Anarion’s compatriots had learned not to clap his back in moments of victory or praise, cautious of the way he would stiffen against hard treatment. A grim and sensitive young man he was but they accepted him as such, as much for fondness’ sake as for the dedication and skill he brought to their cause. Instead, once they had sailed up the winding coast and were reaching the jutting cliff that marked the mouth of Andunie’s bay, the five of them would each urge him down from his towering height and kiss his brow in the Faithful fashion of farewell.
Usually Anarion would then jump overboard and take advantage of the bay’s sheltered and calmer waters to swim up to the cliffside and climb it’s black slate. The walk back to the city was long and trackless but Anarion knew the miles, even in the dark, and it was no great toil when compared to the boon of secrecy if offered.
Still, tonight he was glad when the bright moonlight fell upon the familiar prow of his grandfather’s sloop anchored just a little off the cape’s end. As were his fellows, who all regularly told him that watching him scale the sheer cliffs was more nerve wracking than any of their usual escapades.
Anarion approached the railing easier with the promise of a blanket and a swift sail home. The black water lapped gently at their hull and the stars were brighter than ever with no ship’s lamp to dim them. Isildur would have lured me to a roof, were he here, Anarion thought to himself, in order to avoid thinking of his father.
He finally gave over the canvas bag he had slung over his shoulder to their relic-keeper, tied the blackcloth tighter about his torso, nodded to all of them and elegantly dived from deck into the water. Cold shock greeted him with it’s familiar rush of sensation but he had trained away the need to gasp in childhood and it took no time at all for him to begin cleaving through the waves towards the blue and silver hull beyond.
He found no hemp rope hanging over the side, but it was easy enough to assume Amandil had forgotten or fallen asleep before he thought to arrange it. It was no hinderance anyway, Anarion’s strong fingers and corded, elegant arms found purchase on the beaten metal ribbing to push himself high enough out of the water to catch the taffrail. All it took then was hauling his sodden bulk from the sea, slinging first one leg over and then another before twisting back around to sit dripping on the rail.
Leaning over his knees, Anarion breathed deeply for a moment before dragging a hand through his dense wet hair and pushing it back away from his eyes, searching for-
His father’s gaze was piercing enough even in the dark. He stood, the only man Anarion knew that looked down at him, unmistakably here, where he should not have been. Anarion himself was struck still, cast in black and white, his clothes clinging to his lank frame as he held that gaze with round eyes. In the silence his mind visibly worked and quickly it came back to him, Amandil’s informing him of Elendil’s arrival, his father’s love of night sailing, the clear night... he should have guessed.
This all deduced, Anarion finally blinked. His shoulders unstiffened minutely and he released the breath he had been holding in a long sigh. His hands clasped and gently wrung one another before, finally, he spoke in a low brassy lilt, “Mára vinyë, Atarinya.”
Starter for (@elendzir) Father
