The Follower by Ivanneth

I. Arrival

You may find it strange that I begin my tale with what I once thought the unhappiest day of my life. It is not the way of the historians, who desire order, and would prefer I give some mind to my ancestry, my home and my childhood first. The minstrels might approve, but I lack their skill, and anyway this is no song.

That I then reckoned my life would never again be the same, you might think no great feat of wits. But I am not blessed, or cursed if you will, with foresight; claiming now a hunch of things to come would be a lie. Nor did I know quite what my father, who has been called wise, hoped to reap from exiling (my words, not his) the eldest son of his house. But surely not what indeed grew from it, and he can hardly have looked back on his decision with great favor in later years.

Still too young to wear a man's robe, I was old enough to have had my first taste of the hunt, the day I was sent from home to live with my uncle for a year. The way I saw it, it might as well have been seven years, or seventy times seven. In spite of all the brashness I was wont to show the world, my parents' ruling had left me shaken.

It was early during the second hour that I stood by my horse in the cool silver light, in the courtyard of the King's hall, sullen and frightened and in yet greater dread that my misery might show. My father had come down the stairs to see us off. Not a fold of his mantle that did not hang just right, not a hair escaping his smooth dark plaits. Why this pleased me as much as it irked me, I scarcely knew, nor did I give it much thought then. Being of two minds about my proud and handsome father had become a habit ever since I had outgrown my infant smocks.

He embraced me, but feeling my resentment let go and gave me a hand up. I seized the reins, avoiding his eyes. At that awkward age one's pride is as ample at it is tender, and childish tears still lurk very close to the surface. He must have guessed; he only said, "Your mother is watching."

As I looked up I saw her standing on the terrace, holding my brother. She took his wrist and tried to make him wave as he stared with his large solemn eyes. Like as not he was drooling, too.

I had said farewell to my grandfather the King, and to my aunts, and of course to my mother; there was no more need for words. Instead I gave her what I hoped to be a casual salute, and made to turn toward the gate.

"Findekáno," said my father in a low voice, having grasped the horse's bridle, "in time you'll understand this is no punishment. Now go; may the Valar grant you a pleasing journey. And give my brother my regards."

"Yes, sir." I hadn't meant to sound quite so cold, but my voice might otherwise have quavered.

"Farewell," he said, letting go of the bridle.

I pulled the horse around and dug in my heels, very much determined to get ahead of my teacher Sérondo and the groom, and be the first through the gate. There was a crowd about the courtyard, and I felt it would not do at all to appear like a wretched calf dragged off to an unknown pasture.

I forget how long we traveled. A day, two? Now in the years that followed I often covered the distance between our home and my uncle's house in two hours on horseback, and Maitimo once rode it in less time. But of that later.

You likely wonder what kept us on the road, when there was no harsh weather to endure, no dark creatures to waylay us, no beasts lurking in the undergrowth. Depending on who you are, you perhaps judge us with the bewilderment of the Second-born, whose short stay in Arda spurs them to haste, or with the mild contempt of those who have dwelled among the perils of Middle-earth all their lives and have never known the bliss of Aman.

I do remember we met a group of fellow travelers who were returning from Valimar. We shared our food, and talked for some hours. It was the greening season, when the sacred corn of Yavanna first breaks through the soil and the cherries bloom; twice a soft rain fell, and this we slept out under a tree. Later a shepherd we passed in the hills wanted our view on a song he had made, and it proved to be well worth our stay. Even now I sing it often; it has brightened many a winter's night. Still later Sérondo caught sight of a rare flower and began a lecture right there in the meadow. My groom Andamaitë paid little notice, but when we continued our ride he had a garland of ivy ready for each of us, laughing and saying we must not arrive looking too plain.

You see, time held us and rocked us gently then.

The house of Fëanáro, half-brother to my father and a stranger to me for reasons I shall get to later, lay in the foothills of the Calacirya just north of Tirion. Of my first view I must curb myself, else I might cover a dozen pages. Words can give it but pale justice anyway. But let me say that its beauty enthralled me long before I saw in its very nature the troublesome seeds of things to come. And only now, looking back, do I grasp how truly Fëanáro's mansion resembled its master.

We came to it from the west, the road being a winding one, with the Light at our backs and our shadows wavering on the rough path ahead. I have said that I forgot how long the journey took, but I know it was during the last hour of Laurelin that we arrived; the snow-clad flank of holy Taniquetil loomed golden against the pale green skies, and the somber branches of the firs drooped in the quieting air.

There was no gate, unless one counted the stone arch with its disturbing huddles of carved figures we had passed. A child of the city, I had been unsure what to expect. No wide avenue framed by white columns, of course, but a marble portal, a terrace, a paved court at the very least- and certainly not this narrow dirt path. Yet ahead the gray shape of a sprawling house, half- hidden by trees, rose straight from the meadow's grass, among patches of flowers and unkempt shrubbery. The sturdy spires, not two of which seemed alike in height or shape, were choked with vines so thick they seemed to be propping the masonry. If indeed the towers were all of stone, I thought, my eye caught by some bizarre structures of twisting iron rising here and there among the greenery. Several lower buildings stretched beyond the main house, in an area that could at least claim having been tended; I caught a glimpse of orchards, raked beds and borders, and, in the distance, a stretch of fields.

