Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The road stretches out before them, cramped with rumbling cars that flash in the sunlight and make the ground beneath them tremble. Smoke billows up behind them and rests heavily on the cold air, making them cough through the scratchy scarves they wear high over their faces. The air is bitingly cold, and the strong wind cuts at Maitimo’s eyes as he hurries along the cracked side walk, Findekáno pressed tightly against him for warmth. Findekáno’s thin body feels lost in the great blue coat that Maitimo wrapped securely about him before they set out. He turns to look up at Maitimo, his large grey-blue eyes brimming with tears drawn out by the cold and the dirt. 'Maitimo,' he says, his voice muffled by his scarf and the infernal din of the traffic. 'I'm freezing.'

'I know,' Maitimo whispers through the ridiculous fuzzy purple hat he wears low over his ears, 'but that is just the way it is here.'

Maitimo holds Findekáno closer now, letting him lean his head against his shoulder, and circles his arms around him and shoves his bare hands deep into Findekáno’s pockets, a luxury his own coat lacks. Their hands meet in the semi-warmth of the woollen folds and clasp tightly in defiance of the winter.

The buildings about them are slowly changing from the scattered colours of painted wooden and vinyl sidings to a solid block of dusty brick. Old, dead vines cling to their sides and the wind whips at them frantically, howling at their eaves. The sinking sun shines on the bricks, turning them a warm gold, and bare trees cast twisted, dancing shadows with their searching branches.

'What store are we looking for?' Findekáno mumbles against Maitimo’s shoulder when they stop at a corner under an unlit street lamp, leaning for a moment against its green metal post.

'The health food store,' he says, 'we need yeast.'

The store is a warm refuge after the December evening. Maitimo closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in the warmth along with the scents of spices and baked goods. Pulling his scarf off his face and rubbing his cheek where it still itches, he looks around for the yeast. He has not been here before, and the neat rows of goods and large, abstract paintings hanging on the white walls seem very daunting.

'It should be with the refrigerated items,' says Findekáno briskly, taking his hand. He has adjusted to this world better than Maitimo has, but perhaps that is because he is younger.

Maitimo follows him to the refrigerated isle and shivers, half with cold, half with disappointment after the lovely warmth.

'Should we get the small bag or the large one?' his cousin asks him, holding the door cruelly open.

'The large one,' he says, 'our families eat a lot of bread.'

Findekáno picks up the one-pound bag and closes the door gently. 'Is there anything else that we need?'

'Father said that he needed cinnamon,' Maitimo answers, ducking under a low hanging sign on his way to the bulk spices. Findekáno trails easily after him, tossing the bag of yeast up and down casually. Maitimo has long enjoyed teasing him about his height (he doesn't even reach Maitimo’s nose) but here he has the advantage. Findekáno stands by Maitimo’s side as he asks the wrinkled woman behind the counter for the cinnamon, searching the names of the spices with curiosity. The woman hands him a small plastic bag of the fragrant spice, and he thanks her quickly. She gives a curt nod and turns away.

'Is that all that we need?' asks Findekáno, heading towards the checkout.

'I think so.'

They stand in line behind a woman in a green coat who is talking to the cashier about a particular cheese she is purchasing. Maitimo passes the time reading the labels on the chocolates placed carefully so that hungry, tired customers will have to stare at them and wonder about the rich, sweet or bitter bars that lie underneath the coloured wrappers. Findekáno's gaze meets his, and he frowns sadly. Maitimo sighs and gives him a small smile as the woman in green collects her bags and heads out to the harsh winter day.

'Chilly day, isn't it?' says the cashier cheerfully, picking up the two bags Findekáno sets down on the counter.

'It be freezing,' Findekáno informs her, and she chuckles as she glances out the front window to where the wind is buffeting the pedestrians and trying to rip the clothes off their bodies.

She continues to chuckle as she checks the bags and punches the prices onto the cash register.

Findekáno fumbles with his wallet when she tells him the price, and she looks up towards the ceiling, almost as if she is embarrassed to watch him handle money. He hands her a bill, smoothing it briefly between his fingers before she takes it and begins to count out his change. He tucks the wallet back into his front pocket and rubs the denim over it as she places the plastic bags into a paper bag.

She hands him the bag with an amiable smile, and he takes it with a nod.

'Have a good day!' she calls to them before turning her attention to her next customer. They step out into the biting evening.

'Do you have the yeast?' Anairë asks the moment they step through the battered front door of the two-story house their three families share.

'I have it right here,' Findekáno says, pulling the bag out and handing it to her before even taking his coat off.

'Thank-you, dear,' she says, taking it from him. Her face clouds with a frown. 'Findekáno, your hands are freezing!' she exclaims, shoving the bag under her arm and taking his hands between her slim fingers.

'It's cold out, Mum,' he says, kissing her cheek.

'You should wear gloves when it gets this cold,' she scolds gently; 'that is what they are for.'

'I forgot,' he says with an embarrassed smile.

'Ah, you forgot.' She rolls her eyes, and her gaze falls on Maitimo. 'I suppose you forgot too?'

'I gave my gloves to Pityo,' he tells her whilst he hangs up his coat amidst the sea of coats dominating the entranceway. 'He lost his at school.'

She takes his hands in hers and rubs them tenderly. 'We will have to buy another pair. It is much too cold to run about without proper clothing.'

He nods his agreement, and she shakes her head in concern before gliding away towards the kitchen.

Findekáno turns from hanging his outer clothes up and shoves the bag at Maitimo. 'Your cinnamon, my friend,' he says, and Maitimo takes it from him and follow Anairë into the kitchen.

His uncle Ñolofinwë is bending over the open oven where a large roast is cooking. The pungent scent encircles the room, and Maitimo stops for a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath of it. The kitchen is bustling with activity, and Arafinwë nearly slams into him with an armload of plates.

'Pardon me,' he says, somehow managing to peck his cheek as he slides around him and out into the dining room.

'It is entirely my…' Maitimo begins, but does not bother to finish since he has already disappeared.

With care Maitimo crosses the wide, light boards of the wooden floor and puts the cinnamon away into the spice cabinet fastened securely to one of the pale orange walls.

'Gracious, Kano, be careful with that!' Ñolo calls, and Maitimo turns to see his brother balancing an exceptionally large tea kettle on the edge of the counter.

He shoves it onto a pot holder and wipes the dark strands of hair falling over his face back with a swift hand. Ñolo touches his shoulders from behind, and Makalaurë turns to him with a grateful smile.

'Maitimo, come here a moment.' It is his mother, and he walks quickly over to her where she stands beside the kitchen table with his aunts, preparing the bread. Ambarto is pressed tightly against her side, his red hair tied back in a loose braid. She strokes his head as she speaks to Maitimo. 'Would you go check on Arakáno? He is upstairs in his room; Anairë left him sleeping, but he has probably woken up by now, and we don't want him coming down those steep stairs all by himself.'

'Yes, Mother, of course,' he answers with a quick bow.

She smiles at him and briefly strokes his shoulder.

'Thank-you, Maitimo,' Anairë says almost guiltily, and Eärwen beams at him, her sea green eyes shining. Her silver hair is pinned up messily on the top of her head, and a long streak of flour runs down her right cheek.

'Ah, but he loves to care for Arakáno,' Eärwen says knowingly.

'That I do,' Maitimo answers.

Chapter Text

Maitimo stops by the living room to see if Findekáno want to join him in his visit, but he is pinned to the sofa by Aikanáro.

'I utterly hate and despise school,' Aikanáro is telling him firmly, his eyes flashing dangerously.

'Whatever for?' Findekáno asks, running his hand through the boy's short hair, and Aikanáro licks his lips thoughtfully.

'Because they all hate me there,' he decides, burying his face against Findekáno's neck, trying to push the blue turtleneck down with his nose.

'They can't all hate you,' Findekáno reasons, sounding very fatherly and kind.

'They do,' Aikanáro insists.

'How could they?'

'They do!' He shoves his face hard against Findekáno’s neck with a very determined grunt.

Findekáno looks up at Maitimo hopelessly, and Maitimo shrugs his pity and heads back to the hall.

The stairwell is dark already, and, as usual, the hall light is not working. Maitimo makes his way carefully up the steep steps and creeps down the narrow hallway. It is eerily quiet, but he can make out the scratches of pencils on paper. His younger relatives are quite busy with their homework.

Ñolofinwë and Anairë's room is at the end of the hall, right across from Arafinwë and Eärwen's room. The door is closed, and he turns the knob carefully. The hinges squeak loudly as he pushes the door open.

Maitimo waits a moment before saying anything, looking around their room with interest. It is not often that he comes here, and the room smells musty in a strangely inviting way. It is very small, and their bed takes up most of it. It is a simple iron-framed bed with a dark blue coverlet, wrinkled terribly. Their clothes are kept in a bulky dresser painted a faded, peeling white that is shoved against a windowless wall. The rest of the room is empty except for the stacks of books and papers that march along the bottom of the left wall. The bluish light of a street lamp lights the room, casting strange shadows through the lace curtains onto the creamy, floral walls.

'Arakáno?' Maitimo whispers, taking a step forward.

'Yes?' comes the answer.

Maitimo sits down on the edge of the bed and looks down at Arakáno, who is curled up in the middle of it, the blankets clutched in his tiny fists and tucked under his chin.

'Have you been sleeping?'

'Yes.' He yawns. 'I had a wonderful dream.'

'What was it?' Maitimo asks, lying down beside him and looking into his huge dark grey eyes.

'I dreamt that we were back in Aman,' he says, edging up to Maitimo and pressing his nose against his.

'What was it like?' Maitimo ask him, twisting his fingers through his hair.

Arakáno blinks at Maitimo and a shy smile spreads over his face. 'It was beautiful.'

'It was.'

Arakáno was born here. In the first tumultuous months after their arrival to this strange world, Anairë delivered him under the light of the quivering stars. He has not seen the light of Aman, but still he says always that he dreams of it. Maitimo wonder if he does, and if he can even begin to imagine the beauty and splendour of their lost home.

A hand touches Maitimo’s shoulder, and he looks up to see Makalaurë bending over them. Makalaurë sinks down next to them and slides his arms around Maitimo’s neck from behind, his lips whispering quiet notes into his hair. He smells like ink and almonds, and his breath is warm and tickles Maitimo’s ear.

Maitimo rubs his arm gently, and Makalaurë draws closer to him, looking down at Arakáno over his shoulder.

'Hey, baby,' he sings softly.

Arakáno draws the blankets up to his nose and flutters his lashes at them.

Makalaurë and Maitimo break into laughter together. Makalaurë’s laugh is deep and musical, rolling like the playful waves that break, sparkling, on the white shore. Maitimo’s is higher and rises in sweeps like leaves dancing on a forgetful wind. Arakáno joins them, his giggles quick and uncertain; he watches them to see if he should be laughing.

Maitimo pushes Makalaurë away from him gently and gathers Arakáno up into his arms. Makalaurë kisses him tenderly, and he curls up comfortably against Maitimo’s chest. Makalaurë laughs again and turns to making the bed.

Maitimo carries Arakáno into the bathroom so that he can pee. When he is done, Maitimo lifts him up to the sink to wash his hands.

The moment they get downstairs, Arakáno wriggles away from Maitimo and scurries off to the kitchen to see his parents. Maitimo steps into the living room to see if Findekáno has freed himself from Aikanáro yet.

Aikanáro is no longer in the room, and Findekáno is reading a history book to himself, his eyebrows scrunched in concentration as he taps his finger thoughtfully against his teeth. Beside him on the sofa sits Artanis, who is scratching at the collar of the fuzzy white jumper she has on. Beside her sits Tyelkormo, who is carefully filing his nails and muttering something about the bitterness of life.

Maitimo plops down onto the lumpy armchair his entire family seems to have chosen as their arch enemy and glares menacingly down at the little faded blue flowers intertwined so merrily with stained yellow roses. Since that doesn’t fix the chair, he stops and looks at the clock, wondering if dinner will ever be ready. It is 6:00 p.m., and he is very hungry.

Findaráto is sitting across from Maitimo in the recliner, the most coveted chair in the house. His copper-gold hair sticks out like a flame against the dark blue fabric, and he gives Maitimo a slight smile as he adjusts uncomfortably on his seat. Maitimo gives him a quick glare, and he looks innocently back down at the magazine he is holding.

Ambarussa climbs suddenly onto the armrest of Maitimo’s chair and drops mischievously onto his lap.

'I am an evil Ambarussa,' he says in a low, supposedly threatening voice before unceremoniously attacking Maitimo’s neck with harmless bites, growling fitfully the whole time.

'Not now, Ambarussa,' Maitimo groans, holding the wriggling boy away from him. 'I do not feel like wrestling.'

Ambarussa pouts and tosses his head indignantly, widening his eyes pleadingly.

Maitimo kisses him gently and puts him down. 'Why do you not play with Tyelkormo?'

Tyelkormo looks up with a sigh. 'I can't. I am too depressed.'

'What happened?' asks Artanis, looking up at him with great interest.

'It's none of your business.' Tyelkormo scowls.

Artanis looks very hurt and disappointed. 'I only wanted to help.'

'It is something you would not understand,' Tyelkormo says and turns back to his nails angrily.

With a sigh, Maitimo lifts Ambarussa back onto his lap and cuddles him gently, drawing him up into his arms like a little baby. Ambarussa looks up at Maitimo hopefully, and he nods his consent. Ambarussa’s eyes light up, and he attacks Maitimo’s neck with renewed vigour. Maitimo tackles him back, twisting him up and tickling his feet so he shrieks with laughter.

'The evil Ambarussa is no match for the evil Nelyo!' Maitimo cries, standing up and swinging him upside down by the legs.

Artanis looks over at them with great interest and excitement, and Maitimo knows that she wishes she were the one being swung. Ambarussa is practically screaming with laughter, and Maitimo grins as he snatches him back into his arms and nibbles on his toes.

Findekáno closes his book and stands up, nodding towards the doorway.

Maitimo turns to look.

Artaher is standing there, smiling at them in bewilderment. 'Dinner is ready,' he says quietly.

Maitimo gives Ambarussa one last nip on the ear before they make their way into the dining room, which is crowded as it normally is and echoes with the clamour of the three families.

'What happened, Turko?' Maitimo asks Tyelkormo as they wait in line for Arafinwë to ladle them their meal.

He looks at Maitimo as if he would rather not speak about it, but shrugs and says, 'It's…well…I…' He breaks off and looks down at his feet. 'Why do you want to know?'

'Turko, I'm your brother. I do not want you to be upset about something, and telling someone will help.'

Tyelkormo looks over at Artanis who is taking a roll from the basket her mother is holding and trying not to look like a conniving, little eavesdropper.

'I'll tell you after dinner,' he says.

Maitimo takes his food and moves to the table, cramming Findekáno, Makalaurë, and himself onto two wooden chairs that wobble at the same time in conflicting directions. The roast is perfectly spiced, and drips with aromatic oil and curling golden onions that catch the light like amber where they lie softly over the browned potatoes.

Maitimo lifts a forkful to his lips and blows on it just as his father sits down at the table across from Findekáno, drawing Curufinwë up onto his lap.

Fëanáro’s hair is caught back in a tight braid, but a few black strands have worked their way free and are falling across his sharp face in a tangle that he blows at with impatience, shifting Curufinwë in his arms. Curufinwë turns around and smooths them into place gently.

'There you go, Father,' he says.

Maitimo did not often sit on his father's lap when he was Curufinwë’s age, but Curufinwë insists on it, clinging to Fëanáro as if his very life depended on it. He also has the excuse that there are not enough chairs for all of them.

Curufinwë picks up his glass of milk and takes a long sip of it, watching Maitimo deviously from over the rim.

Fëanáro’s sharp eyes watch Ñolofinwë, who is fidgeting on his seat, Irissë held fast in his strong arms. She twists around unexpectedly to look up at him, and he momentarily loses his natural poise and spills some of Irissë's milk onto the table. With a critical raise of his eyebrows, Fëanáro leans over gracefully and dabs at the spill with his napkin. Ñolofinwë's cheeks burn as he mutters his thanks.

Dinner is over, and Makalaurë is trying to find away to get up without knocking them all over. Of course, it is futile, and he, Findekáno, and Maitiom are forced to stand up together. Unfortunately, their timing is a little off, and their two chairs fall over, clattering noisily as they hit the floor. Fëanáro gives them a rather chiding look, and Ñolofinwë hides his amusement behind his napkin. Maitimo quickly bends down and pulls them back up, straightening them precisely and trying to look as if nothing of the sort had ever happened.

Makalaurë ducks away into the kitchen and soon returns with a platter of frosted almond cookies. He sets them on the table, and Maitimo snatches up a couple and his empty water glass and nods towards Tyelkormo.

With a sigh, Tyelkormo gets up and follows Maitimo into the kitchen, where he refills his glass.

'Do you want some?' Maitimo asks, offering him the jug of water, but Tyelkormo shakes his head, looking down at the floor as he shifts from one foot to the other. Maitimo shoves it back into the refrigerator and close the door. 'What is it?'

'I would rather talk in private,' he says. 'Can we go to your room?'

They go silently up to the attic. It is a large room that seems to remain perpetually dark, no matter how many lights they put in it. Mattresses, clothing, books, and loose sheets of music are scattered across the wooden floor, and the walls are plastered with posters and photographs arranged in a rather haphazard fashion.

Maitimo sits down on one of the mattresses and places his food on a nearby book. Tyelkormo sits down cross-legged opposite him and twists his hair about his finger, looking past Maitimo at a photograph of Amarië that Findaráto took in July.

Maitimo folds his hands under his chin and takes a deep breath. 'All right, Tyelkormo, what is it?'

Tyelkormo sighs and swallows hard, picking up a record lying beside him. He stares at it numbly for a few moments before turning to face Maitimo.

'There's this girl from school. I like her a lot, she's really funny and playful, but I think that she is falling in love with me. The thing is, I am not in love with her. Not anyways near it, in fact. She is a good friend to me, but I think that she wants me to be her lover, and I don't want that, but I don't want to lose her,' he gushes out at once, nearly incoherently, before falling into a brooding silence.

'Are you certain that you are not falling in love with her?' Maitimo says quickly.

He nods. 'I am certain. She is not…my type.'

Maitimo has a vague feeling that means she is not beautiful enough to catch Tyelkormo’s eye in a romantic way, so he nods silently.

'Tyelkormo,' he says finally, 'I think that you should continue your friendship the way that it has been going, and, if she does not want that, there is not much that you can do. Of course, you could always be wrong.'

Tyelkormo shrugs and half smiles. 'I suppose so.' He stands up. 'Well, I have to take Huan out. Good night, Russandol.'

'Good night, Turko,' Maitimo answers.

Maitimo’s bed is warm as he slides down under the covers next to Makalaurë. Makalaurë turns around when Maitimo touches his back and smiles at him in the semi-darkness. He yawns slightly and stretches against Maitimo, tucking his head under his chin. He is humming a quiet lullaby, and Maitimo lets himself sink into the peace of the moment.

''Neylo?'

'Mmm?' Maitimo turns his head a little to look at Findekáno, who is lying on his mattress tangled up with Angaráto and Aikanáro. Their golden hair gleams madly against his dark tresses where the moonlight slips in through the window.

'Have you finished your research paper yet?'

'What?'

'The research paper that we are supposed to do for English, have you finished it?'

'No, Finde, I haven't.'

'Oh.' He smiles slightly. 'Neither have I.'

'I've finished,' Makalaurë sings without breaking his melody.

Maitimo draws his little brother back into his arms and gives him a squeeze to express his annoyance. 'Of course you have.’

Makalaurë smiles ever so slightly as he turns his face away, and Maitimo draw the blankets up to his chin and listens to his brother's song, the gentle breathing of his cousins, and the omnipresent rumble of cars in the distance.

Chapter Text

Makalaurë is curled up tightly beside Maitimo when he awakes. His face is pressed against Maitimo’s shoulder, and he can feel his warm breath on his skin. Makalaurë’s dark, silky hair falls in a tangle over his face, and Maitimo brushes it off gently and pushes him gingerly away. Makalaurë whimpers softly and turns over, wrapping his arms about a lump of wayward blankets. Maitimo slides carefully off the mattress. Picking up his clothes, he makes his way silently across the floor and opens the trapdoor, letting down the retractable ladder.

Findaráto is already awake, whispering words that Maitimo cannot make out. He looks up at Maitimo as he creeps by and mouths a ‘good morning’.

Maitimo nods and climbs down the ladder, which creaks horribly, and makes his way to the bathroom. Already the house is awake, and he can hear the clatter of dishes and Arafinwë singing in the kitchen.

The door to his left opens abruptly, nearly slamming into him, and he jumps aside as Amarië walks out, leading Irissë and Artanis by the hands.

‘I am sorry,’ she says.

‘It is all right,’ Maitimo answers, nodding towards them. ‘Good morning, Amarië, Irissë, Artanis.’

‘Good morning,’ the little girls chime together hastily, as if they were having a completion as to who could answer first. Irissë reaches in front of Amarië to swat at Artanis. Artanis swats back, and Amarië separates them again.

