Peculiar by Ada Kensington

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The Painted Man

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Peculiar

"Don't you dare!" Rúmil snapped, as for the fourth time since they had reached the groves of the Culumambor, he smacked Fëanáro's outstretched hand away from the orange fruits which grew in abundance on the trees lining in neat, cultivated rows, the winding road that cut a path up the foothills of Taniquetil towards Valmar.  

"Rúmil, there are hundreds of thousands of them. No one will miss one orange," Fëanáro insisted.

In flagrant defiance of Rúmil's warning, Fëanáro reached up again and, wrenching and twisting the fruit away from its branch, he won his prize, covering them both with a shower of rain droplets, fragrant falling leaves and a scattering of insects.

"Pfft!" Rúmil spat, batting angrily at his cloak and hair. "Ugh, curse you, Fëanáro, I am covered in pests!"

Fëanáro ignored him, placing the waxy skin of the fruit to the tip of his nose and breathed in deeply. "Ahh, the smell alone is intoxicating.  Here," he said, offering the orange to Rúmil. "Smell it. It's beautiful."

"I am sure it is," Rúmil answered sniffily, turning away, having shooed the majority of the crawling bugs from the mail cart roof, the only thing left to attend to now, the flying ones, which buzzed angrily around his head.

"No, really," Fëanáro insisted. "You have not experienced the true quality of an orange fruit until you have picked one fresh from the tree. Feel it! The peel is still sticky."

"I do not want to."

"What? Are you in a mood now?  Is it because I stole the orange or because I covered you in bugs?"

"Both!" Rúmil snapped. "And more than that, it is because it is stiflingly hot and sticky and there are awful, biting insects everywhere and the sooner we leave these wretched groves, the better!"

"It should not be long now," Fëanáro considered, glancing up at the encroaching settlements which clung to the hillsides like lichen. "Give it another hour or so. You could take off your travelling cloak, you know. It would make you less hot and bothered."

"I know that," Rúmil seethed, drawing his legs tight into his chest. "But then the bugs will bite me! They are feasting on my pale, sun-shy, Noldorin flesh! It is awful. I feel hot and itchy and utterly wretched and I am coming out in nasty purple welts where they have stabbed their filthy probing tongues. The sooner this is over, the better!"

Rúmil felt and heard Fëanáro come to rest beside him with a thump and a sigh.

There was a moment's silence, as Fëanáro sat, pondering, turning the pilfered orange over in his hands.  Then he said quietly, "I wasn't going to do this in front of you because I wasn't sure whether you would approve or not, but as your whining has become nigh insufferable."

"What, you have tobacco?"

There was a rustling as Fëanáro hunted in his pack and, at length, retrieved a small brown-wrapped packet tied together with a rough bit of twine. He sat it flat on the cart roof and carefully unknotted the twine, pulling back the folded edges of the paper.

Rúmil's eyes widened.

Inside, there was a long, thin pipe and three tight-wrapped bundles of dried lempë leaf.

"I use it mainly to keep insects at bay," Fëanáro said, evasively.

It was, of course, a lie, but one Rúmil was familiar with, as he had used it himself often when young. His mouth turned up in a wry smile. So that is what the king had meant when he alluded to his son having picked up foul habits and worse language on his travels. He wondered vaguely as to where Fëanáro had learned. A book, most likely. Nothing you would ever find in the palace, but he knew loosely-bound quires circulated amongst healers. The leaf was also used in Lórien.

"You need not lie to me Fëanáro," he replied frankly, "and I would be a hypocrite if I told you I disapproved, for I  used it myself when young, and still use it now from time to time. It's a pity I didn't know. I would have bought a pipe back at Orrostar."

Curious, Rúmil gently picked up the narrow pipe. It was beautifully made: cast from a dark metal, with interlacing vines carved and set in sea-stone which crept around the small bowl and along the thin stem towards the mouthpiece. Such was the quality, he fancied one himself.  Then, with a start, he noticed the small maker's mark.  Turning the pipe over, he discerned the letter F, formed by the subtle twisting vines, in Fëanáro's code. Of course, he should have known.

"Did you make this?" he asked, smiling.

"I did."

"It's lovely," Rúmil said, truthfully. "To be perfectly honest, I covet the thing. I'd like one myself, and I would pay through the nose for one similar. Strangely practical for you, too, Fëanáro. I thought you were intent on cornering the jewellery and trinkets market."

"Most things practical things can be made beautifully, if the maker has the time and the inclination," Fëanáro answered.

"And the ability, do not forget," Rúmil added, throwing Fëanáro a significant look.

Fëanáro smiled thinly. "It was difficult to make the pipe, actually. A lot goes into the design of the things. There were a few failed attempts."

"Doesn't matter," Rúmil replied, bluntly. "You can make them now, can't you?"

"I suppose..." was Fëanáro's cagey reply.

"Hmm... well I can understand your reticence to venture any further into the art," Rúmil conceded. "It is not exactly something your father would approve of."

"I'd be sent packing over the Belegaer, if he ever found out I had been making and selling smoking pipes," Fëanáro said, with a ghost of a smile.

"I do not doubt that, Fëanáro, but tell me," Rúmil ventured, seeking to satiate his curiosity, "from whom  or where did you learn? It is not exactly common knowledge..."

"A man named Taurendil," Fëanáro said simply. "He wanders Aman. Sometimes I meet him when I travel, sometimes I don't, and it's never in the same place. The first time I met him was on my first journey, the week after my father married. I was upset and he gave me lempë to fog my mind. It helped."

"It does help," Rúmil mused, thinking of all the times he had himself reached for his pipe whenever dark and clamouring, riotous thoughts became too much to bear. "Though this time, we do have insects as a perfect excuse. You are alright if I share, yes?"

Fëanáro nodded and took the pipe from Rúmil's outstretched hand. It was obvious the young prince had prepared the stuff before, for his deft fingers crumbled the leaf into the bowl with practiced precision. His method of heating the bowl, however, was entirely new to Rúmil. Closing his eyes, with the touch of a single finger resting against the bottom of the bowl, Fëanáro concentrated, and within seconds a spark flared, the leaf curled and glowed a deep, fiery  red and a thin, wisp of smoke began to rise.

Astonished, Rúmil let out a shocked laugh.

"By the Valar, that I have never seen before!" he exclaimed.  "How did you do  that?"

Fëanáro shrugged. "I don't know. I've always been able to."

"Is... is it hot?" Rúmil asked, gesturing at the bowl, filled now with burning leaf embers.

"It is."

"It cannot be, you hardly touched it!"

"Touch it then, and see for yourself."

Slowly, hesitantly, Rúmil extended a cautious hand and, with the lightest of touches, brushed the very tip of his finger against the metal and met with a blistering, white-hot pain.

Yelping angrily, he snatched his hand away and stuffed his sore finger in his mouth, fixing a laughing Fëanáro with an accusing glare.

"Now you see why I had so many failures," Fëanáro explained. "The wood kept splitting when I tried to light them. Wood and I were not meant to be friends. Metal has always been more tolerant of me."

"I hope the king finds out and packs you off in a boat!" Rúmil hissed through a mouth full of burning fingers, which only made Fëanáro's grin wider.

"I am sorry, Rúmil," he said, not looking sorry at all.  "I will let you have first go, if that will cheer you up?"

"Are you out of your mind? I'm not touching that thing again!"

"Only the bowl is hot," Fëanáro insisted. "The stem is quite cool. Honestly.  Look, here..." he said, removing Rúmil's hand from his mouth and - before Rúmil could protest - pressed his bare skin upon the metal, which was, as Fëanáro had said, quite cool.

Rúmil turned to regard Fëanáro with narrowed eyes.

"For a moment, I contemplated calling you a slug," he said, "but then I realised that was far too good for you and is an insult to slugs-"

"First puff?" the young prince reminded, offering Rúmil the pipe, his eyes glittering with mischief.

"Give it here," he snapped, snatching the pipe and jamming the mouth-piece between his teeth, the rest of his words muffled somewhat. "If I didn't need it before, I certainly do now, after your antics."

He took a deep breath and filled his mind and his lungs with the odd sour-sweetness of the lempë leaf. It was astonishing the affect it had on the buzzing, biting insects, for when he exhaled, blowing the smoke high into the air, they took flight almost at once, wheeling off amongst the trees to search for other soft-skinned victims to feast upon.

"Serves you right, you nasty, little creatures," he muttered. Valar take it, this leaf was strong. Already he could feel his mind beginning to fog...

"Feel better?" Fëanáro asked.

"One more," Rúmil said, lying back on the cart roof, facing the wide strip of blue sky framed at the edges by the deep green leaves and bright fruits of the orange trees. Fëanáro had been quite right.  The smell of the oranges really was intoxicating...

"One more. Then it's all yours."

 

---

 

Two trundling hours later, they had left the closeness of the groves of the Culumambor behind them and emerged into fresh, open air. The cart was now approaching the first cluster of Vanyarin settlements, which perched precariously upon the steep foothills of Taniquetil. The lines of small, white houses rose in undulating rows, following the oscillating incline of the land: now steep, now flat, now steep, now flat, until they crowded to a point at the narrow pass which led to Valmar proper and the snow-covered slopes of Taniquetil. Though the foothills were similar in height to those upon which the city of Tirion stood, Valmar's proximity to the Trees meant that the Vanyarin settlers here enjoyed a more temperate climate. Lush greenery and garish, heady-scented flowers crowded pots and beds in every little garden, and trailing vines with bell-shaped blooms grew wild, attracting large, buzzing insects and tiny, darting birds.

This far up, the land opened out in a commanding view across the Plains. And there, in the distance, cloaked in a shimmering mist, was the white tower of Tirion.

It was beautiful.

Tirion's influence, however, was here in the streets too, for strings of lamps had been hung and lit with coloured flames all along the road, in honour of the Noldorin princess's festival. Rúmil supposed, in an odd way, that since princess Findis was also half-Vanyarin and close kin to lord Ingwë, that she was also counted a Vanyarin princess, and he wondered vaguely if half as much bother had been made for Fëanáro when he was born.

He didn't really know what to make of that, and so did not dwell upon those thoughts. Instead, he contented himself in being sat on the cart roof with Fëanáro, enjoying the view in a companionable silence.

