#and Thingol and Melian have sent her to visit Orodreth and practise her court and art skills

[theworldisquietheretooquiet]

Brushstrokes

AO3

2118 words

“Ugh!” Nienor drops her brush, and it hits the table with a clatter, rolling off and under the desk.

She stares at the easel, her brows drawn together tightly in frustration. She cannot get the princess’s portrait right. This time she swears the eyes are too far apart, and no matter how hard she tries the gold of her hair is never vivid enough.

As she walks over and bends down, trying to reach her runaway brush, the door opens. Nienor hurriedly clambers to her feet and comes face to face with the subject of her painting.

“Princess Finduilas!” Nienor quickly brushes the dust and dirt off the front of her dress and attempts to wipe away the worst of the paint smudges on her face. “Good day to you.”

Finduilas smiles widely at her. “Good day, Lady Nienor. I am glad to find you here! I had hoped to come and ask you something. Is now a good time?”

Nienor walks back over to her stool and stares at the ground. “Is it about your portrait?” She says quietly. “I am trying to get it finished as swiftly as possible, my lady.”

Finduilas sounds surprised. “Oh, no, it isn’t about that at all. Although you have reminded me how excited I am for it! I saw the one you did for Lady Egleriadis, and I am sure it will be just as beautiful.”

Nienor feels herself becoming angry, but she isn’t sure at what. “Well, I am sorry, but it likely won’t be.”

There is a pause. “Should I be insulted?” Finduilas laughs. “Is my face difficult to render pleasantly?”

Nienor does not return her good humour. “You are too lovely, Princess.” She exclaims in annoyance. “Even the paints of the Noldor cannot sufficiently capture the radiance of your hair or the brightness of your eyes. Every time I try, the imitation seems insulting!”

There is a long silence, and the air seems hotter. Nienor feels embarrassed and stifled, and looks determinedly at anything but Finduilas. She should not have said that.

“I beg your pardon, my lady. I am not sure what came over me. Do not worry, your portrait will be completed promptly.” She leaves the room and half runs down the stairs, without giving Finduilas a chance to reply.

Nienor stares out at the plains around Nargothrond and lets the rush of the river fill her ears. The weather is fair today and a fresh breeze is coming from the west. But the season will change soon and before that she must return to Doriath. She sighs heavily and rubs at her eyes. She does not know why she dislikes the idea so, after all she does very much want to see her mother.

Well, that is not quite true. If she is honest with herself, she can make a good guess at why she longs to stay in Nargothrond.

“Hello, Nienor. Do you mind if I intrude on your peace?”

She turns, surprised, and there is Finduilas, smiling at her hesitantly, the sun picking out the whitest strands of her hair.

“No, I do not mind at all. And I think I owe you an apology.”

Finduilas draws up next to her and shakes her head. “I cannot imagine what for, my lady. All I heard was the true compliment of one who has an eye for beauty.”

Nienor glances at her sideways and smiles. “Thank you. Like all craftspeople, when I cannot replicate the image I see in my mind’s eye, I become a little frustrated.”

The princess nods. “That is fair, and a trait not uncommon among my people.” She turns to face Nienor. “When you are stressed, do you often seek the open air? I had assumed as one who resided mostly in Menegroth, you would have little trouble with the caverns of Nargothrond.”

Nienor sighs and looks away from her, towards the horizon in the north. They are not entirely alone; the guards who accompanied her out the Gate stand a little way away, joined by Finduilas’. But she feels secure in the safety of the princess’s confidence, and she wants to tell her.

“I am thankful for the beauty and protection of both kingdoms. But where I grew up, our freedom was heavily restricted. I could not go outside when I wished, and even crying too loudly was dangerous.” She smiles bitterly. “I learnt early on the benefit of screaming into a pillow.”

Finduilas is quiet. Nienor digs the heel of her shoe into the soft, mossy earth.

“So yes, when I feel my temper rising, open skies often do calm me, and I take joy in my easy access to them.”

“I am sorry you had to suffer such confinement. One so fair being cruelly contained is a great wrong.”

The princess’s words are kind and understanding, and Nienor feels warmer for them. But she detects an undercurrent in them as well, and when she turns to Finduilas, she is staring unseeing, ahead.

Nienor moves slightly closer to her, so their shoulders are brushing. “I believe you had something you desired to ask me?”

“Oh, yes!” Finduilas bestows her golden smile on her. “I am aware the time of your departure is no longer far off and that the plan had been you return to Doriath before the end of autumn.”

Nienor nods.

“Well, I wanted to ask that you do not leave until spring instead. I know your mother and friends must miss you dearly, but I thought to selfishly have you here over winter.” Nienor notices the princess’s cheeks have gone slightly pink.

“I have so enjoyed your company these months and conversing with you on many matters. Oh, and we have such a lovely celebration for Yestarë! I had planned to teach you some Noldorin dances.”

Finduilas falls quiet and smiles hopefully at her. Nienor thinks she is probably grinning back, but she can’t be sure as she feels rather lightheaded and distracted by joy.

“That would be… that would –” She shakes her head, laughs, then tries again. “I am so happy you ask this of me, which I will fulfil with delight. Yes, my lady, I will stay here for as long as the maiden of Nargothrond will have me.”

