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Arafinwë isn’t lost. He’s just taking a break from the boring meeting his father had dragged him into, and the gleaming sea outside the window seemed so much more enticing than being ignored for another two hours. The fact that he can’t see the building he came from is irrelevant.
This part of Alqualondë, far from the palace and even further from the busy markets, is refreshingly quiet. It doesn’t ask him to sit still and listen, and that’s precisely why he chooses to keep an ear out for any unusual sounds; outside of the sound of him walking and the occasional bird call, it’s peaceful. As he shuffles up a small incline, each grain of sand tries its best to get into his shoes, but he’s not going to let that bother him when everything else is almost perfect.
Why did his father bring him here anyway? It’s not like he’s going to become anyone’s king, he doesn’t need to know the names and titles of everyone in every city. The view is the only redeeming factor of the whole trip, but he’s barely had any time to appreciate it before being whisked away to another afternoon tea, meant to sit there and pretend to be a proper young prince. Like a statue: Arafinwë Ingoldo, carved out of clay with a chisel, shaped to sit straight-backed and polite on a chair too big for him.
So, while his father was smiling and nodding along to King Olwë, he’d slipped out of the room from his seat at the back. He’s lucky amme isn’t here, or she’d certainly have noticed. But atar doesn’t look at him so closely.
Busy with his internal grumbling, he doesn’t even realize he’s reached the top of the hill until he looks up from the slippery sand and gasps. The sea sparkles! He can see the glimmer of the sea reflecting Laurelin’s light, each ripple sending the glow bobbing up and down. He plops down onto the hill and, after a moment’s thought, wrangles his socks and shoes from his feet – begone, grainy texture! – and digs his toes into the sand, soft and warm. It feels like a bath, despite how the sand had itched in his socks, and he wriggles his toes just to feel the smoothness.
Wandering off sure is nice, he thinks idly. I wonder why I don’t do it more.
He looks at the horizon, a gentle breeze brushing against his skin, and starts humming absently. He stays there, taking in the glow, until he’s not sure how long he’s been watching the waves lap at the shore and the seabirds spin lazy circles – but the Treelight is still the same shade of gold, so it can’t have been that long.
A voice breaks through the reverie, someone singing just slightly off-key. He startles, and starts sliding down the little hill.
He flails his arms, but the sand, so soothing a moment ago, now prevents him from finding ground. He grasps at thin air, and tumbles down the side of the hill. Along the shore, swans scatter.
It only takes a second to fall, and he rolls over to look around. From the bottom, the descending slope barely looks like a hill at all. So much for growing taller! Maybe amme was just lying to him to make him feel better about still being so small.
“Oh! Hello,” someone says, kneeling beside him. Probably the person singing just now. “Are you alright? The sand sure is slippery here, but that’s what makes it so fun.”
He sneezes from the sand in his face and sits up, brushing loose grains off his tunic. “I’m fine,” he mumbles. Falling on his face like that in front of someone… he looks down at his feet, then remembers that his shoes are still up there, and now he really wants to flop down onto the sand and not move. But that would be impolite. He still has to greet his conversational partner and witness to his embarrassment.
His not-quite-rescuer is a girl who looks about as old as he is, wearing a simple pastel blue dress crusted with sand along the edges. Her silver hair is tied into a single braid and a pearl-encrusted clip decorates her head, but the shorter strands around her face have fallen loose, and they wave in the breeze as if trying to follow it. “Hello. Thank you for your concern.” he tells her.
“Do you need any help? Oh, and do you remember what you were doing just now?” She speaks to him in Quenya, probably because his hair makes him look like a Vanya.
He frowns. “Sitting and relaxing, mostly. And falling. I’m alright, I don’t need help. ”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“You’re waving your hands too much, I can’t see,” he snaps, then immediately regrets it. She was only trying to help, he shouldn’t have been so indecorous.
But instead of being irritated, she just laughs. “I’m just joking. This is a good place to relax, quiet and out of the way. There aren’t really any reasons to come here unless you’re just wandering, though. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. Are you lost?
“No!” he protests. “I was… also just wandering.”
“Sure,” she drawls. “If you want any pointers on getting back to where you were…”
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt your singing,” he grumbles, “and I only fell because you startled me in the first place.”
She steps back, smiling. “Sorry about disturbing your relaxation. Maybe you should join me! Some leisurely recreation by the shore might just lift your mood.”