At home we had a rose garden. Here the roses were everywhere, straggling over walls, crowding the narrow path and rearing thorny barriers around lily-covered ponds.

To one side of the building an arched doorway stood open. No servants came to greet us as we alighted.

"I'll take the horses around to the stables, my lord," Andamaitë said, a smile playing about his lips. He was no stranger to this place, my father and grandfather having made use of him as a messenger before. Now he looked smug, no doubt pleased to see me baffled. He was that sort.

Sérondo, however, seemed taken aback by the lack of propriety shown to us.

"Well then," he said, hitching his cloak over his thin shoulders. "It appears we must go in search of our host."

A man came bounding down the stairs from the entrance, chewing an apple. I tried not to gape at his bare arms and the stained leather apron he wore, as though he had just stepped from the forge instead of a prince's house. He paused when he saw us, and laughed.

"I don't know you, you must be visitors," he said. "Go right in, before all the food's gone."

We went up the stairs and through the entrance, followed a passage paved with exquisite tiles, and entered chaos.

The vast hall was full of people, eating and drinking at long tables, or rushing about with cups and platters. Someone was picking a harp, though it was hard to hear over the noise of everyone babbling at once. Shouts and sharp peals of laughter rang out. I searched for the High Table, but saw nothing resembling one. Despite the mild day, a fire had been lit, in a massive round hearth of carved stone that sat in the center of the hall like some great hulking animal, soot-blackened, grave and mysterious; a thing, it seemed, from a time before the grass in Aman had felt the tread of the Eldalië's feet. Smoke rose in a straight column to the opening in the roof, but not all found its way outside, and despite the many tall windows, the air was pungent and heavy with it.

Now I am not and have never been shy. Yet faced with this, I shrank into a window niche. Some curious looks skimmed my traveling cloak and mud-covered boots, and I got a few friendly nods, but no one spoke to me. When I turned to say something to Sérondo, I saw to my dismay that he had disappeared.

Some distance away a tall youth, laughing aloud at some jest, broke away from a group of women and came striding down the aisle between two tables. I stared, not only because he moved so well, and moreover looked far too grown to be wearing a boy's short kilt, but because of a sudden awareness of having seen him before. He had been to the King's court, at the wedding feast of my uncle Arafinwë;, some years ago. I had never found out his name, but that shade of hair and so fine a face are hard to forget - certainly for a sulky rogue watching the festivities from the gallery, in disgrace for having dropped a beetle into his aunt's cup (she had thought it quite amusing, after the first fright, but my mother had not).

The noise and laughter died down. And my gaze was not the only one now fastened on the young man with the absurd kilt and copper-colored schoolboy's plait. Facing the western row of windows, he offered the customary words of grace to fading Laurelin. He spoke well. I knew that at the end of the hour, when the Mingling of the Lights was fulfilled, he would say a greeting to Telperion, just as Grandfather did at home.

I wondered who the man might be; clearly he was in charge of the household. But I had heard it said that Fëanáro's hair was as black as my own, so this could not be my uncle. Perhaps he was one of my cousins. I knew there were several sons.

Whoever he was, I had resolved to speak to him. I moved out of the window-niche, craning my neck so I would not lose him in the crowd, when someone ran into me.

"Can't you look out where you're going? Who are you?" A small dark boy stood before me, clutching a squirming puppy to his chest. Washed and combed he might have been a handsome child. His blue smock bore traces of the stables, as did his bare feet. Some servant's brat, I thought, and said, "That's hardly your business, is it?"

"But it is. This is my house!"

"Your house, huh? Go wipe your nose, and leave me be."

"You speak funny," he said, two lines creasing his forehead. "You're grown up; why can't you speak right?"

"If anyone here can't speak properly, it's you," I said, growing annoyed, and having lost sight of the red-haired man besides. "Listen to yourself - what's wrong with your tongue? Too big for your mouth? Now go away."

I pushed past him, but he was fast. He dropped the puppy and jumped in front of me, barring my way, and he looked so droll with his hands on his hips that I could not hide a grin. Underneath all the dirt, his face, rather high-colored to begin with, had turned a startling shade of red.

"My tongue's not too big, and you can't tell me what to do," he said, shrill with anger. "My grandfather is the King! And you don't live here, so you go away!"

My jaw dropped, as you might understand. This was one of Fëanáro's sons?

"Moryo!"

I glanced up at the sharp tone to find the red-haired object of my curiosity aside us. He cast me a cool glance, then crouched down by the little monster, who threw both arms around his neck and planted a fierce kiss on his cheek.

"By Aulë's anvil," said the man, "where have you been all day? And what's this?" He grabbed a napkin from the table and wiped the boy's face, then his own. "Go find mother, and tell her to put you in the bath!"

"She's working."

"She's not now; she's in her chamber. Off with you." He gave the boy a smack on the backside and to my relief the brat trundled off, muttering to himself.

The man rose, inclined his head - one could only just call it a bow - and stood looking down his nose at me. I remembered my manners and bowed as well, and murmured a greeting.