The pipe had long since been stashed away but it seemed its effects lingered still. While  lying on his back stretched out like a cat, listening to a clutch of Vanyarin girls singing to the tune of tinkling bells, Fëanáro muttered a rather personal and difficult question at him which dizzied his fogged mind.

"Rúmil," he said, suddenly, out of the blue, "I have been thinking, and I would like to know the answer to this. Tell me truthfully. Why did you come with me?"

His first thought:

A flash of writing upon a sheet of paper...

No.

He shook his head and tucked the treacherous thought away, searching, instead, for all the other reasons.

"Well," he began, "in a completely professional way, I suppose I am intrigued by you. You have great talent and potential. It'll be interesting to see how you turn out. Then I can claim any success as my own and bask in the resultant reflective glory."

Beside him, Fëanáro snorted with laugher.

"Also, on a less professional and completely irrational level, I felt, even though I had only met you for all of two days, that I was a friend to you, that I had made some sort of investment in you and, perhaps, you in me, and for some reason that rendered me incapable of leaving you to wander on your own."

"An investment?" he heard Fëanáro exclaim in surprise. "Really? I wonder what sort of return we will get from each other?"

"Turnips?" Rúmil offered, innocently, which sent them both into fits of laughter.

"Aie, Rúmil," Fëanáro eventually managed to choke out, wiping tears from his eyes, "you are the funniest of all the people I have yet met. If nothing else, I am glad you came along and brought your wits with you. Rocco, one of my father's guards, is also quite funny, but his material is very much limited to tits and farts. Sometimes it's funny, but I'm not always in the mood for it."

"Well, I am glad I have at least one purpose on this hare-brained adventure: to provide you with vegetable-based jokes."

"As long as you don't do the pumpkins as breasts routine," Fëanáro added as a condition. "Rocco has already covered that."

"I can imagine him doing that, actually," Rúmil said. "He could easily lift a pumpkin up in each hand. His fingers are like ham hocks!"

"He used to lift me by the legs when I was small and would spin me around," Fëanáro said, smiling at the memory. "Atar was at Council, and I would run around the garden, playing chase with Erdacundo, Minyandil and Rocco, and if Rocco caught me, he would always grab me by the feet and spin me in the air. Erdacundo always shouted at him to stop, lest he dropped me, but I loved it, so he kept going. One day, though, I was so determined to keep going for as long as I could, that I ended up being sick all over his shoes. He stopped after that."

"I am so glad I did not know you then. I hate running, wretched, screeching children - knocking into things, disturbing my peace."

"Did you never play with your nephews and niece?"

"Every so often they appear in Tirion, and when they were young, I had to traipse round the city with my sister and her husband, and because I was something of a novelty, they insisted on clinging to my arms and legs, drowning me in ridiculous questions and clambering all over me and treating me like a pack-beast. Once, I foolishly agreed to keep an eye on them while my sister and Falmar went out for a wander on their own. They were in my study, they ran riot and ended up knocking ink over a draft I had been working on. I roared at them, and now we know where we stand with one another."

Fëanáro smirked.

"I am so glad you are not really my uncle. I would have roared back at you."

"And I am so glad you are not really my nephew," Rúmil retorted, mimicking Fëanáro's tone. "Stars, you'd be a perfect nightmare. Your mother used to ask awkward questions at lectures, so I have no doubt if I'd had been commissioned to baby-sit you a few years ago, you'd have been in my theatre, heckling me incessantly about the Valar-"

"My mother used to go to lectures?" Fëanáro interrupted, sitting up. He fixed Rúmil with a sudden stare, and his eyes were keen and curious... and a little sad. Rúmil's heart wrenched, and he wondered if it would always be like this whenever he mentioned the queen's name.

"She did," he said, with a fond sigh. "And I suppose that is another reason why I stupidly agreed to come along with you. That you are Lady Míriel's only son and I was a friend to her, and that, perhaps, if I came to know you, look out for you, and be a friend to you, I would be honouring her memory."

"Tell me what you remember about her," Fëanáro said quietly. "What was she like when she came to lectures?  I did not know she had done that. Atar never said."

"Well, she didn't do it often, so your father is not to be blamed for keeping that information to himself," Rúmil admitted, "and even when she did, she never made a fuss over it. If there was a lecture that caught her attention, she simply appeared in plain carriage, with no crest to mark it, and made her own way to the lecture theatre, her workbag slung over her shoulder.

"She was clever and quiet, but a very aggressive listener. At questions, she would be silent, unless there was a point of contention, then she would speak up in her quick, clear voice, nail the matter, and get back to whatever it was she was doing - which was usually making a commission, dresses, shirts, skirts, tunics - anything and everything - draped over her knees with needles and bits of thread pressed between her lips. She was always working.

"Apart from being my patron, and my owing everything I am to her, she was a very good friend to me. I felt her loss keenly. After the Debate, cynics whispered that I was out of sorts because I had lost my patron. Traditionalists hailed me because I stood for the Old Laws. My reasons were less subjective. I felt she had been betrayed and I had lost my clever, talented friend.  That was it.  Nothing more, nothing less. I lost much less than you, or your father, but still... I am selfish."

"You are not selfish," Fëanáro said curtly. "I am grateful. Grateful to you for giving my thoughts voice before I knew how to express them. I am glad you decided to be stupid and come along with me."

"Do not forget, either, that your father hired me to baby-sit you," Rúmil added slyly, using some humour to stave off the awful sadness the memories of Lady Míriel had shaken to the surface.  "I always take my work very seriously."

"You run away from your home and your job in Tirion to follow your charge to the north," Fëanáro mused. "Yes, I would say you are the most dedicated baby-sitter in all of Arda."

At Fëanáro's remark, Rúmil felt a brief squeeze of worry.

"I don't know what I'm going to say to Quennar when I get back. Or your father. I'm going to have to apologise to quite a lot of people."

"Just say you were babysitting."

"A catch-all excuse?"

"Absolutely."

"So what will you be up to while I am busy babysitting?" Rúmil said, changing the subject, for he did not want to think about what the inevitable punishment would be, if and when he returned to Tirion.

"Reading. Wandering. Learning the language of wine," Fëanáro answered. "Serving the apprenticeship I intend to secure. Improving my craft. Making things of beauty, so that when I return to Tirion I will be more than my father's son, that I will be worthy of his love for me, and of everything my mother gave me."

"Cramming a lot in, then?"

Once again, the conversation ground to an unceremonious halt as Fëanáro collapsed into a fit of laughter.

This time, however, they did not have the opportunity to resume it, as two of the apprentices from the Lindon Inn appeared beside them, having leapt across the mail cart roofs. Rúmil recognised one as Elehto, the one who had spilled the wine, and another wiry youth with raven black, tight-braided hair, whose name he did not know.  With a clomp, Elehto the apprentice lolloped over and thumped down beside them on their cart roof. The other followed at a more measured pace and nodded politely at them before sitting.

"Hello there, two Noldor I do not yet know!" Elehto said, brightly. "I am Elehto and this is my friend, Mísemir. We are both apprentice stone-masons and we have journeyed up and down the whole mail cart looking for an answer to our question. If you can solve it, these sweet rolls are yours!"

From his pack, the silent Mísemir produced two battered-looking honey-cakes and held them out for inspection.

"Hmm... a fair enough bargain," Rúmil answered, suddenly keen on the idea of a sweet roll. "Fine. What is your question?"

"We were debating which is further from here: the Ekkaia or the Belegaer.  As I said, if you can solve it, the sweet rolls are- Hey! No, I don't think so!  You lot can piss off!"  he shouted suddenly, as another four apprentices approached at speed. "I don't want you influencing them!"

"Yeah?  Well we don't want you two influencing them! Hello. Are you Noldor?"

And so, after introductions and civilities were exchanged, Rúmil and Fëanáro were diverted by the chatter and banter of the apprentices until the shadows grew longer, the houses grew grander and the streets busier. They spent a long time huddled together in their travelling cloaks, arguing fiercely and trying to work out the distance based on landmarks, but it appeared quickly to Rúmil that none of the apprentices had travelled extensively and that their knowledge of the land was flawed. They had come across the right pair of Noldor, as Rúmil's and Fëanáro's knowledge was much better, Rúmil recalling the distances from memory and Fëanáro able to make the necessary calculations, the young prince having grown so frustrated with circular arguments, that he rummaged in his pack for a stick of charcoal, scratched a few calculations on the cart roof, presented proof and pronounced that the Belegaer was marginally closer.

The findings were received positively by Elehto and Mísemir, the former particularly pleased, expressing his delight with a great deal of whooping and cheering and calling the others, who had doubted him, a variety of colourful names, which caused the others to retaliate in turn. Their banter was becoming boisterous, therefore, it was probably fortunate that the mail cart ground to a halt when it did.

Mísemir, the quiet one, looked up first.  Spotting something, he said, "Hoods," and the apprentices pulled their hoods up, one by one, and sat up, cross-legged, with their heads bowed.

Suddenly unnerved, Rúmil shot a wary glance at Fëanáro, who returned it in earnest.

He nudged Mísemir and whispered, "What is going on?"

"You've travelled a lot, but you've never taken the mail-cart before, have you?" he said quietly. "Someone high-and-mighty needs to get by.  Happens a lot when you get near Valmar because the roads are so narrow. Sometimes it's court people, sometimes it's couriers, and sometimes it's royals, but it doesn't matter, because we're technically not supposed to be here. As long as you stay quiet and don't bother them, they won't haul you off.  Pull your hoods up so they don't clock your faces and stay quiet."

"Understood," Rúmil said, and both he and Fëanáro drew their hoods over their heads and sat still, shoulders hunched.

It was lucky, for not a minute later, the carriage carrying the Noldorin royal family appeared, the star of Finwë blazing in burnished gold and bronze upon its side. It rumbled past them at a fair pace, stirring up clouds of dust, and the king's retinue circled it closely on horseback. The Vanyar crowding the streets let out shouts of delight and waved and cheered and danced alongside it as it passed, so the guards did not have time to spare a passing glance at the stowaways huddled on the mail cart roofs - except for one.

Like an apparition, Erdacundo appeared, riding a tall, strong bay horse, his face set grimly and his dark hair oiled and braided so tightly it remained untouched by the long miles of travel from Tirion to Valmar. As he reached the mail caravan, he slowed his horse to a walk, taking extra care in noting the stowaways, as though trying to remember faces, postures, distinguishing weaves on cloaks, how many he had seen before and searching, searching for any discrepancies.