He considers it. It’s not like there’s anything else he wants to do. And he was rather rude just now, so he should accept her invitation and make things better. “Okay. Thank you.” He stands up and follows her towards the shore.
She’s also barefoot, shoes left somewhere behind the beach, which makes him feel better about leaving his shoes behind. “Ah, I love this part of the beach. The sand is so soft, it would be a shame to feel it with shoes on!” she says, entirely unprompted, just as he thinks it. Every one of her movements as she meanders along the shore is expressive, excited, almost like she’s dancing.
“It is nice,” he replies, trying not to feel even more embarrassed next to her.
“Oh, and how did I almost forget? Could I have your name?”
“I’m Ara…” Something in him makes him pause, Arafinwë sitting heavy on his tongue, and he doesn’t know why. If he doesn’t tell her his name, he’ll seem weird. But if he does, she might be able to recognize it, and then he’d just make things awkward! Like he always does, and already has. “...wë.”
“Arawë?”
No, that doesn’t sound right, the lámatyávë feels wrong. “No, sorry, um. It’s Arwë.”
Luckily for him, she doesn’t say something like why don’t you know your own name? “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Arwë! You can call me Alquandil,” she chirps. “You aren’t from Alqualondë, right?”
He already gets the sense that Alquandil is one of those people who share everything they think with anyone who will listen. This is good, because he can just follow along with what she says. “No, this is my first time here. I’m visiting with my father.”
They’ve reached the shore, gentle ripples lapping at the sand. He dips his toes experimentally into the water and yanks it out again. It’s cold!
She turns to face him. “So I’m guessing you’ve never skipped rocks before?”
“... No. What’s that?”
She grins, wide and bright like the ocean behind her. “Lucky for you, today you get to learn.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a smooth, flat rock, the size of her small palm.
“Why do you have rocks in your pockets?” he asks.
“I collected them on the way here. Never miss a chance to find a good skipping stone! Now, you want to throw the stone at an angle so that it bounces on the water multiple times, like this.” She demonstrates, flicking her wrist to send the rock into the water.
He gasps: it jumps on the surface of the water four times before sinking. and suddenly he gets why it’s called skipping rocks. “I didn’t know that was possible! How do you do it?”
She tilts her head. “That wasn’t the best example, but it’ll do. The best way to learn is to try. Here, take this.”
She hands him a pebble – not quite as well-shaped as hers, he notices. He throws it, trying to mimic her stance, and hopes he can get at least two bounces…
It falls into the water unceremoniously with a sploosh. He stares at it despondently.
“That’s fine, it took me dozens of tries before I got it. Try flicking your wrist more sharply, just now you hesitated before letting go and lost your momentum.”
On the second try he just drops the rock right by his feet, and on the third the pebble falls into the water again, but on the next attempt the rock skids across the water once before falling. “Yes!” he shouts.
Alquandil claps along with him, looking genuinely happy for him. “That was great!”
“How many more rocks do you have?” he asks.
“Three more tries each, and then a surprise.” He’s already curious about what that is, but she hands him another stone and he misses the chance to ask.
While she’s watching his last attempt (a failure, but somehow he doesn’t feel bad about it), she starts humming some catchy tune, which reminds him: “I forgot you were practicing your singing when you found me,” he says sheepishly. “I’m sorry that I distracted you.”
She looks at him strangely; for a moment, he thinks she’s upset but he can’t figure out why. “It’s not a problem. I wasn’t practicing seriously.”
“What?”
“Don’t you like to sing for fun? Or if not, surely you must know someone who does.”
Arafinwë… doesn’t sing. Humming is safe, but singing is practically an open invitation to anyone who hears him to criticize his pitch and enunciation. There’s Makalaurë, but he’s a professional and Arafinwë doesn’t really know him. And Lalwendë sings often, but only when their parents are around, and only because she’s good at it. “There are much better singers in my family than I. Honestly, I’m not sure I understand it.”
She frowns. “I’ll just have to help you figure it out,” she says decisively. “Singing should be fun. It doesn’t have to be perfect when you’re just having fun.”
He still doesn’t really get it, but he nods along, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when someone speaks with that much conviction.
She skips her last stone, sending ripples along six points in the water, then runs further down the shore; he jogs to catch up to her. “You know what’s just as satisfying as getting a nice skid along the water?”