"I'm Maitimo son of Fëanáro," he said. His voice was pleasing, with the smallest touch of huskiness; I already knew it carried well when raised. And his speech sounded as odd as the boy's. I wondered how it had escaped me earlier.

"Welcome to our house. Your face seems familiar, but I can't quite place you."

"Findekáno son of Nolofinwë;, sir."

His eyes widened in surprise. "Why, of course," he said. "I must be appallingly dull today; how like Grandfather you are! What brings you here, cousin- have you brought us news from the King?"

He seemed puzzled. It was obvious that he had been utterly unprepared for my arrival. I would have liked to hide in a dark corner with embarrassment. But you cannot act like a child if you wish to be treated as a man.

"Father sent a letter, sir," I said, "to your - to the lord Fëanáro. I am to live here for a year."

"Well, then I daresay you shall! I only wish somebody had told me."

I bit my lip, studying the floor. A hand touched my arm. When I looked up, I was met with a grin of astounding sweetness.

"That was rude of me," he said. "It's hardly your fault."

Peering across the tables, he seemed to search for someone, then he called out to a slight, dour -looking fellow. The steward, I guessed; he had been overseeing the pages with their pitchers of wine and water. When told and questioned about the letter, the man shrugged.

"If there was one, he never showed it to me ere he left. Nor did he mention the lad's coming. You know how it is - he never tells me anything."

He never tells me anything. 'He' being Fëanáro, prince of the Noldor, son of the King. I could only blink. Yet the steward's tone had been fond, and now he and my cousin shared a sigh and a smile, like parents over a child's folly.

"Ah, Findekáno," said someone beside me. Sérondo had stumbled upon us. He was out of breath, and I could not understand his words as he bowed to Maitimo, whom he seemed to know. I must have stared foolishly, for Sérondo was quick to say that he and my cousin had met in Tirion. Still, I found it hard to grasp why he had not mentioned it before.

"You've not yet eaten, have you?" Maitimo asked. We said that we had not; the steward brought napkins and scented water in a copper basin, and having washed we settled at the end of one of the tables, glad to stretch our legs. He filled our bowls with stew, piled small round breads and cheese on two plates, and poured wine into cups. There were some salads as well, and a dish of honeyed apples. Not bad, I thought. Whatever pains my exile might hold, go hungry I would not.

While we ate, my gaze followed my cousin about the hall, which was less easy than it may sound, for he appeared to be everywhere at once, and it seemed that each time I lowered my eyes to my plate, he vanished in the crowd. Later he did disappear, but presently returned, his arm around Andamaitë.

My groom joined our table, and with the air of one wholly at home began to fill us in on the news, between spoonfuls of stew. Fëanáro was absent, we heard; he had gone west. No one was quite sure where, or when he might return. Two of Maitimo's brothers were hunting in the hills, and the lady Nerdanel, my aunt, had chosen to stay in her chamber.

The hour reached its end, the Mingling of the Lights was fulfilled, and once more I heard my cousin speak the ancient lines. Then, slowly, the party began to break up. Tables were cleared, benches moved, dirty linen was folded and carried out by the pages. Most people had to pass our table on their way out. Now that I had the leisure of watching them, I saw that Maitimo was far from the only one so strangely clothed. Many of the women appeared to have forgotten how to do their hair, though most wore some sort of flowers or leaves twined into their long locks, and some must have forgotten how to dress altogether, wearing a bizarre blend of male and female garments. The men were, if anything, worse, many of them in working garb or with kerchiefs tied in intricate folds about their heads; though I did see a few more dignified figures also - among them the steward, clad in a mantle of finest wool that not even my mother could have faulted.

At last Maitimo returned to us. "Now," he said, straddling the bench across from me and stifling a yawn, "we'll find room for the three of you, and then you can rest." Our eyes met, and with a rare flash of insight I thought, If anyone here wants rest, it's you; why, you look ready to drop - but you're the kind who'd sooner walk on hot coals than own to it.

I might have known matters had gone far too smoothly. Next to me, Sérondo cleared his throat in that maddening way he had when heralding ill news. "There is one more issue, my lord Nelyafinwë, and I fear it is of some delicacy -"

"Go on," said Maitimo, his brow knitting slightly. I thought, puzzled, Nelyafinwë? A half buried memory flickered, but I was more eager to learn Sérondo's delicate issue just then.

"In essence it comes to this: my lord Nolofinwë would have his son share the plain lodgings of the pages, and to receive no favors of any sort, and - well, he asks to be informed of any incidents of - er - trouble." He trailed off, his cheeks aflame.

A fine way for my father to lay down the terms of my banishment, and put it in clear view of everyone. Not that I blamed Sérondo; he was only the messenger. All the anger and wretchedness I had left behind on the journey flared up in the pit of my belly again. Yet with my cousin's eyes on me, I deemed it best to feign indifference. I had been marked a troublemaker; no doubt he would now treat me as one. How could he think but ill of me, after this?

For a time he only sat there, chin propped in one hand, tapping the table with his long fingers. I began to grow uncomfortable under his gaze.

