A belated birthday fic for French Pony. I apologize that it is not the happiest of subjects, so let us say this is one of those “the intention is what counts” presents?

I hope you have an extraordinary year.

Echoes.

The echoes of the child’s delighted shrills followed her along the corridor.  

“Your granddaughter has managed to tame her uncle, my lord. She is presently guiding him at a slow canter around the garden wall,” she announced as she pushed open the heavy door to the spacious kitchen.  

He barely turned his head to greet her, focused on achieving the perfect point of crispness on the skins of the last two capons. His face was slightly flushed by the heat from the flames and the mild exertion of preparing an informal meal for a ravenous family of nine.  

“Your younger son and his wife are wooing each other under the cherry tree,” she added, unconsciously rearranging the assortment of vegetables on one of the leaf-shaped glass bowls.  

He frowned briefly at her impudence; his kitchen was his realm, he was in command there and he did not take anyone’s meddling lightly. She proffered the long salver with the filigree holds looking properly chastised and he placed the roasted fowls on it with a proud smile. (Isn’t this the salver I gave to my aunt? It was Turgon’s gift and I could not stand seeing it day after day, she thinks in passing puzzlement)  

“And your daughter is throwing cherry stones at them, while she pretends to be picking up our desert…” she finished, laying the salver on the long kitchen table, between the greens and the meat pastries with their delicately laced, crusty covers, with deliberate movements.  

“Does that mean by chance that we are free to seize some time for ourselves, my lady?” His rumbling voice echoed within her, rippling in warmth from her chest and causing her knees to falter. “I would really like that,” he added. With a swift movement he enveloped her in his strong embrace, pushing her against him. “And you?” His husky voice  tickled her ear, and he teased her softly, slowly, with brief kisses along her neck and up again. She shivered, running nimble fingers along powerful arms and across wide shoulders and up to tangle in silky tresses as his lips finally descended upon hers.  

“I…I forgot to bring up the wine,” she gasped a moment after.  

“You want us to go down to the cellars?” His clear, amused laughter filled her with unexpected joy. (Where is the haunted look, the bitter smile, the worried, weary brow?)  

With a sudden pull he lifted her off the ground. “To the cellars it is then, my lady!” he threatened mischievously, taking a couple of steps to the door while she cried in mock outrage, entwining her legs at his back for support. He looked at her then with undisguised desire and tender love. (He looks so young and free of cares, she sighs as she traces her lord’s beautiful face and his open, untroubled grin with cautious, uncertain touches. Discarding all confusing thoughts, she plunders the tempting smile, needy and demanding as one who has walked for long days through a dry country and unexpectedly runs into a stream of singing waters.)  

“We better finish the preparations, my lord,” she finally said, as they pulled apart reluctantly. He had a melancholy, considering expression on his face now. She was surprised to feel hot tears tingling in her eyes.  

“Duty must stand before all other considerations,” he agreed, quite cryptically. She felt a dark wave of fear rushing within her. All of a sudden she was back on her feet, her face resting on his wide chest, comforted by the steady pounding of his heart and his big, warm, tender hand toying with her dark hair. “But never doubt that I love you more than anything,” he added, kissing her head lovingly. The pain and longing in his voice pierced her heart cruelly.  

“Let us go out and join our children in the garden, my lord. Your adar must be about to arrive…” (Wait…your adar? Was he not…)  

“I fear I cannot join you for now, my lady…” he said in quiet despair, and his voice was suddenly a faint echo, though he still stood firm and real against her.  

“But he said they would be coming at the mingling of the lights…”  (The Trees? The trees are no more! I saw them dead, I saw the impenetrable darkness…)  

.....

Anairë groaned and blinked, trying vainly to hold on to the last threads of the fading dream as her eyes focused on the new day.  

“Five hundred years of the new lights have passed and you still expect to awake to the mingled light of the Trees,” she chided herself aloud, watching as Anar’s golden rays pierced the delicate curtain that flew in the morning breeze. She stretched lazily and lifted uncertain fingers to her lips, half-hoping that she could still taste him there.  

