Just a note: Ainë is pronounced "eye-nay". And the name was changed because 1) I wasn't too fond of Arien and 2) Jules14 dutifully pointed out to me that Arien is the name of one of the Maia, and the elves would never name one of their offspring after her…it would be disrespectful. And I did not want to disrespect the elves.
Disclaimer: I think disclaimers are dumb, and I'm boycotting them.
Ainë stared up at the stars that peeked between the boughs of the trees. Bright little ornaments, representing those elven folk who had walked the land before her. Eärendil. Nimrodel. Amroth. She sighed. "You cannot dwell on the past so. Remember what Mother always said…'Mope about like a dull little Anduin fish and you'll fade before our very eyes.' Valor, did I despise being called Little Fish. There is one positive aspect of being separated from her by a sea." She slowly released the breath she had been holding in, and rolled onto her side. "You have duties to see to, bestowed upon you by Estel, Gandalf, and the Lady herself. Find the happiness in things, or just go build your ship now, and get it over with." She smiled slightly, savoring the self-pity and the irony, and unfocused her eyes, drifting into an uneasy slumber.
"Ainë, manke ier lle?" (where are you?)
She looked around for who had spoken. "Sinome!" (here!) she called. "Sinome!" She was in the little glade by the Nimrodel River that she always had inhabited while in Lothlorien. The trees were more golden than usual, sparkling with every breeze. It was a warm, achingly beautiful summer.
"Ainë," the voice said again. She looked over her right shoulder, seeing a figure in the trees. The voice was deep, speaking Elvish with a note of velvet that any elf could be envious of.
She reached for her reassuring scabbard, her instinct getting the best of her overwhelmed senses, but felt nothing but smooth, rustling layers of silk. She peered down. A gown, made of the purest violet, covered her thighs. She heard a twig snap and looked up abruptly, coming face-to-face with him. The tip of his nose almost touched hers, his green eyes boring deeply into hers.
She gasped and stepped back, only to feel his hands gripping her wrists, holding them at his sides. An uncharacteristic fear and vulnerability rose in her throat, causing her to freeze. She struggled, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, which was now buried in her hair. She could hear him inhaling deeply, taking in her scent like an animal memorizing the smell of its prey. She was torn between being delighted or indignant, scared or lustful.
"Lady."
Ainë's eyes focused immediately. It was night still, perhaps a few hours from dawn. Artamir was looking at her from his own pallet. She blinked.
"Yes?"
"Have you not slept?"
"Of course I have." She was nervous. She should have felt his wakefulness, even in her own slumber. Had she taken leave of her senses? Even her most intense dream had not impeded her so. "A vision, then," she thought, mentally shaking herself. "Captain," she began, "Why is a group of Gondorian soldiers, made of only three men, wandering the space between the foothills of the Misty Mountains and the River Anduin? This is at least five hundred miles from the White City. It was my belief that the people of Gondor parleyed with the people of Rohan, but never crossed the Hithaeglir, or stepped within a hundred yards of Moria. And yet, you came from the north." She gazed at him serenely. "Where have you been?"
Discomfort radiated off of Artamir as he turned his eyes guiltily to the dying embers of the fire. "Our mission is of the utmost secrecy," he murmured, "bestowed upon us by the King, himself."
Ainë's face remained unchanged. "I should think that I could be trusted with such sensitive information." Usually, she would have allowed any fellow traveler to keep his secrets. But she was a caretaker of sorts for all of Middle Earth, and it was currently her business to know everyone else's.
He grunted, steeling himself. "Perhaps you are right. But I mustn't reveal anything. Should you wish it, you may question the King once we reach the White City."
Ainë relaxed a little. "It is good to see that someone hasn't lost their sense of loyalty. He will keep his confidence…for now." She smirked. "The boy will tell me, anyhow."
She rose to her feet in one fluid motion, feeling the elven grace down to her bones. She took an exhilarating breath of air. "How I love who I am." She began to absentmindedly braid the locks of hair in front of her ears, leaving them exposed to the dark, frigid air. She would sleep no more, after the vision.
It troubled her greatly, what she had seen and felt. No real elf or man had been able to conjure those tumultuous feelings in her, much less one of her mind's making. She was angry at herself, mainly for letting down her guard. "It seems that I lose my elvishness a bit more each year that I am apart from my kin," she mused worriedly. For the moment, Ainë wished fervently never to see those eyes again…or to want anything as much. She had never associated elven affection with such…ferociousness. Galadriel and Celeborn's kisses had always been so reserved. Even Arwen and Aragorn had not shown such fervor in their passion. The way that elf had grabbed her, the way he'd put himself in such proximity to her, the sensations he evoked from her…it seemed so feral.
She surveyed her environment. The trees were growing farther apart in this place. She could see the outline of a talan maybe half a mile away, and the air had become tinged with the essence of…what had always seemed to Ainë, grace and rigorously-tended gardens. Places like Lothlorien did not lose their ambience, the ghosts who had loved that land so ardently.
