SEA, SWALLOW ME ✶ The Silmarillion

࿐໋ II

T W O

❛ artanis ❜
y.t. — 1362

          𝕬rtanis. Artanis. Artanis. Artanis. Artan——Cìramë is shaken from her inner monologue as the small figure swaddled in the finest silks and linens is handed to her. The elven woman takes her greedily, as if coveting the grandest of gems——yet gently all the same, from the firm hands of her sister's husband. Círamë beams as the babe gently grins up at her with her eyes closed.

    Artanis, meaning, Noble Woman, in their mother language of Quenya —  is the name Arafinwë decided on. It's a wonderful name, truly. Círamë can not think of a better one to suite the newest edition to the family herself——and that news alone surprised her elder sister.

    A gust of wind blows in from her left. The faint hints of salt and sea spray flutter throughout the room. Círamë braces her back against the wall and sighs deeply. This child was special, different from her three nephews. Perhaps more than a simple gift from their creator.

    Círamë removes herself from the wall and takes her seat at the edge of her elder sister's bed.

    Despite her wondering, Círamë refused to dwell on the possibilities. Sure, the babe was born under the lightest day of the year——when the glory of Laurelin shown like a beacon across the oceans and illuminated every dark, decrepit place any evil may lurk. 

    There was, of course, no evil in Alqualondë. Or in all of Aman. Círamë was certain of this, Eärwen, Ecthelion her father Olwë as well. But if there ever was, this blessed land would take care of it, seek it out and lay ruin upon the forces of evil before it ever placed a wretched finger on any of them. Even Artanis.

    Especially Artanis.

    Despite her being less than an hour old, she had already begun to show the signs of wavy wheaten hair——much like that of her father and elder siblings. And her eyes, which flutter open and close, seem not to be bothered by the sheer light which blows past the curtains in Eärwen and Arafinwë's chambers.

    The sea, despite its distance, seemed to accept the child as one of its own. In time Círamë would take the babe down and see if this was truly the case. But, with water level staying fairly normal, only fluctuating slightly due to Eärwen's struggle, and no storms encasing their city, Círamë felt strongly about her assumptions on the matter.

    Círamë watches with intent as the newborn scrunches up her nose and let's out a long whining sound, much like a whistle. Though, in her limited expertise but great knowings of common sense, Círamë knows a child of this age can not whistle, but merely produce high pitched noises that mimic as such.

    A rustle sounds from the hall. Three golden haired children enter, hands clasped behind their backs and to their sides as they are herded into the room by Ecthelion, who looks queasy at the sight of his bedridden sister.

    "She is beautiful Eärwen, as that of starlight." Arafinwë leans over the great expanse of the bed and kisses his wife deeply on the temple. All five visitors crack a grin.

    "I suppose she favors her father's looks?" Eärwen let's out a breathy laugh, sweat dripping down her brow as she moves her palm up to swipe at it. She would have to remember to ask the healer for more towels, seeing as the elleth had slipped out of the room at the notice of approaching guests.