‘Good morning, Maitimo,’ Amarië says, inclining her head politely. Maitimo nods back, and they part.

The girls hurry down the steps, and Maitimo continues down the hall to the bathroom.

The door is shut, and the shower is running. But with twenty-three people in one house, Maitimo finds that the two bathrooms are perpetually occupied. He knocks on the door anyway, for there is a good chance he will be let in.

‘Who is it?’ Carnistir calls over the shower.

‘Maitimo,’ Maitimo answers.

With a click, the lock is undone.

‘Come in.’

Maitimo pulls the door open and steps in. The black tiles are wet and cold under his bare feet.

‘Good morning, Maitimo,’ says Tyelkormo, sticking his head out from behind the curtain. Shampoo is lathered in his hair.

‘Morning, Turko.’

His head disappears. Maitimo hears him have a brief squabble with Carnistir about the conditioner, and, by the time Maitimo is washing his hands, Carnistir is stepping out from the shower and wrapping himself, shivering, in a towel.

‘Do you know what we are having for breakfast?’ he asks.

‘No,’ Maitimo answers. ‘I just got up.’

Carnistir nods and pulls on his underwear.

There is a loud knock on the door just at the moment a small timer on the counter goes off.

‘Your time is up. Turn the shower off,’ Fëanáro calls through the door.

Tyelkormo groans as he complies. He steps out and roughly grabs the towel from Carnistir. Carnistir glares at him and jerks the rest of his clothes on and walks out, leaving the door ajar.

‘Carnistir,’ Tyelkormo growls after him, shutting the door hard. He turns to Maitimo. ‘I don’t know why I got stuck with him as a shower mate.’

Maitimo shrugs. ‘He’s your brother, and he’s close to your age.’

Tyelkormo sniffs as if he finds that inadequate reasoning for the torment that he has to endure, and begins to dress himself.

‘It is an efficient system,’ Maitimo continues, ‘and it had to be done. There are too many people in this house for us all to take separate showers.’

Tyelkormo rolls his eyes when he thinks Maitimo is not looking and buttons his green cardigan to his neck. He pulls on the same pair of ripped jeans that he seems to wear every day and plaits his still wet hair into a tight braid. Frowning into the mirror, he rubs an invisible spot on his cheek before striding out the door. He nearly bumps into Findekáno, and they mutter quick and superficial apologies as they pass without touching.

Findekáno crosses to the sink and splashes cold water onto his face, shivering in his blue nightshirt. He draws the cold droplets down his neck and rubs his hands across his cheeks until pink splotches creep onto his high cheekbones. Teeth chattering, he picks up a facecloth and blots his skin dry.

He notices Maitimo staring at him and turns to him. ‘What is it, Nelyo?’

Silently, Maitimo turns the hot water on, runs his fingers under the faucet, and reaches up and touches Findekáno’s skin with his damp hand. Findekáno looks up at him and laughs lightly, shaking his head so that his hair falls over his face.

‘It wakes me up,’ he says, leaning back against the sink. ‘It is self torture, but it wakes me up.’

‘Finde,’ Maitimo says, cupping his face in his hand and tucking his long hair back behind his ears, as he often did when Findekáno was but a child, ‘I worry about you.’

This only makes him laugh again, and he pulls away from Maitimo. ‘I have to go dress,’ he says.

Ambarussa catch up with Maitimo at the bottom of the stairs, and leech onto him as tightly as they can.

‘Father says that it is Thanksgiving tomorrow,’ says one as the other kisses his cheek a ‘good morning.’

‘That is the American’s harvest celebration,’ says the one who kissed Maitimo. He isn’t entirely sure who is who yet.

‘We were learning about it in school. They made us make turkeys from paper, and they were awful.’

‘But the teacher liked them and hung them up on the wall, and ours were the best.’

‘But she did not say so. She tries to be so impartial, but she really likes us and thinks that we are…’

‘Cute,’ they conclude together, wrinkling their noses in half-hearted irritation.

‘That is nice, Ambarussa,’ Maitimo says, simply because he cannot remember half of what they said, they talked so fast.

Maitimo steps into the kitchen, the twins still latched onto his sides, and seizes a couple of warm lemon muffins from where they are left, steaming, on the counter.

‘Have you eaten?’ he asks them, and they shake their heads, so he picks up four more muffins, drops them all onto a plate, and drags the twins out of the crowded room before they get in someone’s way.

He brings them into the living room. The sunlight is peeping in gently through the partly opened curtains, and it shines brightly on the wide pine floorboards and falls in splotches over the sofa where Amarië and Findaráto are sitting, entwined in each other’s arms. They break their kiss when they enter, and Maitimo smiles at them.

‘When are you getting married?’ he asks, settling down on the floor with the twins and breakfast.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Findaráto, ‘Father says that we are still too young.’ He holds Amarië’s hand in his lovingly and kisses it. She turns to him and draws him close again for a kiss so slow and tender that Maitimo has to turn his face away. They smile at one another, and Findaráto slides his arm around her waist, his other hand twisting through her hair. ‘What do you think?’

‘You certainly do not act too young,’ Maitimo answers, ‘but I think that you should listen to your father. He certainly knows more about marriage than I do.’

Findaráto nods almost sadly, and they begin to whisper together plans for the future.

Maitimo turn back to his breakfast, breaking the warm muffin slowly between his fingers.

‘Maitimo,’ says Fëanáro from behind him. His voice sounds grave and, when Maitimo turns to face him, he can see that he looks upset. ‘I have to talk to you.’

Maitimo takes his breakfast out to the backyard and eats it as his father paces anxiously on the frosty grass. He knows innately that he should not speak, so he remains silent and watches him.

Fëanáro’s body is tense with suppressed emotions; his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his shoulder, and Maitimo can see that the muscles on his arms are taut. His fists are clenched. He turns suddenly to Maitimo, reaching him in two strides, and tilts his face down.

‘Do you know where Curvo is?’ he asks.

Maitimo shakes his head. ‘I have not seen him since last night.’

‘He is always running off somewhere,’ Fëanáro says. ‘And I do not know where he goes. He makes nothing of it.’ He draws a breath of the cold air in sharply and lets it out slowly through gritted teeth.

‘Do you want me to look for him?’ Maitimo asks, taking his hands in his.

Fëanáro’s fingers are tight with worry. They are so hot that they feel as if they could melt Maitimo’s skin. Maitimo looks into his eyes. They are grey and deep and flash with an inner fire that Maitimo often sees in his own, so bright that it frightens him. The light of the morning sun seems dim in comparison to the light in his father’s eyes.

‘Thank-you,’ Fëanáro says. ‘I do not know what has gotten into him.’

Maitimo does not tell him that Curufinwë’s problem is that he has been spoiled all his life and scarcely knows how to take ‘no’ for an answer. Fëanáro will not want to hear that. Maitimo just shakes his head and slips inside to get his coat.

He encounters Findekáno in the hallway.

‘What troubles you?’ Findekáno asks, reading Maitimo’s face in an instant. He places his hand on his shoulder.

‘Curufinwë is missing again,’ Maitimo tells him. ‘I am going out to look for him.’ Maitimo lifts his coat off its hook and pulls it on, not bothering to button it.

‘I am coming with you,’ Findekáno says, grabbing his own coat and hurrying after him.

Even as they step out the door, they spot Curufinwë walking nonchalantly into the driveway, his arms folded and his head high in the November wind. His hair is streaming behind him, flashing black madly.

Maitimo rushes to him.

‘Curufinwë,’ he snaps, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him inside. ‘Where have you been? Father was worried.’ Maitimo touches his cheek. ‘Why are you not wearing your coat? It’s cold. Have you been out all night?’

Curufinwë shrugs Maitimo’s hand off and frowns at him.

‘What does it matter to you?’ he asks haughtily.

‘Curvo!’ Fëanáro exclaims, half in joy and half in anger, as he hurries into the hall and gathers his favourite son into his arms.

Curufinwë presses himself against Fëanáro and kisses his cheek.

‘I love you,’ he whispers into his ear.

Fëanáro frowns now.

‘Do you? Well then, you are going to tell me exactly where you went and what you did. Do you understand?’ Curufinwë looks down disappointedly as Fëanáro carries him away for interrogation, but Maitimo knows even now that Curufinwë will tell him little, if anything at all. He has his secrets.

Findekáno takes Maitimo’s hand and squeezes it.

‘It is not your fault,’ he whispers, for it is only Findekáno who would know the secret blame that Maitimo lays on himself for all his brother’s failings.

It is useless to tell Findekáno that he knows that, so Maitimo just lays his cheek against Findekáno’s hair and lets him comfort him with a song.

Chapter Text

It is early afternoon, and Maitimo is in the kitchen, trying to get today’s work done. The room is hot, and his hands are slick with butter. He rubs them impatiently against his apron and turns to a pile of carrots he has to peel and chop.

The radio is letting out a mournful tune about honesty, and Makalaurë sings along as he stirs the cranberry sauce he is cooking. The words sound strange coming from his brother. ‘Honesty is such a lonely word; everyone is so untrue.’

Carnistir looks up from snapping green beans. ‘Whatever do you mean, Kano? Who here has ever heard of someone being untrue?’

Makalaurë turns to him sadly. ‘It is a song written by one of this world about this world. Here, they are untrue.’ He blows on the spoonful of shining red liquid that he is holding and takes a careful sip. ‘It needs more sugar.’

Carnistir nibbles thoughtfully on a green bean as he muses this over. His brows are drawn together, and his lip is pulled downwards in a crooked frown. He opens his mouth but sees that Makalaurë is not waiting for an answer and instead crunches down angrily on another green bean.

‘Is the radio bothering anyone?’ asks Tyelkormo, who had turned it on.

‘It is bothering me,’ says Turukáno, who is peeling potatoes with a perpetually irritated expression across his fair face.

With an almost careless grace Tyelkormo turns it off and continues across the kitchen to the pantry.

Makalaurë breaks into another song, one he wrote about the bliss and joy of Aman, and a silence settles over the room, which was loud to the point of frustration just a moment ago. Maitimo can feel tears pricking his eyes, and he shakes his head.

‘No,’ says Carnistir sharply. ‘I cannot bear it.’

Makalaurë stops singing, and the room becomes deadly silent.

Maitimo turns back to the carrots he is cutting, severing each long, orange root swiftly. They crack as he cuts through them, falling away from each other into small disks that resemble tree trunks. And Maitimo wonders why it is that they can cut and severe, but they cannot heal and put back together. The carrot will never be whole again. He slices angrily at another one, shoving the pieces roughly to the other side of the cutting board, and lifts up the last carrot.

‘Nelyo,’ calls Arafinwë from the doorway. ‘Your father and I are going out. We will be back around six.’ He smiles at Maitimo and disappears before Maitimo can ask him where in all Eä his father and Arafinwë could possibly be going together.

Maitimo washes his hands, his kitchen duties finished, and tries to sneak up to his room without being noticed by any clingy child. He has no such luck. Irissë catches up with him the moment he steps foot out the door and holds her hands up to him.

‘What is it, little one?’ Maitimo asks, lifting her up.

‘I am bored,’ she says, turning her face up to him and widening her eyes as wide as they can possibly go.

‘Why do you not play with Artanis?’ Maitimo asks, already knowing the answer.

‘She does not like me.’ She pouts.

‘Why does she not like you?’ Maitimo asks, kissing the top of her head. He knows they have been fighting, but he does not know entirely what for.

She starts to answer, but is cut off by Nerdanel, who hurries down the steps, pulling her hair off her face into a quick knot at the nape of her neck.

‘Maitimo,’ she says, stopping just long enough to grab her green coat and sling it over her shoulders. ‘I have a client, could you tell Carnistir that I will take him shopping tomorrow? No, tomorrow is their holiday, I do not know if the stores are open, on Friday then.’

‘Of course,’ Maitimo agrees as she flies out the door, closing it with a bang behind her.

Irissë tugs on Maitimo’s hair.

‘Nelyo, I am bored,’ she whines.

He lifts her higher against him and looks around for something for her to do. The hallway is traitorously bare. With a groan, he carries her into the living room. His gaze lands on Curufinwë, who is sulking in the far corner.

‘Ah!’ Maitimo cries in triumph. ‘You want to play with Curvo, do you not?’

Curufinwë looks up sullenly and gives Irissë a half-hearted glare. She fails to notice it and squeals with delight as Maitimo places her on Curufinwë’s lap, wrapping her arms tightly about his neck.

‘Hey, don't choke me!’ he protests as Maitimo hurries away to find a moment’s peace.

‘Now,’ Fëanáro says, looking around the room accusingly. ‘What are we all thankful for?’

Fëanáro has decided that he will use today for a lesson in cultural assimilation, which he deems very important if they are to get anywhere in this world, which they must, and they thus are obliged to spend their Thanksgiving doing everything that he has read you are supposed to do on Thanksgiving in his little red book American Holidays and Traditions.
He holds it open now with one hand, the other wavering just above the flame of the candlestick nearest to him.

‘We are going to go around the table and everyone has to tell one thing they are thankful for.’ He turns his eyes on Nerdanel. ‘What are you thankful for, my wife?’ he asks graciously.

‘For my wonderful family,’ she says with a smile, encompassing the entire table in her fond gaze.

A look of slight irritation passes over Fëanáro’s face, and he turns away from her. ‘And you, Ñolofinwë?’

Ñolofinwë mutters something heavily sarcastic that sounds suspiciously like ‘that my brother despises me’, but looks up and says instead, ‘For the stars in the sky.’

With a nod, Fëanáro continues. ‘And you Anairë?’

He continues to go about the table like this, nodding or frowning his approval or disapproval of the things that everyone is thankful for. Anairë is thankful for her children, Arafinwë for music, Eärwen that they live by the sea.

Fëanáro turns to Maitimo.

‘And what are you thankful for, Maitimo?’ he asks.

‘That I am receiving an education still,’ Maitimo answers. ‘That will help me to live here.’

Fëanáro nods his approval and turns to Makalaurë.

‘Love,’ says Makalaurë quietly.

His father raises his eyebrows.

Tyelkormo is thankful for Huan, Findekáno for electricity, Carnistir for Ambarussa, who blush at his comment. Turukáno is thankful for his sister, Findaráto for Amarië, Amarië for Findaráto.

‘No, no,’ says Fëanáro. ‘We must stop being thankful for people. It is quite uninteresting.’ His lip twists stubbornly, and he looks about the table for opponents. Not finding any, he nods for the rest to continue.

Artaher is thankful for poetry, Curufinwë for his skilled hands, Pityafinwë for cinnamon rolls, Telufinwë for nail polish, holding up his gold nails for all to see.

Fëanáro has taken to painting his nails so that he can differentiate between the twins. Unfortunately, it has led to no lack of strife, since Pityafinwë finds having nails that look like metal absolutely fascinating and has been begging Father to paint his too. Now he folds his arms and looks dourly down at his full plate and mumbles that it is not fair.

Fëanáro pretends not to hear and turns to Angaráto.

‘And what are you thankful for?’ he asks, leaning ever so slightly closer.

‘For bicycles,’ Angaráto says, casting a hopeful look at his father.

Arafinwë looks away and tucks a strand of his golden hair delicately behind his ear.

‘I am thankful for roller blades,’ says Aikanáro before Fëanáro has a chance to ask him.

‘And I for this locket,’ Irissë chirps, her fingers playing with a silver locket about her neck that her father gave her last Christmas.

Fëanáro’s fingers drum together in exasperation, but he keeps his composure and turns to Artanis, who is looking quite glum.

‘What are you thankful for?’ he asks.

‘That I am no longer the youngest,’ she says, looking gratefully at Arakáno.

He bounces in his mother’s arms and slams his little fist against the table. ‘I am thankful for crayons,’ he sings out.

Fëanáro smiles. ‘Good. I believe that we must pray next, and then we are supposed to eat.’

‘But, Fëanáro,’ says Nerdanel gently. ‘You did not say what you were thankful for.’

Fëanáro nods gravely before saying quietly, ‘I am thankful for life.’

There is a strange silence in the air after Fëanáro speaks, and, in it, Maitimo stares at the candle in front of him and watches its small flame dance with each slow breath. The orange glow is hypnotizing, and Maitimo concentrates on it as his father offers up a prayer to Eru. His voice is strong, yet strangely frail as he speaks. It makes Maitimo think of the flame before him, which could so suddenly be gone. Maitimo shudders, and his mother squeezes his hand under the table. He turn to her, and she smiles, but it is lost under her troubled eyes.

After dinner, they are all brought into the living room to spend the rest of the hopefully peaceful evening together. Maitimo sits down on the blue sofa and gathers the twins into his arms. They lean back against him, their arms entwined about each other, and begin to whisper to each other about the excitements of the day.

Ñolofinwë hands Maitimo a glass of wine, and he takes it gratefully and sips the dark, bitter liquid. Ñolofinwë gives the twins a glass of diluted wine to share, and they take it eagerly. Maitimo drinks his wine slowly.

Findekáno sits down on the arm of the sofa and sets his glass on Maitimo’s head. Maitimo looks up at him, and Findekáno grins down at him.

‘Cheers!’

‘You are too young to be drinking wine anyway,’ Maitimo tells him, brushing his glass off his head. ‘It really is quite illegal.’

‘I assure you,’ Findekáno sniffs, hovering his glass well above his head and scrutinizing the liquid, ‘that I am well above the age of twenty-one.’

‘You are not supposed to be that old here,’ says Anairë. ‘So you must not get caught drinking.’

Fëanáro grumbles something about the foolishness of American drinking laws and lets Curufinwë take a long drink from his glass. He settles back against Fëanáro and presses his head under his chin, his arm falling down loosely by his side in relaxation as if he is preparing to fall asleep.

Fingers are tangling with Maitimo’s hair, and he looks up to discover that it is, of course, Findekáno, who bites his lip sheepishly and tries to look innocent.

‘Oh, why do you not grow up and leave me alone?’ Maitimo asks him.

Findekáno shakes his head and pops a forkful of pecan pie into Maitimo’s mouth. Maitimo chews it carefully. It is very sweet, and the roasted nuts do little to cut the sugar, but Maitimo likes it.

With a gentle laugh, Findekáno offers him another bite. Maitimo rolls his eyes at him as he takes it, simply because he does not have the will power to refuse Findekáno and throw him to the floor as he should to teach him a proper lesson.

Ambarussa look up at the pie quite expectantly, and Findekáno gets up to fetch them some. Maitimo holds the twins closer and takes away their empty wine glass.

‘I wish we could have more,’ sighs Ambarto, and Maitimo does not answer him.

Ambarto sighs again and looks after Findekáno hopefully. Findekáno comes back with pie for them, swishing his gold-twined braids proudly. He gives Ambarussa their pie and resumes his seat on the armrest. Maitimo pinches his leg just to be wicked, and Findekáno glares down at him and swats his hand away with a smile.

Findaráto and Makalaurë, who have been whispering to each other for quite some time, now stand up and Makalaurë claps once for everyone’s attention.

‘We have composed a song for this occasion,’ he says, ‘that we will perform now, if we have your leave.’

Nerdanel nods her head, giving them permission to proceed, and they begin their song. The words speak of their time in this world, and the melody is haunting.

Maitimo draws his brothers still closer and kisses the tops of their heads. Their hair is warm and soft under his lips and smells like lavender shampoo. They squirm a little, and Maitimo loosens his embrace.

‘I love you,’ he whispers to them when the song ends, and they look up at him.

‘I love you too,’ they say at the same time and kiss him with sticky lips.

No one is fighting, and the room is growing dark. The street lamps outside shine brightly on the fresh snow that fell last night. The room is comfortingly warm. The fire cracks merrily in the woodstove. Maitimo holds the twins against his chest. He wishes this moment would last forever.

Chapter Text

Makalaurë lies under the covers of his bed, sleep slowly overtaking him. His body is heavy with food and wine, and his mind is spinning with the beginnings of fantastic dreams. His fingers are closed upon each other, twisted together with the sheets and a small ring slipping resolutely off his finger. The room is dark save for the soft light of a table lamp that shines in a broken circle on the ceiling.

Breaking the stillness are Findekáno and Ñolofinwë, who are talking together. Their voices are hushed, but he can still make out what they say.

‘It was a good evening,’ Findekáno says as he unwinds the braids in his hair carefully, twisting gold free from the dark locks. Makalaurë can see his face reflected in the mirror, flushed but still. His lips are set in a soft line. He is tired. His hands tremble slightly as his fingers catch in his soft tresses and drop down, wearily, to his sides.

‘Yes, but you drank too much,’ his father whispers in the near dark, taking an unstable step nearer to him. He places his hands on his son’s slim shoulders and draws his head back, cradling it in his arms. He leans against the straight back of the chair, his breath quick and shallow.

‘As did you,’ Findekáno says, pulling free of his embrace and resuming his work.

‘Here, let me do that,’ Ñolofinwë says. Steadying himself against the chair, he drowns his fingers in the warm depths of his son’s hair. ‘Findekáno, Findekáno,’ he whispers.

