A Walk Among the Flowers

The warm light of the sun filtered through the leaves of the palace gardens, casting dappled patterns on the path as Arinyanénar and Aistalë strolled side by side. The soft hum of birdsong filled the air, mingling with the gentle rustle of the breeze through the trees. It was a moment of peace, a rare reprieve from the tensions that lingered in the world beyond these walls.

As they walked, Arinyanénar glanced at Aistalë. There was something serene about her presence, yet he could sense a depth beneath her calm exterior. He hesitated before breaking the silence.

"Your father has spoken highly of you, but I realize he hasn't mentioned much about your mother. Forgive me if it's too forward, but I was curious why she didn't come with you and Maedhros."

Aistalë's steps slowed, and her gaze dropped to the ground for a moment. When she looked up, her expression was steady but tinged with sadness. "She didn't come because… she's no longer with us. My mother passed away when I was still a child."

Arinyanénar stopped in his tracks, guilt washing over him. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, his voice soft. "I shouldn't have asked. That was thoughtless of me."

Aistalë shook her head, offering him a small, understanding smile. "You couldn't have known. And it's all right. It's been many years, but her memory lives on in the things she loved—the stories she told me, the songs she used to sing."

Arinyanénar nodded, his tone respectful. "She must have been remarkable to have raised someone like you."

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Aistalë seemed taken aback. Then, she smiled again, though this time it reached her eyes. "You are kind, Arinyanénar."

They resumed their walk, the tension between them easing. After a moment, he spoke again, this time with a lighter tone. "What do you enjoy doing in your free time, Aistalë? Surely you must have talents that rival even your father's."

Aistalë chuckled, brushing a strand of copper hair from her face. "Well, I wouldn't say that, but I do enjoy sculpting. My father says my work reminds him of my grandmother Nerdanel's—though I think he exaggerates out of love."

Arinyanénar raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. "Your grandmother Nerdanel was a master sculptor. If your work is even half as good as hers, then that's a gift worth treasuring. What else do you enjoy?"

"Singing," she replied, her voice softening. "It's something my mother taught me before she… before she was gone. Music helps me feel closer to her."

"That's beautiful," Arinyanénar said sincerely. "I'd very much like to see and hear both someday."

"And what of you?" Aistalë asked, turning the question back to him. "What does the famed 'Macil Aurëa' do when he's not wielding his sword or ruling a realm?"

Arinyanénar laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. "Ah, well, training with a sword is more than just duty for me—I enjoy it. But there's something else I've come to love… dancing."

"Dancing?" Aistalë tilted her head, intrigued.

"Not just any dancing," he clarified. "Sword dancing. It's a form of expression for me, something I created to blend grace and power, to test my limits and sharpen my skills. It's… freeing."

Her eyes lit up with curiosity. "I've heard so many tales of your prowess as a warrior—how you slew a Balrog and defeated Glaurung, no less. But this… I've never heard of sword dancing. Would you show me?"

Arinyanénar grinned, a playful glint in his golden-silver eyes. "I would, but only if you agree to show me your sculpting and singing in return."

Aistalë laughed, her voice like the gentle chiming of bells. "Fair enough, Arinyanénar. I accept your terms. But don't think I'll let you off easily—you'll have to dazzle me with this dance of yours."

"Then prepare to be dazzled," he replied with a smirk.

The promise of their exchange hung between them as they continued their walk through the sunlit gardens, a budding connection growing stronger with every passing moment.