"I trust, sir," he said at last, "my uncle will then be pleased to hear that I've no intent of granting his son the favor of choice lodgings. You see," he added, with a sudden grin, "there are none. My father's rooms alone make a few allowances to finery; my brothers and I appear to have neither taste nor time for it. That said, the house isn't entirely wanting in luxury - the pages' bedchamber comes to mind, I must have a talk with them - though I imagine a son of Nolofinwë would bear up to temptation. If the pages' chamber were not, alas, full to bursting. Now, as to Findekáno causing trouble, what with my brothers being peerless in that field, he had better try his hardest, else I'll never notice. But I'll write - yes, I'll write."

Sérondo hastened to agree to all. He seemed relieved the matter had been dealt with, and probably could not have cared less whether those instructions were kept, once he left. I gather he was fond of me in a way, and he had not always seen eye to eye with my father in the past. I also saw how unhappy he looked, and for the first time I realized that he might miss me, and that I would indeed miss him.

It took Maitimo two heartbeats and a blink to reckon what grieved Sérondo still. He said, very quietly, all flippancy gone, "You need not worry about the boy; he'll be as one of our house. Know that you're welcome to stay also, but sir, if you must indeed return to the King's court, I dare hope you'll come and visit whenever you wish."

Sérondo brightened and thanked him, though he must have known this was hardly what my father had had in mind. Then he and Andamaitë left with the steward, and Maitimo and I were alone. He rose and stretched, looking down on me. A loose strand of hair fell over one eye and he tucked it away, in a rather vague, dreamy manner.

"And hence we must now find you a room," he said. The smile blazed again, having lost none of its warmth. "Would you follow me, son of Nolofinwë?"

I nodded and jumped up, almost knocking over the bench in my haste. To the cold shores of the Outer Sea, I thought, silly with gratitude. And beyond if you wish, son of Fëanáro.

II. Cousins

I woke some hours later, still stupid from a tangled dream, to Telperion's silver glow. Somewhere outside a crowd was at work. Stonemasons, I thought sleepily; from infancy those sounds are as familiar to our ears as our mother's voices. When I turned my head, a flood of color washed over my eyes. I climbed off the bed and walked to the window; when Maitimo had brought me to this chamber high up in one of the towers, I had been far too beset by overall novelty to take a closer look.

A delicate tracery of stone cut up the view to the west, but many of the openings had been fitted with sheets of tinted glass. Glass in a window -- how odd, I thought, never having known it used for anything but lanterns, or the occasional fancy drinking cup, and then assuredly not colored.

Walls grant privacy, a roof affords cover from rain, but a window's sole purpose is to let in the Light. I might repeat here that shelter is of small matter in the realms of Aman; unless one travels far to the north, no frost ever numbs fingers and toes, no bitter gale ever cuts tender flesh. If during the quiet season the breeze brings a chill, one piles a second blanket on the bed or chooses a sturdier cloak.

That someone should place a piece of glass in the Light's way, for no other reason but to alter it, seemed bold, a sacrilege almost. Yet my dutifully mustered disapproval lacked warmth. Perhaps this place was already starting to wear on me.

Nose pressed to a crimson glass, I beheld the wooded hills waxed gray as smoldering ashes, the sky a sea of blood and fire, lines blurred and details warped by the glasses' tiny flaws. Then a fancy of brooding blue, tranquil sweetness of rose next; I sampled every pane, those higher up with the aid of a chair.

Having tired of my game at last, I dressed, straightened the bed covers and stowed the clothes, shoes and books from my bags into the chest at the foot of the narrow bed. The chamber was simple indeed, as Maitimo had warned. A writing desk and a chair aside the bed and chest, and little more would have fit the cramped space. But the walls were painted with leaves and flowers, and the rug covering the stone floor, though old and worn, was soft on my feet.

As I made to leave, I hesitated and turned to the window once more, wondering what new hues Laurelin's gold might bring forth.

No one troubled with me on the way to the hall. I had brought the last of the cakes from home in a satchel, and my plan was one of lengthy and leisurely exploration. Perhaps Maitimo could be coaxed to come along; he had promised to show me the stables.

The hall was nearly deserted but for a few pages at the far end, and two men lounging by the massive hearth, throwing dice. Both were wearing scarlet tunics with gold borders; I remembered seeing them the day before. But I saw nothing of Andamaitë or Sérondo, though I did look for some time.

I found Maitimo - and just about most of the household, it seemed - as soon as I strolled around the house. A building site, still in its raw stage, loomed before me. Five rising walls, low enough as yet to show the new building's hexagonal shape, the sixth side part of the main house itself. The north wall, the highest so far, already had scaffolding. Nearby the stonecutters were carving blocks. Dust hung in the air, glimmering and dancing in the bright Light, and coating their aprons. Others measured and mixed sand into troughs of lime-putty. By far the most were busy moving the cut blocks to and up the walls, their singing sprinkled with laughs and mock groans.

For a while I watched, then I ambled over to Maitimo. He glanced up and broke off in mid-song to greet me, then returned his attention to the layer of mortar he had just spread. He was bare to the waist, a rag tied about his brow, his striped kilt drab with grime. There were dark shadows under his eyes. I wondered how long it had been since he had last slept.

"What will it be?" I asked.

"Father's new study."

"It's large, no? For a study?"