“What is it?” He leans in, intrigued as she digs a hole in the sand with her feet.
She pulls out a chunk large enough that she needs both hands to hold it. “Throwing a rock as hard as you can!” And without further warning, she chucks it right into the sea.
He stumbles back and yelps with surprise. Concentric circles spread outward from the point of impact, and water splashes into the air. It’s louder than he’d expected!
Alquandil throws her head back and laughs. “Isn’t it wonderful? Your turn!”
He reaches in and pulls out another rock. It’s rough, leaving his hands feeling strangely dusty. “Okay,” he mutters as he swings it back and forth. Upon release, it crashes into the water, throwing droplets everywhere, and the rings in the water bump into each other until the ripples stabilize.
“That was,” he decides, “very satisfying.”
“I know, right?” She’s still beaming, her expression even more vivid than the splashes they’d just made together. “You know, I used to think it would disturb the sea animals, but they live further down, and Uinen doesn’t mind.”
The Maia of the seas? “I didn’t realize that could be a problem.”
“She told me that throwing rocks into the sea is fine, as long as they’re small and I don’t do it too often.” Well, maybe everyone who lives in Alqualondë has talked to the Maiar. “So! Arwë, what do you want to do next?”
He glances at the sky: Laurelin’s golden radiance is starting to acquire a distinct tinge of silver. He should be finding his way back to Olwë’s mansions, his father will have noticed his absence by now. He shouldn’t cause any more trouble, or make anyone worry. He should be a responsible son, prince, Ñoldo, and return now.
He doesn’t want to leave.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly.
“Now that we’ve gotten rid of those rocks, would you like to have a swim?”
He looks around, hesitating.
“Right, I should ask, do you know how to swim?”
“There’s a pool where I live, I’ve taken lessons.” He’s never swam in the open ocean before, but he doesn’t want her to know that.
She pulls at his arm. “Great! Let’s go, there’s a good spot right there–”
He glances at his attire. “But neither of us are in the right clothes for it?”
“I can’t count the number of times I’ve dived in without considering that, I’ll be fine. Though I guess your clothing is a bit formal, it would be hard to dry properly… But if we can’t swim, then at least we can get our feet wet. Come with me.”
She steps into the sea first, and he follows, stumbling briefly as he steps in. She catches his arm, and they stand in the shallows together, almost hugging.
“You can’t really complete a beach visit without touching the water,” she explains, stirring up mud as she traces circles in the sand with a foot. Strands of hair frame her face with Telperion’s silver; he’s reminded that telpe is a Telerin word, and suddenly he understands why. “Isn’t it wonderful just to be here? It’s like you’re melding with the sand, and silt, and sea. When I’m tired I just put my feet in the water, but if I have energy I swim. Dancing in the water helps you truly appreciate it.”
Shivering a little from the chill as small waves lap at his feet, he mumbles, “You’re the most talkative person I’ve ever met.”
She pulls away slightly, hand still on his arm. Her expression is strange again. “Is that a bad thing? There’s no need for restraint, neither of us are in formal company. I could say that you’re one of the most reserved people I’ve met.”
Maybe she’s harder to understand than he’d thought. “No, you’re right,” he realizes. “I liked listening to your explanations. It made me… I enjoyed it.”
“Oh. Thank you. I’m glad the swans guided me to you.” That might be the only time he’s actually surprised her, while she’s shocked him many times today; it feels right to be on more even footing. The entire day has been made worthwhile because of her, and suddenly he feels guilty about spending it on false pretenses.
“Alquandil, I…”
He’s broken off by another voice, this one familiar: he’d heard it just this morning. “Arafinwë! Is that you?”
A distant figure runs towards them, resolving into the King of the Teleri, whose meeting he had so unwisely abandoned.
Abruptly, he steps back from Alquandil, arms stiffening at his sides. “Lord Olwë!” he exclaims, bowing hastily, unsure what to say next.
Beside him, Alquandil’s eyebrows raise slightly, the expression of someone piecing together many things at once. Her posture has shifted too, although he can’t quite pinpoint the difference. “Arafinwë?” she mutters quietly.
He braces himself for anger – from which one of them, he’s not sure – but neither seem inclined towards it. “Finwë! I’ve found your son!” Olwë calls into the distance, and Arafinwë squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, now certain these blissful moments are over.