Findekáno closes his eyes and rests his chin in his hands. With a soft laugh he reaches up and takes his father’s hand as the last braid is undone.

‘You know that I am not a child any longer,’ he says, squeezing his fingers lightly.

‘No?’ Ñolofinwë says, but it is a question, and the answer is quite plain.

‘Father?’ Makalaurë sinks down beside Fëanáro on the sofa. Fëanáro looks busy and absent-minded, and is flipping rapidly through a stack of papers.

‘Yes?’ he asks without looking up, a black pen twitching restlessly between his fingers.

‘Is there anything you want me to do?’ Makalaurë asks, drawing back a little as Fëanáro turns sharply towards him and makes a firm mark on the book left open beside him.

‘Such as?’ Fëanáro flings the pen down hard onto the book, and it bounces off and rolls away over the floor to disappear under the armchair.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Makalaurë says, giving a slight shrug that Fëanáro obviously does not see. ‘It’s just that sometimes you want me to do something, but I get so busy with…’

‘Damn it all,’ Fëanáro mutters, running a frustrated hand through his tangled hair. He reaches around for his pen, finds that it is missing, and looks at Makalaurë accusingly.

Makalaurë quickly gets up and retrieves it, handing it back to him before sitting down again.

Fëanáro begins to scratch out hasty calculations in the book, cursing occasionally as he does so.

‘But I get busy with my music, so you get upset,’ Makalaurë continues.

‘I like your damn music,’ Fëanáro snaps, slamming the book shut with an angry sigh.

‘I just wanted to know if…’ Makalaurë trails off, watching him.

‘No, no, I don’t. Go ask your mother if you want work,’ Fëanáro says, biting his knuckle. ‘She usually has something for someone to do. Although I don’t remember you being so eager for chores, aren’t you usually busy with your music?’ He turns his gaze suddenly on Makalaurë and peers at him as if he is searching to find the very depths of his soul.

Fëanáro’s lips twitch into a crooked frown, and he reaches his hand out and draws it through Makalaurë’s hair, pulling the strands out to flash black in the light.

‘Hmm,’ Fëanáro sighs to himself. He drops his son’s hair and picks the pen up, scratching away once more.

‘Well, thank-you, Father,’ Makalaurë says, standing up, eager to get to practice.

Fëanáro makes no reply, but bites the end of the pen in frustration.

‘Damn it all,’ he mutters.

Strong arms seize Makalaurë from behind, startling him from the notes he is writing. He had lost himself in the world that he had created with this song, and now he is rudely forced from it back into tangible reality. Without warning, he is drawn back and up, his ribs compressing in the firm grasp of his assailant.

‘He, he, he,’ a low voice chuckles in his ear. ‘It looks as if I caught the musician off guard.’

‘Turko, let go of me,’ Makalaurë grumbles, knowing already that his complaints will do him little good.

Tyelkormo’s grip tightens and he lifts Makalaurë off the floor, carrying him over to the mattress on the floor that he shares with Maitimo.

‘Oh, please, no,’ Makalaurë begs, ‘not a wrestling match, not now.’

‘There is no time like the present,’ Tyelkormo rejoins, turning Makalaurë around to face him. There is a dreadfully mischievous grin on his face, and he swishes back the few loose strands of silver hair falling over it with an untamable gusto. ‘Or are you afraid that your little brother will beat you?’

Makalaurë narrows his eyes, and his hand tightens into a fist. His challenge is accepted.

‘No shoes,’ Makalaurë says, kicking at his moccasins with his stocking foot.

Tyelkormo looks down at his brother’s blue socks critically for a moment but pulls off his shoes and throws them carelessly across the room. With an arch of his back, he strips his shirt off.

‘No shirts,’ he adds. ‘Nelyo gets mad when I rip them.’

Makalaurë raises an eyebrow, but pulls his dark blue shirt out of his jeans and hastily undoes the buttons. He slips it off and casts it onto Findekáno’s bed. It flies through the air and lands unceremoniously on a stack of schoolbooks.

‘Are you ready?’ Tyelkormo asks, flexing his arms intimidatingly.

‘Oh, sure,’ Makalaurë says, voice cool and eyes daring.

Tyelkormo’s eyes narrow, and he searches his older brother’s face for any hint of fear. His fingers lift to his mouth for a moment, and he rubs his chin, contemplating the best plan of attack.

‘Well?’ Makalaurë says. ‘What is taking you so long?’ He rests his hands on his hips.

‘I was just making sure you were ready,’ Tyelkormo replies, tilting his head this way and that as he examines him.

Makalaurë shifts his weight. He tenses as Tyelkormo eyes him, planning for weaknesses.

‘I am ready,’ Makalaurë says. ‘We can begin whenever you like.’

‘To the death?’ Tyelkormo asks.

Makalaurë smiles.‘To the death.’

Tyelkormo’s arms are around Makalaurë’s waist in an instant, and he lifts him off the floor, slinging him across his shoulder, trying to catch at his legs.

Makalaurë folds his body over him, kicking rapidly to keep him from getting a good hold on him. His hands fight their way down Tyelkormo’s bare back, searching to grip the hard muscles. Desperately, Makalaurë clutches at Tyelkormo’s jeans as he struggles to hold him. He wraps himself around Tyelkormo’s body, locking his arms around his waist from behind.

Makalaurë weaves his fingers together. Tyelkormo tries to push them apart and get Makalaurë’s arms off him. But Makalaurë clings to his body, his legs wrapping around Tyelkormo’s.

Tyelkormo strains hard against Makalaurë, forcing his hands apart, and draws him around to his front, holding him waist-high against him.

Makalaurë looks up at him, hair falling over his face in a tangle. Tyelkormo smiles down at him, forcing him slowly onto the mattress. It gives under Makalaurë, and Tyelkormo pulls him up, so that they are facing each other. Makalaurë can feel his hot breath on his face.

‘Do you yield?’ Tyelkormo asks, pinning Makalaurë’s arms firmly underneath him.

‘Never,’ Makalaurë answers, pressing up on him, desperately straining to roll him over.

He manages to wrap his legs around Tyelkormo’s waist and squeezes him sharply. Tyelkormo gasps as the wind is knocked from his body, and in that moment Makalaurë pushes up hard, forcing them both to the left.

Makalaurë winds up on top of his brother, his legs still around him. Tyelkormo reaches up towards him, but Makalaurë grabs his wrists and forces them down onto the bed. Makalaurë’s breath is coming faster now, and he strains to keep his brother down.

For a moment, Tyelkormo lies still, but soon a cruel smile crosses his face, and he draws his hands back up over his head, forcefully lowering Makalaurë on top of him. Makalaurë resists it, but Tyelkormo is stronger. Makalaurë’s body is stretched out over Tyelkormo now, and Tyelkormo chuckles. He raises his head and rubs his hair against Makalaurë’s neck.

‘Oh, no, oh Turko, no,’ Makalaurë gasps. He laughs. ‘No! Turko!’

But Tyelkormo only tickles him harder. Makalaurë releases him, and Tyelkormo pushes him over. Makalaurë is firmly caught in his arms, and he runs his fingers expertly along his sides.

‘I never said tickling was allowed,’ Makalaurë gasps as Tyelkormo reaches down to take hold of his foot.

‘You never said differently,’ Tyelkormo retorts, drawing Makalaurë’s leg up sharply.

Makalaurë kicks against him and manages to break free. He springs back on Tyelkormo, fingers flying to reach his underarms.

Tyelkormo laughs and shrinks away from Makalaurë as he presses on. Makalaurë collapses on top of him, but he pushes back. Rolling together, they fight back and forth winning or losing in chaotic succession.

Makalaurë’s throat is dry, and his body aches with laughter. Tyelkormo has him caught up in his arms, folded against his chest. Makalaurë has lost both his socks, and one leg of his jeans is pushed up to his knee. He reaches a hand up to get back at Tyelkormo, but his brother holds it fast in his.

Makalaurë gazes up at Tyelkormo, and his eyes are bright with joy and victory.

‘Turko,’ he whispers. ‘I died.’

Chapter Text

Makalaurë slips into the classroom with his head bent, just behind Maitimo, trying not to look obtrusive. A few of the other students stare at him as he walks past, and the English professor glances up to see who it is.

Makalaurë pulls out one of the small, black plastic chairs and settles behind a short desk with a fake wooden surface that glares plastic up at him under the florescent lights. He looks around the room, which is relatively empty as usual. The walls are painted a strange, light yellow, scuffed with time, and the carpet is a nondescript grey. He sighs and closes his eyes, pulls out his folder and runs his fingers over it. They are aching with a longing to touch and to hold his harp, but the time here calls for silence. Sometimes he does not know why he bothers trying to get a degree anyway. He doesn’t know how to live in this world.

Maitimo has already taken out his research paper and holds it up, smoothing the papers carefully. He was up all last night working on it, since he deemed it a good idea to wait to the night before to write it – simply because the English professor had told the class that is what they should not do. Makalaurë does not fully understand all of his brother's obstinacies. Maitimo places the paper down, looking quite proud of it and turns to Makalaurë.

'I believe that I should get an A on that,' he says with a smile.

Makalaurë shakes his head at his brother. Half the other students have turned to them with looks of curiosity or irritation as they always do when they speak their own language in class.

‘Why should you? That is probably a first draft, and you are not that good at English anyway.’

‘I speak and write English quite well, thank-you,’ Maitimo says with feigned irritation, and turns away from Makalaurë.

Most of the other students have lost interest in their private conversation and have gone back to chatting with each other. Makalaurë brushes the folder again; the deep blue of the glossy cover is soothing to his senses, and he lets the calm of it close over him.

The professor collects the papers just as class starts, and Makalaurë hands him his research paper on the effects of music on the human mind. It gets lost quickly in the jumble of papers from the class, and Makalaurë wonders what his grade will be.

He do not feel as confident as Maitimo, even though he finished it two weeks ago and has spent the extra time editing it. But it seems hopeless sometimes, trying to write well enough in this new language. Makalaurë rests his head in his hands. He wants to sing, but he can’t now.

Maitimo has turned to Findekáno – the crazy boy who followed him to college – and is whispering something to him in a voice so low that Makalaurë cannot make it out over the din of the Americans. Findekáno laughs lightly and smooths his hair out, tucking his dark braids back behind his ears. He shakes his head, and they fall out of place. He laughs again.

The professor turns to him, curiosity crinkling up the corners of his red face. Some of the other students look over as well. Findekáno laughs again and smiles at them, slightly abashed, before ducking his head down, biting his lip. He looks so childish for a moment that Makalaurë is struck with a vivid memory of the days when he and Maitimo used to dress him up like a doll.

The hall had been crowded, and Makalaurë had been standing next to his mother, eavesdropping on a conversation she was having with Indis, which had seemed at first more interesting than it actually was. Maitimo came up behind him, carrying a little dark haired boy in his arms. It took him a moment to recognize him as Ñolofinwë’s son, and by then Maitimo had seized his hand and hauled his across the floor. Makalaurë asked Maitimo where they were going, but he had hushed him, leading him out of the great room.

Maitimo brought them to a small room filled with blue curtains and beautiful toys ordered carefully in place. He set Findekáno down on the white bed and looked around imperiously. Makalaurë sat next to Findekáno, who climbed onto his lap. Makalaurë kissed the top of his head.

‘Are we supposed to be here?’ he asked Maitimo, worried as always of his father’s temper and his mother’s stern words. ‘I thought that…’

‘It was too noisy there,’ Maitimo interrupted. ‘And Ñolofinwë said that I could take Findekáno back to his room.’

Makalaurë did not think that the words of his half-brother would be an argument their father would listen to, but Maitimo was older and wiser than him, and he was used to listening to him, so he said nothing.

‘Isn’t he cute?’ Maitimo asked, kneeling down in front of the bed and tickling Findekáno gently.

Findekáno giggled, and Maitimo took him away from Makalaurë and danced him across the room, singing a little ditty. His steps were elegant and light, and Makalaurë sang along with him, mesmerised by his dancing. Maitimo stopped too soon, and set Findekáno back in his brother’s arms. He swept to the closet and opened it, lifted out Findekáno’s shimmering clothes.

‘Look!’ Maitimo said.

Makalaurë looked, balancing Findekáno on his legs and kissing his soft hair, which smelt delicate and sweet, like fresh violets.

‘Let’s put them on him,’ Maitimo said eagerly, taking Findekáno from his brother again. He started to undress him gently, and Findekáno did not protest as he removed his clothes and put the fancier ones he had found on him instead.

‘Isn’t he adorable?’ asked Maitimo, holding him up and parading him across the room for Makalaurë to admire.

Makalaurë agreed wholeheartedly, forgetting his initial fears, and reached for Findekáno.

‘You are all the tiredest-looking bunch of people I have seen in my life,’ the professor says roughly, cutting through Makalaurë’s memory.

Makalaurë glances quickly over at Findekáno again, but he is sitting straight and looking diligent and intelligent, and the childish smirk is gone from his face. Makalaurë sighs and closes his eyes again, shutting out the ugly room. He smiles to himself. Tyelkormo would have bitten them if they had tried anything like that on him.

Makalaurë’s music lessons are harder than he would have ever thought. He has to learn the theory and concepts behind the songs that have been played, the different genres, the new notes, the new writing system, the new composers. He knows nothing of these. He feels stupid that he doesn’t, when everyone else does.

His instructor is astounded by him. He doesn’t know who or what he is. He has never before met a student who can sing and play as well and as beautifully as Makalaurë can and who has never before heard of Beethoven.

But he freezes them with his music. None of them have heard before the songs that he plays and sings.

‘Your voice,’ the instructor has said, ‘is too beautiful to be real.’ He has urged Makalaurë to enrol in a music school, send a demo to a record company, put a video on youtube, anything. He once asked Makalaurë if he were an angel.

Makalaurë drops into his seat and pulls out his music books. He looks over the notes he has written, praying that they will be right.

The instructor takes the sheet, and he looks down at it, pressing his large, red glasses back up his nose absently with one finger. His bright blue eyes narrow for a moment, but he tucks the sheet away without comment and starts the class.

Makalaurë sits through the class, shamed by how little he knows, how the other students can answer questions about musicians whose names tickle his mind with their strangeness, but stir no memories or answers.

He sits sullenly through class, twisting his fingers together and holding back the bitter pain that he feels. He aches for the day to be over, for the safety and refuge of his room and the comfort of his harp strings.

He can feel the rhythm of the student’s voices, the hum of their breath. His mind writes the notes that he learned as a child, but his hands cannot grasp the pen and jot down what he hears in their new musical language.

‘Makalaurë,’ the instructor says. He is one of the few people Makalaurë knows who does not trip and stumble over name.

Makalaurë nods instead of speaking. He doesn’t want to sound stupid.

‘Have you learned the C major scale yet?’

Makalaurë nods again and look back down at the desk. The instructor sighs quietly.

Findaráto tells Makalaurë that he will never learn until he can fully grasp that they have lost Valinor. He tells him that he is afraid of losing his own music if he learns the new ones. Findaráto is very wise, but Makalaurë does not want to believe him. It makes him seem too foolish and stubborn. And yet, he knows it is true. He already has a language, a culture. He doesn’t want this one.

Makalaurë sits in the performing arts centre, waiting for his turn to perform. This is the final for private music lessons. He knows his songs well, though he is playing by ear and memory, not reading the sheets of music he has, which he is supposed to be playing from.

Findekáno and Maitimo are in the sparse audience, but that does little to comfort him. He hates talking.

The student performing before him finishes, and Makalaurë tries to smile at her. He gets up after and makes his way to the centre of the stage. He’s been performing his whole life. That isn’t hard. But this is.

‘Name mine is Makalaurë Fëanorian,’ he says, as he is supposed to. ‘I is firth year sudent. Sthudy music …on a ditferont…country,’ his voice falters for a moment, as some of the students murmur to each other. ‘I play piaino and thinging, and I play harp.’

Makalaurë sits before the piano. The keys feel warm underneath his fingers as he touches them gently for a moment, before lifting his hands up again.

He barely looks at his hands as he plays, the melody wrapping itself like an old, well-known blanket about him. He can feel the keys, hard but yielding, like stones or bone that many years and many fingers have worn.

While the last notes linger still in the restless air, he lifts his harp up, his fingers faithfully finding their places on the strings. The song he has had to keep locked inside of him all day springs forth from his lips and rises, strong and clear, into the auditorium. The words are sad, and the music old.

Time has no meaning any longer.

Chapter Text

‘You sang beautifully,’ says Findekáno to Makalaurë as they climb into Maitimo’s car. It is an old green Ford with rust on the edges, a cracked headlight, worn tires, and a hideous dent on the bumper. Makalaurë cannot stand the thing. It is noisy, dirty, and smelly, and he always has a dreadful feeling that they are going to get into a crash and die. It is, however, one of the cruel necessities of this world. At least he does not have to drive.

‘Thank-you,’ Makalaurë answers, smiling a little at him in the rear-view mirror as he buckles himself nto the front passenger seat.

Findekáno nods and settles back in his seat, searching through his backpack. ‘It seems strange to believe that was the last day of school,’ he says conversationally.

‘I am glad that it is over,’ says Maitimo, turning the key in the ignition. ‘I really could not stand the English instructor.’ He shakes his head contemptuously and sighs.

‘He was rather rude,’ Findekáno agrees politely.

‘Rude?’ Maitimo counters. ‘He talked to us as if we were children. I’ve never been so disrespected in my life.

‘Ai, Maitimo!’ Findekáno scolds. ‘His teaching method was a bit strict, but he had a lot to go over in a very short time.’

‘Mother says that she wants us to pick up Curvo on the way home,’ says Maitimo, changing the subject. ‘He went to the library.’

‘That’s a good place for him,’ Makalaurë says, gritting his teeth as Maitimo takes the turn onto the highway a bit too sharply. ‘It should keep him out of trouble.’

‘Curvo can find trouble anywhere,’ Maitimo rejoins. ‘And when he can’t find it, he makes it.’ He presses down hard on the accelerator and the car picks up alarming speed. ‘Believe me, I have experience with that brat.’

‘What did he do to you now?’ asks Findekáno, leaning forward eagerly.

‘He hacked into my e-mail account and sent a love letter to one of my professors,’ says Maitimo with a scowl. ‘Unfortunately, Father wouldn’t let me strangle him.’ He scoffs and looks quite self-righteous.

‘Which professor was it?’ Makalaurë asks.

‘Verdant,’ Maitimo says sourly. ‘And I did not even know until he brought it up one day after class. I nearly died of embarrassment.’

‘Ai,’ soothes Findekáno. ‘That is dreadful. Verdant did understand though?’

‘In the end, yes. Father made Curvo write him an apology and revoked his computer privileges for a month. He was furious.’

‘You two aren’t about to get into another one of your who-has-the-more-annoying-siblings-or-cousins bouts are you?’ Makalaurë asks them warily. Those conversations of theirs Makalaurë takes great pains to avoid, even if he is rarely a subject of complaint and could easily join in on their side.

‘No,’ says Findekáno easily. ‘For now we are set on the decision that Curvo is the worst of them all.’

Silence falls over them, and Makalaurë looks out the window at the land speeding past. The trees and grass are a dismal grey that matches the low clouds in the sky. After the rain has melted the snow, the whole world seems to have changed to this dull grey. The road is grey too.

A tree stands proudly, sprawled and gnarled, by the road near the library. Its branches reach up to the sky above, and its roots fight with the cement of the sidewalk. They nearly hit it when Maitimo pulls the car up to the curb. He still hasn’t mastered parallel parking.

‘I’ll get him,’ Makalaurë volunteers, eager to be out of this miserable contraption. ‘If neither of you need anything at the library.’

They shake their heads, so Makalaurë slides out of the car and shuts the door carefully behind him. Walking briskly down the pathway, he studies the stately white building nestled on the middle of a hill leading down to a river. The river is a grey, gushing mess that churns its way between two hills covered with trees and old houses.

The door is a heavy and red, and opens with a groan onto the quiet, warm sanctuary of the public library. The calm grey floors and serene white walls of the building are broken only by the rich brown of the wooden bookcases, the many-paned glass windows that rise with arches to the second story, and a large, friendly-looking yellow and brown giraffe, smiling at him where it stands in the main hall.

Makalaurë gives its tail, braided from strong rope, a brief and inconspicuous tug as he walks past it to the children’s section. Not surprisingly, Curufinwë is not here.

Makalaurë sighs and leaves the room, heading up the stairs. A pair of identical, red-headed twins are sitting on the top of said staircase, their arms around each other’s shoulders, a book spread open on their knees in front of them. They are whispering teasingly to each other, chocking back giggles.

‘Ambarussa,’ Makalaurë says, catching them off guard. ‘What are you reading?’

They look up at him excitedly and fling themselves into his arms, as if the whole world depended on their getting this hug. He squeezes them back, and they release him and hand him the book.

‘It is very interesting,’ says Ambarussa, taking his twin’s hand and waiting for Makalaurë’s verdict.