She remembered her friend Sermë forcing her to promise to look in on her little garden and talan once every few decades before she and her husband had departed for the Grey Havens. The last time Ainë had been, dead leaves had covered the floor of the empty home, though the flowers had flourished wildly. In fact, all of Lorien had seemed to be blooming in a shadowed, lovely sort of way, in the absence of most of the elves. Nearly all of the flets had been overgrown with deep green ivy, the leaves flecked with gold. The ancient tomes in Celeborn's library had been carefully guarded since his departure, but the statues in its courtyard had been overcome by errant roses from Galadriel's collection. Even the birds sang sweeter, more lamenting songs. The larks that lived upon the roof of Sermë's place had made Ainë want to weep when she'd slept there. "Their song, and the overwhelming desolation I felt without her."
Fanya shook her mane in greeting, glad of her mistress's gentle touch. She loathed the harsh fragrance of Man; unwashed skin, cheap boot leather, and mud. She longed for the days that she had basked in the care of the elves every day, running with the Mearas in the Field of Celebrant, and across the plains that belonged to the descendants of Shadowfax.
Ainë finished with her hair and brushed the errant blades of grass and leaves off of Fanya's back. The horse craned her head to make eye-contact with her. She seemed to be saying, let us be gone!
"I know, Vanimamin," (my beauty) Ainë whispered in Sindarin, stroking her long face. "Rato." (Soon.) Ainë crept to her bags, sliding her quiver and bow out and onto her back.
When she returned with a hare slung over her shoulder, she found Aldas sitting against the trunk of a mallorn, humming softly and carving something in a bit of wood.
"What is her name?" she asked, sitting across from him and taking out her dagger to skin their breakfast.
He started. "You are deviously quiet. I heard nothing of your coming, or leaving, for that matter."
"A trait of my people. Will you answer my question?"
He smiled sheepishly, his leonine face glowing in the pale dawn light. "Finduilas."
Ainë raised a brow. "Has she any relation to her namesake?"
Aldas looked at her curiously. "I know not of whom you speak. She is the daughter of the Steward Falastur and his lady, Lira, nobility reaching back past the Third Age." He looked thoughtful. "She did tell me that she had a bit of Shieldmaiden's blood in her, whatever that meant."
"She will be the great-great-granddaughter of Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn." Ainë smiled. "A fine family. You are married?"
He blushed. "Our firstborn is due in a matter of weeks. I am anxious to be home." He looked off into the distance, and she knew that he saw Finduilas's face.
"What is she like?"
"Hair as pale as young wheat stalks, eyes bluer than the seaside of Ithilien. Her voice is comparable to nothing…if moonlight had a sound…" his voice trailed off, eyes glistening.
"May the Valor bless your union, and your child," Ainë said amiably, her heart warmed.
"Is he talking of her again?" Gareth's hair stood up at awkward angles, Ainë noticed as he sat up, yawning. She sprinkled some herbs from a linen pouch on her belt upon the carcass of her kill, and fastidiously perched the rabbit on the hot embers in the fire circle.
"I did not hear you leave to hunt," Artamir remarked, walking up.
"I daresay you did not. The race of Man truly has forgotten the Elves, haven't they?"
"You scoundrel!"
"What?"
"Do not play innocent with me. You've cheated."
Rumil looked innocently across the flet. "Dear Orophin, you are clearly not the best at cards. I beg you to remember your honor, and admit defeat with dignity."
Orophin stood up, scattering the deck. "Let us settle this like Men!"
Rumil grinned with delight. "Do, lets!"
"Would you both shut up?" Haldir growled from his cot in the corner. "If you insist on bloodying each other's faces, do it outside-and a proper two miles away."
"He's just tired from lack of sleep," Rumil said conspiratorially. "I heard him mumbling all night."
"Leave!"
"Would you like us to keep a lookout out for orcs while we're gone?" Orophin called on his way down the ladder.
Haldir sighed dramatically and sat up, abandoning all hope of rest. Perhaps he would climb to the top of a mallorn, or run a brisk 20 miles, or so. "An elf could fade out of sheer boredom, around here," he thought.
Rumil and Orophin, as of late, spent much of their time thinking of increasingly entertaining and daring things to do. Since they virtually had free reign over Lothlorien, they did not hesitate to expand the practice fields (fighting was on the list of Most Amusing Activities to Pass the Time), take control of the kitchens (so was eating), and generally cause havoc.
Haldir spent most of his time keeping them in check, and seeing to the other remaining elves in the city, who frequently complained about his brothers. Unfortunate Poldon, the appointed caretaker of the library Cerin Amroth, had battled the two in order to save his books and the existing elanor and niphredil from extinction.
"Oh, Haldir!"