“Five hundred years of Anar,” she sighed, disappointed and angered at her childish gesture at the same time. She cast an arm over her face to hide from the bright, glorious light that only made the lingering echoes of her dream more painful.  

“What are five hundred sun-rounds but a whisper in the song of the Elder Years?” she wondered idly. Cold logic and knowledge always offered comfort to her. “Almost ten of your years are needed to make one of the Trees’ !” she accused then the unmovable shaft that speared her bedroom floor –and the eagle-shaped door knob that he wrought so long ago. She shook her head at her absurd outburst.  She would need more than cold logic today, she thought, if she was to appease the fire that roared again within her.  

“…knead the dough after breakfast and leave it to rise before meeting my students...” She decided to go over the list of tasks she intended to accomplish for the day to distract her troubled fëa. For five hundred years Anairë had filled her days with duties, both public and private, and had found comfort in making herself useful to others. She taught music and language, which were one and the same subject, to the few children that were born in Tirion. She was in charge of a huge section of Tirion’s library and stood as advisor –as well as chronicler- to Finarfin’s peaceful reign. She also ran her house and visited with friends and relatives, many of them as bereft as herself, exchanging small presents as well as conversation and support.  

“Preparing the soil for the annuals is a priority, and then there is that length of linen I could turn into a new gown for Finarfin’s youngest niece’s begetting day…I am going to need some kelp to bleach it first, though,” she pondered. “Or I could use that piece of soft wool… Either way, I shall have to go down to the dyer’s workshop, I am out of woad and I also need orchil dye…”  She was always welcome in the city. The Noldor in Tirion were glad that she still lived in their tall house and was always available for sound advice, a friendly ear or a scholarly discussion. They held her in great esteem and greeted her with grave respect; once their queen and now mother of a kinslayer, one who carried her burden with simple dignity and still served her people as best as she could.  

“Since I am going to the marketplace I could as well pay a visit to the Parmatur.” The thought cheered her up a bit. “The last quires that I requested must be finished already, and I need a new quill pen and more gallnut ink...Oh, and some fish-glue! I think I’ll finish hammering the leaf gold today…!” The long, lonely nights Anairë spent in a solitary pastime, recording tales of happier times and lost ones in craftily illuminated and decorated manuscripts, in a brave attempt to keep her bond with her lost family alive. She planned each book carefully, and her wax-tablets filled with story lines and new designs for ornaments. Her tengwar flew elegantly over the carefully gilded parchments which, afterwards, she would decorate with exquisite skill with miniature portraits and landscapes. Alone in her study, as the lamps burnt steadily through the night and the stones mourned the echoes of other voices, Anairë had learnt that joyous memories hurt deeper in times of misery.  

“So I could do with an early start,” she concluded, almost convinced that her longing was tamed into a manageable, well-known dull drumming in the back of her fea. She made as if to get up but instead she turned brusquely and buried her fair face in the soft pillows, finally surrendering to a grief that was still too deep to be so easily restrained. Five hundred years had passed and her hands still roamed the huge bed, unconsciously searching for the warmth of a strong, beloved body that should be sleeping beside her.  

“Five hundred years,” she wept despondently.  

When the last tear was shed and the last sigh had escaped her chest, Anairë knew that she could no longer hide from the new day. She put aside the sheets and sat on the bed, feeling tender and vulnerable yet in some way renewed. She walked barefoot upon sun-warmed flagstones to the washstand, and frowned at the tired-looking, red-eyed and dishevelled face that that greeted her from the other side of the mirror of polished silver.   

“And I will have a serious conversation with the Lord of Lórien about *certain* type of dreams!” she said warningly, as she got ready for the day's routine with renewed decision.

A/N

"Five hundred years" has no special meaning as a date. I chose it just because this was originally a drabble and, honestly, I could not see how four hundred and fifty five, for instance, would fit.

Anairë is Fingolfin's wife. She never left Valinor.

“Parmatur” means “master of writings” in Quenya

Oh, and there is a line I stole from Dante, for which I apologize.