Makalaurë flips through All of a Kind Family quickly and hands it back to them. ‘It looks very sweet. Why don’t you go borrow it? We have to leave soon.’

They scamper down the staircase with the book, and Makalaurë continues on. He spots Tyelkormo standing on the open corridor, staring down at the ground floor. He notices Makalaurë and leans casually against the railing, looking deliberately bored.

‘Is it time to go home?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ Makalaurë answers. ‘Have you seen Curvo?’

‘Not really,’ he answers, twisting the end of his thick braid around his finger before tucking it into the back of the heavy green sage pullover he is wearing. He yanks on the quilted brown vest he was carrying as he heads down the stairs, tossing his head carelessly.

As Makalaurë rounds the corner to the young adult’s section, he collides with Carnistir, who has his arms filled with books and has to lean sharply back to keep them from falling to the floor.

‘I’m sorry,’ Makalaurë says, helping him to regain his balance.

Carnistir nods curtly. ‘Is it time to go?’ he asks.

Makalaurë nods and Carnistir walks away, leaving Makalaurë wondering why it is that he is finding all of his brothers except the one he was sent to fetch.

Curufinwë he finally finds sitting cross-legged in the adult fiction section, a book clutched in his hands, one finger following the lines as he reads quickly. He jumps when Makalaurë speaks his name and shoves the book hastily back into the shelf. He springs to his feet.

‘What were you reading, Curufinwë?’ Makalaurë asks in his best stern, fatherly voice.

Curufinwë folds his arms and looks stubborn. ‘What would that matter to you?’

Makalaurë drops to his knees beside the shelf and pulls out the book that has been replaced hastily and holds it up.

‘Was it this?’

Curufinwë shrugs.

A quick flip through the book sends chills up and down Makalaurë’s body.

‘Curufinwë, I do not believe that Father would want you reading this,’ Makalaurë scolds, re-shelving it.

‘I care little,’ Curufinwë says haughtily.

‘Be careful, little brother,’ Makalaurë says, taking his hand. ‘You are going to make Father seriously angry one of these days.’

Curufinwë sniffs and puts his head up.

Makalaurë tightens his grip on his hand and leads him towards the circulation desk. Curufinwë stalks proudly beside Makalaurë for a time, but then turns abruptly and hugs him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whines, widening his eyes innocently. ‘Don’t tell Father,’ he murmurs,
pouting and looking down cutely.

Makalaurë pushes him away and hold him at arm’s length.

‘I am going to tell Father and Mother and, if you don’t behave yourself, I’ll tell Maitimo and Ñolofinwë as well,’ he threatens.

Curufinwë looks as indifferent as he possibly can under the circumstances and walks on.

‘See if I care.’

‘Be careful,’ says Maitimo as they begin to load the car. But cramming lots of people into small vehicles has now become a special talent of theirs, and eight does not seem that many.

‘Findekáno, you come sit up front,’ directs Maitimo. ‘Kano, Moryo, Turko, you next, sit down.’ And they arrange themselves on the backseat. ‘All right,’ Maitimo says. ‘Telvo, go sit on Kano. Pityo, Moryo. Curvo, Turko. Good. Buckle yourselves in and make sure the doors are closed.’

They obey him without question, and Makalaurë draws Ambarto tightly to him as he stretches the seatbelt over them. Ambarto leans back against him and looks up at the ceiling, his feet drumming on his legs.

‘Ai, Telvo, stop that,’ Makalaurë says. Ambarto turns to him, smiling.

‘Sorry, Kano.’

‘Ah, that is where you all went,’ says Fëanár when they stumble into the hallway, fumbling to hang up their coats. ‘The library. It really is a wonderful place for you – full of all sorts of books that will expand your minds and give you valuable insight on the world that we now live in. What a splendid way to spend the afternoon.’ His voice is hot and fast, and his breath singes the air when he pauses. He claps a hand to Carnistir’s forehead and frowns. ‘You should wear a hat in weather like this,’ he says. ‘But, enough of that, come inside, and I’ll show you the latest addition to the household.’

Chapter Text

‘What is it?’ asks Tyelkormo, wrinkling his nose at the large plastic and metal box with tubes and wires hanging out of it that is sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor.

‘This, my dear son, is a dishwater,’ Fëanáro answers condescendingly with a quick wave in the general direction of the new mechanism.

‘It washes dishes?’ says Maitimo with interest, stepping forward and peering closely at the thing.

‘Yes,’ Fëanáro replies. ‘You put them inside of it, and they get washed quite nicely.’

He speaks almost as if he invented the dishwasher, and he stands beside it with a rather smug smile on his face, his black hair pulled back into a quick bun that is starting to come loose. He wears a deep red jumper that clings to his slim frame and a pair of tight black pants. He looks flushed with excitement, and his cheeks have a rosy tint to them; his grey eyes burn brightly. He waits for their response.

‘I think that it will be very useful, Father,’ says Maitimo with a slight dip of his head. He comes back to stand by Findekáno and puts his arm around his shoulders. Findekáno leans his head against him.

Fëanáro frowns for a moment, but his eyes are too deep to read what he is thinking. He draws his finger over the palm of his open hand, and closes his fist upon it. He scoffs very softly and turns away.

The trees are dark silhouettes against the deep blue sky. A soft grey light remains in the west, and the heavens above are beginning to fill with bright stars that wink off and on tiredly. A cold wind blows down from the north, and Findekáno shivers where he stands, drawing Arakáno closer to him, bouncing him in his arms. Arakáno takes one of Findekáno’s braids in his little hands and gives it a gentle tug.

‘Close your eyes!’ Ñolofinwë calls, and Findekáno quickly places his hand over Arakáno’s eyes. He squirms uncomfortably, and Findekáno hushes him as he closes his eyes.

Everyone is gathered outside for the momentous occasion of turning on the winter lights. Findekáno has been working all day with them, untangling tangled cords, finding broken bulbs, dealing with obstinate strings that blink off and on before fixing themselves with no explanation whatsoever, sticking in tacks, unjamming the stapler, holding cold wires whilst his fingers froze in the icy air.

They even have a tree this year, although he can only begin to guess what Yavanna would have to say about that. It would most definitely not be something pleasant. But a tree they got anyway, and Carnistir, Maitimo, and Findekáno had a most difficult time putting it up in the living room. Even when they were done, it was crooked. But Fëanáro came along and straightened it for them.

‘Open your eyes now,’ Ñolofinwë calls out from the darkness.

The house, which is large and white, has lights hanging from its eaves like icicles and colourful, cheery lights around the windows where white candles glow. The small pine tree in the front yard is blazing with merry colour, and the tall tree in the living room shines out through the window, warm and inviting.

Findekáno closes his eyes again, and the lights are burnt into his memory. An arm wraps around him, and he is enveloped in the warmth and delicate scent of his mother, who smiles at his and kisses his little brother. He hands him to her, and she takes him into her arms.

‘Do you see that?’ she asks.

Arakáno nods, wide-eyed. His fingers twitch with excitement, and his feet start to kick. She bounces him gently.

A hand grabs Findekáno’s, hard and fast, and he looks down into the shining eyes of Angaráto.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he says, moving so close to Findekáno that he steps on his foot.

Findekáno winces.

‘I am sorry,’ he says earnestly, looking rather distressed.

‘It is nothing, darling,’ Findekáno answers, putting his arms around him, letting him lean against me. Aikanáro spots them together and pushes his way over, trying to force his way into Findekáno’s embrace.

‘Hey, hey, you will fit too,’ Findekáno assures him, placing him securely beside his brother and gathering them both into his arms. Aikanáro tilts his head back to look up at me; the colourful lights reflect fiercely in his dark sapphire blue eyes. Findekáno caress his cheek, glowing golden, with his gloved hand, and he smiles.

‘Have we got everything?’ Findekáno asks Maitimo as he finishes loading the stroller into the back of his car. Maitimo slams the trunk down and lean against it for a moment as he checks for his wallet.

‘I think so,’ he says. He buttons the top button of his green coat. ‘Do you have the baby?’

‘I left him inside,’ Findekáno answers, pushing up the sleeves of his coat, which is much too large for him. He opens the door to the house.

Arakáno is standing in the hall where Findekáno left him, bundled up so tightly that Findekáno can barely see his eyes. He lifts him into his arms and pushes the green scarf down so that he can breathe and kisses the tip of his nose.

‘Now remember, Arakáno,’ he says gently. ‘You are too young too walk far on your own, and you can only say a few words.

‘Can I say the extraterrestrial hippopotamus was left forever storming repentantly through the revolving door?’ Arakáno asks excitedly in perfect English.

‘No,’ Findekáno answers in sensible Quenya. ‘You can only say words like ‘mum’ and ‘dad’. In fact, it would be better if you did not really say anything at all,’ he adds after a few moments of reflection. Arakáno still looks like an infant in the eyes of the humans.

Arakáno pouts. ‘I wish I did not have to pretend to be a baby all the time,’ he laments.

‘You are a baby,’ Findekáno says, carrying him out to the car.

‘But I can talk and walk and dance and run!’ he protests. He lets out a little sigh. Findekáno opens the back door and start to settle him into his car seat.

Findekáno pulls his hat off and brushes his dark hair off his face.

‘I know, but the little human children your age cannot, and you are pretending to be one of them.’ Findekáno tries to make it sound like some great game, but his voice falls dismally flat.

Arakáno pouts. Findekáno rubs his soft cheek with his thumb.

‘I am sorry, baby,’ Findekáno whispers gently. He nods understandingly, and Findekáno gives him a quick kiss before buckling him securely in.

Findekáno settles down in the front passenger seat and buckles up.

‘No one else wanted to come?’ he asks. Maitimo starts the car.

No, the children are still in school, and everyone else was too busy with something or other. I think that your parents are glad we took Arakáno off their hands.’

‘Ah.’ Findekáno glances to his right, and sees Tyelkormo running up to the car.

‘Nelyo!’ he shouts, waving.

‘’Timo,’ Findekáno says, placing his hand on his thigh. ‘I think you’d better wait. Turko might want to come.’

Maitimo rolls down his window, and Tyelkormo comes to a stop beside the car.

‘May I come with you, Nelyo?’ he asks, like he already knows the answer. He reaches for the back door before Maitimo even answers.

‘Of course,’ says Maitimo.

Tyelkormo swings open the back door and slides in.

‘Hey, Arakáno,’ he says tweaking his nose gently.

Arakáno giggles but then a sudden look of utter horror fills his eyes, and he turns to Findekáno.

‘You didn’t bring the stroller, did you?’

Findekáno exchanges a look with Maitimo.

‘Yes, love, we did,’ Maitimo says.

Tyelkormo gives the baby a sympathetic look.

‘Sorry, kid.’

The store is large and ugly, boxy and tan with Marshals written in big blue letters over the front door. The parking lot is a mess, cramped full of vehicles glistening in the sun. Maitimo circles it a few times before finally finding an empty spot, and he guides the car in carefully.

‘What is this store?’ asks Tyelkormo, pulling his gloves back on.

‘It is a clothing store,’ answers Maitimo as he gets out and waits for the others.

Maitimo opens the trunk and pops the stroller open. Findekáno places Arakáno into it. He sulks but doesn’t say anything. FWhindekáno pushes the stroller over the dirty, icy parking lot, avoiding slush and watching for the crawling vehicles. The stroller jars along despite his best efforts, and Findekáno feels sorry for his little brother, who bumps along with it.

The inside of the store is alarmingly bright, with white walls and a white ceiling and rows and rows of fluorescent lights that shine strangely down on the merchandise and the shoppers, mainly middle-aged women who look at this and that with care and critique.

Findekáno rolls the stroller back and forth as he waits for Maitimo to decide where they should go first. Tyelkormo has already scuttled off, but Findekáno do not know where he has gone. He stands on the tips of his toes and scans the busy store and spots him in the mens’ section, looking through shirts.

‘I think we should go this way first,’ Findekáno tells Maitimo, because he is just standing still uncertainly and takes him gently by the arm, steering him towards the girls’ clothes. ‘We need to get Irissë a new coat.’

Maitimo follows Findekáno down the aisles, looking out of place. Tall and elegant, with shimmering red hair and a beautiful face, he stands out from everyone else, and most people stop to stare at him, even if they try not to be noticeable. It embarrasses him, though. He tucks his loose hair behind his ears as he walks after Findekáno, his steps soft and graceful on the vinyl floor.

Findekáno stops by the girls’ coats and searches for a white one that will fit Irissë. There are not many white ones among the coats, which are dominated by pink and black, and he sighs. He has been searching for a nice coat for her for over a month, and he still has not found anything that will fit her colour scheme. She’s very stubborn about it.

‘Frustrated so early in the day?’ Maitimo asks, pulling teasingly on his hair. ‘You will have no strength left for the rest of it.’

‘Why does Irissë have to be so hard to shop for?’ Findekáno asks. ‘Why is it that she always insists on wearing white?’ He holds up a sky blue coat for him to see. ‘What is wrong with this?’

‘It’s not white,’ Maitimo states, searching nimbly through the display rack. ‘Or silver,’ he adds as an afterthought. He lifts up a white scarf with golden strings shot through it. ‘We could get this to go with the coat that we have not found yet. What do you think?’

‘She wants silver, not gold.’ Findekáno sighs. He examines a cream coat, wondering if it would be considered white enough by his little sister’s standards. Deciding not, he hangs it up again.

He looks down to see how Arakáno is doing. Arakáno watches them with interest. He bites his lip, to stop himself from talking. Findekáno lifts him out of the stroller and places him against his chest.

‘What is it, little one?’ he whispers to him.

Arakáno points silently to his left, and Findekáno turns to see a small white coat left hanging in the older girls’ clothes. He holds it up and scrutinizes the wool coat. It is bright white with large white buttons in two neat rows marching down the front.

‘It looks her size,’ says Maitimo thoughtfully. He is twisting another scarf around his neck absently, this one a deep blue. He steps closer and runs his fingers over the coat. ‘I think she would like it.’

They both look down at Arakáno, who widens his large eyes and says nothing. Since they told him that he should not speak, he has taken to not speaking with an obstinacy that amazes even Maitimo.

‘What do you think?’ Maitimo asks him, bending down to look him in the eyes, tilting his head to one side curiously.

His only answer is an important sniff that Arakáno delivers before turning away from them and looking around the store as if he were searching for something of the utmost significance. They can only take it to mean ‘yes’, so Maitimo takes the coat and hangs it on the stroller.

A dim shadow passes over Findekáno, and he turns to see Tyelkormo, who has a few shirts draped over his arm. He sidles up to his older brother and shows them to him one by one, telling him quietly which ones are for whom.

‘Very good,’ Maitimo says, taking Tyelkormo’s hand and rubbing his fingers affectionately.

Tyelkormo pulls his hand away sharply and gives Maitimo a hard look. ‘Not in public,’ he hisses, glancing about him as if he is afraid someone might have seen.

‘Why ever not?’ Maitimo asks, dropping his hand back to his side.

Hesitating, Tyelkormo begins to speak, but says nothing. He scowls for a moment, but, with a quick shake of his head, he turns away. ‘Just no.’

The bustle of the mall hits Findekáno’s ears before they even step inside; loud and maddening, it overwhelms him in an instant. The chatter of the shoppers and the squeaks and stomps of their wet shoes mix in a frightful din over the music streaming out from the various little stores. A woman wearing a black shirt hurries past them, shouting into the cell phone that she holds tightly to her ear. Arakáno frowns and squirms uncomfortably in his brother’s arms, covering his ears with his hands. Tyelkormo looks about critically and raises his eyebrows at Maitimo.

‘What do we need here?’ Findekáno asks Maitimo, holding Arakáno protectively against him, as if he were to let go of him he would be trampled to his death in the swarm of undulating shoppers.

‘A few things,’ Maitimo answers, looking quickly over the crowds. He takes a step forward, and a path opens before him and soon swallows him as it surges back. With his red head, glinting with bright sunlight that falls down from the windows on the ceiling, held high above the masses and his arms swaying out at his sides, he looks as if he were swimming in the throng.

Tyelkormo stares after him, still, for a moment, but soon pushes his way into the crowd, sauntering after his brother with occasional scowls to either side. His head held high and proud, he saunters past the milling people as if he owned the mall, giving passer-bys a regal bow of his head when he deems it appropriate.

They have left Findekáno. He stands alone with Arakáno fast in his arms and a sea of strangers between his cousins and him. His heart picks up speed, and his throat goes dry. It all seems so irrational. He should just step ahead like they did; he should not wait until he loses them. But it is so loud, and there are so many people, and he is frightened, and it must be too loud for Arakáno, whose hearing is even more delicate. He pulls Arakáno’s hat more firmly over his hears, hoping that will help.

‘Maitimo,’ Findekáno tries to call out after him, but his name comes out in a whisper, like a lost wisp of smoke trying to fight its way over the roaring wind. He takes a step back, closing his eyes. Maybe he will wait for Maitimo in the car.

A hand is placed on Findekáno’s shoulder, and he looks up into Maitimo’s worried eyes.

‘Findekáno,’ he says. ‘Are you all right?’

‘You left me,’ Findekáno says. He lowers his head, embarrassed. His brown leather shoes are battered and scuffed, and they stand out sorely on the shiny white floor.

Maitimo caresses his cheek, tilting his head up with his strong hands. He looks deeply into Findekáno’s eyes, searching them. His lips are drawn down into a troubled frown, and his grey eyes shimmer uncertainly.

‘Hey,’ he whispers, ‘I am not going to leave you. I will never leave you.’ He takes Findekáno’s hand and kisses it. ‘I promise.’

Findekáno swallows and nods.

‘Okay,’ he says. He sniffs. ‘I’m being silly.’

Maitimo cradles his face in his hands and kisses him gently, in front of everyone, with no care for who might see.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I love you.’

Chapter Text

‘Now, don’t move,’ Findaráto orders as he fiddles with his camera, one eye closed. He balances the camera on the top of his knee, his fingers closed tight on the small blue box.

Findekáno’s arms are around Maitimo’s neck. He feels his smile growing slowly stiff. Makalaurë, who is leaning against Maitimo’s arm, stifles back a sigh. Maitimo, however, does not seem to mind. His smile is as bright and mischievous as it was seventeen minutes ago when Findaráto was struck by one of his photography swings.

‘Once I get this,’ Findaráto says, rubbing his finger teasingly over the capture button, ‘I’ll turn it into a holiday card that you can send to all of your school friends.’

‘And they will think “Who had the ridiculous idea to pose you as a Christmas tree?”’ Makalaurë says through his gritted grin. ‘”Or are you really that annoying yourselves?”’

‘Come now,’ Findaráto scolds. ‘It is a good composition – the classic triangle. Now, no speaking or I will never get it right.’ He draws the camera back slightly, playing with the zoom. ‘Findekáno, move a little to the right.’

Findekáno shifts to his left towards Makalaurë, knowing that is what Findaráto means, and balances his chin over Maitimo and Makalaurë’s heads.

‘That looks good,’ Findaráto says softly, his finger lowering. ‘Now, everyone – smile!’ He flashes a grin as the camera clicks sharply. ‘Perfect!’

‘Are you sure?’ Maitimo asks. ‘You must have taken a thousand pictures.’

‘Oh, I’m sure,’ he answers, beaming with satisfaction at the display screen. ‘You all look so cute…’

Findekáno takes the camera from him and looks down at the three of them, standing, dressed in green, in front of the tree, with an artificial star glowing peacefully down from above them.

‘What is this? Blackmail?’

Findaráto snatches the camera back, looking hurt. ‘Of course not,’ he says indignantly.

‘It sure looked like it from this angle,’ Maitimo teases.

‘You don’t understand art,’ Findaráto sniffs. He tucks the camera back into its black case with a wicked smile. Shoving it into his pocket, he hurries away, chuckling with pure Telerin happiness.

‘Why do you get out of school so early?’ Aikanáro asks Findekáno. He slides into the attic and slings his blue backpack with disgust onto the floor.

‘Mmm,’ Findekáno thinks for a moment, freshly interrupted from writing the latest entry in his very neglected diary. He pulls the end of his pen out of his mouth. ‘I think it’s because a lot of students have to live at their college, so they need a long break to enjoy their home.’

‘I should get a long break to enjoy my home too,’ he sighs.

Angaráto’s head pops up from the trap door, his gold hair glinting in the dim light. If this were not a rental home, Findekáno would talk to his father about installing a skylight. Angaráto discards his backpack with equal disdain and follows his brother over to Findekáno.

‘What are you writing?’ he asks, looking down at his open diary.

Findekáno slams the book shut. ‘Memories.’

They look interested.

‘What sort of memories?’ Aikanáro asks. He rests his hand over Findekáno’s and watches him, concern in his bright eyes. Findekáno slides his hand through his short, tousled hair.

‘Private memories.’

Aikanáro studies his diligently. His eyes – flashing, watching, learning – pierce Findekáno’s.

Carefully Angaráto places his hand on Findekáno’s shoulder. The grip is hard and secure for such a small hand. He caresses his shoulder, loosening the muscles on his arms.