Rúmil's heart was in his mouth, but the carriage was rattling ahead at speed, and to keep up, Erdacundo was forced to gently dig in his heels and his huge horse clopped after the king's carriage at a brisk trot. They rounded the corner and were gone.

"Why did you think it was a good idea to come to Valmar?" he muttered to Fëanáro.

"Because a mail cart heads from Valmar to Formenos," Fëanáro hissed, clearly shaken by the encounter. "What would be the point in trudging back to Tirion to wait for the one which leaves from there in another two weeks?"

"Well there is no way we can stay at an Inn now," Rúmil grumbled. "The king has likely put out the word that you have gone wandering, and now he has arrived in Valmar without you, the gossip of it will have reached every single chattering Vanyar by nightfall, you may depend upon it! Do you know when the caravan leaves for Formenos?"

"Off the back of this one, I'd think. Tomorrow, or the day after to rest the longhorns and sort the mail. That would make the most sense, but I'll ask one of the drivers."

"Good," Rúmil said.  "You do that, and I'll find us somewhere to stay till then."

 

---

 

Erdacundo did not like Valmar very much. He found it too pretty and its people dull. Dull, not in the sense that they were stupid. The Vanyar had brains, certainly, but only a rare few had opinions, which annoyed Erdacundo, because he most definitely had them, even if he did not often express them. The Vanyar, he had come to learn, favoured harmony over opinions, and so cultivated former, letting the latter wither away, until conversation with strangers was often nothing more than a delicate dance of etiquette. Erdacundo was a soldier. He did not care for etiquette.

The bells, too, annoyed him. They were everywhere and ubiquitous to a point that they drove him to distraction. Bells rang what felt like every hour of the day. Children would run around with toy bells on strings. Shopkeepers would ring bells to let patrons know they were open and had goods to sell. Bells were rung at the temples to call the people to celebration. There were bells everywhere. As he was always housed in the servants' quarters when the king visited Valmar (not in the guard house, as he was used to in Tirion - not that he was precious, he had slept in worse places) the ground floor servants' bunks were closer to the clamour of the constant bell-ringing, and he could never get a wink of sleep.

The city was bright, as well.  Too bright, for though the Vanyar loved paint and colour, they possessed neither the Noldorin eye, nor their taste, nor their restraint, and as a result, the houses of their high-and-mighty were a riot of blazing reds and greens and pinks and blues and all manner of garish hues. Erdacundo did not care for it.

He wished, too, that the king had not come.  The king was unhappy, very obviously unhappy, and that was not the best thing when a festival thrown specially by king Ingwë to celebrate him, his wife, and their newborn daughter was about to begin. There had been discussion yesterday, very briefly, about whether it was wise for him to leave in case Fëanáro returned, which the king dismissed abruptly, saying that they were leaving in the morning no matter what, and if Fëanáro deigned to appear during his absence and discovered his father was in Valmar, then that was his tough luck.

Upon the morning of the journey, the king was stiff and distant, sparing the occasional thin smile for his wife and daughter, though only when reminded: when the infant was accidentally bounced close to him, or laughed or cried. Erdacundo did not know what had gone on in the confines of the carriage, but the king's mood seemed lifted as he stepped out with his wife and daughter to meet the crowds of cheering Vanyar who had gathered to greet them.

It lasted until they were received by Lord Ingwë and Lady Nénu: tall, blonde, smiling and arrayed in all their finery (their jewellery Noldorin, Erdacundo noted). Their children followed behind at a respectful distance: the eldest, Ingwë's son and heir, Ingwion, was the very image of his golden-haired, blue-eyed father; the next, their eldest daughter Ingwen, stiff and delicate and thin as a reed, like in appearance to Lady Nénu, but without her strength or ambition; and holding her sister's hand was the youngest, a little girl in a fussy dress with a cloud-like head of blonde curls, who held a doll in her hand and stomped across the beautiful, mosaic floor, complaining about being interrupted at play.

"Well-met, Finwë!" Ingwë announced, throwing his arms out in greeting. "It has been too long."

With a broad smile, Finwë, the king - his king - stepped forward and caught Ingwë in a firm embrace.

"It has, my friend," Finwë replied, stepping aside and turning to his wife, reaching for her with a broad smile. The queen hurried forward, her child in her arms, and the king wrapped his arm around her waist. "This little one, though, is a perfect excuse for a visit, is she not?"

"She looks beautiful," Queen Nénu said, twitching aside the jewel-coloured fabric with a well-manicured hand to catch a glimpse at the princess's face as she nestled in her mother's arms. "She has your face, Indis."

"My lord Finwë says so too," the queen said, her eyes locked upon her daughter, alight with love.

"May I see her?" the youngest daughter demanded suddenly, her blue eyes hard and curious as she tugged at her mother's gown.

Queen Nénu blinked and then turned to her daughter, patted her on the head and laughed an odd, short laugh that was no doubt meant to sound indulgent but which Erdacundo read as thinly disguised impatience.

"I do apologise for Anna," queen Nénu began, shooting her daughter a warning look, "she has proven a little difficult of late and insists on speaking out of turn."

"Oh, do not apologise," the lady Indis replied in her soft voice, laughing graciously. "That is absolutely nothing!  Here, Anna. Come and see your cousin!"

Permission granted, the curly-haired Anna wrenched her hand free of her pale sister and strode across the floor, the heels of her shiny shoes clicking decidedly against the floor. Erdacundo thought that, though the eldest daughter got her mother's looks, this younger one seemed to have inherited the lion's share of her personality. She was still young, however, and had not yet learned that, as a princess, she was not supposed to have opinions.

"Hmm..." the child said, pursing her lips and regarding princess Findis with a critical expression. "I suppose she is pretty, in a babyish sort of way. All babies are. But they do not really interest me because I cannot play or talk with them. Do you not have a son, Lord Finwë? Perhaps I could play with him, though I do not know his age."

The king smiled a thin smile and replied, "My son is a little old for you, child.  He does not play games."

"Then where is he?" the girl went on, thrusting her hands on her hips. "I count only one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, visitors, and that man standing by the column is certainly not your son, for he wears your livery.  Neither are the men by the door, nor aunt Indis' lady. I see only you, my lord, my aunt Indis and my cousin Findis, and there should most definitely be four of you.  Yes, I am sure you have a son, king Finwë, I know so, for I have talked about him sometimes with my sister, who has met him once and says that he is clever and handsome but full of poison-" at Anna's words, Erdacundo saw her sister shrink in horror, a blush blazing across her pale cheeks, "-and that he looks a bit like you, my lord. So why is he not here? I have often heard that he is bad and insolent. Is that why? Has he been confined to his rooms as punishment?"

Her childish voice rang innocent and clear to the rafters, so clear that the interruption could not be politely ignored.

There was an awful silence.

Erdacundo watched with a sinking heart as a sudden reserve clouded the king's normally cheerful demeanour.

"Hush, Anna," Queen Nélu whispered fiercely, bending down to scold her daughter. "How rude and forward you are becoming! I think we should send you to serve with Lady Varda, just as your sister did, for it would teach you to mind your manners!"

"But Amil, I was only-!"

"Enough!" her mother hissed, grabbing her hand and propelling her daughter across the room, Anna trotting to keep up with her mother's long strides. Depositing her at the feet of a plainly-dressed handmaiden, queen Nénu said, "Take her up to her rooms and impress upon her most strongly that the reason for her punishment is her abominable rudeness. See that she remains there for the rest of the night!"

"But, Amil, nooooo," Anna began to wail, her lip trembling, as the handmaiden nodded, curtsied and scooped her up, carrying her through a door and out of sight.

"My lord Finwë, I am so very sorry-" queen Nénu began agitatedly, but the king held up a hand and her jaw clicked shut.

"My son is not here because he has gone wandering," the king said quietly.

There was a brief moment as the Vanyarin king and queen looked at each other askance. "Again?" Ingwë said, raising an eyebrow in mild astonishment.

"Yes, again," the king reiterated, in a slightly stronger tone. "He has grown clever and has proven extremely adept at avoiding pursuit. I do not know where he is and I do not know how long he will be gone."

"Oh," Ingwë said, at a loss for words. "That is a shame."

Another awkward silence followed, broken only by queen Indis' polite cough and her warm voice which suggested they might be shown to their rooms? Lady Nénu laughed, visibly relieved, and with a wide, inviting gesture, bade the king and queen follow her to the rooms she had had prepared, which she hoped most fervently would be to their liking.

The lady Indis, having handed the young princess Findis into the care of Moicallë, threaded her arm through the king's and, giving him an encouraging nudge, tried to coax him to follow.  His mouth set, the king snorted and, in the interest of upholding the Vanyarin custom of harmony, grudgingly gave way.

As he silently followed after, Erdacundo spared a brief thought for the little princess Anna, and wondered what her punishment would be. He wondered if her sister, Ingwen, had been like her in the beginning, before she went to Varda. He wondered, too, what went on in the Halls of Varda, that a personality could be so painfully crushed. Though, on the other hand, maybe Ingwen had always been like that and the place had suited her. He would have liked to think so. He did not think it would suit princess Anna. She seemed clever and curious - and determined to offend. It must be difficult for a lord and lady to deal with such a child, he thought, when their occupation hung upon their smiles and diplomacy and best pleasing everyone who could be best pleased.

He thought of Fëanáro, and of his king, and smiled. The king would not send his son to serve in the Halls of Manwë. Would never do it. Never. No matter how much Fëanáro raged, no matter how strange the boy became, the king loved him still, including his rages and strangeness. It would have been funny to see anyone try, though, as Fëanáro would have escaped and been back in his rooms within the month...

He understood the Vanyar and their customs of harmony - a few misplaced words from a heedless child, after all, could risk offending a king. But still...

He stooped to retrieve the object which had caught at his foot: a doll, curly-haired and fussily dressed, like her mistress. Its hair and the white frills stitched upon the hems of its skirts were soiled with smudges of dirt and its shining porcelain face was a little sticky. Clearly, the doll was well-loved. Princess Anna must have dropped it. Something told Erdacundo that it would be missed. Perhaps, when the king dismissed him, he would find her and return it to her.