Maitimo shrugged. "He said he wanted at least six or seven chambers. Hence the shape; I thought arranging the rooms around a middle one might make it both convenient and pleasing."

"You drew the plans? Are you a master mason, then?" I was impressed. Older than I he certainly was, but he seemed young to be a master.

"Yes in part to the first, a firm no to the latter," he said, scraping the last of the gritty paste from a pail by his side, "I drew what came to my head, and handed the sketches to Ondoher. What you see is his doing." He nodded to a lanky man who stood brooding over a long list, rubbing his chin. He had on one of those peculiar headscarves, green and silver, and a square dangling from his belt.

"A grand name for a builder," I said under my breath.

"My dear lad," said Maitimo, pointing his trowel at me, "once you've become a bit more learned in our ways, you will find that few here are held in higher regard than Ondoher -- or Hallanar, master of the forge."

Feeling chastised, I shuffled my feet for some time, sneezed when a whiff of quicklime from the mortar troughs stung my nose, and finally said, "Will you be finished here soon?"

"In time," he said. "You ask a lot of questions, son of Nolofinwë."

"I only wondered when you might show me the stables."

Without a word, he handed me the pail. I sighed, put my satchel aside, and set off for the troughs.

The Mingling of the Lights came and went, during which work ceased for while. Andamaitë showed himself and joined in. He seemed friendly with a good many folks here; conversation tended to be lively in his corner. By the time Laurelin was in her last hour, my arms ached and my palms were raw from lugging the pails and working the ropes of the pulleys, but as long as my cousin carried on, I swore silently, so would I.

At last the master called out softly to Maitimo, signaling that the day's work was done - even I knew that walls can only be raised so much before the mortar must be left to set - and began to gather up his tools and drafts. Maitimo cried "Enough!" and work ground slowly to a halt all around.

"Come," he said to me, tossing his trowel to one of the apprentices.

I followed him to a well, where we washed off the worst of the grime. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the gardens.

"Lively now." He glanced back over his shoulder, quickening his pace. "Let's be away, or we'll have not one moment of peace."

The stables lay bordered by orchards and grazing land: a fine structure, slender-pillared and high-gabled, but smaller than I had thought, and yet far less occupied than it might have been. Maitimo explained that most of their horses stayed out in the pasture all days, even wandering off into the hills at times. "City-boy," he said, laughing at my expression.

We settled on a grassy slope overlooking the horse pasture, I against the trunk of a gnarled willow, Maitimo stretched flat, arms folded behind his head.

"Show me your hands," he said.

"No."

"They'll heal by tomorrow. But I ought to have told you sooner to quit."

"I'd scarce have done so."

He looked me over, as a carpenter might a board full of knots. "You do as you please, eh?"

"As often as not."

"What does your father make of it? Or your mother?"

I shrugged. "Mother? She has a baby to mind. You ought to know how it is; you have a brother. No, you have three - or was it four? And when are they to return?"

"I've three brothers. But I asked about your father, don't try to shift matters."

I was silent.

"Ah," said Maitimo and laughed. But he sat up when he saw my face, his forehead creased in bewilderment. "I meant no hurt, Findekáno. Listen. I am sorry."

I scowled at the pasture, where the horses had broken into a wild run.

"What did he do, cuff your ears?"

"Cuff my ears!" I cried, appalled. "Does any father? Has your father -- ever?"

"Now and again."

"For being insolent?"

"No, he seemed to rather like that. For being slow -- I think. I don't quite remember. Look, I meant to ask you this and then clean forgot: how old are you?"

I hesitated, then said, "Not forty."

His brows rose, almost disappearing under the knotted rag.

"Eight-and-thirty," I mumbled. "And you?"

"I've graced this world," he said with a languid stretch, arching his back as he nestled back into the tender grass, "for five score years and one. But what a shame that close-kin need ask one another's age! Findekáno, little cousin I never troubled to meet -- would you know more of me, the cousin no one told you about?"

"By all means," I said. "Were you born in this house? Have you always lived here? Do you know my father?"

He laughed aloud. "Ah, but you do let your arrows fly fast. I was born not here, but in a tent in the hills, to parents little older than you are now. I traveled across Valinor tied to my father's back or astride my mother's hip. Oromë gave me my first pony, and for a time I was the darling of Aulë's court. I'm told I once fell asleep in Yavanna's lap. And yes, I know your father. We played together, though he was ten years the elder. He taught me how to carve a shepherd's flute, how to dance a round without tripping over my own feet, and the three proper ways to throw a knife."

"You lived in Tirion? At the King's court?"

"For a short while, yes."

"And then?"

"Then we left." His tone had changed of a sudden, and having picked up scraps of hearsay here and there over the years, I let things lie, for the moment.

"And now," he said, " you must tell me a bit about yourself in return."

So I did, and moreover griped about the dullness of my life compared to his; at that age one does not know any better. Maitimo wisely observed that, in the absence of chance, the burden of giving my life distinction lay with me.

I said, "But Maitimo, I can't for Manwë's mercy think of a way how!"

"Oh, you will, Findekáno son of Nolofinwë," he said. "Or perhaps I will."

We both laughed, and then we sat in silence, watching the clouds drift by and listening to the song of a thrush. Thinking that he must be hungry, I offered the pastries from my satchel, and we ate them together.