‘Don’t cry,’ he whispers.

With a start, Findekáno realises that his eyes are wet. He brushes the tears away quickly and gives the boys a small smile.

‘I won’t,’ he assures them.

‘Good.’ Angaráto regards him for a few long moments, searching to understand him.

‘I,’ he says shortly but stops and looks down. ‘We ought to go see Mum.’ He takes Aikanáro’s hand. ‘Come along, little brother.’

‘But,’ Aikanáro protests.

Angaráto gives him a hard look. ‘Now.’

They leave together, looking sad. Findekáno has half a mind to get up and stop them, but he doesn’t. There are too many words tangled up in his head to speak, and he has to write them down before he can say anything.

He opens his diary and smooths out the page that was wrinkled when he closed the book so quickly.

The words stare up at him, daring him to add to them, daring him to cast them aside.

My Dearest Arakáno,

It seems such a very short time since I first held you in my arms and kissed your sweet, little head, and yet is also seems so long. The day you were born was a hard one for us; we still barely knew what was happening – what had happened. I remember the way Mother cried as Father comforted her with soft words. Nerdanel and Eärwen cared for her, coaxing you out into the cold, new world. I held my little ones, Aikanáro and Angaráto (imagine, your older cousins!) against me, and Turukáno held Irissë. She cried.

It was night time. The stars were very bright; they seemed to want to welcome you. We lived in tents, always travelling. Fëanáro never wants to settle down; even now he is urging Father to move on, stirring his sons. I don’t want to move again; we are always moving. It’s hard, you never do anything, just move and move, trying to find food, a bit of work, sell something. I like this house, this city, at least, the best that I can. And we have managed with work here quite well. We aren’t hungry anymore. It’s better than the endless journeys Fëanáro put us through. But that is what he wants, although he won’t leave us. He promised Father that. He took his hand and swore it. Father kissed him too.

I saw it.

I heard you cry in the stillness; Nelyo had just come in. He was standing there, watching me. He started to ask me something, and you cried. He ran out then. I followed him. It seemed forever that you cried as I stood in those cold fields in Nebraska, the stars bright above us. Father let us in, one by one, let us kiss you, hold you. I took you against me, in my arms; I kissed your forehead, your new cheeks, your downy hair. I breathed you in. I promised to love you. Father took you away too soon.

I went out. I stood in the field in the grass on the frost. I closed my eyes. I tried to take all the stars in, but I was too small. I felt frightened to see you placed in this world. I felt as terrified as the day we arrived…

Findekáno takes the pen up again, pressing the black tip against the white paper. The words beg to be written.

You could never understand. I will never understand. The grass was so warm, and the sky was so bright. I was lying there, just glad to be alive. I did not yet know that I should have been glad just to be there. My body was flushed from running, and the blood pounded in my veins. We were gathered there for a picnic. Fëanáro was angry, and his father tried to calm him. I remember that he paced the fields, the gold on his scarlet tunic flashing. His fists were tight, but I still do not know what he was angry about. He kept saying that he would leave, but he didn’t.

Russandol came and lay down beside me; he said something about the warmth. I remember he stared at me, touching my face as if he…

Findekáno’s words trail to a stop, and the pen shakes in his hand.

As if he thought he would lose me. As if he wondered whose side I would be on. As if I were too much like my father.

Findekáno does not know. He cannot finish the sentence.

He throws the pen down and shuts the book, shoving it underneath the dresser. No one ever looks there. His heart aches at the memories, the shock, the terror. He draw his knees up against his chest. A song brushes at his lips. He sings it in the empty room for comfort, but his voice shakes and echoes back to him off the slanted walls.

He wishes that Angaráto were still here, telling him not to cry.

He would take Angaráto into his arms and hold him close and stroke his tousled hair. Angaráto would again ask him not to cry, but he would not be able to listen to him. He would kiss the top of his cousin’s head and cry, and Angaráto would brush them away solemnly and kiss him and tell him that he loves him, and he would mean every word that he said. He would not ask Findekáno why he was crying. He would not try to tell him that everything is all right.

Chapter Text

Maitimo stands looking over the ridge where he ran. A creek cuts through the land at the bottom of the hill, past the tangled wood and low-lying shrubbery, the red of the blueberry barrens and the scatterings of brief, now-faded wildflowers. He stands, hands in his pockets, as the whine whips his hair about him. The sky above is high and blue, and all is still. The only sounds are the wind in the empty branches, the dry rustle of dead leaves, and the distant noise of the traffic on the highway past the pines, reminding him that he cannot escape forever. He can hear nothing of himself. His breath and his heartbeat are lost underneath the wind.
Not far from his a clearing with in the woods that is reached by worn stone steps. It is an old graveyard. The trees crowd close to it, mostly birch, their their trunks and branches meeting and embracing each other as the light of the winter sun fights its way through the branches.

But the trees cannot reach the graveyard, and the tombstones stand away from them, assaulted only by the sleeping blueberries and other creeping plants of the wild. The stones are old and have lost some of their former dignity; their surfaces are cracked and water-stained, and lichen grows upon them. Some have fallen over onto the ground, and lie there, their dedications facing the heavens. Others have cracked.

No one visits them now. They’re too old, and are no longer cared for. The dead buried beneath them are now forgotten.

Maitimo closes his eyes and folds his arms over his chest. A chill wind wrestles with him, trying to force its way inside his coat and under his shirt to bite his naked skin.

Maitimo shudders. Death is something that he still does not understand. He knows what it is now, after fighting for years with the mystery of Míriel’s death.

‘Mother?’ he had asked, too afraid to speak to his father. ‘What do they mean when they say that Míriel died?’

Nerdanel had always looked away, like she was afraid to answer the question.

‘She is never coming back,’ she would say, avoiding his eyes.

‘Back?’ he had repeated. ‘Back from where?’

‘From the Halls of Waiting,’ she would reply, ‘where the dead are gathered and wait in darkness.’

But no matter how Maitimo would beg, she would say nothing more.

These are most dear but soon shall pass, that summons of the hart, congenial spearits soon alas, are ever doomed to part

He knows what death is all too clearly now, yet it seems somehow to still be unfathomable. These people, these humans, die. They all die at some point, growing withered and old, looking as if they will fall to pieces before his very eyes. They smile at him with crooked teeth, their skin wrinkled and marked with spots.

Maitimo wants to turn away from them and cry to Námo, asking him what they ever did to deserve such a fate, but he cannot, and even if he did, he doubts he would get an answer.

Maitimo sinks down to the ground. The shrubs prick at him, but he does not care. He feels too tired to stand any longer, and his heart is heavy in his chest, even if there is no reason for his sorrow. He did not know these people who died. He does not know the humans who die each day. The flowers die. The trees die. Everything dies and rots and decays, and he grieves for them, even though he will not.

‘Nelyo, are you crying?’ A warm hand touches his face; fingers run across his cheek, along his nose. It is Carnistir; he can see glimpses of his battered leather jacket from behind a curtain of his hair.

‘Yes.’ Maitimo turns away from him, brushing his loose, wild hair off his face. It is tangled and catches on his fingers, gleaming bright copper in the pale light.

Carnistir’s hand stays Maitimo, but he does not put his arms about him.

‘Why?’

Carnistir crouches beside him. Maitimo can feel his eyes on him as he scrutinises and judges his actions silently.

‘I am sad, Moryo,’ Maitimo answers, turning to him. Carnistir’s face is blurred by his unshed tears. His upper lip is turned up slightly in a contemplative scowl, and his thick, dark brows are down down sharply over his deep grey eyes. His eyes narrow as he looks up at Maitimo from under lashes that cling together, drooping with their own weight.

‘I don’t want to die,’ Maitimo says.

Carnistir’s lips close. He’s still scowling, but his eyes are not angry with Maitimo. They are troubled, confused, but gentle. Leaning ever so slightly closer, he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come. He lets his breath out, and it is warm against Maitimo’s chin. His lips tremble.

‘Moryo, Moryo,’ Maitimo whispers, sliding his hand into his hair, grasping it tightly as it slips between his fingers.

Maitimo draws him forward until his face is against his. Carnistir’s long lashes brushed against his cheek.

‘Ai, brother mine.’ Maitimo takes his hand and squeeze it so tightly that his fingers bunch together like a crushed nosegay. ‘It sometimes seems that that is what lies before us. It makes no sense; it makes no sense at all. But, oh, Moryo, I do not want to die.’

Carnistir dips his head, closes his eyes; his lashes sweep Maitimo’s skin.

‘No, Nelyo,’ he says. ‘No, I don’t suppose any of us do.’ Looking about him, he rubs Maitimo’s arm. ‘But this is a morbid place to be for one who fears death so. What are you doing here?’

‘I often come here,’ Maitimo says, knowing fully how foolish that sounds at the present. ‘It offers me some peace from the duties of the day. I do not know why it brings me no peace now and instead fills me with such a great dread.’

‘You are afraid.’

Without answering, Maitimo tilts Carnistir’s chin up, searching his face. The tears have fallen from Maitimo’s eyes, and he can see him clearly now, the hollows of his cheeks, his straight nose, the little dent in the middle of his bottom lip. Maitimo rubs his sharp cheek with his thumb. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I followed you.’

‘Why?’

‘I was worried.’ He looks down, biting his lip, his hands hanging restlessly between his bent knees; a plain silver ring on his right forefinger glints forlornly.

Maitimo touches it, rubbing gently the smooth metal band.

‘You were worried about me? Why?’ His voice is slowly fading away, and he can barely hear the last word that sinks down into the air and drifts off on a slight breath of wind that slips past them.

‘Promise me something,’ Carnistir says instead of explaining.

Maitimo nods, unable to speak. Carnistir’s fingers are cold, but Maitimo’s are colder. He rubs their hands together for relative warmth, closing his hands over the ring.

‘That you’ll never kill yourself. Promise me.’

Maitimo nods.

‘No, I need you to say it,’ Carnistir says. He tilts Maitimo’s face up by the chin. ‘Promise me.’

Maitimo stares at him. The wind tangles their hair together, obscuring Maitimo’s vision with copper and black.

‘I promise,’ he says.

‘Maitimo, Carnistir, where have you been?’ Nerdanel tucks her blue shirt into her jeans as she speaks, searching about for something that someone else undoubtedly misplaced. Even in her hurry, her voice is quiet and calm, and she only arches her eyebrows slightly when Carnistir shrugs.

‘Out,’ he says.

‘Ah.’ She brushes her back into a ponytail. ‘Well, your father, Anairë, Eärwen, Ñolo, Aro, and I are all going out for the evening.’

‘All of you?’ Carnistir asks in amazement. He hangs his coat up on a peg already loaded with three others.

‘Yes,’ she answers. ‘We have important business to attend regarding,’ she pauses, biting her lip. Glancing us over briefly, she shakes her head. ‘Matters.’

Maitimo knows instinctively not to press any further. ‘I understand,’ he says, laying his hand on Carnistir to silence him.

‘Good.’ She kisses Carnistir gently as he begins to frown. ‘Maitimo, take care of everyone; I forget how many friends are coming over, although I think there were two. Kano, Findekáno, and Turko are making dinner, so you don’t have to worry about that.’ She taps her fingers together as Anairë walks into the hall.‘Does Findekáno know who is coming over?’

‘He does,’ Anairë answers. She moves Carnistir’s coat from its peg to get to her own.

‘Good. You can ask Findekáno about the guests.’ Nerdanel pecks Maitimo’s cheek and walks out the door. ‘Just remember, no friends should be here past nine,’ she calls back as an afterthought.

‘Ah, Russandol,’ Eärwen chimes, ducking underneath Anairë’s arm. ‘Would you go check on Artaher for me? I really don’t have time to check up on whom he is texting.’

‘Of course,’ Maitimo answer, glancing around to see if he can spot any of the fathers. Ñolofinwë collides with me as he comes running down the stairs. ‘Sorry, Nelyo,’ he says, grabbing him by the arms to steady them both.

‘You’re late,’ Eärwen teases and pokes his ribs. ‘We were waiting on you.’

‘Where’s Curufinwë?’ Ñolofinwë asks.

The van’s horn blares from outside.

‘Waiting on you,’ Eärwen says sweetly as she steps out the door.

‘Ai, my coat,’ he murmurs, searching the cluttered pegs. ‘I don’t see it.’

Maitimo pulls his off and hands it to him. ‘Here, go.’

Ñolofinwë takes the coat and pulls it on. ‘Thank-you!’ He kisses Maitimo. ‘Be good!’ And with that, he ducks out the door and closes it firmly behind him.

As the thud dies out, Maitimo is left standing in the last silence he will know for quite some time.

Chapter Text

Maitimo walks quickly into the living room, which is unusually empty, but still echoes with noise and excited movement, and looks around for Artaher. He spots him curled up tightly in one corner of the sofa, while the younger children make some sort of fishing vessel of it about him, giggling as they throw blankets upon the floor to net innocent stuffed animals. Maitimo puts his hand on his shoulder.

‘Oh,’ Artaher says in surprise. Brushing his wheat blonde hair off his pale face, he looks up at Maitimo wide-eyed. ‘What is it?’

‘Your mother wants to know who you’re texting,’ Maitimo says.

‘A friend from school.’ Artaher reaches for the phone. ‘Maria. You’ve met her. We’re discussing history.’

‘Okay,’ Maitimo says. He remembers meeting Maria a couple of times. He brushes Artaher’s gently, but Artaher’s knees are already drawn up, and he’s turned away, immersed again in his conversation.

‘Nelyo, Nelyo!’ Irissë calls excitedly from the armrest of the sofa. ‘What are you doing in the middle of the ocean? You are going to drown!’

Maitimo starts before remembering their game.

‘Oh, the horrors!’ he cries and sinks down to the floor. ‘I’m drowning! I cannot swim!’

Artanis raises her eyebrows. ‘We did not even try to save him,’ she says sadly, looking down at him from where she stands on the sofa. ‘I take pity on him.’

Maitimo springs from the floor in an instant and lifts her up into his arms, brushing her soft hair off her baby face, letting the gentle wisps cling to my fingers like tangling seaweed.

‘Shall I take you down with me?’ He asks. She shakes her head and buries her face against his shoulder. He sways her back and forth, like a gentle sea. ‘No?’

‘No.’ She clings tighter to him, her fingers digging into his arms. He kisses her. ‘Then I shan’t. One little sailor coming aboard!’ He tosses her gently onto the sofa and tickles her into place.

She shrieks and pulls away. ‘Bad Nelyo!’

He kisses her nose. ‘Naughty little girl.’

‘Russandol,’ says Turukáno walking in, his dark hair pulled back in a braid almost as tight as his fingers, which grip the book he is carrying to his chest, knuckles white. ‘Have you seen the atrocity your brother is creating in the kitchen?’

‘Uh, no,’ Maitimo says, letting go of Artanis and straightening up. ‘Which brother?’

‘Makalaurë,’ he says coolly, as if it is completely obvious. He pauses a moment as Findaráto walks out of the kitchen after him and waits for him to take his place by his side. ‘Who else would be trying to destroy our reputation as a house of good chefs?’ he asks primly.

Findaráto nods and raises his eyebrows only half-seriously, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips. He glances at his dead-serious twin-cousin and quickly links arms with him, giving Maitimo an authoritive frown.

‘Kano wouldn’t want to do that,’ Maitimo retorts, trying not to be put off by their joined indignation. ‘Whatever put a silly idea like that into your head?’

‘It just seems that is how it happens,’ he replies with a shrug of his shoulders, Findaráto rising by his side as he lifts his arm. ‘Things go all right until he gets into the kitchen.’

‘He likes to experiment,’ Maitimo says quickly in defence of his brother. ‘He can’t help it if he thinks it good and right to play with your menu. Surely you wouldn’t blame him?’

‘There are better things to experiment with than food,’ Turukáno says haughtily, and Findaráto nods very rapidly beside him, keeping a much too serious face. ‘I find it hard to believe that my brother is going along.’ Turukáno glances at Findaráto. Findaráto nods again.

‘Mhm!’

‘What are they doing?’ Maitimo asks.

Turukáno raises his delicate eyebrows. ‘Attempting to perfect that culinary disaster of pizza by the addition of blueberries,’ he says.

Findaráto pulls his face into such an expression of horror and dismay, his blue eyes beginning to grow wet and his lips turned down into a coy pout as his shoulders sag with the weight of the universe, that Maitimo is unable to contain his laugher any longer.

‘I’ll look into it,’ he says, laughing, and hurries into the kitchen.

‘What was that about?’ He can hear Turukáno ask in wonder as Findaráto’s giggles follow after him.

Makalaurë and Findekáno are standing proudly, their arms about each other’s floured shoulders, in front of the oven, peering down through the glass at whatever is baking inside. It definitely smells like pizza, and two other pans are waiting patiently on the table for the opportunity to bake.

‘That looks horrible,’ Maitimo says, looking into the oven. He tugs Makalaurë’s hair. ‘Don’t you dare put blueberries on the other ones.’

‘It’s going to be wonderful! You’ll see!’ chimes Makalaurë, looking as if he were ready to collapse into Maitimo’s arms.

Maitimo steps away from him.

‘No blueberries on the others until you’ve tasted this one,’ he says firmly.

‘Of course, darling,’ Findekáno says. ‘And you can blame Kano if it turns out bad. It was all his idea.’

‘Findekáno,’ Maitimo says, remembering his responsibilities. ‘Who is coming over this evening?’

‘Tyelkormo has a friend coming, but they’re supposed to go out,’ he answers smartly, standing up straight. ‘He just went up to change.’

‘Whom is he going with?’

‘Robert Ashfield.’

‘Where are they going?’

‘I don’t know.’

Maitimo makes a mental note to ask Tyelkormo the next time he sees him. He is not going to be very happy with Maitimo getting into his business, though. He likes to keep secrets.

‘Is Rob staying for dinner?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who else is coming?’

‘Findaráto and Amarië’s friend Katherine Chen.’

‘Is she staying for dinner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are they going to go anywhere?’

‘No.’

‘What are they going to do?’

‘Mmm,’ for a moment Findekáno looks as if he might make up an activity, but then he shrugs. ‘Talk, I guess.’

‘Very well then.’ Maitimo turns sharply on Makalaurë, who is veering dangerously from side-to-side on his tiptoes. ‘What is wrong with you?’

He glances at the oven but shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Ah, Tyelkormo,’ Maitimo calls as he creeps down the stairs, brown jacket zipped already to his chin.

‘Yes?’ he says, obviously annoyed as he pauses on the stairs, fumbling uselessly with the top button of his tight blue jeans. He swings one leg carelessly over the banister and stares down at Maitimo.

‘Where are you and Rob going?’

‘We’re just going out with his girlfriend to see a movie,’ he answers, slinging the other leg over the railing as well, ready to drop down.

Maitimo moves out of his way. ‘Which movie?’

Pausing a moment, Tyelkormo runs his fingers over the top of his head, brushing them against the tip of his ear. ‘I forget.’

The door behind Maitimo opens suddenly, and Rob steps in. He is a strong boy with curly black hair that he wears short. His eyes are deep brown, and he’s tall and broad. He is dressed in black with red trainers.

‘Hi, Nelyo,’ he says, flashing a smile. ‘Where’s Turko?’

‘Behind me.’ Maitimo says. Rob scratches the side of his neck absently, peering over Maitimo’s shoulder.

Maitimo can see his girlfriend, Ashley, standing outside in the driveway. Her brown hair whips about her shoulders, slapping against her dark green jacket.

‘Is he coming?’ she calls to Rob.

Tyelkormo jumps off the staircase.

‘I’ll be right there,’ he says a bit gruffly, starting to close the door on Maitimo.

Taking him by the arm, Maitimo turns him around. ‘When are you going to be back?’

Tyelkormo looks at Maitimo and then at Rob, who grins teasingly at him. ‘I…’

‘When does the movie end?’ Maitimo asks him sternly; his voice sounds remarkably like his grandfather Mahtan’s.

‘Eight,’ Tyelkormo says, scowling at the floor.

Maitimo lifts his head gently. ‘Be back at nine, okay?’ Maitimo is not used to giving his brother’s this many rules, but they live in a dangerous world now. They’ve already had trouble. They don’t need more.

Tyelkormo looks again at Robert, who is trying not to laugh.

‘Okay,’ he says.

Maitimo kisses his cheek and releases him. ‘Have fun.’

It is two in the morning, and Tyelkormo and their parents still have not returned.

Maitimo sits on the bottom of the stairwell picking numbly at the cold piece of blueberry fridge he stole from the fridge fifteen minutes ago. The blueberry pizza was the only one left over, of course, and he couldn’t eat it, even if it was appetising. He is sick with worry.

Makalaurë sits beside him, arms folded over his chest. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, and he kicks at the baseboard.

‘They were supposed to be back hours ago,’ he mutters to the air. ‘He said he’d be back at nine.’ He looks up at the ceiling, his dark hair falling over his face. He does not seem to notice.