 

---

 

"This is definitely the place?"

"Yes.  This is definitely the place."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"That's what you said the last three times.  Are you sure you know this person?"

"Yes, I am sure I know him, Fëanáro. He went to the School round about the same time as me and his room was across the hall and two doors down from mine in my final year."

"A Vanya at the School? Really?"

"Don't sound so surprised.  It's not unheard of. He was clever - just not as clever as me, ha- Yes, this is definitely it. A yellow house with a dark blue door painted with stars and a red-tiled roof. This has got to be his house.  The last couple of times we got the wrong Elemmírë.  This time, we have him."

"How do you know?"

"Because there is a bundle of letters left sitting on the doorstep. They must be out. The one on the top is addressed - in what I must say is an absolutely awful hand, gosh, that is shocking - to Elemmírë and Annaziel. Annaziel is his wife."

Fëanáro leaned forward and snatched the letter from the top of the pile.  "You're right, that is an awful hand," was his verdict. "It looks like spiders are marching. So, what do we do now that they're out?"

"We could always let ourselves in," Rúmil suggested. "Get the place ready and nice and welcome for them coming home?"

"Breaking and entering?" Fëanáro said, raising his eyebrows. "Rúmil, I am surprised at you. Not a few hours ago, you were chiding me for stealing an orange."

"I was not chiding you for stealing, I was chiding you for moving and breathing and continuing to exist because I was so irritated by the heat and those wretched insects," Rúmil corrected. "And I would like to remind you that what I propose is not breaking and entering. We are merely letting ourselves in."

"Breaking and entering." Fëanáro reiterated.

"He should be thankful," Rúmil replied airily, giving the latch a tug. The door creaked open. "We're supposed to be his guests and we'll be the ones making the tea.  Well, are you coming in or aren't you?"

Shaking his head amusedly, Fëanáro stepped over the threshold and Rúmil closed the door behind him.

"Stars..." he heard Fëanáro whisper, as the boy let slip an involuntary gasp of wonder.

Rúmil allowed himself a small, secret smile. He had the funniest feeling Fëanáro would approve of Elemmírë's home. He had not visited in a long time, but the place was as odd and as beautiful as he remembered. Across the walls, painted in a wash of blue fading from sky to dark, swam a shoal of hundreds of darting, shimmering fish, their slick scales picked out in bold strokes of bright, glitter-thick oil paint and were impossibly detailed. In chaotic harmony, the fish wheeled and spun, dodging doorways and lantern sconces, looping higher and higher, growing smaller and more distant, until they reached a square, black trap-door painted in a corner of the ceiling, through which they disappeared into shadow in a flurrying cloud of bubbles.

"I like this. It's beautiful." Fëanáro said, leaning forward to inspect the fish and unable to resist touching the thick, textured, dried paint. "Is Elemmírë a painter?"

"His wife, Annaziel, is."

"She is excellent. She has caught the flurry of their movement well, and their lithe musculature, and the points of light upon their scales."

"Annaziel has always had an odd fascination with fish," Rúmil admitted. "I remember inviting them to Tol Eressëa once, and we ended up spending most of our time on boats, because Annaziel had never been on one before. Elemmírë was terribly sea-sick, but Annaziel and I had a wonderful time watching the blue jewel fish darting around just under the surface. When we got back, Annaziel insisted on going to the market, and bought a pearl-scaled snapper so she could study it.  There aren't many fish in Valmar. She said she found them beautiful."

"You know a lot of interesting people," Fëanáro said absently, still studying Annaziel's work.

"I've never really thought about it before, but I suppose I do," Rúmil conceded. "To me, they are just people I know."

"Hmm..."

"Fëanáro, are you listening to me?"

"Just people you know..." the young prince parroted absently, his long fingers caressing the outline of a gaping fish-mouth. Rúmil sighed.

"You can stare at the fish later. I need you to help me in the kitchen."

"What?"

"Kitchen, Fëanáro. Now," Rúmil repeated, thrusting a finger towards the door to his right. "We need to boil water and make tea, and possibly clean up if Elemmírë has left the place in a mess."

Sighing in a put-upon manner (and Rúmil didn't know why, since it was the only thing he had outright asked him to do the whole trip) Fëanáro tore his eyes from the glittering fish and followed Rúmil into the kitchen. Rúmil almost had to scold him again while they lit the fire, for the pattern on the kitchen floor mosaic was formed in abstract, knotting swirls, and he kept catching Fëanáro trying to follow it.

"Hang this over the fire," he ordered, shoving the small iron kettle into Fëanáro's hands, "and keep an eye on it. We want the water hot but not boiling."

"I know how to make tea," Fëanáro said, mullishly.

"Brilliant. You can get going then," Rúmil replied. Pulling up a chair, he kicked off his boots with a sigh - oh, the relief! - and rested his aching feet on the table. It was rude, he knew, but Elemmírë and Annaziel weren't in. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. He could feel Fëanáro's glare burning the back of his head and tried his hardest not to laugh.

"You are a lazy shit."

"Don't leave the leaves in for too long, I don't like mine strong," he replied, innocently.

Fëanáro snorted and began stuffing the tea leaves into a square of muslin, tying it closed with more force, and a few more knots, than were strictly necessary. Tossing the thing into the hot water with a plop, he retrieved two mugs from a cupboard and stood waiting by the fire, his arms folded.

"So, tell me again, Rúmil, why is it better for us to break into this couple's home than to stay at an inn?"

"Because the word will be out now, I guarantee it."

"And this Elemmírë will not tell?"

"It is very, very unlikely. I would suspect that he is one of the very few in Valmar who would not go crying foul to the authorities."

"How do you know that?"

"Because he is not exactly on best terms with the high-and-mighty of Valmar."

"Oh?" Fëanáro said, suddenly interested. "Why would that be?"

"It is... a rather delicate matter," Rúmil began, hesitantly. "I was not going to mention it, but you might as well know, in case you inadvertently offend our host. Well, I say that. What I meant was our potential host. Our only option."

"Rúmil, I will not say a thing unless this Elemmírë or Annaziel bring it up of their own volition."

"Very well," Rúmil said, with a sigh. "Elemmírë is a lawyer, which, as it turns out, is just as well, because Annaziel... she likes to... paint things."

Fëanáro's impatient gaze was level and unyielding. "How strange, I would not have guessed," he replied.

"Shut your face."

"Liking to paint things is not so odd. Especially when one is an artist."

"She likes to paint... odd things. In odd places."

"Again, not at all shocking, her being an artist-"

"When those odd things are forty-foot naked men daubed upon the wall of the chancery tower, people, and the palace guards, tend to take notice."

Fëanáro's eyes briefly widened, then he grinned.

"That is fantastic."

"You think so?"

"I do. Absolutely do," he replied, forsaking the fire entirely to pull up a chair at Rúmil's side. His elbows on the table, he fixed him with an eager and unblinking gaze and inquired, "Tell me, how did she get up there? Did she climb?"

"You know, I'm not quite sure..." Rúmil admitted. "She can climb, I know, because she went shooting up the cliffs on our trip round Tol Erresëa to sketch a gull, but I am fairly certain I recall talk of ropes and harnesses. I am sure she plans quite far ahead..."

He trailed off at the odd, faraway look in Fëanáro's eyes.

"If you dare-" he began, but his warning was cut short as the water bubbled out of the spout with a loud hiss as it spilled onto the flames below. With a loud squawk, Fëanáro shoved his chair back and dived for the pot.

"Apologies!" he shouted, pre-empting the reprimand.

To no avail, for Rúmil was intent upon it, "Idiot, you were supposed be looking out for it! Now my tea will be disgustingly bitter."

"Shut up, it has not been over that long. It will be fine," Fëanáro countered, grabbing the rag-wrapped handle and pouring some of the hot, amber liquid into a bright blue teapot.

"It will be bitter, I know it!" Rúmil asserted. "I thought you said you knew how to make tea?"

"I do! I was distracted by your chatter!"

"And who was the one who asked for the chatter? You, I think, unless I'm-"

Out in the hall, there was a jingle and a slam as the front door closed. In the kitchen, Rúmil's words died in his throat.  From the hall, there came the sound of footsteps. Then came the wet smack of a sloppy kiss and two muffled Vanyarin voices, followed by the inevitable, awful pause of someone who has just realised something is not quite right in their home. The fire crackled in the hearth and sent flickering shadows dancing in a sliver of light that shone through the kitchen door and out into the hall. The fire had not been burning before.

"Who's there?" a man's voice called out.

Then a blonde, frowning head popped round the kitchen door. Rúmil instantly recognised Elemmírë's thin frame, his ever-present worried frown and his lawyer's robes.  He was also carrying a poker. Rúmil knew he had to take action.

Grinning hugely, throwing his arms out wide, he stood up and cried, "Elemmírë! Welcome home!"

The lawyer's jaw dropped and the poker fell with it, hitting the tiled floor with a ringing clang. He was utterly dumbfounded.

"Rúmil -what? Why? Nrgh..." he managed to choke out, before clutching at his chest alarmingly.

"Come, sit, and calm your nerves," Rúmil said hastily. "We have made you tea. Would you have a cup?"

From the hall, there came a pattering of light, swift feet and Rúmil smiled as Annaziel peeked over her husband's shoulder, having to tiptoe because she was so small. She was exactly as he remembered. Tiny, fragile, with a round face and pale blue eyes with short, messily braided hair held together with rag-strips.

"Oh. Hello, Rúmil. Yes, I would have a cup," she said, as though two Noldor appearing in her kitchen unannounced was perfectly commomplace.

"What are you doing in my kitchen!" Elemmírë shouted, two spots of red flaring across his cheeks.

"Making tea?" Rúmil suggested.

Wrong-footed by Rúmil's innocuous logic, Elemmírë spluttered and floundered, before firing out, "Yes, I know that! I mean, why are you in my kitchen? And who is that?" he wailed, brandishing a finger at Fëanáro

"I will explain everything if you calm down," Rúmil said quietly, thrusting one of the empty mugs at Fëanáro, who took the hint, poured the tea, and offered it to the fretting Elemmírë, holding the cup at arm's length.

Ducking under her husband's arm, Annaziel skipped forward and took it. Sitting herself  down at the table, she sipped her tea and sighed. "Ahh, I missed this. They don't give you tea when you're scrubbing floors in the palace. It's water, bread and a hunk of cheese if you're lucky."