The princess reaches out and entwines their fingers. “That brings me great happiness, Nienor, thank you.”

Nienor smiles and squeezes her hand in answer.

“Of course,” says Finduilas after a moment. “It is only so you can finish my portrait.”

The princess’s eyes are bright with mirth, and Nienor wishes she had her paint and easel, so she could capture that face, as it is right now, forever.

She laughs. “Yes, of course. I can think of no other reason.”

The hour is late and Nienor knows the dinner bell will be ringing soon but she must finish this section. She had been so sure that once she blended the shadows on Finduilas’ neck, it would fix its length, but she is beginning to have serious doubts.

“I can hear you getting frustrated from all the way over here.”

Nienor glances across the room to where Finduilas sits, working on some embroidery. Without looking up the princess continues, “I thought it was going better?”

Nienor sighs and then looks at the half-finished painting. This time around it had seemed so promising but now… She lets out a string of Taliska curses.

“Bëor only said those when he dropped something heavy on his foot.”

Finduilas’ expression is amused, but when she is met with brooding silence, she sighs and says, “You must be aware it isn’t as bad as you think it is. The artist is their own worst critic.”

Nienor scowls. She knows she is being contrary, but she can’t help it. It feels as if she has been working on this portrait for an eternity. Last time she went outside the leaves had turned to deep reds and ambers.

“I think Morgoth has cursed it.”

“That is not funny.” Finduilas replies seriously, but Nienor sees her lips are twitching.

“Come here,” the princess says, and Nienor walks over and slides in next to her on the divan. She curls up close, leans her head on Finduilas’ shoulder and sighs.

After a few moments of quiet and Finduilas gently massaging her tired hands, she says, “I do not even know why Elves have portraits. You will always look the same.”

Finduilas laughs and pokes her shoulder. “Well, I am not sure why Men do! You will look different in a year anyhow. I am surprised your people don’t spend their days painting.”

“I would have said we might be happier if we did, but now I’m not so sure.”

She can feel Finduilas’ soft chuckle where their bodies touch and the tight knot of annoyance in her chest loosens a little. Nienor watches the fire. The change of the seasons is not felt in some ways, in the deep of Nargothrond. But it is colder now than when she arrived.

After a while, just as Nienor feels herself becoming drowsy, Finduilas speaks. “Perhaps I am glad you are struggling with my picture so. What would you think if I told you that?”

She twists so she can see the princess’s face and raises her brows. “I would wonder if I had done something to upset you.”

“You have not.” Finduilas frowns and she automatically reaches out to smooth the lines away, but the princess catches her hand and holds it tightly. “You were right when you said the Eldar stay like our portraits forever. Yet I am thankful, for it means you have forever to keep trying. Then if you keep failing, Nienor dearest, it makes me dream that perhaps you will stay here, forever with the subject.”

Nienor does not know how to respond and there is a lump in her throat.

After a few silent seconds she says, rather helplessly, “You believe it will take me until the breaking of the world to complete one picture?”

That had been an attempt at humour, Nienor thinks. But as she speaks the words and sees the flicker of grief in Finduilas’ eyes, the effect is lost even on her. She exhales and tries to work out how best to communicate what she wishes to say.

“Because I do not have the same forever as you, beloved. If it takes me until the end of my time in Arda to finish your portrait, it matters not. For there will come a day when you and it remain exactly the same, and even my bones are dust.”

Finduilas’ eyes are shining, and she attempts to pull her hand away. But Nienor holds on and presses it to her lips.

“And that image feels me with bittersweet joy! It makes my heart ache, but it is joy, nonetheless. The idea of my love for you lingering on, here and beyond the edges of the world, where I will take it. That is forever, enough, for me.”

Finduilas’ voice comes out a little choked as she says, “I would not need a portrait to remember the artist. There are not ages of this world long enough for me to forget her.”

Nienor smiles. “Good. And it means a great deal to me that you wish me to stay. I am happy beyond words about it, beloved, please do not let my morbidity confuse you!”

The princess chuckles wetly and Nienor pulls her into an embrace.

After a few moments of playing absentmindedly with Finduilas’ escaped hair, Nienor starts to grin.

“Darling! Perhaps you gave me luck with all your talk of taking forever. For I have thought of an excellent way for me to work towards improving my painting.”

“Oh?” Finduilas pulls back and looks at her shrewdly, eyes narrowed.

Nienor bites her lip hard to keep from laughing and nods seriously. “You see, although you have been generously modelling for me, even skilled artists like myself, often feel unfulfilled by a still, fixed subject.”

“Do they?” Finduilas raises an eyebrow.

“Yes! For it does not tell us so much of what is important. The feel of features, textures, how they look in certain positions, and it is very hard to get close enough…”

The princess laughs. “Oh my, Nienor! You are awful.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she protests. “Perhaps it is all this time spent with the Noldor. I will do anything to elevate my craft.”

“And pray tell, what sacrifice did you have in mind in this case?”

“Well…” Nienor leans in and presses her lips to Finduilas’. She feels the princess smile and deepens the kiss, pressing her into the cushions.