‘I know,’Maitimo gets up to pace for a few minutes; his legs have grown stiff. He wonder if Findekáno is asleep. He was sent upstairs to comfort the little ones, and he has not returned.

‘Kano,’ he says.‘I’m going to check on the others.’ He touches his shoulder, needing to make sure he’s there.

He nods. ‘I’m going to get something to drink,’ he adds, standing up, his feet heavy. He picks up Maitimo’s plate. ‘Are you done?’

Maitimo nods.

With a sigh, Makalaurë turns to the kitchen. Maitimo can hear him moving about in there without bothering to turn on the light.

Quickly Maitimo ascends the stairs, still tight with worry. What if someone were killed? There are robbers and murderers and assassins and car wrecks. This is not a safe world.

The front door opens, and Maitimo turns back in haste. He can hear someone crying. He stops at the top of the stairwell, his shadow lost in the dark.

Maitimo can see Fëanáro clearly where he stands in the light, his fingers restless at his sides. His whole body seems tight, and he keeps biting and releasing his lip, glancing about him as if there were dangers lurking out of sight. Eärwen looks very serious, as if she is thinking hard about something that only she can unravel; she holds Anairë’s hand, squeezing her fingers occasionally.

Nerdanel leans against the wall, her hair falling freely over her face, her eyes closed. She breathes slowly, as if she is savouring every breath. Arafinwë half-lies in his brother’s arms, his shoulders shaking as he sobs. Ñolofinwë cradles him like a small child, his fingers finding their way through his hair and along his back. He hushes him without meaning it.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Arafinwë gasps into Ñolo’s shirt.

‘It isn’t your fault,’ he answers, his lips absently brushing his golden hair.

‘No,’ Fëanáro says suddenly. ‘No, Aro, it isn’t.’

‘But,’ Arafinwë whispers, his voice and lips trembling as he looks up at him. His brother.

Fëanáro stands still for a moment, and Maitimo’s head suddenly starts to spin.

‘But,’ Aro begins again, but Fëanáro does not let him finish.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll manage. It’s going to be fine.’

Chapter Text

Maitimo forgets how long he has sat here. Makalaurë is warm in his arms, his head droops against his shoulder. Fëanáro’s words still ring in his ears.

‘It will be all right, Nelyo. No one has been hurt. We’ll just wait and hope that no one will try to get the police involved. I hope no one saw.’ And then he ran off, saying he didn’t have time to explain yet.

Now Maitimo sits in uncertainty, and it aches.

Tyelkormo slipped in an hour ago; everyone was too busy with worry to ask him where he had been. He lies a few feet away from Maitimo now, his ear pressed to the floor planks, listening. Maitimo doesn’t ask him where he’s been. Tyelkormo has the best ears of all them, and he wants too badly to know what happened.

What Arafinwë did.

He seemed one of the least likely to get them all in trouble, and yet he has, from what they can make out. Fëanáro says that it was not really his fault, which is strange to hear coming from Fëanáro. It must have been truly awful if Fëanáro isn’t jumping on the opportunity to hold it against him. But Fëanáro’s guilty now, since it’s his fault their there, and he doesn’t seem to hate his brothers as much now that they, too, have lost their mother.

And they’re surrounded with death now, so it’s not as if Fëanáro is the only one who has lost a parent. Maitimo can’t begin to imagine what that did to Fëanáro. Sitting and sitting and sitting, waiting by his mother’s side, never getting her back though. The only child who had lost a parent. The only one who was in grief.

Ñolofinwë and Finwë call him unstable. And Finwë loves him more than he loves anyone, so he must be unstable.

And he pushes himself further than anyone Maitimo has ever seen because he thinks he has to make up for it. She died for him, didn’t she? She put too much of herself into him, so he can’t waste it. He’ll kill himself trying to escape the pain and guilt.

Maitimo can’t begin to imagine it. He lost his grandmother, but she was abstract to him, since he never met her, and he didn’t have to sit and watch her die. And he wasn’t the ‘reason’ either. It’s a small wonder that Fëanáro slips into despairs where he thinks Finwë hates him.

Maitimo shivers. He runs his hand over his face. He needs to know what happened. He’s sick of waiting.

'Nelyo?' It is Findekáno, small and pale in the darkness. No one has bothered to turn on the light, even if no one is sleeping. Carnistir sits by the window, a shadow against the moonlit sky.

Maitimo moves Makalaurë, and he murmurs in protest at the sudden start, but moves over to Tyelkormo and enfolds him in his embrace, stroking his loose hair. Tyelkormo hugs him back.

'Yes?' Maitimo lets Findekáno slide onto his lap. Findekáno holds onto him, arms around his neck, lets stretched out to the side. Maitimo wraps his arms around him and presses his face into his hair.

'What will happen now?' Findekáno looks up. His eyes are bright but sadder than Maitimo has seen in a long time. He wraps his arms tightly enough around Maitimo that it hurts a little. Maitimo pets his hair, trying to think of an answer. Nothing comes to him.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘They have not yet told me what happened.’

'Arafinwë lost the money to pay the rent,' Tyelkormo snaps suddenly, breaking the whispers of before. 'Because he had to go and be so careless and flighty.'

Carnistir turns sharply away from the window, his eyes flashing. 'Whatever do you mean, Turko? No one gave Arafinwë the money.’ He draws their uncle's name out as if it could be an insult, and closes the sentence sharply. 'No one would trust him with it. He acts like one of the Vanyar; he talks like the Teleri. He is incapable of dealing with responsibilities such as that.'

'That’s not true!' says Findekáno suddenly, bristling. He tries to draw himself up to face them, but Maitimo holds him tightly down, not wanting them to start a fight. 'He can manage a responsibility as well as your father or mine.'

With a poisoned tongue, Carnistir answers him. 'My father knows not to give your little Aro a responsibility bigger than his brain. Your father however might have been stupid enough to think that he could handle something of importance.'

'Do not insult my father or my uncle,' Findekáno hisses, twisting himself free of Maitimo’s embrace. He stands up at his full height, which is still quite smaller than Tyelkormo and Carnistir, his hands clenched into fists against his sides. 'Or you will have to pay the price against my wrath and my vengeance.'

'You do terrify me,' Carnistir says, taking a step towards him, his voice balanced and his head high. 'I do not, however, make my claims without justification. I can see proof of your father's stupidity in the face and actions of his eldest son.'

Maitimo takes Findekáno by the wrists and holds his arms firmly back, pressing his rigid body tight against his. Energy and anger writhe through Findekáno, and his breath is fast. Carnistir looks their cousin over with disdain and opens his mouth to speak.

'Not another word, Morifinwë,' Makalaurë says sternly, taking hold of his brother's arm. 'This is not the time for us to become divided amongst ourselves.' He draws Carnistir two steps back, glancing towards Tyelkormo for help. Tyelkormo does not move; he picks at a piece of lint on his jumper and looks away.

Carnistir tilts his head haughtily to the side. 'And I suppose that the only time for us to become divided amongst ourselves would be if someone actually killed someone?' He looks at Maitimo daringly. 'Because I would not mind volunteering my services in bringing that time about.'

'There will never be a time for us to be divided,' Maitimo snaps. He feels Findekáno relax slightly in his unrelenting grasp, but he is tight enough to spring up again at any moment. Maitimo does not release him.

'No,' retorts Carnistir. 'I suppose not in your eyes. Especially not if you think it wise to remain forever loyal even if someone were fool enough to lose the money that is keeping us from freezing in the winter's cold. If we don’t make that payment, we’ll be kicked out, and all our stability will be gone again. Do you know how hard Father worked to secure our life here? There aren’t that many people who won’t ask questions so long as we can pay our rent above the market value and in cash. Our landlord will look the other way for that, but what when we can’t pay? What if he decides he’s angry and reports us? We’re not human. Do you know what would happen if we were found out? We’d be locked up. Tortured. All because Arafinwë can’t keep his fucking head down.’

'Carnistir, that is quite enough,' Maitimo hisses, his words shaper than he wanted them to be. 'Your questions do not have answers at the time, and are therefore unnecessary to ask.'

Findekáno's breath is coming slower now, but it is deeper and quieter, a threatening breath. Maitimo meets Makalaurë's gaze. Makalaurë shakes his head slightly. His grip on Carnistir is not very firm, but Carnistir does not break free of him. He will not cause trouble between their families when Maitimo has told him not to, but the anger will not die from his eyes.

'Arafinwë lost the money,' Carnistir growls. 'How careless and stupid does one unfortunate relative have to be before you will admit to it? He's a– '

'Be quiet, Morifinwë Fëanorian,' Ñolofinwë says from the doorway, where he stands. His eyes are filled with a blue fire. 'I have heard enough of your slander against my brother. He is your uncle. I expect you to remember that and respect him.' He takes Carnistir by the shoulder and pulls him around to face him. Carnistir tries to remain firm, but his fingers shake. Ñolofinwë frowns down at him. 'Not all greatness lies in strength.' He releases him, and Carnistir takes a step backwards, his hand flying to his shoulder, smoothing his shirt where Ñolofinwë touched him. 'As it is, you do not know the truth.'

'What is the truth then?' Maitimo asks, letting go of Findekáno before Ñolofinwë’s anger is turned on him for holding his son against his will, but Findekáno does not move away from Maitimo when he releases him. He reaches back to take Maitimo’s hand and reaches his other hand out to Ñolofinwë.

'What happened, Father?' he whispers.

Ñolofinwë looks down at the floorboards for a moment, thinking of a way to phrase what he says next. His shirt is wrinkled, and he only has one wet sock on. He reaches down and pulls it off and goes out into the hall to put it in the laundry hamper.

Carnistir gives Tyelkormo a sharp look that Tyelkormo does not return. Tyelkormo draws his legs up against his chest and buries his face against his knees. Carnistir sighs and looks to Maitimo. Maitimo shakes his head and waits silently for Ñolo’s return.

'Are the children asleep?' Ñolo asks gently when he comes in. He sits down on Tyelkormo’s bed. It creaks menacingly under him. The whole room is menacing at the moment, though. Shadows fall threateningly over the two beds, one narrow and new, the other broad and iron, rusting with age. Curufinwë is curled up in it, his bright eyes watching them from just above the sheets; he does not answer.

'Curvo's awake,' Makalaurë says softly, touching the boy's black hair. 'The other children are asleep, if you aren't counting Findekáno.'

Findekáno scoffs at being counted as a child. Ñolo looks over at his son and holds his arms out to him.

‘Come, my little one,' he says, and Findekáno slips into his arms, resting his cheek against his father's.

'What happened then?' Maitimo steps towards Ñolo, stopping only when his knee is flush against his leg.

'He was robbed,' Ñolo says very, very softly. ‘On the street, on his way. Someone stole the money. I do not know who. We do not know.' He hangs his head suddenly, not looking at any of them, not meeting their eyes. 'He was… alone. It will be all right, Fëanáro will think of something.' He pauses, his voice dropping down so low that only Findekáno and Maitimo can hear. 'At least, he said that he would.' He shakes his head. 'I do not know.'

'Did anyone see?' Makalaurë asks, his voice suddenly high and frail. 'Will anyone report it.’

Ñolofinwë raises his head to look at him, and he reaches out to touch his cheek, running his fingers along the gentle curve of his face. 'Aro says there were no witnesses. I hope that’s true. If there’s an investigation, we will have to leave.’

Tyelkormo curses and storms out, slamming the door behind him. Curufinwë whimpers. He sits up.

‘Turko! Turko!’ he calls after him and cries.

Makalaurë swoops to his side and gathers him into his arms, stroking his hair and offering him comforting words. He closes his eyes and starts to sing, but Curvo will not stop crying.

Maitimo sits down beside Ñolo. He is plagued with thoughts of the past. They haunt him, and he cannot forget them.

It was in the beginning of their here, not long after Fëanáro brought them there in some sort of accident. He still will not tell Maitimo what he did to cause the accident, and Maitimo cannot make out what it was from the scattered bits of argument he hears amongst his parents and elder kin.

It had been a cold night, that night here. They’d been in a bigger city. And Fëanáro had been so brave, but also so foolish.

Maitimo feels sick. He rests his hand on his stomach. He can still see his father’s face, cut, bloodied: his eyes flashing and his teeth tight together as he hissed. He held the knife like a silver finger. He pressed the man against the wall. The others had already fled from his fury. Maitimo was on the floor, tired after fighting. There was blood beneath his nails. He didn’t know what would have happened if Fëanáro hadn’t come then.

‘You will never touch him again,’ Fëanáro had said. ‘You will never touch anyone again. I will kill you if you touch my son. I will kill you if you look at him. Do you understand. I will kill you.’

The man had nodded, his hand over the bloody spot on his grey shirt where Fëanáro had stabbed him. Red blood dripped from between his pale fingers. And then.

And then he’d looked at Maitimo. So Fëanáro had stabbed him in the heart. And stabbed him again.

And again.

And again.

Maitimo slouches forward, and the bed creaks.

‘Did they touch him?’ Maitimo asks finally.

‘Not after they found the money,’ Ñolo says.

‘Fuck,’ Makalaurë says. He kisses the top of Curvo’s head and looks to Maitimo.

Maitimo feels him looking, but he doesn’t speak. He’s glad Father killed that man. He wishes he’d killed all of them.

‘I’m glad he lost the money then,’ Makalaurë says. ‘And that he wasn’t hurt. We can live anywhere, but we can’t live without him. All we have is each other.’

Maitimo gets up and looks out the window. He doesn’t want to live anywhere. All he wants now is to go home.

Chapter Text

The path is empty and cold. It twists through a tangle of naked trees and disappears from sight. Makalaurë walks down it. Ice and mud are beneath his feet. He walks quickly, but he is tired. He ran out in despair some hours before, forgetting his coat. His mind was screaming too hard to think. He digs his nails into his palms as he walks, head bent beneath the wind. It has all gone wrong again.

But does it not always go wrong? a quiet voice asks him, whispering to him so softly that he can barely hear it above the call of the wind that beats the trees together and lashes at his loose hair. When has it ever gone right? He has no answer for the question, at least no answer that he wants to give.

They left the last city quickly. His brothers’ cries still echo in his ears. Curufinwë had clung to Fëanáro so tightly the night that they fled that Fëanáro bled scarlet onto his hands. Nerdanel had warned him that it would happen, but he hadn’t listened to her. He never listens.

‘What are you doing out here, Kano? Don’t you realize that everyone is worried about you?’ Tyelkormo’s voice is hoarse.

Makalaurë turns to see him standing a distance away on the top of a hill he cannot remember running down. It looks coated in a sheet of pure ice. Makalaurë closes his eyes as his brother starts to descend.

They had been living in a large city, much larger than the little one where they now live. It was never completely dark, bright even in the night time, with lights that flashed and swayed and moved constantly. Makalaurë had liked to watch the people calling and laughing with each other on the street. He didn’t like it though when they shouted and fought.

‘What are you doing out here?’ Tyelkormo repeats. Taking a firm grasp on Makalaurë’s arm, he turns him about to face him, and touches his cheek with his hand. ‘You look sad.’

Makalaurë is sad, but he does not say he is. It’s pointless to when there is nothing Tyelkormo can say to help. The money is gone, and money is too dangerous. None of them knows what to do now. They can’t risk getting involved with something underground again, in case it turns out like last time.

Makalaurë folds the letter he is holding, drawing the crease sharply, and shoves it into his pocket. He knows Tyelkormo has seen it, but he does not ask him about it. Instead he places his hands on Makalaurë’s waist and draws him close. Makalaurë yanks away.

‘I’m all right, Turko.’ Turning from him, Makalaurë continues down the icy path, keeping his eyes lowered so that he will not have to see him. He does not want to hear him either, but he cannot keep his voice from reaching him, not unless he blocks his ears with his hands and sings as if his voice must rise above a raging sea.

‘Makalaurë, Makalaurë, you are not all right. None of us are this morning.’ Tyelkormo drags Makalaurë closer. His arms encircle his waist, and he presses him against him, trying to draw him beneath his open coat. Makalaurë resists for a moment, but Tyelkormo is strong.

‘Why do we always make the same mistakes?’ Makalaurë asks, looking up at the sky, so clear and blue he could cry for its beauty. ‘Why do we always wind up on the wrong side of everything and everyone?’

Tyelkormo cannot fit Makalaurë under his coat with him. He knows that now and releases him, hastening to take off his coat to allow his brother to wear it. He offers it to Makalaurë, but Makalaurë is not tired of the cold and the beating wind.

‘Keep it, Turko.’ Makalaurë shoves the coat back at him with one hand. The other hand he keeps in his pocket, clutching the letter. The letter teases him. He cannot decide if he should cry with joy or tear it up and throw it away.

‘We don’t,’ Tyelkormo says. He places the coat over Makalaurë’s shoulders, and smooths it out down his arms. ‘Not the wrong side of everything.’ 

‘Fine,’ Makalaurë says. Be optimistic.’

‘We’ll make it out,’ Tyelkormo says. ‘We always have.’

Makalaurë sighs. He pulls Tyelkormo’s jacket tight around him.

‘We have been robbed twice,’ he says.

‘So we’ll get guns,’ Tyelkormo says. ‘That’s what they have on us. If we have the guns then we can’t get robbed, right?’ He smiles at him.

Makalaurë licks his lip. He does not feel this optimistic. They were robbed of what little wealth they had from Valinor and of many things that Fëanáro and Nerdanel made. Robbed and Maitimo attacked, and Fëanáro now a killer.

‘And will we get these guns with our fake documents?’ Maitimo asks. ‘The ones that say we belong here? We don’t belong here. What if those are found fake? What if—’

‘What if, what if, what if?’ Tyelkormo says. ‘Makalaurë, we have each other. We will survive this. You do not have to be angry with me.’ He tries to get one of Makalaurë’s arms into the sleeve of his jacket.

Makalaurë jerks away from him and flings his hands up to keep him at a distance. ‘They could have killed Maitimo! And now Arafinwë! Are we to always live in fear now?’

Tyelkormo kicks at the ice. He bites his lip.

Makalaurë stalks quickly up the next hill, heading farther from home.

‘We had no one else to turn to!’ Tyelkormo calls after him, hesitating a moment before he starts to follow. ‘They were the only ones who didn’t ask questions!’

‘Only because they wanted none asked themselves. We should never have trusted them, Turko, never.’

‘We didn’t trust them. We only agreed to treat with them. We needed money!’ He is catching up to Makalaurë. ‘We were starving! Don’t you remember? Everyone was so scared. I was scared. Father was scared! You kept crying, Kano. I did not like to see you cry.’

Tears burn Makalaurë’s cheeks. They are hot for a moment, but become cold quickly beneath the wind. His pace is picking up now that he has reached the top of the hill, and he starts down it faster, starting to run.

‘What are you doing, Makalaurë?’ Tyelkormo calls after him. ‘Where are you going?’ His voice is timid when he cries out again. ‘Do not leave me here!’

Makalaurë turns back to him. He stands so still, the sunlight blazing upon him, his silver hair flashing. There are tears in his eyes that glitter like diamonds and fall down his cheeks. He holds one hand out to Makalaurë.

Makalaurë hesitates. He doesn’t have anywhere to run to. But he is terrified. He is terrified of this long future that stretches before them with no glimmer of hope. They will have to live always in fear. They stand in danger. If the government finds out they have broken the law, the government will find out they aren’t human. And what terrors would they invent then for them to suffer? But there is nothing they can do to live without breaking the laws. They are caught forever like this.

And they need money.

‘Kano, come back, please.’

Chapter Text

Makalaurë turns back. His feet are cold. The wet mud has soaked through his blue tennis shoes.

‘Kano,’ Tyelkormo calls out again, his voice now a whisper. Dropping his hands back to his sides, he turns away.

Without answering Makalaurë starts back up the hill. Tyelkormo does not move, nor does he speak. His shoulders droop slightly, but his back is straight, and his hands are closed in fists against his legs. Undoubtedly he can hear Makalaurë coming. His heartbeat sounds so loud at the moment. It echoes like like it will echo forever in the hills. Makalaurë stops just behind his brother, waiting for him to speak.

‘I’m so tired,’ Tyelkormo says. ‘I’m tired of trying to be human. I want to run away.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m so tired. Dear god, I am tired.’ His breath shudders, and his body shakes.

Makalaurë stands silently. The letter is burning a hole in his pocket. Run away. Tyelkormo is not the only one who wants to run.

A cloud passes over the morning sun, cutting off the pale light for a moment. There had been no clouds just a few minutes ago. Now Makalaurë turns to the north and an army of dark clouds marches over the horizon, speeding along on the wind.

Tyelkormo steps away from Makalaurë, and his feet sink into the mud a bit.

‘It will be a great storm,’ he says.

‘Yes.’

The small space between them seems impenetrable. Tyelkormo reaches out and touches Makalaurë. He studies his face in this silence: his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth. He traces his finger over his lips and shakes his head.

Makalaurë kisses his finger, ever so slightly, before turning away from him and making his way down the hill towards their home.

‘Wait, Kano,’ Tyelkormo calls. ‘What about the letter you had? You didn’t tell me about the letter.’

