Chapter Text
They are celebrating Christmas Eve because Fëanáro thinks that they should fit in, just do their best, just try. But it does not feel like a high holiday, it’s just another day, sitting by a lit tree, trying to play at normalcy.
Findekáno remembers how last year they sat gathered close in the living room with candles as Findaráto explained the holiday happening around them, that they were trying to repeat, that they had no real part of. He was interested in it, like he was interested in everything, and his hands danced along to his light voice. Findekáno listened to him in silence, with his little cousins piled around him, Aikanáro resting his head on his lap and Angaráto nestled by his side. Soon the stories turned to the days before, to the days of home, and they had laughed and had sung as the night grew late, drinking wine and eating sweet bread.
But it is quiet this evening, and anxiety still fills the house. No one knows what will happen next or if they will leave and, if so, where they will go. Findekáno overheard Nerdanel talking to his mother; she said that she thought Fëanáro might want to go.
‘He is very restless,’ she said. He is always restless, and now no one knows where they will get money to pay rent, and if they cannot pay, they will have no choice but to move on. They have been to so many places, and none of them, not even here, where they have stayed the longest, feels like home. Findekáno would not mind moving on, so long as he was not separated from his family. They are his home.
‘What are you thinking about, Finde?’ Findaráto asks quietly, pulling on one of his braids; he twists it about so that the gold braided into it flashes in the colourful lights of the Christmas tree.
‘Last year,’ Findekáno answers, trying to think of something cheerful to bring up to brighten the sombre mood. ‘Do you remember how Telvo put a big bow around Huan’s neck? The one he got from the mall?’
Findaráto smiles softly.
‘How could I forget? Turko spent the rest of the day scolding him about respecting animals.’
‘The funny thing is that Huan didn’t really mind,’ Findekáno says with a smile. ‘They put bows on anything and everything, though, those two.’ He sighs. ‘Irissë got her locket last year.’
‘She hasn’t taken it off since,’ Findaráto says. He drops Findekáno’s braid and sits down by the tree, aimlessly rearranging a few of the beautifully wrapped packages. Amarië comes in from the kitchen, tying back her damp hair with a blue ribbon. Findaráto’s eyes light up when he sees her, and she goes to sit by him and give him a kiss.
‘We should put up mistletoe,’ Findekáno says, looking up at the plain white ceiling where a few paper snowflakes covered with sparkles sway on their little strings with every breath or passing person.
‘I’d love mistletoe,’ says Findaráto between kisses. Amarië nods and decks his hair with tinsel.
Findekáno throws a wad of unused wrapping paper at them.
‘You don’t need mistletoe,’ he teases, watching with amusement as the paper misses the target of Findaráto’s head and bounces off Amarië’s arm.
She picks it up and throws it back at him. With a grin, Findekáno catches it and unfolds it.
‘Oh, look, Findaráto,’ he says, ‘she wrote me a love note.’
‘She did no such thing,’ Findaráto laughs lightly, his mood suddenly lifting. ‘She is not in love with you; she is really madly in love with…your brother, Turukáno!’
Amarië looks relatively surprised.
‘Findaráto?’ She lays her hands on his arm.
He assumes a look of distress and frustration. ‘Oh, Amarië! How could you do that to me! Leave me for my own cousin!’ He clasps her hands in his. ‘I thought that you loved me.’
‘I do love you, silly,’ she says. ‘Now stop being such a nuisance with your games.’ She kisses him again, sliding her arms around his neck; he draws her against him, kissing her back eagerly.
‘Ah, my two dear love birds,’ Findekáno says, ‘did you not realize that you were supposed to perch in the tree and not under it?’
They refuse to break their kiss to answer him, so he picks up Findaráto’s trusted camera and fiddle with it, adjusting the settings.
‘Perfect,’ he whispers after the third shot. It is a picture that will go quite proudly in the family album. He sets down the camera, only then noticing that Arafinwë is bending over him.
‘Hello,’ he says, ‘are you playing chaperone?’ He waits for his nephew to scoot over before sitting down in the chair beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
‘Happy Christmas Eve, Father,’ Findaráto chirps, flashing him a smile before putting his arms back around Amarië’s neck and simply swaying with her.
He and Amarië look like presents themselves nestled under the tree, their golden hair glistening together like bright ribbons. Findekáno can feel Arafinwë’s pride surging from his body and filling the room.
‘And to you,’ he tells them.
With time passing gently, Findekáno nestles his head against his uncle’s shoulder. The room smells of pine and cinnamon, a scent that rises from the kitchen and wafts its way towards them. Findekáno breathe it in deeply.
‘What’s that?’ he asks lazily, not lifting his head up.
‘Cinnamon rolls,’ says Arafinwë sleepily. ‘Don’t they smell good?’ He takes Findekáno’s hand in his and squeezes it.
‘They smell delicious.’ The tree’s lights are blurry when Findekáno half closes his eyes, and the ornaments sparkle where they hang in the full branches. There are no other lights on save for the candles that stand about, flickering peacefully as they cast wavering golden light about them. Findekáno draws closer to Arafinwë, putting his arms around him. He smells good too, like cloves and oranges.