“I apologize for leaving our meeting early without giving notice, and causing you the trouble of finding me,” he says first. His father will likely make him say it again, so he wants to be prepared.
“Yes, we were worried about you,” he replies, “but perhaps something good has come of your disappearance! I suppose this saves us the trouble of a formal introduction between you two. Eärwen, I hope you’ve treated him courteously?”
“Of course, atya,” she says sweetly. “He was delightful company, even better than the swans.”
Eärwen? Now the pieces fall into place for him as well, a vague memory of names on a family tree surfacing. So the person he’s been playing with, who saw him slide onto his face and taught him how to skip rocks, is the daughter of the King of the Teleri. Oh, stars preserve him. He’s sure her amilessë isn’t ‘Alquandil’ either.
They share a look, and simultaneously decide it’s easier not to mention their mutual case of mistaken identity, regardless of how intentional it might have been.
“Yes, I am grateful for everything she has shown me,” he adds.
Olwë smiles, only slightly strained, but then he sees his father striding towards them, walking unfairly quickly along the sand. Arafinwë’s willing to bet he never gets sand in his shoes. The thought is ridiculous enough that he almost laughs, but that’s sure to get him into even more trouble.
“Arafinwë. Finally, I was worried about you.”
He swallows softly. “Atarinya.” He should apologize, explain himself, say anything, but suddenly he’s been stripped of words.
“Lord Finwë,” Eärwen cuts in, bowing slightly, unnervingly demure compared to how she was when they were alone. Arafinwë glances at her quickly, trying to warn her not to overstep. “I appreciated your son’s company, it was most enjoyable.”
His father acknowledges her absently, then looks him up and down, sighing. “You could stand to learn something from her, Arafinwë.”
He nods, hoping to get it over with. “Yes, Father.”
His father just looks at his feet and shakes his head, gesturing for him to move. “Very well, let us find your shoes and return to our rooms.”
Disappointed but not angry? No, more likely he just doesn’t want to scold him in front of King Olwë. It’s a matter of reputation. Two youngest-children of kings side by side, one awkward and one graceful, and it’s very clear which one Arafinwë is. But he’ll take the stifling nature of silence over words.
They reach the hill where he’d left his shoes behind, and he puts them back on, trying to ignore the way the sand itches in his socks. He and Eärwen walk in front of their fathers, who have again begun ambulatory conversation behind them. Eärwen leans close to his ear and snickers. “It’s like they’re still on the Great Journey.”
Well, if she’s comfortable enough to talk in front of them, he might as well ask. “Why did you let me lie to you?”
“About what, your name?” She shrugs, somehow making the movement elegant. “It seemed like you needed it. Besides, it was an interesting lie. Most of the people I meet recognize me. It was refreshing to be myself with someone who didn’t know who I am.’’
Would she have given him a false name even if he had not? It seems rude to ask, especially not after she’d tried to soften his father’s disappointment for him.
‘‘It’s just inescapable,’’ he says, suddenly compelled to explain himself further. ‘‘I wanted something different, something simpler. A description, a name that you wouldn’t think about twice.”
“I think I understand,” she says softly, and squeezes his arm.
Spurred by some boldness of unknown source, he continues, “And your amilessë isn’t Alquandil, right?”
“You’re right. It does have to do with swans, though! The meanings of my names have always suited me. Perhaps you could come up with something that suits you better, when you wish to be unknown. Your hair is a remarkable gold, a name referring to that could be suitable.”
Laurë… findë… no, that still bears a resemblance to his father’s name, if only by coincidence. Then again, names were never meant to be chosen so casually. “I’ll think about it,” he promises.
“I’d love to hear what you end up with,” she offers. He ducks his head shyly.
Then their parents realize how far ahead they’ve gotten and catch up, and the time for conversation is over.
But when they reach Olwë’s mansions and part ways, she tells him, “I look forward to meeting you again soon.” The words are prim, the picture of decorum, but the wave she gives him is not.
Arafinwë smiles back, and something in his chest loosens, glowing resplendent in the mingling of the Two Trees’ golden and silver lights. Despite his father standing behind him, despite his mistakes, he feels like a bead of Treelight that could float on the glistening sea and rise into the horizon.
Yes, he would very much like to see Eärwen again.