SEA, SWALLOW ME ✶ The Silmarillion

࿐໋ II

    Findaráto, the eldest of Eärwen and Arafinwë children, is the first to speak amongst the bunch. He steps foreword, brushing up against Círamë's back as he towers over her seated form. "She has your likeness mother. As starlight, just like Atar said," Círamë glances up at Eärwen who seems to harbor the glowing likeness of the golden tree of Laurelin. "Her hair is as father's and ours. Though golden and not silver as yours."

    "It seems Illúvatar bestowed upon me a gift I cannot pass down to even my own daughter." Eärwen chuckles, a twinkle in her eye as her eyes connect with each of her three sons, all varying in age, and then over to Círamë's. "My silver hair is mine and father's alone." She raises her voice in mock triumph as Arafinwë places a firm hand on her shoulder to settle her.

    "You need rest mime mel."

    Eärwen nods in agreement. Círamë rises in her seat, her right left hand supporting Artanis' head and her left the minimal weight of her swaddled body as she walked over to Eärwen's bedside and set her gently into her arms.

    "I have never seen any being more precious or true." Círamë speaks softly, eyeing flickering from the babe to her sister and then over to Arafinwë. "I will leave you two. Please fetch me if you need anything, be it as simple as good company or a shell from the shores." Eärwen nods silently. Arafinwë gives her a slow bow, speaking thanks as the dark-haired elleth steps back from the bed.

    "I will go with you." Findaráto, the eldest son of Eärwen speaks. Círamë turns back, ready to protest for him to tend to his mother, but the look on his pale, wide-eyed face is priceless as he stumbles out after her. "The sight of blood sickens me." Círamë surpresses a laugh as her nephew trails after her.

    The door closes behind the two. Leaving Círamë, Findaráto, and Ecthelion in the finely decorated hall. A gust of salty air blows gently through the hall, giving the three an energizing breath of fresh air.

    "I often forget you two are the same age." Ecthelion huffs, arms crossing over his chest as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, back pressing firmly against the marble wall.

    "What has that to do with any of this?" Findaráto rolls his eyes, mirroring his uncles stance.

    "Do not humor him Findaráto, he's merely trying to justify his lack of wife."

    Ecthelion scoffs. "Am not."

    "Are toooooo." Círamë insists, a giggle bubbling from her throat. It was moments like this that reminded her of how young she truly was and how youthful she was meant to be. With her father not around, she could be as childish as she wanted, pushing all diplomacies aside. Círamë only prayed that she would be graced with many more moments like this forevermore.

    "I say we go to Tirion." Findaráto suggests. Ecthelion drops the banter with his sister quickly and turns to his nephew, brows hiking into his hairline as he questions.

     "Why?"

     "Blow off time, go to the market——they're much better in terms of trinket variety, as you know, and then break the news to both Nerdanel and Anairë. I'm sure they'd screech like fowl at the news of a new babe to fuss over."

    Ecthelion cracks a smirk as he speaks. "You just want to gossip with Nelyafinwë and Findecáno."

    Findaráto shakes his head as if that is the wildest assumption he has ever heard. "As if!" He exclaims, feigning surprise as he slaps his hand over his chest. "That is absured! Men of nobility do not gossip, we merely spread news."