Athrabeth na Dorthonion

Findaráto

The market in Tirion was more crowded than Finamátirë had ever seen it. Quietly, patiently, he wound his way through the swarm of people, occasionally uttering a soft apology as he bumped into another shopper. He had a single destination in mind at the market this morning - a small stall off the main street which sold the best paints and supplies for his artwork. Although the Ñoldor were great craftsmen, very few practiced Finamátirë's form of art - the capturing of people on canvas. It was a calling - something that he felt compelled to do - almost like the Teleri described their sea-longing. He was not conceited about his work, but he recognized almost distantly that he was good at it. Much could be understood about people by an artist's hand, and while he was not as talented with wood or stone as some of his people, he found that on paper he could reproduce not only a Elda's physical likeness, but perhaps a glimpse of their fëa as well.

Finding the stall he sought, he purchased some paints and a new brush, as well as several new canvases, then worked his way back to the market, returning to his grandfather's house and slipping into his room to put his things carefully away.

Slender and lithe, he was fair of face, his golden hair held out of his face by two tiny braids that met in an intricate silver clasp at the back of his head. His tunic was of deep blue, and was of fine quality, with silver embroidery ornamenting the garment. He wore leggings of a slightly lighter blue, with silver cross-garters tightly laced over his shoes and lower legs. Looking at him, one was attracted most to his eyes, which were the same blue as his tunic, and as deep as the deepest sea. There was intelligence in those eyes, but also something more - something gentle, kind, and most of all, good. There was also, however, a touch of sadness. Not the sadness of despair or misery, but of a loss that he had never known, an emptiness in his life that would never truly be filled.

But tonight there would be joy in the house of Arafinwë. There was to be a ball - the first held by the Ñoldor since the exiles had fled nearly ninety Sun-years before. It was to celebrate the upcoming marriage of Arafinwë's youngest niece - the youngest daughter of Findis, who was of an age with Finamátirë. It was because of that his supplies had been depleted - he had painted a portrait of his cousin and her new betrothed to be presented to them tonight.

Making sure that his new possessions were in place, he made his way from his room to the common area of the house, and to his grandfather's office, where he knocked gently on the door, crossed his arms behind him, and waited to be admitted.
_________________
'But why dost thou say 'mere words'? Do not words overpass the gulf between one life and another? Between thee and me surely more has passed than empty sound?'
~Finrod, Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth

Avatar art by Alice i Angel Falto.