[Silmarillion]: The Best of Our Times
He seemed to be under the impression that nobody noticed when this happened, which was, sadly, fairly often. He was wrong, though; Artanáro always knew, and it always put him out of sorts.
He knew just why, too. Itarildë had been spending all her time with Tuor, and while Artanáro thought that he was a decent, sensible man, Lómion made no secret of his dislike. But all of that was secondary to the fact that Cousin Lómion was sulking, and it was Artanáro’s solemn duty to cheer him up.
As expected, Artanáro (sometimes called Gil-Galad, though whatever his mother had apparently believed he thought that it was a bit premature to call him a Star of anything) found him in his customary sulking-place on the balconies. It quite escaped him why Lómion should want to be here of all places, as it was clear that he didn’t like it. Take today, for example - his hands were wrapped white-knuckled around the railing and Artanáro could see the tension in his shoulders.
“Cousin!” he said, after a pause to consider the best approach to take, and deciding that perhaps an energetic appeal would help. (He had tried sympathy once, and it had only seemed to serve to make Lómion gloomier.) “Imagine finding you here! I was just-”
“You were looking for me.”
Always so suspicious. Artanáro frowned, but was undeterred. “Well, yes,” he admitted, glad that he didn’t really have to lie, and went over and stood next to his cousin, looking out over the splendid vista facing east, at the sea. “It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?”
Artanáro could almost hear Lómion’s teeth grind, though he was sure he had no idea why. “I suppose,” he said, finally, “If you like that kind of thing.”
“You should come with me to the sea sometime,” Artanáro urged, brightening even if his first attempt appeared to have failed - but if it were that easy, he would not have been concerned. “You would love it, Lómion. The sound of the waves and the cries of the gulls - and the water is very refreshing, if you should like to swim.”
Lómion’s mouth tightened. “Ulmo the Vala tends the seas.”
Artanáro blinked at what seemed to him a rather abrupt change of subject. “-why, yes. This city honors him, you know, and has some of his prot-”
“Tuor the man is favored of Ulmo,” said Lómion, his voice darkening even further, and Artanáro frowned, somewhat disappointed. Sometimes he was almost sure that his cousin was somewhat attached to his misery. Perhaps even enjoyed it a little. But that did not mean it wasn’t a bad habit and one he needed help with.
And that was what he was here for.
“You know,” he said, after a few moments of dark silence from his cousin, “I truly think that you would not get along so poorly with Tuor. If you tried, I mean. You are both very intelligent and he is quite sensible-”
“Sensible,” sneered Lómion, not even waiting for him to finish. (How rude, Artanáro thought privately, but decided that his cousin was in a bad way and did not need a scolding besides. Besides, Lómion was older, and Artanáro was too fond of him to really want to do any scolding.) “Sensible. Say ‘dull’ rather and strike closer to the truth.”
Artanáro was mildly offended, as he thought himself rather sensible and not dull at all. However, he put it up to Lómion’s dislike of Tuor and attempted again. “Well,” he said, pushing forward bravely, “Just the same, Itarildë is really very fond of him and I do think you ought to be happy for her. The wedding will be grand.”
Lómion turned on him, looking suddenly stricken. “Wedding?” He said, sounding absolutely horrified.
“You haven’t missed it,” Artanáro hastened to assure him, but his cousin made a sound quite like a moan and fled to a bench, where he flopped down in abject misery.
“That isn’t possible,” he said, and Artanáro, uncertain, reached out and patted his shoulder in what he hoped was a consoling manner. It did not seem to work very well. He tried again. “Would you like to go scouting, cousin Lómion? It could be very invigorating.”
Lómion’s hands lowered somewhat from his face and his dark eyes slid sideways to gaze at him. Artanáro looked earnestly at him, waiting. “Invigorating,” he said, finally, and there was a somewhat odd note to his voice that Artanáro was privately a bit suspicious of.
“Yes,” he said, with enthusiasm nonetheless. “We could take the horses and race each other. Or go on foot! I think it sounds lovely.”
“I think it sounds awful,” said Lómion, and his eyes slid away again. “I don’t understand you, Gil.”
Artanáro flushed. “I had rather you did not call me that,” he said, a bit stiffly. “It sounds so - awkward.”
Abruptly, Lómion smiled. It brightened his whole face, and Artanáro’s heart swelled. “You have not changed at all, have you? Not such a far rise from the curly-headed colt stumbling after me when first I arrived here.”
Artanáro felt his mouth curve down in a frown, though he could not help the small and welling joy that Lómion, however briefly, seemed to have cheered. Even if it was at his expense, and he could feel himself flushing. “I was not so small as that,” he said, perhaps a bit defensively, and to his utmost affront Lómion laughed briefly and reached out to ruffle his hair.
“Selenya! Of course you do not think so.”
“I am not so much younger than you,” Artanáro insisted, and Lómion shook his head, slightly.
“Are you not? You are not yet married,” and his eyebrow arched, slightly, “And hardly even blooded.”
Artanáro straightened his back, feeling himself flush even more nonetheless. For a different reason, now, though. “Neither are you yourself, Lómion. Do you call yourself a youth by the same token?”