"These are good," he said through the last bite. "I hadn't noticed I was so famished. Listen, we ought to get back to the house. Laurelin's well nigh come to her last; dinner will be served up soon."

Neither of us moved.

"What I should like," I said dreamily, leaning back against the rough bark of the tree and looking up at the sky, "is to become a mighty hunter, and one day ride out with Oromë Aldaron to slay fell beasts. And might it not be grand to see the land under the stars that grandfather tells of? Pity we can't go back. No monsters here."

"Aman is great," Maitimo said, laughing. "There may yet be one hiding somewhere for you."

"Indeed! But I shall need your help. Better to have two on a chase."

"Well, you've my promise, and my blade."

Thus we talked, and thought it a splendid joke.

He fell asleep soon after, looking a tad wistful and very young, for the long lids with their dark fringe hid his eyes, and the set of his mouth had softened.

"Estë grant you peace," I whispered.

I kept company with him well into Telperion's hours. At some point two of the household's retainers came looking for him, but I put a finger to my lips and a frown to my face, and exchanging a glance, they shrugged and left.

Time passes in an oddly grave manner in a new place. Every thing is noted, seen and heard more keenly. I recall, even now, with painful clarity every moment of my first days at Fëanáro's court. Yet all is touched by my cousin's presence; I cannot part Maitimo from a single memory. Whether or not he was near, like the many-hued window in my chamber he transformed all, even the journey itself: a parting from home no more, but a fated course.

He fast became my beacon; if he was for a while, however briefly, eclipsed by one who shone brighter, it is of small consequence now.

He alone still colors my world.

III. Brothers

I seemed destined to run into Fëanáro's sons.

Some days later I came rushing down the stairs to the kitchens. I rounded a corner, and collided with a figure as solid as a boulder. A powerful reek of blood, smoke and all the filth of the hunt rose from him, and I stumbled back with a cry. More of a squeak, to be truthful, though it shames me a bit to write this. His hand shot out to steady me. Even after all these years, I still hold him in fond esteem for not laughing aloud.

"Easy," he said, eyes alight with mirth.

There were two of them, in stained leather leggings and muddied boots, nails edged with grime, hunting sword and dagger at their belts. One carried a bow, the other a great horn, as fine a piece as I had ever seen. Both were tall and keen-eyed, both had an unmistakable air of command. But there the likeness ended; one was dark, thin-faced and slender as a reed, the other - who now let go of my arm -- wide of shoulder, sturdy and fair.

This time I knew at once who stood before me. I bowed and offered my name, adding, "Forgive my clumsiness, sir."

"Our cousin from Tirion," he said, laughing. "Father's resolve must be weakening indeed." He did not give me his name. Perhaps he thought it unlikely that I did not already know. The slender dark one raised his brows in a half-smile.

"Makalaurë," he said and nodded.

"Where's Maitimo?" asked the fair-haired brother now. His tone was really quite friendly; I guess one had to swallow the arrogance along with it.

"I've no idea," I said. "I'm looking for him myself." The latter at least was true. With some luck he would already be under the willow by the horse pasture, waiting for me. Our meeting there each day at this hour for some drowsy sky-gazing, perhaps a bit of sleep, and plenty of talk, had become a habit, and one I was reluctant to share. Though with his brothers returned, Maitimo would likely cut it short this time.

"When you find him, tell him we're at the baths, and tell him the hunt went well. Three roebucks."

"I will, sir."

"My, we're a couth and proper fellow," he said. "Don't twist your laces into a knot, I'm hardly older than you are. Come, smile! call me dear cousin from now instead of sir, and we'll be friends yet."

Such was the power of his charm that I did smile. They were going up the stairs when the dark one stopped to dig in his satchel, and turned. "Catch," he said, tossing me something wrapped in hide. "Be so good and give it to Maitimo, he likely hasn't eaten again all day!"

I caught it, and stood looking after them, a slight shiver rippling down my back. He had spoken softly, almost under his breath. His words could scarce have been more banal. But for a moment the air in the dim passage had danced with his voice. At home I had heard splendid verse recited by the bards of the city, and felt less.

It was not until later that day that I would hear him sing. You might say that, having heard him speak I should have been prepared, but I wasn't. No one ever is.

I made my way through the kitchens and out the door. The yard was filled with noise from the hounds -- great shaggy gray beasts -- the grooms, horses and hunters, and the kitchen hands bringing in the kill. Loudest of all was young Moryo, scampering about, and getting in the way. None appeared to mind; all made a fuss over him. Youngest of the family and the only child at court, he was spoilt silly. But I suppose one had to have my kind of upbringing to notice.

All this racket would have carried to the horse pasture. He won't be there, I thought as I hurried past the stables, he'll have heard by now, and gone up to the house to greet them.

He was sitting under the willow, chewing on a blade of grass.

"Your brothers are back from the hunt," I said, dropping to the ground by his side.

"I know; I heard the hounds. I thought I'd wait for you, though. Are they well? No gored limbs or broken bones?"

"Both walked soundly when I saw them. Here, they also gave me this for you."