‘You didn’t ask.’

‘I am asking now!’ Tyelkormo starts after him.

Makalaurë shakes his head and they walk on in silence. The wind picks up, blowing against them, trying to hold them back. Makalaurë knows he cannot keep it a secret forever. Not if he will get what he wants. He is almost sure he knows what he wants. He presses on against the wind, ignoring the icy blasts that cut through the thin layers of his clothes and rip at his skin. His blood burns hot enough to keep him warm.

Tyelkormo is watching him again, assuredly waiting to say something.

‘What?’ Makalaurë asks, managing somehow to keep his voice at a reasonable level even though he is shouting through with emotions too wild to contain. He will let them out later, in a song. He has one curling inside his throat already. He walks faster, head high. Tyelkormo follows.

‘I suppose you don’t want to tell me about the letter now?’ Tyelkormo asks. He reaches for Makalaurë again, but he does not touch him.

‘No,’ Makalaurë says. ‘I do not. I want to go home and change my clothes and get something to eat and talk to Nelyo about the letter.’ But he takes Tyelkormo’s hand. He does not want him to run off, as he might do.

‘Why do you want to talk to Nelyo?’ he asks, his voice so quiet it almost seems that he does not want Makalaurë to hear him.

‘Because...’ Makalaurë says, trying to think of an answer that won’t be offensive. ‘Because he’s older than me,’ he settles on finally. It’s true. Maitimo is older and can be wiser. Makalaurë trusts him more than anyone else in the world, including all his other brothers.

Makalaurë squeezes Tyelkormo’s hand tightly. The wind lashes about them faster, and clouds pile up over each other to block the sky.

‘Look, Turko,’ he says, but he’s already said more than he thought he would. The wails in his ears, and the sharp scent of cold surrounds him. ‘Let’s get home before it snows.’

‘Can it wait?’ Maitimo asks Makalaurë as soon as he places his hand on his arm and opens his mouth. Maitimo is holding a cranky Aikanáro in his arms and shifts him impatiently to straddle his hip. Glancing about the room, he turns back to Makalaurë. ‘Have you seen Findekáno?’

‘No,’ Makalaurë answers, shaking his head. His hand slips up nervously to his mouth, and he holds it there, waiting.

Maitimo grumbles something impatiently and hoists Aikanáro higher, patting his bottom a couple times to steady him.

‘Nelyo,’ Makalaurë tries again, ‘I have a letter from…’

‘Kano, darling,’ Maitimo interrupts, ‘I can’t talk about it right now. I’m sorry. I have things to do.’

Tyelkormo comes in behind them. He hangs his coat up without a word and disappears up the stairs.

Maitimo sorts through envelopes as he murmurs comforts to the child in his arms. He looks up suddenly at Makalaurë.

‘Where were you anyway?’ he asks, tearing a piece of paper sharply down the centre. ‘You weren’t at breakfast.’

‘I went out. It was too hot inside.’

‘And it’s too cold outside,’ he rejoins. ‘You ought to take your clothes off,’ he adds, looking him over. ‘You’re soaked and dirty.’ Aikanáro clings to him tighter as he steps towards Makalaurë. ‘There, there,’ he murmurs, stroking the boy’s golden hair. ‘Your father’s all right now.’

Makalaurë reaches out to touch his little cousin’s cheek; it is wet with tears. ‘Do you want me to hold him?’ he offers.

‘No, you’ll just get him wet and cold,’ Maitimo says, sensible, as always. ‘You really ought to go bathe, and get something to eat; I’m worried about you.’

Makalaurë nods and shoves the letter back into his pocket.

‘Of course.’

Chapter Text

Fëanáro’s back is to Makalaurë when he creeps into his room, fresh from the hot shower that he got to enjoy on his own for once. He has not bothered to dress yet, so he stands in the doorway with only a bathrobe pulled tightly closed about him.

Kneeling by the bed, Fëanáro scribbles onto sheets of paper that he has piled on top of a book that rocks as his hand moves. As his hand flies over the sheets, he scarcely glances at them and throws them down, without a second thought, to the floor beside him once they are filled. Curufinwë sits huddled in one corner of the room, his back pressed against the blue floral wallpaper, his knees up hiding the book that he reads greedily.

‘Father?’ Makalaurë starts, casting a quick glare at Curufinwë to try to get him to leave. He does not even glance up, however, and turns another page, his eyes wide. Fëanáro does not look up either. ‘Father?’ Makalaurë says again, louder this time.

Fëanáro turns to Makalaurë suddenly as he steps into the room. Fëanáro flings his loose hair off his face with the back of his hand.

‘Yes, Makalaurë?’ He says the name with a relish, as if he enjoys pronouncing it.

‘I need to talk to you.’ Makalaurë shoots another quick glare at Curufinwë, but he simply glances up for a moment and then turns all his attention back to his precious book. He does not want to be moved.

‘Can it wait?’ Fëanáro asks, twisting his pen importantly.

‘No.’ Makalaurë does not take his eyes off Curufinwë as he answers, trying to make his glare more ominous.

Following his gaze, Fëanáro tilts his head slowly to the left.

‘Curvo,’ he calls, ‘why don’t you run off now?’

Curufinwë widens his eyes as large as he can make them.

‘I’m reading, Father,’ he protests, pouting innocently.

Fëanáro pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

‘What are you reading, baby?’ he asks when he opens them again.

‘A book.’

‘I know that you are reading a book,’ Father snaps, frustrated already. ‘What damn book are you reading?’

‘This one,’ Curvo answers, holding up the book he has been hiding almost proudly. It is thick and looks rather too large for him.

Fëanáro leans his head back to look up at Makalaurë; he seems worn and tired.

‘He’s reading.’

Makalaurë marches across the room and confiscates the book from his little brother.

‘Have you been paying any attention to just what he has been reading?’ he asks, handing the book to Fëanáro.

Silently Fëanáro turns it over and reads the cover. Ada Vladimir Nabokov. He turns it over again, glancing at the back.

‘Hmm,’ he says. He opens it, darting over the initial pages and then flipping randomly through the rest of it. He puts it down. ‘Curvo.’ His voice is stern and commanding.

Curufinwë gets up from his corner, glaring sharply at Makalaurë as he walks over to Fëanáro, his head low in submission.

‘Yes, Father?’ he almost whimpers. It’s a good act.

‘I do not want you reading books like that,’ Fëanáro says calmly. ‘I do not think they are good for you and your developing mind.’ He taps his finger against the book and shakes his head as he speaks.

‘But Father, it makes me so smart to read Nabokov,’ Curufinwë protests, his voice coming out in a smug little purr.

But Fëanáro will have none of that.

‘I really do not care what makes you look smart,’ he says sharply. ‘You will listen to what I say.’ He holds him out at arm’s length. ‘Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, Father,’ Curufinwë whines.

‘Good. Now run off and don’t read things like this again. It will destroy your mind.’

Curufinwë sulks past Makalaurë, shooting him a dirty look as he slinks out the door.

Fëanáro gets to his feet for the first time since Makalaurë entered and places the book high on a shelf. ‘I don’t understand what is happening to our family,’ he says, more to himself than to Makalaurë. He turns to Makalaurë with a slight smile. ‘What brings you here, Kano?’ he asks, beckoning him nearer.

Makalaurë comes to him and slides his hand into the pocket of his bathrobe, feeling the letter there. He can’t bring himself to part from it. He doesn’t want it discovered. He wonders desperately how to bring it up. He wishes he had had time to speak to Maitimo. It would have made things so much easier if he he knew what his eldest brother thought. He might even find a way to start this conversation before the end of the year.

A quick smack to his bottom startles him from his thoughts, and he jumps. Fëanáro, who has just seated himself on the bed, tilts his head, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

‘You shouldn’t be so glad to turn your brother in for his crimes,’ he says in way of explanation. He pats the bed beside him. ‘Sit down.’

With a sigh, Makalaurë sinks into place, crossing his bare legs at the ankles. Fëanáro looks down at his feet and smiles, noticing his attire for the first time. Perhaps he just noticed Makalaurë as well. It’s hard to tell with Fëanáro. Fëanáro tugs on the belt of the bathrobe, and Makalaurë flings his arms up instinctively to protect himself. Fëanáro takes that opportunity to slide his arms about his waist and pull him tightly against him, drawing his legs up across his lap and burying his face against the side of his neck.

‘Oh my baby. My little singing boy.’ He runs his hand underneath Makalaurë’s wet hair.

‘Father, I have to speak to you.’

‘So you said.’

‘It is very important. I mean, to me, it is very important. That is, it is very important to you too. I mean, if you thought that I was important it would be important to you if. What I am trying to say is…’

‘What?’ Fëanáro stops kissing him the way he had been, up and down the side of his face, against his ear, consoling himself with whatever comfort that gives him.

Makalaurë simply hands him the letter.

Time stops as he takes it and reads it, frowns and reads it again. Three, four, five times over. His lips twitch as he reads it, saying the words silently to himself. Six, seven, eight. How many times can one read a letter?

Makalaurë closes his e yes so that he will not have to see his narrowed eyes, his drawn brows, those twitching lips.

‘Well?’ Fëanáro says finally when the whole world seems already to have played its course and history to have come to its end.

‘Well what?’

‘Do you want to go?’ Fëanáro places the letter down on Makalaurë’s lap, smoothing it against his robe. He does not look at him, just at the sheet of white paper with small black letters marching in neat lines across it.

‘It pays well.’

‘I am not asking you about the money.’

Makalaurë lifts his head slowly, and Fëanáro does the same. Their eyes meet, and Makalaurë searches his. They are so bright, so curious. There is something that he wants to know that only Makalaurë can answer. Fëanáro waits for him to speak.

‘Yes, Father, I do.’ Makalaurë does not drop his head; he cannot break his gaze.

‘The opera,’ Fëanáro says to himself, savouring the word in his mouth like some new wine. ‘My little singing boy wants to sing in an opera.’

‘I auditioned,’ Makalaurë admits, now looking away from him. ‘I did not tell anyway; I just auditioned. They say they have never heard a voice like mine; they say they…’

‘I read the letter, Kano,’ he says, smiling slightly. ‘I know what they say. And they are right; your voice is beautiful.’ He licks his lips, his teeth. ‘It would be a shame to hide it.’

‘I want to be a musician here,’ Makalaurë whispers. ‘Singing. Instruments. Composing. I want to do it all, and I want people to hear. I am tired of hiding myself.’

‘I understand,’ Fëanáro says.

‘Then I can go?’

Fëanáro smiles sadly.

‘We must talk to your mother.’

Chapter Text

‘What are you doing, Findekáno?’

Every time Findekáno turns around there is a little child asking him something. He can never escape the little feet and the little voices and the little hands that tangle up with his to see if they can hold a pen like he does, slice an apple like he does, paint a picture like he does.

‘I’m writing,’ Findekáno answers, moving his pen pointlessly along the page to prove his point.

‘What are you writing, Findekáno?’ Tiny little hands are on his arm, a little head peeps down at the book on his lap. ‘Is it very important?’

‘It’s my diary,’ he answers, doodling a little picture of a flower in the margin.

‘Oh, your diary,’ Irissë, suddenly very excited. ‘Do you write about me in there?’

‘Mhm, I write about all the naughty things you do that annoy me,’ he says, pulling lightly at Irissë’s dark hair.

She looks up indignantly.

‘You don’t.’

‘Sure I do, and I find lots to write.’ Findekáno flips through the few pages he has filled impressively.

She frowns.

‘I must not do a lot of naughty things,’ she says, looking at the empty half of the book, which is considerably larger.

Findekáno smiles and lifts her onto his lap where she nestles against his chest and turns the pages of the book importantly.

‘You wrote about Nelyo,’ she says, touching his name where it is inked on the page. ‘What did he do that was so naughty?’ Her eyes shine with anticipation.

With a laugh, Findekáno kisses the top of her head.

‘Nothing dear, it isn’t a bad deeds log.’ He rocks her.

‘What is it then?’ she asks, tilting her head back to study his face. She looks dreadfully curious, and her eyes shine brightly from beneath her curling lashes.

‘It’s…’ He pauses, trying to think of a way to explain it. ‘It’s where I write my memories. What happened, and how I felt about it.’

‘Don’t you remember?’ she asks, nibbling on her bottom lip as she always does when she is thinking hard.

‘Usually, but writing it out helps me to…understand things better.’ Findekáno touches Maitimo’s name, reading the sentence around it. Nelyo laughed when I dropped it. ‘And it’s not just for me; it’s for Arakáno.’

‘You write your diary for Arakáno?’ she repeats back.

‘Yes, so that he will understand things better when he grows older,’ He answers. His arms close tighter on her as he thinks of growing, of time passing, of whatever will happen when hundreds of years have passed and the world about them has changed a thousand times over and they have not even begun to.

She squirms in his arms.

‘You’re squeezing me.’ She feels soft in his arms, but there is something about her that is hard to break. She is resilient, tough and strong willed like most of their family.

Findekáno kisses her again, lingering for a moment to smell her hair, which smells sweet, like flowers.

‘I’m sorry. Do you want to go now?’

She nods, and he lets go. She slides from his arms and straightens her shirt. She pats him on the top of the head.

‘Be a good boy, Finde,’ she instructs before she trots away across the wooden floor.

‘I will.’

‘Finde?’

Findekáno looks up; she is standing thoughtfully by the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Would you write me a diary?’

‘I would, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at keeping even one. Sorry’

‘Oh.’ But she smiles again. ‘That’s all right. I’ll just ask Turu.’ She disappears from his sight without another word.

But words are now all that he has left. Words that march across the page like neat little sentinels, keeping straight and silent beside each other as they scream out his life at him. The last sentence that he wrote ends abruptly, followed by the marks that he made when he was trying to show that he was writing. It will never have an end now. Arakáno will always have to wonder.

No. He seizes the pen tightly and writes beneath the scribbles:

Fëanáro brought us here, but I do not know how, and neither does he. We shall never go back.

The period after the last word is heavy, and his hand smudges it as he shuts the book on the fresh ink. But that does not matter; it has been written, now he just has to find a way to accept it.

‘Dance with me, Finde?’ Carnistir stands before him, holding his hand out to him. The living room is darkened, only lit by the Christmas tree, and the shadows cross it strangely, wavering around them.

‘Dance with you?’

Carnistir wiggles his fingers invitingly.

‘Why not? There’s music; there’s space; there’s nothing better to do.’

‘You don’t like me.’

Carnistir raises his eyebrows slightly and pulls Findekáno to his feet. He places one hand on his waist and takes his hand with the other.

‘Whoever said that?’

‘You did.’

Carnistir begins to waltz them about the room to the music which plays from the radio Tyelkormo put on. Findekáno can see him out of the corner of his eye brooding on the sofa, one of the Ambarussa’s asleep in his arms. Findekáno cannot tell who it is.

‘Did I?’ Carnistir tilts his head to one side, studying Findekáno’s face. ‘Yes, I probably did. But that doesn’t mean anything, does it?’

‘You were calling my father and me stupid just last night,’ Findekáno shoots back. ‘You said you wanted our families to be divided, remember?’ Findekáno purposes to imitate his voice, which is a tad deeper than his and usually sounds as if he were speaking from the front of his throat. ‘”And I suppose that the only time for us to become divided amongst ourselves would be if someone actually killed someone? Because I would not mind volunteering my services in bringing that time about.’” Findekáno looks at his cousin accusingly.

‘I was angry, Finde,’ Carnistir says, leading him back across the floor as they reach one wall. ‘I say a lot of things when I’m angry.’

Findekáno narrows his eyes, trying to read his thoughts.

‘Is this an apology?’

Carnistir twirls him about slowly on the end of his arm and draws him back in.

‘You can take it as one if that would make you feel better.’

‘I do not know if it would, Moryo,’ Findekáno answers, lowering his eyes. His feet are bare beneath his black jeans.

‘Why not? Do you want to stay mad at me?’

Findekáno breaks free of him and crosses the room to look out the window. Snow piles up quickly in the yard, and the wind presses it in small drifts up against the pane.

‘Perhaps.’

‘Why?’ Carnistir touches his arm from behind. ‘Is what I said that bad?’

‘You insulted my family and volunteered to kill one of us. Do you question if that is bad?’  Findekáno closes the curtains on the storm, but he can still see the snow flickering in the streetlamps from behind the sheer panels.

‘I cannot even remember what I said, Findekáno,’ he sighs, and Findekáno knows it is the truth.

Turning back around, Findekáno looks at him. He seems sad; even in the dim light, he can see the pain in Carnistir’s eyes. Saying nothing, Findekáno slides back into his arms, and they resume their waltz.

‘Are you going to be angry with me forever now?’ Carnistir asks after some time, voice light enough that it sounds like it would not matter to him.

‘No, but it would help if you actually say it,’ Findekáno answers firmly.

Carnistir blinks, startled; his top lip curls up slightly. ‘Say what?’

Findekáno gives him a sharp look as he leads them to the right, directly past Tyelkormo, who shoots them an irritated look.

‘You’re trying to make me say it first.’

Carnistir’s eyes light up a little with some sort of evil pleasure.

‘I know.’

‘You say it.’ Findekáno gives him the pout that always works on Maitimo, widening his eyes for added emphasis.

Carnistir gives him an equally innocent look.

‘Say what?’

One look at his face, and Findekáno cannot help but laugh.

‘Apologize, you idiot,’ Findekáno orders, punching him lightly in the ribs.

‘Sorry, stupid.’ Carnistir grins.

Findekáno rolls his eyes.

‘Apology accepted.’

Carnistir twirls him around fast.

‘Moryo!’ Findekáno calls, his name becoming a gasp as Carnistir swings him forward sharply to keep him from colliding with Fëanáro, who has just stepped into the room. Carnistir grins again as blood rushes to Findekáno’s cheeks.

‘Horrible,’ Findekáno mutters.

Carnistir just laughs.

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.’

Chapter Text

Findekáno cannot concentrate on the movie; It’s A Wonderful Life seems a strangely inept title at the moment, too certain, to fixed, letting you know the point of the story even before you watch it. Nothing that happens in the film seems to have a purpose anyway; it all just some contrived story that has no relevance to anyone’s life. And there are too many questions he needs answered to enjoy it. They are all upset and distressed, but they are trying to hide it, and the movie was on television, and Fëanáro insisted that they watch it. Findekáno does not know why they must always listen to him. He’s sick of it.

Makalaurë is more fidgety than Findekáno, he keeps glancing at his father or mother or one or other of his brothers, fidgeting with his hair. Findekáno wonders what it is that is troubling him. But he will not speak to him while they are watching a movie, and he does not leave, just sits by himself on the arm of the sofa, his long leg impatiently kicking the side.

Maitimo is sitting on the floor by Findekáno’s side, watching the movie with some interest. Pulling apart a cinnamon roll and eating it piece by piece, he keeps his face from Findekáno’s sight. Findekáno bites angrily into his roll, but calms down enough to savour the sweet, soft bread and delicate spice. He never manages to stay angry for long.

The time is passing very slowly. Why does Fëanáro insist that they do everything on holidays according to that red book? American Holidays and Traditions. American Handcuffs and Torments would be a more apt title at the rate things are going. Findekáno leans back against the sofa, his arms folded. Maybe if he makes a display of being oppressed he will be dismissed from watching the movie. Unfortunately, no one seems to be paying him the least bit of attention.

Findekáno spends this wasted time looking at the Christmas tree. It is very beautiful this year with the various ornaments that have been collected neatly arranged and the rows of lights Fëanáro spent hours on getting symmetrical. Findekáno has a sudden urge to get up and disarrange them, but he does not. He would not want Fëanáro getting upset with him. It would just end with Fëanáro getting mad at his father for not raising him properly, as it always goes. Still it seems that this movie will never end. They haven’t even got to the part where the incompetent angel comes along to set what’s-his-name’s life right. Findekáno has been watching this movie forever, and he still does not know his name. George Bailey, the movie blares. Ah, yes, that was it. Pity. He didn’t want to know.

Of a sudden, Aikanáro giggles madly from where he is pressed by Findekáno’s side; Angaráto sits on his other side, casting his younger brother slightly jealous looks. Findekáno realises suddenly that he is absently stroking Aikanáro’s hair but not Angaráto’s. Automatically he begins to pat his hair too. Irissë kicks at Angaráto from where she sits above him, on her father’s lap; it is a strong kick, but he only laughs more and tickles her foot. This movie will never end.

It is very late now that the movie is over; Findekáno’s empty glass of punch, which has already been filled three times, sits by his elbow, a used napkin pressed inside of it. He picks it up on his belated way to the kitchen and put the napkin in the trash and the glass numbly in the dishwasher. He fell asleep during the movie, and now most everyone has gone off to bed. Looking about for Maitimo, he spots Fëanáro and Makalaurë who have hung back in the living room. Makalaurë stands near his father, facing him. Makalaurë has a bit of height on his father. Fëanáro has his arms about him loosely, but it is not an embrace. Neither speaks.