Rumil's currently aggravating voice drifted up to the talan. Haldir stretched his arms, shaking the last bit of sleep out of them, and jumped straight out of the talan, to the ground.
"Brother," Orophin said happily, "It would appear that we shall be having visitors." Haldir cocked his head in the direction that the two indicated. A small band of mounted riders approached at a moderate speed. They appeared to be human…except for one, riding a dove-grey elven steed.
"What do you make of it?" Rumil asked.
"Does it really matter? You'd be glad to see an orc in the woods, these days."
"I daresay he'd keep it as a pet," Haldir commented.
"Oh, shall we surprise them?" Rumil was practically dancing around with joy. The brothers had not encountered outsiders for almost twenty years.
"To the trees. Move at my signal," Haldir said, his heart lifting slightly at the prospect of new faces…even if they were human. His brow furrowed slightly. Humans. He had not met a Man he liked since he'd been acquainted with King Elessar.
He much preferred hobbits, now. Several of the Fairbairns of Westmarch, as well as various Tooks and Brandybucks, had journeyed through Lorien. Orophin and Rumil had been elated at Merry and Pippin's uncanny knack for mischief, and heartily embraced their descendants. Hobbits were unimaginably loyal, as well as increasingly more adventurous. Frodo and the Fellowship of the Ring had set a pleasing trend for their kin.
Haldir grasped the ladder and leapt up into the trees, propelling himself soundlessly from branch to branch. He and the others had perfected their stealth techniques to faultlessness…even another elf would not be able to detect them above.
The silhouettes had been barely visible as they slipped from the canopy of leaves- the three men hadn't even noticed their presence until the horses whinnied in surprise.
Ainë had been vigilantly looking to the trees, but she was not aware of the elves until Fanya shuddered with apprehension, and a sword's pommel in the tree to her left had caught the sunlight.
"Daro!" (stop)
There were three of them, two with dark hair, and one with locks so fair as to be nearly white. All were tall and lithe, clothed in various shades of green and gold, blending in with the mallyrn.
Ainë beamed at the familiar face directly in front of her. "Rumil! You've been practicing," she observed in elvish. "Usually, an intoxicated dwarf would be harder to detect in the trees. Well done."
Rumil lowered his notched arrow. "You cannot be too vigilant, these days," he laughed.
Orophin quickly sheathed his sword. "Mae govannen, Ainë." (well met)
"You have brought Men into our midst," a third voice mirthlessly intoned. Ainë twisted on Fanya's back and glanced at the blonde elf.
"My apologies…I do have a reason. These are Gondorians on a mission for the King. It seems that even noble, educated Men such as themselves have forgotten the existence of elves. I mean to remedy this. Consider them an envoy."
He looked angry. Ainë wondered why her chest grew tighter, the more she looked at him. At his flashing eyes.
"And would you send an envoy of Men to the Shire, if hobbits had been forgotten?"
Ainë quirked her brow, her voice cold as she said, "And break the law Estel himself put into place? Surely such a situation is not comparable. I had believed that we elves, even with dwindling numbers, could take care of ourselves."
Rumil laughed loudly, startling even the horses. Orophin was grinning.
"Haldir, she rivals you in cool manner and quizzical brow!"
Ainë looked bemusedly between her friends and their brother. "May I make introductions, if we are quite through? Rumil, Orophin, I trust that you've brushed up on your Westron in your free time." She turned to look at her companions. "May I introduce to you Captain Artamir, Aldas, and Gareth, of Gondor." She turned to the elves. "These fine elves are the Lord Marchwarden, Haldir, and his brothers, Lords Rumil and Orophin."
In the silence, she finally noticed the astonishment on the faces of the Men. Artamir and Aldas recovered some of their dignity, bowing from the waist up. Gareth's mouth still hung wide enough to collect insects.
"Welcome," Orophin said with a warm smile.
"We thank you," Artamir said carefully. "Though, we will not enter your lands, if there is objection to our presence."
"Nonsense!" Rumil exclaimed. "You shall be exalted guests! Follow us, I beg you." He turned and scampered up the nearest mallorn, calling, "You'll have to be quick to keep up!" Orophin, still grinning, swung up after him.
Haldir gave a last withering look to Ainë before disappearing into the leaves.
"Come!" Ainë called, spurring Fanya into a gallop. She could follow the green-gold blur of Rumil's back, even if the Gondorians couldn't.
Gareth had not thought it possible in his lifetime…not one elf, but four-in less than 24 hours. His Grandmother had whispered the tales to him every day of his childhood, and still...it was unimaginable.
He wondered if the elf-pretty King Astalmir was aware of their existence. He acted so superior and high-minded all the time, while only being a year or two Gareth's senior. Gareth shuddered. The indignity of it. It was fortunate that the Steward had things under control, Gareth thought.
Otherwise, what would happen to the realm?