"Out painting again, were you?"

Elemmírë's shoulders dropped and he sank, his head falling into his hands with a sad, little moan.

"Got caught decorating the Varda shrine near the copper fountain. Spent two weeks locked up in the mando, then another two scrubbing floors in the palace. Just got out today."

"Yes," Elemmírë seethed, seeming unwilling to let it go, "and I come home to find two Noldor brewing tea in my kitchen, completely out-of-the-blue, no warning whatsoever- Rúmil, who is this?"

Skipping forward, Rúmil took the distressed lawyer by the shoulders, steered him into a chair and shoved a hot mug of tea in his hands. Then, motioning Fëanáro to sit, he  took a seat beside him. With his most winning smile, he explained.

"Elemmírë, Annaziel, this is my nephew, Curvo. Curvo, Elemmírë and Annaziel."

Fëanáro inclined his head in greeting. "It is a pleasure."

Annaziel looked up from her tea, fixed her pale, round eyes on Fëanáro and said nothing.

Elemmírë, however, was more talkative.

"Rúmil's nephew? Well, pleased to meet you too," he said. "I'd like to say he has mentioned you before, but he hasn't. Not to my knowledge."

"He never had anything to do with me until my thirtieth year. By taking me with him, he is making up for years of neglect."

"I must say that sounds entirely like him," Elemmírë said, sniffily. "He is thoroughly self-absorbed."

Outraged, Rúmil's jaw dropped and he prepared a scathing retort, but it withered upon the tip of his tongue, as Annaziel chose that moment to interrupt and uttered a few choice words that drove Elemmírë's insult from his mind and almost made his heart stop.

"He does not look like you, Rúmil," she said, staring intently at Fëanáro, who turned away to look out of the window.

Suppressing a jolt of anxiety, he laughed nervously and said, "Annaziel, is that a kind way of telling me I'm plain?"

"Oh no, Rúmil. You misunderstand me. I like you and I like your hair. Your hair is always interesting. I like interesting."

The conversation was blessedly veering away from dangerous waters, but was now headed the unfortunate way of horse-hair - neither of which Rúmil particularly desired. Determined to steer it in another direction, he announced, "We're here for the festival, Elemmírë. Missed it by a cat's whisker in Tirion, so we thought we might as well catch it before we head north."

"Oh? What are you doing up north?"

"Researching northern dialects," he answered, ignoring Fëanáro's look of triumph. "Curvo badgered me ceaselessly, wanting to come along. I gave in to put a stop to his incessant whining," he added, Fëanáro's look of triumph turning to one of outrage, "and let him act as my assistant."

"So why aren't you at an inn?"

"Quennar refused to subsidise both of us. Doesn't think I need an assistant, and would have had me travelling hundreds of miles north on my own with bags full of gear. We spent most of the money we had on a room at the Lindon Inn..."

"Wait, you took the mail cart?"

Rúmil and Fëanáro both nodded.

"What a tight-fist he is! I cannot believe Quennar!"

Finally, he had him...

Rúmil sighed his best put-upon sigh.  "He is an abominable miser."

"I am shocked, but I cannot say I am surprised. I just thought it would be easier for you, now that you're a Master. It was awful trying to squeeze coin out him when I had to consult the books in king Olwë's collection all the way out in Alqualondë. Maybe I thought he had changed some in the meantime. Oh well, I suppose you'll be wanting to stay then, and that is why you're here, loitering in our kitchen?

"That would be very kind. It is only until tomorrow, when the next caravan heads north. I mean, I know we haven't spoken in rather a long time, but..."

"It is no matter, Rúmil. We have room to spare, though you will have to share. I am afraid between my study and Annaziel's work, we have taken up almost all the room we once had in this house."

"We don't mind at all," Rúmil said, triumphant and sincerely grateful. "Thank you, Elemmírë - and you, too, Annaziel. You have kind hearts, indeed, willing as you are to take in two, weary, travelling Noldor."

"That's fair," Annaziel said, draining the last of her cup and following it with a yawn and a stretch. "But my kind heart appreciates tea more. It was nice. I would like more. You two make the tea and we will provide you with a roof and a bed. Sound good?"

"A most excellent arrangement, Annaziel. Thank you."

"It's no problem. Your room's in the attic. It might be a little dusty."

"Annaziel, right now I am so weary, I would sleep on a dung heap!"

 

---

 

In the Hall of Painted Birds, in the palace of Ingwë, a concert was underway. The lords and ladies of the Vanyar were in attendance, draped in jewels and sporting elaborate headdresses, whispering behind pale hands and painted nails to one another as princess Ingwen negotiated a difficult cadenza upon the harp.  

Erdacundo stood to attention and unobtrusively made his way over to the side of his king, who had signalled him with a pained look and an agitated wave of a hand. Kneeling, so the king could whisper and not be overheard, he said, "My lord?"

"Take me away from here, Erdacundo," the king said urgently. "Invent a matter which requires my immediate attention."

"But, my lord..."

"Just do it. Please."

"Then I'll pretend I've been speaking of it now."

Erdacundo coughed, and then said a little louder, "Please, follow me, my lord."

"Thank you."

Erdacundo's first thought was to lead the king down to the stables, where an invented problem might most easily be found, but something told him that the king did not necessarily want to deal with an invented problem, and that the twitching ears and wagging tongues of gossipy Noldorin and Vanyarin stable-hands would be afire were the king to venture there. Instead, he escorted the king to his quarters. He knew no one would be in, for Sindemír was off into town to meet his lady and Minyandil was at the concert.

As expected of Finwë, Noldóran, the king retained his benevolent demeanour, smiling and nodding in greeting at all he passed, giving all the same attention, no matter their status. This lasted until Erdacundo clicked shut the bedroom door, and the king snarled and stalked across the floor, wrenching his circlet from his head and tugging at the many rings he wore on each finger until they were tossed in an ungainly pile on the bed.

"My son is not full of poison!" the king announced, pacing back and forth across the room in agitation.

"I know, my lord," Erdacundo answered, obediently.

"How dare they!"

"Ingwen is still a young girl-"

"Pfah!" the king spat. "That girl has no mind of her own. Never has and never will. She has heard those lies fall from another's lips, I have no doubt, and has parroted them to her sister!"

Erdacundo said nothing.  The king went on.

"How dare they use such awful words of my son!" he exclaimed, with an angry jerk of a hand. "Fëanáro, though he may be difficult and quarrelsome, is worth a hundred of Ingwë's insipid, stupid children-!"

The king's voice hitched, as though his throat had closed, sensing his bitter words. His face fell, and he slumped upon the bed.

"For shame," he murmured.  "For shame, I am doing exactly the same thing..."

"It's only me, my lord," Erdacundo replied. "Doesn't count as gossip."

The king managed a weary laugh and fell silent.

"My lord?"

"Yes?"

"I am sorry I couldn't find him."

"Oh, Erdacundo, for the last time, I do not blame you," the king sighed. "Well, that is not entirely true. You did teach him woodcraft. Taught him a little too well, in fact, but even with the gift of foresight, none of us can see all ends."

"Doubt he'll need woodcraft this time, my lord. Master Rúmil is with him. Likely as not, they'll have found some place with bed and board and paper for him to write on. Don't think he's the type to rough it."

At the mention of Master Rúmil, a dark frown passed over the king's face and he snorted.

"Rúmil..." the king muttered. "Curse his name. I hate him, Erdacundo. I never thought it would be possible for me to truly hate another, but I do."

"I cannot stand him!" the king seethed. "He thinks he's so clever. He even fooled me into thinking that he understood my sorrow! Then he worms his way into my son's affection... within a day learns his secrets... ‘It was like that when I got here'? My foot!"

"My lord?" Erdacundo said, genuinely puzzled.

"And now he has run off with my son - filling his head with spiteful rhetoric, likely poisoning him against me..."

The king trailed off with a sad sigh.

"And he is doing all the things that I have always wanted to do with my son, and my heart aches with envy. I envied you when my son, still a child, came running up to me as I left Council one bright morning, his heart open and eager, and he begged me to let you take him out to the wilds to learn woodcraft. I envied Minyandil when I spied him from a balcony, hauling Fëanáro off to be scrubbed clean down in the stables because they had been playing with paint and clay and there had been an accident and they were covered in the stuff - laughing and shushing each other lest I find out and chide them."

Erdacundo felt a lurch of guilt at having unknowingly wounded his king. Fëanáro had been a quick pupil and had shown ability early on, and Fëanáro had pressed and pressed, always wanting to know more. For his part, Erdacundo had been willing to teach. Perhaps he should have waited until the king had time? But when did he ever have time?

"I am sorry, my lord," he said quietly. "I did not know."

The king waved a hand, dismissing his apologies, and managed a tight smile. "Do not apologise," he said. "It is my fault. Even if I were to extricate myself from the ensnaring, constant tangle of my affairs, he would not want to see me. Right at this very moment, I am at leisure. Do you think he would want to be here?"

"No," Erdacundo replied, without a second thought. "He doesn't like it here."

The king let out a scornful laugh. "Stars, Erdacundo, in an odd, horrible way, perhaps it is for the best. It would have been ten times worse had he accompanied us. I have been unconscionably rude by leaving the concert. Perhaps I am unwittingly attempting to redress the imbalance of insolence my son's absence has wrought?"

Erdacundo allowed himself a small smile.

"Ah, no matter," the king went on, clasping his hands. "I have done the deed now, and there is no going back."

"What are you going to do now?"

"Return," the king replied, rising to smooth the creases from his robes. "I will sit through the concert, enjoy every last moment of it, apologise for my rudeness, and spend the rest of the night in the company of my wife. If my daughter is present, I shall perhaps watch her sleeping. I enjoyed very much watching Fëanáro sleep, and I expect my dear Findis will be no different."

"Very good, my lord."

"Yes, I think that is an excellent plan," the king affirmed, as he fixed his circlet upon his head and slipped his rings upon his fingers. When he came to a particular one, however, a fine, gold ring with a large, fiery ruby set in its heavy, filigreed shoulders, the king paused. Regarding it for a long moment, with an odd, closed expression, his fingers twitched in brief indecision, as though he wondered whether or not he should put it on, before his hand jerked sharply and tossed it upon the bed, leaving it sitting - bright, beautiful, conspicuous and alone - on the satin sheets.