Minutes pass and nothing is spoken; Findekáno remains rooted to his spot, hidden in the shadows of the dark kitchen. His back is to the counter. It feels too hard.

‘Makalaurë,’ Fëanáro says finally, his voice almost too low to make out. ‘There is a reason that you were given that name.’

Makalaurë bows his head, accepting this in silence. Fëanáro kisses his brow.

‘I never wanted to lose you,’ he says, drawing his hands through Makalaurë’s loose hair, then smoothing it back into place over his head. ‘I would not have been a good father if that is what I wanted.’

Again Makalaurë says nothing; he bows his head lower this time and raises it more slowly.

Fëanáro kisses him again, drawing his son closer.

‘But I see now that you wish to be lost to us. Or at least you wish to depart. You have found something that you want badly; you have found something that wants you.’

Makalaurë bows his head a third time, and his father kisses him again. But Makalaurë keeps his eyes closed.

‘You are a great musician, my son. Greater than any I have ever heard before, or that I should hope to hear since. Your hands are made for strings. Your voice is your strength, and strength is in your voice. It is a tool that you have shaped and forged over the years of your life, through tears and frustrations. But it has given you triumphs you never knew you could achieve, and joys you never knew existed. It is a gift, Makalaurë. And one that I expect you to use.’

Makalaurë bows his head for the fourth time, but his father will not let him finish the bow. He takes his head between his hands to keep his head steady. Staring straight into his eyes, he speaks. ‘For you have the world’s greatest voice, you have hands are golden. And the world shall hear you – must hear you. And if that means that you must leave us, then so be it. Go to New York, my son, with my blessing.’ With that, he draws his son’s face close to his and presses a kiss onto his lips as seconds pass away in utter silence. Finally he leans back, brushes Makalaurë’s hair off his face, and smiles. ‘I love you, my little singing boy.’

New York. And so he would leave them. Findekáno stifles back a cry as, without warning, Makalaurë collapses into his father’s arms and starts to weep, his body shaking with the tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ he sobs. ‘I’m so sorry, Father.’

‘You don’t have to apologize,’ says Fëanáro, stroking his hair, his back. ‘I’m not angry with you.’

‘I’ll send you some money, just as soon as I get it,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to leave you.’ He clings to him tighter, as if he somehow believes that his body could dissolve into Fëanáro’s, keeping him close to him forever.

‘I know you will,’ Fëanáro answers. ‘I know you don’t.’ He rocks him back and forth as if he were still a young child, touching his hair.

Findekáno no longer has the heart to watch them. It is too private a moment to intrude upon, and he creeps as silently from the kitchen as he can, cursing the rusted hinges of the hall door and the creaking stairs.

Without a word or a thought he makes his way to his room where he quickly disrobes and works to get the braids out of his hair. But his hands shake too much to release his hair without tugging and pulling, and he has to bite his lip to stay silent. Findaráto turns over slowly in his bed, bumping against Artaher who pushes him away; they both look so peaceful in their sleep.

Finished with the unplaiting, Findekáno runs his fingers through his hair a few times to rid it of any stray tangles, snatches up his brush, decides against it, and puts it back down. He pulls his unbrushed hair into a quick, single plait and, shivering, crosses the room to his bed, where Angaráto and Aikanáro lie sprawled almost diagonally across the mattress. He bends down to move them over so that he will have some room to slide in beside them, but stops.

He can hear Maitimo whispering to himself on his bed, and when he turns, he sees him lying there, alone, holding tightly to a pillow. Hesitantly, Findekáno creeps over to him. Maitimo is asleep, talking to himself as he sleeps. Findekáno lies down beside him, and touches his arm. Maitimo releases the pillow, and as his arms instinctively close about Findekáno, he whispers a name: ‘Kano.’

Findekáno does not wake him.

Chapter Text

Maitimo stares out the window at the snow melting beneath the rain. His brother could not have picked a worse Christmas present for him. Maitimo can still see his face, eyes shining, lips quivering, as he explained to him gently that he was going to go.

Go where? Maitimo had asked him even after he had already told him. He had to repeat his story a second time, and even then Maitimo did not fully understand. He still does not. His little brother is trying to run away from him, from all of them, telling him that it will be for the best in the end. He had a good offer; he will be a musician again. How he has missed music. Makalaurë, who cannot just perform at home, for his family, or not even for teachers. He must live on the long, strong, heartbreaking performances for strangers, his whole being living, as he once put it.

He’ll drop out of school. It’s not what he wants. He wants to perform. He wants to live again. He has an offer. He can make money. He will be know. He will be loved. Not just by his family. That’s not enough.

Maitimo tried a thousand arguments, but Makalaurë turned them all down, refuted them, proved their fallacies. Maitimo closes his eyes. His little brother should not be able to disprove his logic, unless he was not using logic, and it was just feelings spilling out into words for hours at a time. That may be true.

Nerdanel would not agree to deny him permission to leave. Fëanáro would not agree to lock him up, to chain him, to keep him safe with them forever. He is old enough to go his own way. If he chooses to leave, that is choice. They will not stop him. They don’t know that Maitimo knows him better, knows that he isn’t old enough, knows that he will get lonely. Maitimo feels tears fall hot down his cheeks. Makalaurë was his first baby.

‘Why did your brother say yes?’ Maitimo asks Ñolofinwë, walking into the bathroom where he stands by the sink washing his hands. He picks up the red towel and slowly rubs his hands dry. Red is not a good towel colour; is to bold, too bloody. Carefully he hangs the towel back up.

‘Should he have said no?’

‘Yes.’ Maitimo closes the door behind him and turns the lock, standing in front of it.

‘You would have preferred it?’ He raises his eyebrows slightly as he asks the question, but not mockingly, watching his nephew’s face with a gentle pity.

‘Yes, of course I would have,’ Maitimo answers; it is funny how soft his voice sounds. But Ñolofinwë does that to him; he lowers his voice, softens his heart, either from how strong and fearless his fëa feels or from the pained, frightened look in his eyes that makes Maitimo wish he will never hurt him. This time Maitimo does not know which it is.

‘Because you do not want to lose him?’ He sits down on the edge of the tub, gesturing for Maitimo to sit beside him.

Maitimo does not sit down.

‘Of course not. Is there something wrong with that?’ His voice does not sound as angry as he should like. It sounds even softer than before, as if he will start crying. He hates that.

‘No, there is nothing wrong with that. You would be a cruel brother if you wished to get rid of him.’ Ñolofinwë twists some strands of his hair between his fingers, studying the ends, avoiding looking into Maitimo’s eyes.

Maitimo tilts his chin up firmly. ‘You were there.’

‘I know.’ Ñolofinwë drops the hair he was playing with and stands again, starting to unbutton his black shirt.

It is not often that Maitimo sees him dressed in black; he normally wears white or some variation of blue, mellow or strong, which brings out the blue specks that spiral like a storm in his bright grey eyes. Black makes him look weaker, like some shadow that is slowly fading away from the rest of the world, unable to face the doom that forever haunts it.

He hangs the shirt on the towel rack, smoothing the black folds out with his long fingers. His back is to Maitimo now. It is marked by a small, bruise on the right shoulder, dull grey. Maitimo reaches out to touch it, but drops his hand down at the last moment, afraid.

Maitimo can see Ñolofinwë’s face in the mirror and his own as well, a ghastly reflection of unruly red hair about a sharp pale face, that is far too proud. But his eyes large grey eyes are filled with tears, and his eyelids are reddened and swollen.

‘He asked me what I thought,’ Ñolofinwë says, reading the question Maitimo wanted to ask him on his still lips. ‘If I thought your brother would…’ His smile is a sad one. ‘I only told him what I believed.’

‘And that was?’ Maitimo’s voice has finally the edge that he was trying for, the sharp, cold edge of a wronged man. He sets my jaw against Ñolofinwë’s answer. But Ñolofinwë keeps his back to him and his voice soft and low.

‘That he would be safer here.’ Ñolofinwë turns the faucet on again. He splashes some of the cold water onto his face and draws the icy droplets down his neck, over his strong chest.

‘Is that what you told him?’

Ñolofinwë cups the freezing water in his hands and throws it across his face, down his body, up his arms, shivering. ‘

Yes.’ He looks up again, his face is reflected in the mirror; there are tears in his eyes. ‘Yes, Nelyo.’

‘And he said?’

‘That I was wrong.’ He turns the faucet off, leaning over the sink in silence. His eyes are closed, and he breathes slowly.

Maitimo is still there, in the mirror, behind him; his face has lost all its colour; the tears have spilled over, down his cheeks, trailing down his chin or to his quivering lips. He looks young. He looks terrified. He turns away from the mirror.

Every word that he could say sounds useless at the time. I am sorry. You weren’t wrong. You should have fought harder. I hate you. But he cannot break this silence; this cold, heartless silence that clings to him like the freezing water clings to Ñolofinwë’s skin. Why does he not use the hot water? Why does his son not? Findekáno should. It is not right.

‘Nelyo. Nelyo.’ Arms enfold his; fingers lift his hair; the bitter silence he was lost in is broken by Ñolofinwë’s strong voice. ‘Do not cry so hard.’ He presses his mouth against Maitimo’s temple, holding him tighter than he ever has before. Whispering words that neither can make out, Ñolofinwë rocks Maitimo. He does not turn him to him. He does not wipe away his tears. Maitimo keeps his eyes closed. He keeps his head down. He does not embrace Ñolofinwë, and Ñolofinwë does not let him go.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know.’

Makalaurë sits down beside Maitimo, not touching him, his eyes lowered. ‘Are you angry?’

‘No.’

The clock is too loud; stealing the time with each tick, the hands move, wandering aimlessly across the face. The sound covers their breathing, the slight creak of Arafinwë’s bed as Makalaurë shifts nervously. Maitimo doesn’t know if he’s glad that he found where he was hiding.

He could start a conversation, but he is sad, and the sadness is like a pit inside of him that has stolen both his heart and his brain. And what could he say that wouldn’t fade away after a few quick exchanges, leaving them to think of something else to say.

It shouldn’t be this hard. They never had to try to speak before.

Light falls into the room from behind the blinds, casting slats onto the walls and across the floor. Makalaurë is sitting in a pool of cut light, fingers stretched across the knees of his dark pants.

‘Father, why does he sing like that? Why does he never stop playing?’

Fëanáro had turned, pulling his hair free, brushing the sweat from his face. ‘Who?’ he had asked.

‘My brother,’ Maitimo had answered, breathless from running. ‘Why does he play, why does he sing? Always and always, never stopping.’

‘He is a musician, Nelyo; surely you know that. He has music inside of him. He must bring it out.’

‘Like you have to smith? Like you have to learn? Will he be a great musician?’

‘He is a great musician.’

‘Always and always? Never stopping?’ Maitimo had asked.

‘Yes, of course.’ Fëanáro had paused, musing over the words, thinking of something that Maitimo could not read in his eyes. ‘Always and always, until the end of the world.’

Somewhere below them Maitimo can make out Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro arguing; their voices tense, and their words hard. He can hear Carnistir as well, near to tears he will never shed.

‘It isn’t very far,’ Makalaurë says. ‘You will be able to visit me. And I won’t be gone forever. I’ll come back, when the show is over, I’ll come back.’ He lifts his head, brushing his smooth, dark hair back behind his ear. His fingers are so long. It is a promise he already knows he does not plan to keep.

Maitimo takes his hand before he can lower it, holding it to his cheek.

‘And when they have another show for you to do? When they realize that you are the greatest musician they have ever heard, are you coming back then? When they beg you to stay and offer you money and fame, will you come back then? When they offer you the world, will you come back to me?’

Makalaurë smiles, though his eyes are bright with tears.

‘Of course, Russandol,’ he says. ‘I’ll always come back to you. Always and always.’

Chapter Text

Maitimo measures the time by the dripping of the coffee into the pot; he does not move. The table is crowded before him, and the plates and dishes watch him apathetically from underneath their scattered crumbs, distant beneath the cracked light fixture. The glass of wine in his hands is drained, only a small ring of red remains on the bottom, creeping its stained path up the side to the smeared rim. Casting his head back, he looks to the ceiling where a ladybug is buzzing helplessly around a light bulb. Unwilling, his voice catches in his throat, and with nothing to say, he closes his lips and listen to the slowly dying ladybug.

‘It has been so long.’ Nerdanel sits down at the table across from him, drawing his empty glass to her, taking it from his hand to replace it with her fingers, running them across his palm and closing them gently around his hand. ‘It has been so long,’ she whispers again.

Since what? Maitimo asks the ladybug, swallowing the question before his mother can hear it. He squeezes her hand, fingering the calluses that years of work have formed.

‘He did not mean to bring us here,’ she says, letting her voice sink into the silence.

Maitimo smiles so he will not cry. She brushes the corner of his mouth with her thumb.

‘He thinks he might bring us back someday.’

‘That’s nice.’ Finding their way to his heart, Maitimo’s fingers press as tightly as they can, clutching his shirt and skin; his breath has stopped.

‘It would be the same way, dearest. The same way as before.’ She touches his hair. ‘He says that he could make it back, if it were the same way as before.’

Does she mean that the sky would have to be bright, and Fëanáro would have to be angry, and Finwë would have to be missing, and Makalaurë would have to be singing, and Ñolofinwë would have to be crying somewhere inside of him that no one could see? Maitimo wonders. Does she mean that Fëanáro would have to close his fist so tightly that Maitimo could swear he heard his fingers break? That is how it was last time.

‘Do you mean the light?’ Maitimo asks instead, turning his face from her caring hand.

‘Yes, the light. He would need a power as great as that again.’

‘Laurelin is not here.’ The ladybug has found its way inside the glass cover over the light bulb; it flies there, falling helplessly against the glass again and again, clattering.

‘No, but there are other sources of power.’ She touches his bare foot with her socked one, tapping his toes.

The ladybug hits the glass again and lies stunned for the moment. ‘Yes.’

‘He was so foolish, my Fëanáro,’ she whispers to herself. ‘He thought that, for certain, he could bring his father to him.’

Because Finwë was not there. If Finwë had been there, Fëanáro would not have been so angry. He would not have declared it a spite against him, made on Ñolofinwë’s part. He would not have tried.

‘He wasn’t certain,’ Nerdanel says.

‘He was.’

The ladybug has gotten up again, whizzing about the bulb, trying to kill itself. Is its life so hard that it wants to destroy it for that single instance of becoming one with the light? Is it so afraid of facing another day that may not have the glory of this moment that it is willing to give up everything so that the memory, the time, the feeling will not fade? It falls down again, down into the dust that has collected with the days.

‘He thought it would work.’ Maitimo takes up a knife and run it across my hand; the blade is trying to find a way under his skin.

Nerdanel takes the knife from him, setting it down firmly on a plate so that they both clatter together, shaking with their dirt and grime, like a thousand dying ladybugs. ‘He should have waited for his father.’

‘He did not think he was coming!’ Maitimo turns to her, his eyes starting wide. His mouth aches from the words, and his teeth are set. ‘Finwë said he would be there; the fault lies on him.’

Nerdanel’s face is drained; she looks so tired. Falling from its braid, her hair trails about her face, brushing with her cheeks, caught against her lips.

‘He did not blame him.’

‘So he blamed Ñolofinwë. What does it matter? It may have been Ñolofinwë’s fault for all I can tell.’ Maitimo pushes his chair away from her. ‘My father only did what he thought was right.’

She brushes her hair away from her mouth, straightens it back behind her ears, wets her lips, closes her eyes, and says nothing.

‘Is that what you wanted him to do? Nothing?’

Without opening her eyes, she answers.

‘Yes. I wanted him to do nothing about it. I wanted him to sit down and eat something and try to enjoy his brothers’ company. Was it so very much to ask?’

‘Yes.’ Maitimo stands, his hands splayed across the tabletop. ‘That would ask him to go against his very nature. Finwë promised that he would be there, that was the only reason Father agreed to come. And when he didn’t…’

‘Your father tried to change the course of time?’ Nerdanel opens her eyes now, looking up at him with a calm face that he cannot read. She smiles. ‘Or rather he tried to take a place and a place and put them together so that there was no time between them. And instead of bringing his father there, he brought all of us here.’

‘It was not his fault.’

The ladybug buzzes against the glass, trying to find a way out. It does not know to fly up and then down; it does not know that the only way to escape the heat is to go to it. It cannot reason.

‘You are so much like him.’

No. Maitimo is not like him. He is nothing like him. He does not have his mind and his hands and his drive and his fire spirit that burns like everything. Why does everyone insist on trying to tie Maitimo to Fëanáro so that he has to stand bright and strong and brave like him, burning with a fire that no one and nothing could ever understand?

‘Yes.’

She touches his hair, runs her finger over his nose, against his lips, down the side of his cheek.

‘Am I such a disappointment to you?’ Maitimo asks.

Nerdanel stares back at him, quiet for a moment.

‘How many times do I have to tell you I love, Russandol?’

Always and forever. She must repeat the words every day, whisper them to him whenever he chances to look at her. Maitimo does not know why. Maybe he is too much like his father. Maybe he sees them fighting. Maybe she loves the twins for they are the babies, and Makalaurë because he is most like her. Like Fëanáro loves Curufinwë most. And maybe it’s all not enough, because their family is chaos and falling to pieces, and everything, everything is wrong.

‘I know,’ he says.

Nerdanel’s smile is gentle.

And he is nothing like her. He does not have here tempered spirit and quiet ways, her patience, her smile, her blue-grey eyes. All he has is her hair, but brighter, redder, like a flame, like a sunrise.

Makalaurë stood beside Maitimo, his legs titled to stand on the stones.

‘Never grow old? Never be wise? What nonsense do you speak of?’ Makalaurë laughed as the sea wind forced his hair across his face and plastered his cloak to his body.

‘It is not nonsense, brother mine.’

Maitimo had wanted to take his still growing body into his arms and hold it there forever against him – to protect him from the wind, to keep him from growing up, so he would not have to see his teasing smile.

But Makalaurë laughed when Maitimo reached out to him, and sprang away on the stones.

‘Catch me!’ he teased, tossing his head so his dark hair flew about it, flashing like waves in the light. ‘Catch me, nonsense-speaker and may you leave your delusions behind!’

With another laugh, he started off, dancing on the large stones away from Maitimo. He would spin back to laugh at Maitimo as he followed, unable to match his pace on the stones. He was always so fast.

‘Kano!’ Maitimo cried after him. ‘Kano, wait!’

And he stopped to turn back to Maitimo, surprised by the urgency of his voice.

‘Is it really nonsense?’ Maitimo whispered. ‘Can’t I keep you just a bit longer?’ But the wind carried his voice away. And off Makalaurë ran, playing games with the coming tide.

‘I love you, Mother.’ Maitimo says softly.

She smiles and enfolds him in her arms, her hands firm on his back, and her face pressed to the side of his neck. Burying his face in her warm, sweet-smelling hair, Maitimo feels tears burn at his eyes, but they do not fall. Contentedly, she sighs and holds him closer. So they embrace and stand in silence; the ladybug has died. Time will not stop moving. Already the present is gone.

Chapter Text

The blinds are closed to the world, but Makalaurë, awake and lonely, opens them with a twist of a small plastic wand, like some silly magic from a children’s show. Outside the window, the city lies white and busy filled with lights and snow and people that fight against each other to find space in the crowded streets. Shadows dance, live, and are consumed. Light reflects and shatters, absorbed, it is gone. Pedestrians tousle against each other, still awake in the night, angry and frustrated, laughing and glad, they walk in groups together. But Makalaurë stands alone.

And so he has left behind his family to pursue a dream that he didn’t know if he would find again. The silence of this room is a strangeness compared to the noise of rehearsals, learning notes and lines to songs whose meanings he barely understands. But still they are beautiful, so he does not complain. The silence is a strangeness compared to his dreams, crowded nightmares that trip and fall over each other in their eagerness to exist. It is a strangeness compared to his family, talking always about this and that one to the other in quick, fresh Quenya, deep and musical – a language that he misses. He promised to call his mother every day, and calls are the only time that he hears his own language, a comfort to him.

He has heard that all is well at home. None have serious problems with school, even if Aikanáro still despises it. Although he does not call often, he heard from Tyelkormo yesterday, who assured him that he was behaving himself and that he will find a place for himself in this strange world as a dog-whisperer, and then he only laughed and would not tell Makalaurë what that was.

His family tells him of their problems, and they tell him of their joys, and most of all, they tell him not to worry and to do well.

The snow is falling now, quivering in the air as it searches for a place to land. Makalaurë stands in his small room, barefoot on a grey carpet, warm in a dark sweater. A cup of tea, already cool and almost empty, rests in front of him on the windowsill. The clock reads 11.27, but he does not really need to look at it. The day is done, and he is not tired. The nights and days are too short. They run together in his mind until he forgets which one has lived through and which one he is going to face.

Just now, it does not matter, and he knows that must mean that he has found some peace. Manuscript paper lies before him with notations he has marked, words in Quenya that someday he will share with the world. What will happen in the future is vague, but the future is long, and he has this moment.

So he lifts his harp and plays. So he sings. So the snow falls.