He unwrapped the leather covering; it was, as I had suspected, a slice of roast meat. He dug his teeth into it and worked off a bite, then handed it to me. I've tasted better - it was cold, tough and cooked in haste, charred on the outside and too red within - but just then I would have eaten my sandal to please him. When we had finished, he wiped his hands on the grass and jumped up.

"I'd better go," he said, "and see them. And tell mother. Are you coming?"

A generous gift can leave one greedy for more. Elated a moment ago, I went sullen with disappointment, like a child denied a second treat.

"No. I think I'll stay for a while. Besides, they said they were going to the baths. And would your mother not know by now?"

"I could use a bath myself, after working the walls all day. So could you. And it's plain you don't know my mother," he said. "When she's in her workshop, the house might tumble to pieces around her and she'd never take her eyes off that chisel. Well?"

"Later, perhaps," I said stubbornly.

He shrugged and ran down the steep hillside, as graceful and sprightly as a colt, leaving me to stew in my mood.

My aunt Nerdanel. I thought about her as I wandered back to the house, boredom having won over sulkiness at last. I had only seen her once since arriving here, at dinner in the great hall. She had seemed rather vague, though she welcomed me fondly enough; a tall woman with Maitimo's reddish hair but without his looks. I thought her plain, so raw-boned and gaunt. So very unlike my mother's dark sleek loveliness. At this a lump in my throat had made further speech difficult, and after a few foolish mumblings I had retreated to Maitimo's side and stuffed myself with food.

At the baths I scrubbed hands, nails, feet, and the rest of me in one of the marble tubs until I glowed pink. The cavernous space with its pillars and fine floor mosaics was quite empty; only a few men just come from the building site were hanging about in the pool.

After dressing I had one of the attendants brush and plait my hair. It took a time to get out the tangles. Drowsy with warm water and the sweet scent of balm I leant back, humming a song, and lost myself in the murals: the Ride of Oromë, the Great Journey, the Building of Tirion, Aulë teaching the Noldor the secrets of the forge, the loom and the plough. One of the smiths had a look of Maitimo; I wondered who he was. Another man, tall and strong and always in the foreground, was familiar as well. Grandfather Finwë, I thought; it had to be. The likeness was fair enough, if not whole, as if the painter had worked from memory.

I asked about my cousins and was told the way. They sat by the fountain of the bathhouse's walled garden, huddled together like a litter of pups: Maitimo with his back against a tree, the fair-haired brother stretched out in the grass along his right side. The one called Makalaurë lay to his left, his head resting on Maitimo's leg. Even the youngest had joined in. He sat astride Makalaurë's chest, plucking a small harp, brows drawn and cheeks bright with concentration. For his tender age he showed surprising skill.

They looked happy, at perfect ease in each other's company. Suddenly I grew shy to approach. It would be a pity to disturb their peace, I told myself. But while I still hesitated, half hidden by some bushes, Maitimo lifted his head and saw me. He waved for me to join them. His smile had a way of cheering me no matter what; under the circumstances it put a song in my heart and wings on my feet.

"I gather," he said, once I had sat down facing him, "introductions are not wanted anymore; you've already met with Fëanáro's lesser scions."

The fair brother buried his face in the soft grass, laughing; the other said in his dazzling voice, not bothering to open his eyes, "'Met with', indeed! Well met, swiftly, thoroughly met! with a thump and a smash and a cry. Haste has found its noble match at last. Yet I daresay both shall emerge from this encounter superior men, and the most tender of cousins. And there remains ever a spark of hope that they've learned their lesson."

"What's that?" asked Moryo, who had paid rapt attention.

"Sing as you near a corner."

"Don't mind Makalaurë," said Maitimo, "he has a gift for words, and none for thrift of their use. His musings would fill up the library of Tirion if he put them all to ink; our own coffers and shelves are overflowing with his scribblings." He might speak mockingly of 'scribblings'; the look on his face as he ruffled his brother's dark locks told a different tale. Here was pride, I saw, and deep affection, and a bond that wanted neither proof nor reason.

"Mind me, though," said the fair brother, "hasty or not, whether he's my match awaits to be seen. What do you say, cousin Findekáno - a race?"

I didn't much like being a target for their jokes, all the more so because I hardly saw what was so funny. Blame my youth, or my being a novice to timidity, if you're willing to pardon my peevishness. Fëanáro's sons have daunted sturdier spirits than mine by their mere presence; they were born and bred to it.

"Give me a time and place," I said, hoping to sound indifferent. "But I would know what makes the word haste so diverting."

Maitimo gave me puzzled look while the others again yielded to fits of glee. "His name, of course - Tyelkormo," he said. "Are you telling me he's not mentioned it?"

"I see. But I only now heard it from you."

"Well then," said Maitimo with a sound kick to his brother's leg, "it appears Tyelko has once again proven himself an ill-mannered oaf, and he will moreover lose the race. Moryo could outrun him."

At this the ill-mannered oaf sprang up and Maitimo fled. Thrice around the garden the chase went, then Tyelkormo giving the lie to his brother's words caught up, and wrestled him to the ground. They returned to the fountain, grass-stained, grinning and a bit out of breath. Of a race between Tyelkormo and me nothing more was said, and I felt no need to remind them.