Immediately, the smile, no matter how dry and sardonic, flickered and died, and Lómion turned his head abruptly away. Artanáro felt his stomach think. Always just the wrong thing to say. “Perhaps I have not found a lady worthy of me yet,” he said, but Artanáro did not really believe him.
He felt a small sprig of foolish hope and swiftly smothered it. The silence that ensued felt strange, and Artanáro shifted, uncomfortably.
Then to his utmost surprise, Lómion turned to him, face set. “You know,” he said, suddenly, “I think I would like to go scouting with you. This place feels - confining. It would be good to get away for a while.”
Artanáro felt his face light up and tried not to feel foolish for it, just delighted - and ever so faintly surprised. Lómion did not seem particularly cheered by the idea, but fresh air was likely just what he needed, and Artanáro would be there to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t brood. Too much. “Really?”
“Yes,” said Lómion, and curiously enough, glanced toward the palace. “Really.”
**
Lómion was keeping a secret.
He seemed to be under the impression that nobody had any idea, but that was false. Artanáro knew, as he always had, as he knew everything about his cousin, or nearly, he believed.
So Artanáro didn’t want to go.
Something had changed. There was something strange in Lómion’s bearing, in his eyes. Something portentous and fateful that made Artanáro very nervous. It hadn’t been so long, after all, since the scouting trip that Lómion had come back from alone, and he had been shaky after that, jumpy and nervous and fidgety.
His cousin seemed better now, but he was still reluctant to leave. After all, no one else seemed inclined to look after Cousin Lómion, seemed to think he could do it himself (when Artanáro knew for a fact he could not).
“Are you all right?” He asked, for the sixth time as he loaded his saddlebags.
Lómion scoffed, but it sounded empty. “It’s only a few days, Artanáro. What are you expecting, the end of the world?”
Artanáro frowned. He had considered a number of scenarios, but he hadn’t thought of that one. Lómion shook his head. “I'm fine.”
Artanáro hesitated, and scrutinized him, but then nodded. It was only a few days, and he would hurry back, he determined. “Are you sure?” he pressed, instead. Lómion stared at him for a few moments, and then smirked, though to Artanáro it seemed nearly forced.
“Yes, I'm sure. Mother. Come, they will leave you behind if you dawdle any longer.”
Artanáro did not want to be left behind, and he had no real excuse to linger any longer. He sighed, heavily, and swung up onto the horse’s back lightly, looking down at Lómion where he held the horse’s head.
“Take care of yourself,” Artanáro admonished. “Really.”
>Lómion smiled, just a little, a cold and small thing that was even rarer than it had been. “I will,” he said. “I promise.”
He knew just why, too. Itarildë had been spending all her time with Tuor, and while Artanáro thought that he was a decent, sensible man, Lómion made no secret of his dislike. But all of that was secondary to the fact that Cousin Lómion was sulking, and it was Artanáro’s solemn duty to cheer him up.
As expected, Artanáro (sometimes called Gil-Galad, though whatever his mother had apparently believed he thought that it was a bit premature to call him a Star of anything) found him in his customary sulking-place on the balconies. It quite escaped him why Lómion should want to be here of all places, as it was clear that he didn’t like it. Take today, for example - his hands were wrapped white-knuckled around the railing and Artanáro could see the tension in his shoulders.
“Cousin!” he said, after a pause to consider the best approach to take, and deciding that perhaps an energetic appeal would help. (He had tried sympathy once, and it had only seemed to serve to make Lómion gloomier.) “Imagine finding you here! I was just-”
“You were looking for me.”
Always so suspicious. Artanáro frowned, but was undeterred. “Well, yes,” he admitted, glad that he didn’t really have to lie, and went over and stood next to his cousin, looking out over the splendid vista facing east, at the sea. “It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?”
Artanáro could almost hear Lómion’s teeth grind, though he was sure he had no idea why. “I suppose,” he said, finally, “If you like that kind of thing.”
“You should come with me to the sea sometime,” Artanáro urged, brightening even if his first attempt appeared to have failed - but if it were that easy, he would not have been concerned. “You would love it, Lómion. The sound of the waves and the cries of the gulls - and the water is very refreshing, if you should like to swim.”
Lómion’s mouth tightened. “Ulmo the Vala tends the seas.”
Artanáro blinked at what seemed to him a rather abrupt change of subject. “-why, yes. This city honors him, you know, and has some of his prot-”
“Tuor the man is favored of Ulmo,” said Lómion, his voice darkening even further, and Artanáro frowned, somewhat disappointed. Sometimes he was almost sure that his cousin was somewhat attached to his misery. Perhaps even enjoyed it a little. But that did not mean it wasn’t a bad habit and one he needed help with.
And that was what he was here for.
“You know,” he said, after a few moments of dark silence from his cousin, “I truly think that you would not get along so poorly with Tuor. If you tried, I mean. You are both very intelligent and he is quite sensible-”
“Sensible,” sneered Lómion, not even waiting for him to finish. (How rude, Artanáro thought privately, but decided that his cousin was in a bad way and did not need a scolding besides. Besides, Lómion was older, and Artanáro was too fond of him to really want to do any scolding.) “Sensible. Say ‘dull’ rather and strike closer to the truth.”
