Title: Whistle
Fandom: Silmarillion
Rating: G
Length: 600ish
Content notes: N/A
Author notes: Inspired by this post on Tumblr: https://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/145300671948
Many thanks to Zana & Morgynleri for encouragement and sanity checking.
Written & posted from my phone- please forgive any oddities of format. Will fix if needed when I can!
Summary: They met because of a whistle



They met because of a whistle. Some jackass of a Man let out a piercing, raucous wolf-whistle just as Anglithiel reached the short flight of steps leading down into the Fountain Plaza. Startled, she missed the top step and went arse over teakettle down them to land in (unfortunately inevitable) disarray at (on) distinctly Dwarven boots. Very nice boots, with delicate etch work on the toe caps and rose-and-gold stitching picking out an interlace pattern that could almost be flowers, if one saw it from the angle Anglithiel was currently...experiencing. One couldn't call it enjoying, however so often it occurred. The finding oneself on the ground unexpectedly part, not the at the boots of a Dwarf part. *That* part was surprisingly pleasant.

Anglithiel looked up; the Dwarf was smiling down at her in some (understandable!) confusion. There were rose-gold ornaments decorating beard and ears and hair in elegant array. An altogether elegantly put-together person, in fact. Anglithiel was very much aware of the contrast of her own decidedly *in*elegant self, sprawled, forge-smutted, graceless and untidy. Usually it didn't matter. This time it did. She could feel her ears and face flaming, hot as a furnace. She dropped her eyes back down to the toe caps. "Sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. That sad excuse for a 'prentice, on the other hand, startling you so!" The Dwarf's voice was a musical and forthright baritone, warm with friendly sympathy. "Are you well? That was a tumble and no mistake."

Anglithiel gathered her errant limbs and nodded, not trusting her voice (nor her too-often stumbling tongue). Kindness was not the usual response to her all too common clumsiness. Her parents and siblings had long since taken to ignoring her mishaps, particularly when manifest as nigh Mannish lack of grace. Physical injury was rarely her lot - she might not have much in the way of Elven grace, but hardiness and strength she had in generous measure.

The Dwarf nodded back, smile widening. "Good, I shan't have to teach that unmusical lout an axe-lesson, then, only a mannerly one. Or you can. Oh, where are my manners? Narin, daughter of Tirin, at your service." A bow accompanied that last, with a hand outstretched in helpful offer.

Narin Tirinul! Only the foremost patron of the poetic arts in their quarter of Ost-in-Edhil, champion of artists in experimental materials and modes: fabric-sculptors, workers in ephemeral, changeable, fantastical things like ice and sand and grass on hillsides, the plumber who tuned pipes to make wonderfully unexpected music under use (Anglithiel badly wanted to know how they did that) people who asked what if, how about, what happens when we try this? Respected voice in performance council and unflappably polite presence in the 'cultural relations working group' (thanklessly tasked with the interface between Eru's and Aulë's fractious children.). A Dwarf to put Elves to shame. And here she was, giving the clumsiest, swearingest, most graceless Elf in a city of Smiths not merely her hand in assistance, but the unheard of courtesy of her private person. That she was daughter, not son, to Tirin Silversong was a gift of knowledge not granted lightly.

A coal began to burn under Anglithiel's breastbone, another low in her belly, banishing embarrassment with herself and even irritation with rude and clueless Men. She reached up to take Narin's sturdy, shapely hand, (fanning the flames with effing reckless abandon) a smile breaking wide. "Anglithiel, at yours and your family's." Narin's hand was warm and strong and it was the most natural/easiest thing in the world to bounce up to her feet with Narin's forthright tug. "Thank you," she said, "but I think we can find something better to do than thumping courtesy or sense into silly Men, don't you?"

To Anglithiel's astonishment and delight, Narin agreed, and off they went together, leaving the Man to whistle at the workings of chance.

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Anglithiel - Iron-ash-daughter