"Come, Erdacundo," the king said quietly.  "I shall fret no more about Fëanáro tonight. Let us rejoin the party."

 

---

 

It felt wonderful to be finally getting ready for bed. It had been a long, long day of travel, and after having sat for hours on a pile of cushions in Annaziel's work room, chatting to Elemmírë while watching Fëanáro eagerly putting Annaziel's latest inventions through their paces, the prospect of a good night's sleep before another long day of travel was welcome.

Their attic room was crammed full of bits and pieces of Annaziel's work, canvases stacked in teetering piles and labelled with paper and string: "rainbow trout leaping in Lindon river", "Elemmírë sleeping", "neighbour's dog stealing a pie", "spray from the Ascar falls in Tirion", "king Finwë's palace at the Mingling of the Lights". At first, they were curious and had looked through the pieces, but when it turned out that "Elemmírë sleeping" should have read "Elemmírë naked and sleeping" Rúmil and Fëanáro cast a furtive glance at one another and agreed to put them away and never speak of it again.

Not long after that, Fëanáro was out for the count, having washed his face, cleaned his teeth and thrown on a loose night-shirt. At present, he was sleeping soundly, stretched out across the rickety, wooden bed, one hand dangling over the edge. Rúmil, however, was still up, attempting to comb the knots out of his hair and having more difficulty than usual because patches of his hair now had a powdery blue tint to it, from all the pigment that had been flying around in Annaziel's work-room.

He could see now why Ingwë's guards were so hard on her.  Over and above the harnesses, pulleys, rollers, brushes and grapnels, she had also invented two instruments in particular that would have made their lives that little bit harder.  The first was a thin, metal pipe attached to an underarm pump, which sprayed a continuous, thin jet of paint smoothly upon any surface.  The second was a slingshot and a series of small, crumbling balls of pressed powder pigment, which, when fired, exploded in a riot of colour when they came into contact with something solid. As soon as Fëanáro heard that secret slip from Annaziel's lips, he grabbed the slingshot, shouted, "Duck, Rúmil!" and fired a blue one inches above his head.  Hence the blue hair. At least his hair wasn't as bad as Fëanáro's, which was now covered in the stuff, after Annaziel informed him that the colour of hair could be deliberately altered with powder pigment. Fëanáro's black hair now had large, vivid chunks of red and orange streaking through it. Rúmil hoped it would fade before the boy tried for an apprenticeship.

The cart was leaving tomorrow at two hours before the zenith of Laurelin. From Valmar, it would take around ten days to reach Formenos, counting in all the necessary stops made for deliveries, to change and rest the longhorns, and for drivers' rest stops at various coaching inns along the way. It would be a long, hard, probably cold and miserable journey.

Rúmil sighed and stared at himself in the round mirror. His hair was a powdery riot of snarls and tugs, that no amount of brushing could untangle tonight. He'd need a ton of hot oil and a good half an hour to accomplish that, and he didn't have the strength to even contemplate it tonight.

"Stupid horse-hair," he muttered, tossing the comb into his pack before he climbed wearily into bed.

Carefully snuffing out the flame that flickered in the little lantern by his bedside, he wrapped the thick, patchwork quilt around his shoulders and fell into a deep and blissful sleep.

Hours later, Rumil's heart was gripped by a sudden and inexplicable spasm of fear. His eyes snapped open and he awoke with a jerk to strange, leering shadows and unfamiliar surroundings.

As he fought to calm his racing heart, repeating over and over again, like a mantra, that there was nothing to fear, nothing to fear, he risked a quick glance around.

Then he remembered. He was in Valmar with the king's son in Elemmírë and Annaziel's beautiful jewel-box of a home.

There was the dressing table, with the wash-bowl and the little mirror. Over in the corner sat the battered chest of drawers and the old wardrobe in which he had flung his muddy boots. By the window stood a pile of blank canvases, their off-white surfaces glowing eerily in Telperion's ghostly light. If he looked over, Fëanáro would be asleep in the next bed.

And he was.  Except that...

What in the name of-?

A stranger was lying at the end of Fëanáro's bed, curled up at his feet, sleeping soundly. A man, tall and thin with sharp, broad shoulders, was silhouetted in the semi-dark. The stranger's back was turned to him, but he could just make out the man's long, black hair spilling over the edge of the mattress and onto the floor.

Rúmil felt a stab of indignation and was suddenly very aware and very awake as he swung his legs out of bed and strode across the room to give the intruder a piece of his mind.

Reaching out a rough hand, about to grab the lout by the shoulder to turf him out, he let out a small cry of shock... because the stranger was no longer there.

In the blink of an eye, faster even than that, the stranger was perched at the head of the bed, like a gargoyle - toes curled tightly around the wooden frame - like Fëanáro had been on his step-ladder when they'd first met. There was no stepladder to sit on, though.  There was no room at all, for the bed was pressed tightly against the wall.  Yet it sat there in perfect, untroubled balance.

Blinking, he rubbed his sleep-bleared eyes and peered through the silvery dark to get a better look, and took a step back, his hand flying to his mouth in shock.

He could see the stranger clearly now. It was the king. Or at least, that is what he had thought at first. It tried to be the king. It tried its hardest. The long, trailing, black hair and sharp features were Finwë's, and the intricate, draping clothes it wore were a splendid imitation of those the king wore in Tirion.

But it was imitation. Everything about it was an imitation. Everything about it that it could have changed, it had - or at least had tried to.  The only thing that seemed truly real were the eyes.  They were not the king's eyes. It did not have eyes. Only endless dark spaces where eyes should have been. They were hideous.

And it did not see Rúmil. Did not notice him at all. Instead it stared at Fëanáro as he slept. It smiled with the king's face and reached out, tentatively, nervously, to touch the very ends of the prince's hair, and Rúmil felt a sudden surge of emotion that hit him like a punch to the gut, and he doubled over on the cold floor, terrified, because those feelings were not his own: loneliness, pride, fascination and a love that was so strong that it caused him physical pain.

And then it looked up.

Terror seized Rúmil, and he was frozen in place as he stared in horror at those awful black eyes.

It tilted its head slowly to one side, wearing an expression of complete and utter indifference.

And it spoke directly into his mind. A soft voice. Almost a child's.

It whispered,

Go away...

And as though he were dismissed, he woke instantly, kneeling, in the middle of the floor.

Everything was as it should have been: the cupboard, the drawers, the stacks of canvases - Fëanáro. There was no phantom. He had been dreaming.

Still, he felt sick.  A nightmare.  Horrible, horrible...

Shaken, he rose on trembling legs and wandered back to bed. It was cold, so he pulled the quilt up around his chin in a vain attempt to allay his shattered nerves and provide a measure of comfort. It did not work, for every time he closed his eyes, a vision of the black-eyed phantom formed like smoke in his dreams and whispered of fire in a language he would never understand.

For what seemed like hours, he tossed and turned, and drifted in and out and in and out of consciousness, until he could take it no more and sat up, condemning sleep as a lost cause, thinking it would be better if he lit the lamps in the kitchen, borrowed a book, and spent the rest of the night reading.

But Fëanáro was not there.

For a moment, he panicked, fearing Fëanáro had slept-walked out of the house and into the unfamiliar streets of Valmar, but then a square of folded paper caught his eye. His name had been written on it in Fëanáro's code.

His brow furrowed in puzzlement, he unfolded the paper. It was a note.

It read:

"Rúmil,

Couldn't sleep.  Gone painting.

Will be back before Telperion wanes.

F."

The note, perhaps, was meant to be reassuring. Unfortunately for Rúmil, it had the opposite effect, as the thought of Fëanáro being arrested by Ingwë's guards for defacement while the king was here for a festival was almost too much.  His heart racing, and his mind awhirl with panic, he threw on a pair of trousers, stuffed his feet into his boots, tossed his cloak around his shoulders and flew out of the house. Running through the narrow, winding streets of Valmar, Rúmil searched frantically for any sign of untoward activity; for the tell-tale hiss of the paint-spraying pipe, or the sharp, hollow smack of powdery pigment balls bouncing off brightly-coloured walls.  He found nothing, until the streets opened up and he came to the Plaza of White Wings where crowds would gather at the coming of Laurelin below the Window of Appearances to celebrate the birth of princess Findis.

The Plaza had been decorated with flowers and strung with unlit lanterns, in preparation for the coming celebration, but it was deserted, except for the lone figure who had scaled the chancery tower and was in the process of spraying a long line of black paint down its white walls, lowering themselves from a pulley.

He wanted to roar at him.  He wanted to scream and tear at his hair and march straight over there and beat Fëanáro about the head with one of the paint buckets the boy had lined up along the ground for being so reckless and stupid - but the image that Fëanáro was in the process of daubing upon the white walls of the squat chancery tower made him freeze in open-mouthed horror.

It was the phantom from his dreams; a study of light and shadow and furtive haste, standing there, straight and tall, with two black curtains of hair draping over its shoulders, between which two empty eyes stared. A thin slash of a mouth smiled and a pair of bone-white hands were cupped, waiting expectantly to hold something that had not yet been painted.

Rúmil felt his knees buckle and he sank to the ground, wondering if he had gone mad.

"This is all a dream," he muttered to himself. "All a dream. I will wake up in a moment and we will have slept in for the mail cart, and we will have to run to catch up, and... where are the guards?  Why are there no guards? Someone should have caught him by now..."

It was then that he realised that this was not a dream, and somehow that made things so much worse.

Picking himself up and wrapping his cloak tight about him against the chilly mountain air, he walked across the plaza, until he came to a stop at the bottom of the tower. Fëanáro hadn't even noticed him, he was concentrating so hard on creating a fold of fabric with a few bold, rapid brush-strokes.

"Do you need a hand?" he called out, and Fëanáro let out a startled cry, knocking over his container of black paint that spun through the air and landed on the paved flagstones with a clatter.

"Shit!" he hissed, speeding down the pulley line so quickly it made the Loremaster feel a little queasy.  He bounced as he hit the ground, unclipped the harness and strode over, brush in hand, looking startled. "Rúmil, you scared me!"

For a moment, Rúmil stared cautiously at Fëanáro, before saying, "That thing. How did you think of it? What is it?  What does it mean?"