Artanáro was mildly offended, as he thought himself rather sensible and not dull at all. However, he put it up to Lómion’s dislike of Tuor and attempted again. “Well,” he said, pushing forward bravely, “Just the same, Itarildë is really very fond of him and I do think you ought to be happy for her. The wedding will be grand.”
Lómion turned on him, looking suddenly stricken. “Wedding?” He said, sounding absolutely horrified.
“You haven’t missed it,” Artanáro hastened to assure him, but his cousin made a sound quite like a moan and fled to a bench, where he flopped down in abject misery.
“That isn’t possible,” he said, and Artanáro, uncertain, reached out and patted his shoulder in what he hoped was a consoling manner. It did not seem to work very well. He tried again. “Would you like to go scouting, cousin Lómion? It could be very invigorating.”
Lómion’s hands lowered somewhat from his face and his dark eyes slid sideways to gaze at him. Artanáro looked earnestly at him, waiting. “Invigorating,” he said, finally, and there was a somewhat odd note to his voice that Artanáro was privately a bit suspicious of.
“Yes,” he said, with enthusiasm nonetheless. “We could take the horses and race each other. Or go on foot! I think it sounds lovely.”
“I think it sounds awful,” said Lómion, and his eyes slid away again. “I don’t understand you, Gil.”
Artanáro flushed. “I had rather you did not call me that,” he said, a bit stiffly. “It sounds so - awkward.”
Abruptly, Lómion smiled. It brightened his whole face, and Artanáro’s heart swelled. “You have not changed at all, have you? Not such a far rise from the curly-headed colt stumbling after me when first I arrived here.”
Artanáro felt his mouth curve down in a frown, though he could not help the small and welling joy that Lómion, however briefly, seemed to have cheered. Even if it was at his expense, and he could feel himself flushing. “I was not so small as that,” he said, perhaps a bit defensively, and to his utmost affront Lómion laughed briefly and reached out to ruffle his hair.
“Selenya! Of course you do not think so.”
“I am not so much younger than you,” Artanáro insisted, and Lómion shook his head, slightly.
“Are you not? You are not yet married,” and his eyebrow arched, slightly, “And hardly even blooded.”
Artanáro straightened his back, feeling himself flush even more nonetheless. For a different reason, now, though. “Neither are you yourself, Lómion. Do you call yourself a youth by the same token?”
Immediately, the smile, no matter how dry and sardonic, flickered and died, and Lómion turned his head abruptly away. Artanáro felt his stomach think. Always just the wrong thing to say. “Perhaps I have not found a lady worthy of me yet,” he said, but Artanáro did not really believe him.
He felt a small sprig of foolish hope and swiftly smothered it. The silence that ensued felt strange, and Artanáro shifted, uncomfortably.
Then to his utmost surprise, Lómion turned to him, face set. “You know,” he said, suddenly, “I think I would like to go scouting with you. This place feels - confining. It would be good to get away for a while.”
Artanáro felt his face light up and tried not to feel foolish for it, just delighted - and ever so faintly surprised. Lómion did not seem particularly cheered by the idea, but fresh air was likely just what he needed, and Artanáro would be there to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t brood. Too much. “Really?”
“Yes,” said Lómion, and curiously enough, glanced toward the palace. “Really.”
**
Lómion was keeping a secret.
He seemed to be under the impression that nobody had any idea, but that was false. Artanáro knew, as he always had, as he knew everything about his cousin, or nearly, he believed.
So Artanáro didn’t want to go.
Something had changed. There was something strange in Lómion’s bearing, in his eyes. Something portentous and fateful that made Artanáro very nervous. It hadn’t been so long, after all, since the scouting trip that Lómion had come back from alone, and he had been shaky after that, jumpy and nervous and fidgety.
His cousin seemed better now, but he was still reluctant to leave. After all, no one else seemed inclined to look after Cousin Lómion, seemed to think he could do it himself (when Artanáro knew for a fact he could not).
“Are you all right?” He asked, for the sixth time as he loaded his saddlebags.
Lómion scoffed, but it sounded empty. “It’s only a few days, Artanáro. What are you expecting, the end of the world?”
Artanáro frowned. He had considered a number of scenarios, but he hadn’t thought of that one. Lómion shook his head. “I'm fine.”
Artanáro hesitated, and scrutinized him, but then nodded. It was only a few days, and he would hurry back, he determined. “Are you sure?” he pressed, instead. Lómion stared at him for a few moments, and then smirked, though to Artanáro it seemed nearly forced.
“Yes, I'm sure. Mother. Come, they will leave you behind if you dawdle any longer.”
Artanáro did not want to be left behind, and he had no real excuse to linger any longer. He sighed, heavily, and swung up onto the horse’s back lightly, looking down at Lómion where he held the horse’s head.
“Take care of yourself,” Artanáro admonished. “Really.”
>Lómion smiled, just a little, a cold and small thing that was even rarer than it had been. “I will,” he said. “I promise.”