Her mind and face were shut to all. Unless she chose to confide in others, which Itarillë had never seen her do.

Artanis lifted her bare hands (did she not feel the cold? Itarillë would not take off her gloves outside for love nor money, even if she did have to admit that it was not as cold here as it had been on the Ice—not that that would be difficult) and smoothed all of her hair out of her face. Her eyes flickered downwards, but when she looked upon Itarillë's face, there was no sign of disquiet. She came as close as Itarillë ever saw her to looking completely normal, but at the same time, that hint of strangeness about her seemed stronger than ever. "Alright." Her lip twitched. "Right now, then."

She tipped her chin up, and began to sing.

Itarillë would later remember none of the words that made the lyrics of the melody Artanis sung, nor even if there had been words to her melody at all. She could not shut her eyes, nor her ears. She did not wish to, and she would not have been able to, even if she had. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end.

It was among the most eerily lovely singing Itarillë had ever heard, deep and husky, deeper than she had ever heard a nís sing. Her veins felt as though set alight, but not with fire. Itarillë felt warmer than she had since before the Trees were drained of light and warmth, but it wasn't the sort of unpleasant warmth of being burned on a campfire or the cold burn of numbness. The warmth she felt was as though she was finally able to slip into a hot bath after all these months of numbing coldness. It was as though her mother was alive again and was never going to leave her. She felt warm, she felt safe, she felt happy.

A horrible moment it was when Artanis stopped singing. The cold rushed back into Itarillë's veins and it was worse now, because she'd tasted warmth, real warmth, again for one glorious, agonizing moment. She hadn't even been aware of the secret power behind Artanis's voice until the weight of that power was off of her shoulders, and she felt weak and trembling. She was supposed to be a little girl, but she felt old, and fragile, like a leaf in autumn, losing color and moisture. It had been warm, but was cold again. It had been bright, but now she was drowned in darkness once more. Itarillë had tasted beauty, but where was she ever supposed to find it again?

"Valar, Artanis," Irissë said softly, and Itarillë jumped. She had forgotten that her aunt was here. She'd forgotten that there was anyone in the world but her and Artanis. Irissë was staring at her, eyes shadowed with wonder and grief. She wasn't the only one; Artanis had drawn something of a crowd with her strains, which was only now starting to dissipate.

An odd, secret smile flickered over Artanis's face, though, unless Itarillë was very much mistaken, there was a noticeable tinge of melancholy on her face now as well. "Ilúvatar and his Ainur sang the World into life with a song. There is great power in music and song, and great magic to be channeled through the words. If you believe that this is magic," she added.

Irissë waved her carving tool in the air in her cousin's direction; she'd put the bone down on her lap to listen to Artanis sing, it seemed. "You and Findaráto once went to Taniquetil for a couple of years. Was this what you were doing there, then?"

"Aye, indeed." She caught Itarillë's eye and smirked. "If I try to teach you this, little one, we may find that you can not learn. It is not everyone who can perform magic as you know it. I will try to teach you, but you may not possess any capacity for it within you."

Itarillë felt her face fall, despite herself, and Irissë exclaimed, "Oh, Artanis!" in the sort of voice one would use to scold a child for being cruel. "Look at her face! You know how cruel it is to crush a young girl's hopes!"

For herself, Artanis seemed not to feel much of Irissë's intended chastisement. Her face was obscured by her loose, lank hair as she answered smoothly, "I meant no such thing. Do you not think it would be crueler to get her hopes up without so much as a warning of the potentials of failure?"

"Well, speaking as someone untalented and unschooled in 'magic as you call it', I think you could have put it a bit more gently than that."

To be honest, Itarillë wasn't entirely sure how Irissë supposed that Artanis could have put it more gently than she had, even as crestfallen as the words had left her, though perhaps there was something she'd missed. Artanis's smirk reappeared as she replied to her cousin, "Well, if you are so unschooled in magic, cousin, then come down here and sit with us, and I will endeavor to teach you as well."

Irissë looked taken aback with this, blinking wildly. She pressed the fingertips of her free hand against her chest. "Me?" Artanis nodded, and Irissë shifted her weight uncomfortably, looking away. "Ah, no, cousin. You know I can't sing."

The encouraging smile that spread over Artanis's face was without any of the wickedness her smirks had implied. "You think you can not sing because you have been comparing yourself to our cousin," she protested.

And then all was silent between the two of them.

Irissë stiffened and Artanis's gaze dropped to the ground again. Itarillë looked about them, confused, until she realized of whom Artanis must have been speaking, and she winced as well, a cold that was not the wind shooting through her.

There was only one person within their family Artanis could have been referring to, the one and only person whose singing was more beautiful and more unearthly than that of Artanis Nerwen. Having been only a very small child at the time of Fëanáro's banishment to Formenos, and having seen Makalaurë only a couple of times since then, Itarillë could not claim to have heard him sing often. However, the few times she had, usually after some application of "little girl charm" or, in latter years, with baby Telperinquar on his lap, were enough to stick in Itarillë's mind for the rest of her life.

It was strange and painful to remember him and his brothers and father, nowadays. Turukáno would hear naught of them in his presence, unless it was his own father speaking, and Itarillë had to admit that it was always awkward to remember something one of her cousins had done before the Darkening, and then remember what they had done afterwards. Remember that they had burned the ships, and left them stranded on the other side of the sea. Remember that her mother had died in the ocean for lack of ships.

Eventually, Artanis must have felt the need to fill in the gap that silence had created. She went on, as though nothing had ever happened, "And I suspect that you have been comparing yourself to my oldest brother as well. It serves you not to be setting yourself against such high standards."

Irissë raised an eyebrow. "And I suppose, Artanis, that it does not occur to you that after your performance just now, I might be thinking of what my voice would sound like next to yours as well?"

Artanis ignored her. "Oh, just come down here with us. I have heard you sing, cousin—"

"When?" Irissë asked, confused and suspicious.

"—and it is not bad at all. You might come down and learn something from me, Irissë."

After a long moment, Irissë nodded slowly. "Alright." She stowed her tool and the rectangular piece of bone away in her cloak pocket and slid down the rock to come sit by them in front of the tent.

Irissë's singing voice was indeed not the equal of Artanis's, Makalaurë's or Findaráto's. It was softer and lighter than Artanis's, and without the young, piping sweetness of Itarillë's. But the three of them sat there for a long time, Artanis trying to teach them to put power in their voice and weave magic out of the air. Neither Itarillë nor her aunt ever achieved what Artanis had, never managed to produce so much of a spark of warmth out of the thin, frigid air.

Itarillë had a feeling that she knew what they were doing, and why they were doing this. Under other circumstances, she might have been unappreciative of anyone's attempts to draw her mind away from her reality with such a diversion. But a smile was spreading over Irissë's grim face for the first time in a very long time, and Artanis seemed so much warmer and approachable than she had ever seemed in Itarillë's short life.

So Itarillë let it pass, and tried to reach out and grasp that elusive tendril of warmth and power she'd felt, when her cousin sang.

Irissë—Aredhel
Itarillë—Idril
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin
Arafinwë—Finarfin
Findaráto—Finrod
Artaresto—Orodreth
Artanis, Nerwen—Galadriel
Turukáno—Turgon
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Makalaurë—Maglor
Telperinquar—Celebrimbor

Nís—woman (plural: nissi)