Fëanáro looked puzzled, and snatched a glance at it. Shrugging his shoulders, he replied, "I don't know. I don't think it means anything much. It came into my head while I was sleeping and I woke up and knew I had to paint it."

"It came into your head?"

"Yes."

"While you were sleeping?"

"Rúmil, is there something wrong?"

He opened his mouth, contemplated telling him everything, but his eyes flickered to the huge, dark, painted figure and his words died in his throat.  He couldn't tell him. He couldn't. Even in his head, it sounded stupid.

Instead, he forced a smile, and said, "No.  Nothing's wrong. How much do you have left to do?"

"I only have to paint the fish and my name. The name won't take long, but the fish might, so I'll have to hurry. There are no guards just now, but they'll be out soon. I wonder where they are?"

"You're painting fish?" Rúmil asked, with a genuine smile, wondering what Annaziel would think when she inevitably found out in the morning.

"I'm going to paint them swimming around in his hands," Fëanáro said as he appraised his work with a vague smile.

"His hands?  So you know who it is, then?"

"Oh yes," Fëanáro said, his eyes glittering strangely.

"It's Eru..."

 

---

 

In the silent, empty square of the Plaza of White Wings, Rúmil and Fëanáro sat, legs stretched out in front of them, contemplating the finished piece towering over them. Fëanáro had been right: the name - his name, in his letters - which blazed down the side in a bold, blood-red, did not take long.  The fish, however, which swum in a gently glowing sphere of water, had taken so long that Rúmil had seriously begun to wonder whether or not he was stuck in a dream, after all.

In all that time he had been handing up buckets and brushes to Fëanáro, not a soul had passed by. It was as though time itself had slowed to a crawl to accommodate Fëanáro's meticulous attention to detail. It was strange, and unnerving.

"The guards have still not arrived," Fëanáro ventured suddenly. "We have been sitting here for I don't even know how long and still no one has noticed."

"I know," Rúmil replied. "I don't know what's going on."

"It is strange... I wasn't even going to paint here, but my feet led me to the foot of the tower, and I looked up and saw that Annaziel - or someone else - had left the handholds in, and I thought that at least I could climb it. The next thing I knew, I had a brush in my hand and no one was stopping me."

"I wonder where they are?"

Fëanáro shrugged. "Maybe they're all inside, being drilled as to what's to happen later?"

Rúmil made a vague noise of agreement, but inside, he doubted it.

"Either way, I wouldn't complain," Fëanáro went on. "Them not being here gave me time to do it justice."  He paused to take in once again the sight of the black-eyed phantom of Eru looming over them and said, "I'm quite pleased with it, actually, and I am not often pleased. Turned out better than I thought it would. I can paint on large canvases, but this is the definitely the largest I've tackled so far. "

"I like the fish, but I'm not so sure about Eru..."

"What do you mean?"

"The eyes," Rúmil said, suppressing a shudder. "I do not like them."

"Neither do I," Fëanáro replied. "But that's what they look like in my dreams. They are frightening. You're not supposed to like them."

"At least he is smiling, I suppose..."

"He always smiles in my dreams. He scares me, but he smiles."

"You know that they will blame Annaziel for this, don't you?"

Fëanáro shifted uncomfortably and said nothing.

"What do you propose to do about it?" he pressed. "I will not have my friend locked up, taking the blame for the sake of a dream and a whim."

"Then we wait until at least someone sees us."

They waited a few minutes in silence, and when still no guards appeared, Fëanáro decided to pack up.  Moving the paint-pots and shouldering the harness and ropes seemed to break the delicate spell, and the light began, slowly, to change. By the time they reached the edge of the Plaza, the smell of baking bread was rising from a nearby shop, and a  young man stood outside, dusting flour from his apron. He looked up as they walked past, raising an eyebrow and he stared at them, his wary eyes following them all the way down the narrow street until they rounded a corner and began to run.

 

---

 

A soft knock on the door startled king Finwë from his reading, a light thing that Indis had commissioned before they had married and had evidently left here in the palace. A rather girlish choice of text, a romance from the Hither Lands. She must have thought it not solemn enough for a Noldorin library. It made him smile.

"Come in."

The door opened a crack.  There came a hesitant cough and a rustling of skirts and, to his surprise, the princess Ingwen appeared. Alone, without any form of escort, she curtsied hurriedly, bowing her head, and said, her words coming out in a rush, "Permission to speak with you, lord Finwë. My apologies for the intrusion and the irregularity of my coming alone, but I feel I simply must apologise for my words. My mother, the Queen, forbade it, saying I had already created enough offence without my clumsy, foolish tongue adding to it, but I had to come, I simply had to..."

The princess Ingwen trailed off, the blush blooming on her cheeks betraying her embarrassment.

The king nodded and motioned for her to enter. The princess hurriedly stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

"It is brave of you to defy your mother and come here alone," the king said.

"Please do not tell her," the girl urged, her eyes wide with terror. "She would be so very cross."  

"I promise I will not tell her," the king said quietly, and he wondered to see the princess Ingwen so visibly relieved. He didn't think he would ever be able to fathom Ingwë's children. They were far too obedient.

"Thank you," she breathed, with a wide smile. "I have heard the stories of your kindness, my lord Finwë, but I never thought to experience it myself."

"Yes, you have heard many stories, haven't you?" Finwë retorted, cooly.

The princess Ingwen blushed furiously and her hands flew to her mouth, reminding the king strongly of Indis.

"My lord, please do not think that my family and our court speak ill of your son," she insisted.  "They do not. Those words were my words, and you may place the blame solely upon me."

"You said those awful things about my son?"

"I did, but only because when we first met, he called me a horrible name and I have never forgotten it."

The king raised an eyebrow. He hadn't known about that.

"I see," he said, quietly. "What did my son call you?"

"He called me a... a..." she stuttered, her politeness suddenly rendering the word she tried to utter an obstacle to be overcome.

"You can say it, child. I will not scold you for repeating it here. I have likely heard much worse from Fëanáro before, so nothing you say will shock me."

The princess Ingwen nodded gratefully.  Then she cringed and whispered, "He called me a stupid, useless bitch."

Putting the book down, the king sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"When was this?"

"When we first met, lord Finwë. It was when you came to stay and you left betrothed to my aunt Indis. I remember standing behind my mother and I saw your son, Curufinwë. He was dark-haired and his eyes were so startling and he stood so stiffly I thought sometimes he had turned to stone. Then, later, when I was at my lessons, one of my mother's ladies brought him to give him something to do. I did not think it then, but my reading was slow and my letters were poor - I had only just begun forming them - and my tutor set him to copying a page from a book. 

"Within ten minutes he had done what I would have taken a whole afternoon to do - and his letters were beautiful and as nice as my tutor's. My tutor was astonished and asked what age he was. He said that he was the same age as me, and then he leaned over and looked at my ungainly letters and said that he could see why my tutor wouldn't think we were the same age. Then he asked for a book, and said that once he had the book, he would be on his way. Before he left, he turned to my tutor and said he felt sorry him having to teach such a stupid, useless bitch as me.

"I have never felt so small and stupid as I did then. I ran from the classroom and I cried and cried and would not come from my room. My mother asked me what was wrong, and I told her what Curufinwë had said. She replied that, yes, although he was rude, Curufinwë far surpassed me in accomplishments, and that perhaps I should put more effort into my studies, so that next time, he would not be able to say that of me.

"The next month, I was sent to serve the Lady Varda," she finished, smiling proudly, "I was very scared at first, and lonely because I was so young, but now my letters are beautiful too."

"I am sure they are," the king answered, with a warm smile, remembering her performance on the harp the night before and thinking she had learned more than just her letters in Varda's service. He marvelled at her determination and was sorry that he had underestimated her.

"And I accept your apology, my princess, and with your leave will add to it one of my own on behalf of my son, Fëanáro. He is very clever, but I do acknowledge that, upon occasion, he can be difficult. I regret you had to suffer his sharp tongue. That visit, I am afraid, was not a happy one for him."

"I understand, my lord," the princess Ingwen replied. "Perhaps, if he returns from his wanderings, I might meet him again one day and play for him."

"That is a wonderful idea," the king said diplomatically, admiring the girl's courage.

"I am so glad I came here to speak with you," she went on. "All the way through my performance, I was so nervous because I could see you quite clearly and I thought you were angry at me. Your guard, Erdacundo, came to our room to return Anna's doll, and I asked him if you were angry, and he smiled and said nothing, which I took to mean yes, and I could not sleep for nerves. Even thoughts of the dancing at my cousin's festival could not allay them! At first, I thought that maybe I could dance with Curufinwë, to show him that I am perfectly capable of dancing, but now that he is not here, I suppose I will have to dance with Ingwion."

"You like to dance?"

"Oh, I love to dance!" the princess said, suddenly animated. "Aunt Indis taught me when I was little and I improved my grace and my movement in service. I was going to sneak outside to the Plaza to practice, but there is a big commotion because someone has painted a long-haired man holding fish on the Chancery tower."

The king blinked twice, and made certain that he had heard the girl correctly before he said, "Someone has painted what?"

"A long-haired man holding fish," she repeated. "There is a woman who does that sort of thing sometimes - I saw her scrubbing floors as punishment not long ago, but I am not allowed to talk to her.  It is not her, though, for the guards burst into her home and found her sleeping, and a baker said he saw two men walking through the streets just before the waxing of Laurelin, carrying paint-pots. My mother said the woman's madness is catching. I am sure you could see it from your balcony, my lord. It is quite visible."

The king had to try very hard not to laugh. Ingwë had not mentioned that in his letters.  It cheered his heart a little to know that Valmar also harboured occasionally difficult and dissident citizens.

"That does sound rather interesting," he said, standing and inclining his head politely to the young princess. "I think I shall take a look."

"Thank you, my lord," princess Ingwen replied, adding, with a little curtsey, "By your leave?"

The king nodded and the girl backed out of the room, closing the door behind her so quietly he barely heard it click shut. Then he walked across the room and tapped gently on the bedroom door so as not to wake his wife, if she were sleeping.  Upon hearing no answer, he carefully stole inside, pausing a moment to take in the beautiful sight of his tiny daughter asleep in the arms of her mother, before he crept towards the balcony and opened the doors.

