I own nothing.
Alqualondë has always been a large, looming part of Artanis's life, home to some of her best memories, free from trouble or case. Alqualondë is home to her mother's family, and for a time was home to her father as well; Findaráto was even born here, instead of in Tirion. Eärwen brought her here often when she was little, and Artanis always welcomed a few weeks away from Tirion.
"Nerwen?"
Artanis is in good enough spirits that even the use of that name does not wipe the small smile from her face as Eärwen knocks on the door of her bedchamber. "Come in," she calls from her desk, setting down her quill—she was penning a letter to Artaresto, as she'd promised to do.
Eärwen strides briskly into her bedchamber, clad only in a thin, sleeveless dress that would have been considered horribly immodest in Tirion, despite the greater heat and humidity of Tirion than Alqualondë. "Nerwen, your grandmother and I are taking a walk down to the shore. Do you want to come with us?"
Deciding to say yes is not a difficult decision at all. Artanis has never been much enamored of letter-writing, and can never think of anything new to say when she is writing to Alqualondë. Her brothers have all spent so much time in Alqualondë that it seems inconceivable to her that anything that goes on here could be new to them (There is nothing anywhere in this land that could possibly be new to anyone, she thinks with a little bitterness). But a bit of fresh air will clear her mind, and give her the words she needs.
This is a place of peace. For all that Aman is touted as being peacefulness in its entirety, this is the only place where Artanis has known anything resembling the word.
-0-0-0-
The white stones of the quays are washed down, red with blood and flecked with foam.
Her forehead and her hands are stinging, a long cut on one and blisters on the others.
No one will go near Artanis, even now.
They fled from her during the battle, the Noldor did. They expected her to be on their side, their princess coming to aid them in their battle against the mariners, but when she sank her long sword into the first Noldorin soldier to fall to her wrath, their illusions were none-too-gently shattered. Bright and terrible she had seemed then, full of wrath and fury. The torchlight caught on her skin and her radiant hair; she seemed to them as a spirit of flame, more full of fire than Fëanáro himself.
And by the time Fëanáro called an end to the battle, no one would go near her at all. The Noldor had begun to flee from her even as she fought, fearing her strength, not expecting a nís to have the sort of mastery with a sword that she possessed and dying for their surprise.
Now, they keep their distance still, and how they stare.
The common soldiers' fear has turn to silent anger and hostility. Instead of fearing the bright and terrible princess of the Noldor, they fume with ire over her perceived betrayal of them. Is she not a Noldo? she can practically hear them thinking. Vanyarin and Telerin blood she may have, but this means nothing. Her father is a Noldo; her mother's blood counts for nothing. She should have supported us. Artanis wonders if she will be set upon. If she is their perceived betrayer, will they, already killers, not set upon and kill the one they believe has betrayed them?
Artanis wishes she could say that, in such a situation, she would be able to trust her family to defend her, but she is not so sure of that now, for they are in the very ring that refuses to approach her. Her brothers, who arrived late to the battle, all gape at her. Her father, also late, won't even look at her. Elenwë, who had been delayed and journeyed with them, has her hand clasped over her mouth in horror; whether it is Artanis herself who has triggered this reaction or simply the general slaughter, Artanis can not be sure. Like Artanis, Irissë was given no armor to wear, and as a result is somewhat worse for wear than her brothers, but Artanis can barely see her; Turukáno has situated himself quite firmly between Artanis and Irissë, and the latter's much-smaller form is swallowed up behind him in the shadows.
She sees others moving through the shadows in between the torchlight, as the host that came to late to join in the battle stares at those still sticky with the mariners' blood, and Artanis stands between them like a signpost. She sees Carnistir frowning even as he wraps bandages around one of the Ambarussa's arms. Makalaurë and his wife talk quietly. Findekáno scrubs blood off of his sword. Somewhere in the darkness, Fëanáro and Nolofinwë are arguing again.
Artanis remembers.
Killing another Elda has been considered the ultimate taboo, since time immemorial. This thing was only ever done in the days of darkness besides Cuiviénen, and even then only rarely. The Enemy is considered so vile precisely because he has killed Elda, both in Endóre, and now here as well. The Enemy killed Artanis's grandfather Finwë, and for such deeds, he is the most reviled of all beings, in the eyes of the Eldar.
Eldar do not kill their own. When Artanis saw the Noldor falling upon the mariners, she had paused, at first. Others around her had not. Findekáno and Irissë sprang to the defense of their kin; Turukáno and Arakáno and Nolofinwë were not far behind them. Artanis had never seen anything like this before, and anyone might have expected her to freeze. When she came back to herself, and made the decision to fight, anyone might have expected her to come down on the side of the Noldor. But as everyone in this crowd knows, that is not what she did.
They had a word, in Endóre, for Eldar who killed their own kind. They called them Kinslayers. Among the Minyar, they were always shunned; among the Tatyar and the Nelyar, it depended on the circumstances of the slaying, on whether or not the Kinslayer would be shunned and cast out of their community. Depending on the circumstances, they could be cast out, or the leaders of their clans could instead give their tacit approval to the slaying by letting them stay.
But all the chronicles, all the histories, all the sacred texts, the verdict on the act of killing another Elda is clear. Just as your hands are stained with blood, so too shall be your spirit, and no matter what you do, no matter how you scrub, no matter how you engage in penance, your hands will never be clean. Once a Kinslayer, always a Kinslayer. The stain will never leave you.
Will never be clean…
There is blood on her hands. It's on her sleeves and her skirt, on her sword; her sword gleams crimson in the light. Artanis hears the echoes of the screams. The raw smell of blood and viscera and bile and urine rises in her nostrils like poison. Her heart pounds in her chest, in her throat, in her mouth. Thud-thud-thud-thud. No calmness to be found here.
She has killed her father's kin to save her mother's. Maybe that's why he won't look at her. Maybe he's ashamed. It galls Artanis that her father could be ashamed of her, given the vacillating person that he is, content to let the decisions of others buffet him back and forth and never taking the initiative, never making decisions for himself in these times of darkness. But perhaps he is ashamed of her, nonetheless.
This is a place of blood and death. It is the only place in Aman that Artanis has ever known either. She will never think of it again without thinking of herself, standing here in the center of a ring of staring, whispering Noldor, wondering what they should do with this kin-traitor.
Artanis, Nerwen—Galadriel
Findaráto—Finrod
Artaresto—Orodreth
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Irissë—Aredhel
Turukáno—Turgon
Carnistir—Caranthir
Ambarussa—Amrod and Amras
Makalaurë—Maglor
Findekáno—Fingon
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin
Arakáno—Argon
Nís—woman (plural: nissi)
Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)