‘Have you been making punch?’ Findekáno whispers.
Arafinwë nods. ‘With Ñolo.’ Gently he kisses the top of Findekáno’s head. ‘I remember when you were a baby.’
Findekáno looks up at him; his soft blue eyes are half closed, and he has a tired smile on his heart-shaped face.
‘Do you, Aro?’
‘Yes, I was waiting with Ñolo the night you were born. I got to hold you that night, and you smiled at me.’ He rubs Findekáno’s arm.
‘That’s good, Uncle. I was probably very happy to see you.’ Findekáno smiles thinking about how, when he was little, he used to make the mistake of calling Arafinwë ‘Father’; it always made Arafinwë smile, half proudly, half with embarrassment. Ñolofinwë did not mind, so Findekáno felt no need to stop it either.
He called him Father right up to the day when Maitimo so graciously instructed him on what a father was and how one got to be one.
But the tradition still continues in their family, and even now it is not uncommon for Aikanáro to bound over to Ñolofinwë, jumping up and down as he exclaims, ‘Guess what I learned to do, Father! Guess!’
Anairë and Eärwen come in from the kitchen chattering together about their daughters and the beautiful dresses they put them in for the holiday. Artanis trails after them in her dress, a soft green velvet one with white lace on the neck and sleeves, and green plastic gems that glitter over the skirt. Some of her hair is pulled back into a small bun, and the rest of it falls down into curls about her shoulders and down her back. She twirls around in front of her father, smiling at him shyly.
‘Oh, Artanith,’ he says, drawing her up into his arms so that he can kiss her. ‘You look simply beautiful.’
She smiles back, her eyes growing wide with joy and kisses him. ‘You do too, Father,’ she says happily.
‘Is that my little Artanith?’ Findaráto asks from beneath the tree. ‘Oh, come here, my little love and let me see you.’
Arafinwë puts her down, and she dances across the floor to her brother, holding the skirt out with her hands and then letting it go so that it twirls about her legs, sparkling madly. Findaráto takes her into his arms, and she leans against him contentedly, giving Amarië one jealous look before settling herself against her brother’s chest.
A little reluctantly, Findekáno gets to his feet since Eärwen has come to stand by the chair, and he knows that she probably wants to sit with her husband. He takes her into his arms as soon as Findekáno gets up, and she sits on his lap, nuzzling against his neck.
Leaving them together, Findekáno goes over to his mother, who has sat down on the arm of the sofa and is watching the scene with a smile and a cup of tea.
‘Where is Father?’ he ask hers, taking her cup and stealing a sip of the sweet, warm tea.
‘He’s up with Fëanáro and Nerdanel,’ she answers. ‘Talking about something or other; I don’t really know.’ She takes the cup back and sips from it with the air of someone who knows a great deal more than she will ever reveal.
‘Do you know where Makalaurë is?’ Findekáno asks her, leaning against the sofa and looking about the room. Most of the Fëanorians are gathered about either in the living room or the kitchen; in fact, he sees all of his cousins and siblings except for Makalaurë, whose absence is dampening. He is supposed to lead the music.
‘He’s up in his room,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you go find him while I think of something that will lift everyone’s minds from money and rent, if only for a while?’ She runs her fingers over the cups rim, contemplating. ‘Go on, dear.’
Makalaurë is lying on his bed when Findekáno comes up, his shirt lying in a heap beside him. He holds a sheet of paper in his hands, twisting it about occasionally, folding and opening it numbly. His hair is loose and falls in a shimmering mess to his shoulders; he must have just had it cut recently. He is humming to himself, a sad, old song that Findekáno can recall from his cradle days.
Steady from the small lone lamp, Findekáno’s shadow falls across him. It blocks the light that was shining on his hair.
‘Am I missed from the gaiety?’ Makalaurë asks slowly, folding the paper into a tiny, tight square, holding it so that it looks like a diamond against one finger. ‘Or has my father summoned me to pronounce his doom?’ Shoving the paper under his pillow, he rises to his feet, watching Findekáno in the gloom.
‘We forgot to decorate the attic,’ Findekáno mumbles, which is not a real answer. ‘I guess we’re not used to winter yet.’
‘Quite.’ Makalaurë smile that slightly sad smile that reminds Findekáno so much of Nerdanel. ‘Does Maitimo miss me?’
‘Of course he does, he wants to hear you sing.’ Findekáno offers his hand to him, and he takes it, holding it lightly as if it were a flower that might break.
‘Sing,’ he repeats, musing over the word as if he has never heard it before. ‘Fancy that.’
‘Makalaurë?’ Findekáno is worried about him; he looks so lost and alone, as if he were standing on cliff contemplating about throwing himself off it or wandering through a dark forest with no way of knowing which way to turn.
‘Yes?’ He smiles at Findekáno, sadly, kindly, like an old, dying man who is shown his grandchild. Findekáno saw that one the news. It made him cry.
‘What is bothering you?’
Makalaurë gives him no answer, but puts his arm about his shoulders, steering him towards the trap door. ‘
It’s funny,’ he tells him as they descend the ladder, Findekáno first and Makalaurë following, ‘but I really cannot say.’