The difference between night and day here never ceased to catch him off guard. Outside, the heat and humidity were stifling, and he had to shield his eyes against the bright day-glare of Laurelin.  But there it was.  Just where the princess Ingwen said it would be.  A great throng of people had crowded below the tower, pointing and calling to their companions, and a row of guards stood in attendance, making sure none got too close.

The girl had described the fundamentals accurately, but had not done it true justice. It was, indeed, a long-haired man holding fish, but it was so much more than that.  Executed with a few spare bold strokes of black, the thin man towered above the assembled crowd, smiling down at the object he held in his hand: a glowing sphere of colourful, glittering fish. The only odd thing about it was the eyes.  They were black and hollow-looking, and the king thought that perhaps the artist spotted someone coming and had not the time to fill them in. How the artist even had time to paint the rest, though, was a mystery to him. It would never have happened in Tirion. But there was something else, too.  Something at the left-hand side of the...

With a gasp, the king took an involuntary step back, clutching at his heart, which hammered loudly in his chest.

He had learned them off by heart.  How could he not recognise his son's letters?

In bold, red strokes, running from top-to-bottom down the left hand side of the painted man read a name.  The name of the artist.

Fëanáro Curufinwë.

 

---

 

The city of Valmar was awhirl with talk of the Painted Man. That is what it was called now. Elemmírë could hardly believe it already had a name: a clandestine scrawl of a Noldorin prince. Not that the people were privy to the name of the artist. His identity was a closely-guarded secret, known to only himself and the occupants of the cold, underground room in which he sat, on the floor, staring up at a guard.

"You mean to say that you had no idea you harboured the errant Master Rúmil and prince Fëanáro?" the guard questioned, doubt etched in every line of his face. "You attended the School in Tirion, Elemmírë, at the same time as Master Rúmil. We know you have visited him in Tirion and at Tol Eressëa. Do you expect us to believe that you did not know that they stayed with you? We have witnesses who have all claimed they directed two Noldor to your home, and that they asked for you specifically."

"Of course I knew it was Rúmil," Elemmírë answered calmly, his arms folded as he stared coolly at the guard. It was not the first time he had been formally cross-examined, but having the hard eyes of the imposing Noldóran glaring at him from the back of the room brought a novel edge to proceedings. Rúmil had always fiercely maintained that king Finwë was a man, ‘a man like any other'. Over wine, and safe in the School, he had laughed and agreed, but only now did Elemmírë truly understand Rúmil's courage in defying him. Elemmírë was not his subject, but still... It was nerve-wracking.

"And you did not recognise his majesty's son?"

"Would you?" Elemmírë retorted. "I do not regularly frequent the palace at Tirion. I would not recognise him from any other Noldo. I have never laid eyes on prince Fëanáro."

"Until yesterday."

Elemmírë smiled.

"Yes, until yesterday."

"And you found nothing strange in the fact they looked nothing alike?"

"No, I did not," Elemmírë answered, marvelling at the stupidity of the man's question. "They fed me some cock-and-bull story. Rúmil introduced the boy as Curvo - strange to learn that he is still a boy, I honestly thought he was older - and their story was that the prince was his nephew.  I know Rúmil has a sister and that she is married, so I didn't question it.  My wife did, but Rúmil, as ever, managed to wriggle out of it."

"Where are they now?" came king Finwë's voice, cutting through the guard's ineffectual questioning and getting straight to the heart of the matter. Considering his son was a runaway and now wanted for defacement by the Vanyarin authorities (ha, as if a prince would ever be arrested!) his son's whereabouts was undoubtedly what the Noldóran wanted to know most.

Elemmírë closed his eyes and took a deep breath, considering the matter.

He cast his mind back to last night, when he and Annaziel were woken by Rúmil banging on their bedroom door. When he opened it, drowsy and irritated, he was confronted by a fully-dressed Rúmil, his face covered in paint and his pack shouldered, as though he were ready to leave.

"Elemmírë, I am sorry," Rúmil had said urgently, grasping him by the forearm in a familiar friend's embrace, "I am so, so sorry..."

"Sorry? Sorry for what?" he had queried, rubbing his eyes, his mind still sleep-fogged. "Are you leaving?"

"Yes. We have to. Immediately. Fëanáro took a great measure of inspiration from Annaziel and has painted something on an inappropriate canvas-"

His heart sinking, Elemmírë remembered heaving a sigh. Curse them, he had thought. Curse Rúmil and his idiot nephew. They'll come for her. They'll come for her again and they'll take her away.

"They will be round here in moments. She's only just got out!"

"I know. But we have been seen. They will not be able to blame Annaziel. I wanted to warn you so you are not caught unawares when they come battering your door down."

Rúmil trailed off a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose.  He looked tired. Then he looked up and fixed Elemmírë with a desperate, pleading look he had never before seen his friend wear.

"Please, Elemmírë, don't tell them anything," Rúmil had begged. "I wish I could tell you everything, but I can't. I just can't. If they ask where we are going, don't say a thing."

"As if I would say a word to them," Elemmírë had replied scornfully, then adding, "I promise you they will not get anything from me."

"Thank you..." Rúmil had said, with a relieved smile. "You have no idea what this means to me. I promise you, one day, I will repay your kindness. I must go now, but please, please remember that I am sorry..."

Elemmírë had thought that Rúmil was merely trying to protect the boy, whom he thought at the time to be his nephew, that perhaps he had pressed Quennar to take him as his assistant, and that now the boy was wanted for defacement, the discovery would reflect badly upon Rúmil, his sister and the School, and that they were trying to steal away in the night without being caught.

He never imagined the reality would have been so shocking.

Rúmil, having abandoned his post at the School, without so much as a word, to flee across Aman with the son of the high king of the Noldor! The revelation, when the guard had let it slip only moments ago, had boggled his mind. Why, he had thought? Why? It beggared belief! Why would Rúmil go through all that trouble? The boy  had gone wandering before, he had been told, so what was the purpose in accompanying him? It seemed  that the young prince Fëanáro was perfectly capable of looking after himself.

Elemmírë's mind furnished him with many theories: each more bizarre and ridiculous than the last. But something told him that, even though to him it was utterly mad, Rúmil must have had a reason. Elemmírë had known him long enough to know that Rúmil did nothing without reason. The wretched, pleading look on his face when Rúmil barged into his bedroom, interrupting his sleep, was not merely a plea not to tell. It was almost as though Rúmil desperately wanted him to understand.

Rúmil, you imbecile, what in the name of the stars are you up to?

Smiling, he shook his head and looked up to meet the piercing gaze of the Noldorin king, and said, without a flicker of hesitation, "I don't know where they are going, your majesty. They told me nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Three hours later, he was released without charge.

Annaziel was waiting for him by the bottom of the palace steps.  Upon spotting him, she flew towards him and crashed into him, throwing her arms around his neck and peppering him with kisses, which he returned in earnest. For a long, moment, they stayed like that, locked in a firm embrace, before Elemmírë pulled back a little, observing his wife's round, smiling face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

She said, "I knew they looked nothing alike."

"You did say that," Elemmírë conceded.  "I wish I had listened."

"Are you angry at Rúmil?"

"I should be, but I'm not.  Not really..."

"I heard Rúmil say last night that he swore to make it up to us. You can tell him I want a boat and that we will keep it in Tol Eressëa. I will sail it in the shallows and watch the fish swim and the birds dive, and I will paint it blue and call it The Painted Man."

"Yes, I heard that is the unofficial name for it," Elemmírë mused. "Have you seen it?"

"I have. I have been sitting looking at it, waiting for you to come out. I love it. It's beautiful and impossible and frightening and odd and I want it to stay there forever."

"It's on the chancery tower, isn't it?"

"You can see it from here. Turn around."

Elemmírë turned. His eyes widened and his heart gave a little lurch. He didn't know why, but he hadn't been expecting very much. A crude sketch, maybe, an outline, that would have befitted a work done in secret and in haste. Not this...

"How did he do it?" Elemmírë wondered aloud, scratching his head, genuinely perplexed.

"I don't know," Annaziel replied, wrapping a comforting arm around his waist. "Best not to think about it. Just appreciate it while it's still here. They'll be painting over it - as soon as they can get anywhere near it, that is. Everyone seems to like it..."

"Did you tell them anything?"

"I never said a thing. King Finwë looked very sad, though. I felt bad. I saw him staring out the window as I left. It seemed like he wanted to cry. I wonder why prince Fëanáro wants to run away all the time?"

"Perhaps Rúmil knows, and that is the reason why he is with him?"

 "I hope so," Annaziel said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "It's all very strange, though, don't you think?"

Looking out across the plaza at the impossible Painted Man, who held in his thin hands a bright ball teeming with light and life and colour, he thought of Rúmil and his secrets and of prince Fëanáro and his unnatural talent, and privately agreed with Annaziel, wagering that they did not know the half of it.

Probably never would.

 

---

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Names:

All except Elemmírë and Ingwion courtesy of the Quenya Name Generator (http : / / elffetish . com / names . html)

Culumambor, the orange-growing region - orange trees.

Lempë leaf - five leaf (in reference to the familiar five-pronged leaf.)

Mísemir, the quiet apprentice stone-mason with the honey-cakes - grey jewel.

Elemmírë, the Vanyarin writer who wrote a lament for the Two Trees.

Annaziel, the artist - gift-garlanded

Nénu, the Vanyarin queen - waterlily

Ingwen, Ingwë's eldest daughter - first + female suffix

Anna, Ingwë's youngest daughter - gift

Notes:

Strictly speaking Annaziel's name should read Annariel, but I had a go at Vanyarizing it by changing the r to a z. If it's totally wrong, I'll change it. I didn't Vanyarize Elemmírë because, since he is a Vanya and his name is recorded in that form, I didn't want to mess with it. Also, the Tolkien-verse totally had lawyers. Darth Fingon found the Sindarin word for it, and you can find it too, in the article 'Twenty-Two Words You Never Thought Tolkien Would Provide'. Since a Quenya word for 'legal action' exists, I'm just assuming there were also a few laywers in Aman. Even in paradise, sometimes elves did bad stuff and pissed each other off.

Also, I'm not sure yet whether Rúmil is a bad influence or an enabler. Maybe a bit of both?

Thanks:

Thanks go out to Blossom for the review of chapter five.  You are too cool. :)