The talk went now to the hunt. I sat, listened and watched. Though so unlike in looks at first glance, I saw now a marked family resemblance: the slant of the brows, the sharp cheekbones and full lips. Their eyes were gray, without the faintest trace of color - my own, like my grandfather's, have a good bit of blue in them - but Moryo's were the darkest and Maitimo's the most changing, from bright to somber with his mood. All had brown hair, but while Maitimo's was a deep auburn to Makalaurë and Moryo's near black, Tyelkormo's was pale as old leaves, with a silvery sheen. I had never seen the like. Earlier it had been pulled back and tightly clubbed, and dirty besides. He had given it a wash; now drying in the warm air it twisted in shining coils over his shoulders.

From hunting, conversation moved to cookery, where agreement was reached on the finest cuts of venison, and then to the schooling of horses, which spawned a more heated debate. On to the temperament of horses, their riders, and the place of both in the scheme of Arda the argument went; by then Makalaurë had come out a clear winner, though Maitimo kept up bravely, and Tyelko clung with steadfastness, if less wit, to his point. Their speech, still quaint to my ears, ran like water over rapids. Retorts flew swiftly, often keen and barbed. My head was soon reeling. Moryo had dropped out, as might be thought, and gone back to his harp. He had thrown in some words at first, and been listened to with what I deemed amazing patience; he was also shown no mercy, and had seen most of his childish arguments ripped to shreds. He would go through a hard school before he was grown, if he wished to hold his own among the brothers.

Then for a time it was quiet, but for the birds and Moryo's harp.

"No," said Makalaurë suddenly, "no, that's wrong. Give it to me." He took the harp and picked out the tune, correcting a few notes. He played it a second time, then again with more embellishments. His fingers flew over the strings. He laughed quietly, eyes closed, as he went through it again and again, adding new flourishes, changing the pace, until something quite new evolved, but still recognizable as the initial theme. I listened as enthralled as the others. Perhaps more so. Music is my delight; I have little skill for verse or carving, but a decent hand for the harp, and I sing well.

When he had ended, with a final version - grave and strongly measured, a solemn dance - Maitimo asked, "The theme rings familiar, is it your work?"

"It is not," said Makalaurë, handing the harp back to Moryo. "I heard it from Elemmirë, at the Harvest Festival some years back."

"Elemmirë?"

"You know," said Tyelko, "the boy who sang before Manwë and Varda, when--"

"He's no boy; he's Father's age."

"Is he indeed?" said Maitimo. "Rather small and slight, for a Vanya. I remember him now. Pretty voice."

I only just stifled a gasp. The 'pretty voice' had sung in Tirion for the King, not long ago. If you bothered to ask twelve dozen people of the city whom they thought the foremost bard in all of Aman, you might well count on hearing Elemmirë's name as many times. Of course if at the Festival, too, my cousins had stuck together like cockleburs, speaking little to any and listening less, then it was possible that his renown had escaped them. And yet, how well did one have to sing, to earn high praise at Fëanáro's court? I likewise wondered why I could not recall ever seeing them at the Harvest Festival, all those times I had gone with my parents. Then I thought of the crowd, numbering thousands. Avoiding those you had no wish to meet would pose no great challenge. Not even for royal kin.

"You scolded me for the way I played the theme," said Moryo now with a pout, "yet you changed it plenty. Why can't I play it how I like it?"

"Because," said Makalaurë, "coming from a callow whelp like you, it's sheer insolence. Learn a thing about music first, and we'll speak of it again -- in twenty years."

At Moryo's age, had anyone spoken to me thus, I might have burst into tears. He merely threw his brother a dirty look. The others grinned, though I did see Maitimo's hand touch the boy's shoulder in a brief caress.

Maitimo said, "Now, had the whelp not meddled with the notes, you'd not have chosen to flaunt your nimble fingers in front of our cousin. But I like your new rendering better than the original theme."

"It is better," said Tyelkormo and yawned.

"Naturally," said Makalaurë. "For the moment, anyhow."

My aunt Earwen had a saying, 'Praise no work to a Noldo, unless you wish it improved'. This is true, and I'll own as much to anyone, but it's hardly good manners to boast of it. Arrogant bunch, I thought, not knowing why it brought a smile to my face. Makalaurë's last notes still rang with me, and would for a while. I closed my eyes and went over the piece once more in my mind.

"-simply because it has thus been played before the Thrones, and therefore he'll touch it no more, considers it carved in stone--"

"He told you so?"

"He did, for I asked." They were still stuck on the matter of Elemmirë, it seemed.

"Carved in stone?" said Tyelko. "Would a Vanya know how?" This had all of us in chuckles; youth seldom is a sound arbiter of wit.

"Their gifts lie elsewhere," said Maitimo.

"I'm all ears, brother."

Maitimo shrugged and held up his hands in a droll gesture.

"They are dearest to Manwë Súlimo," Moryo chimed in.

"That they are," said Makalaurë. "For their poetry and song, and indeed for simply being who they are: the Fair Ones."

"Bitterness," said Maitimo, "suits you ill, my dear. Play us another song, we'll cheer and praise it; sing us some verse and thanks to Rúmil and Fëanáro of the Noldor we might write down the words; promise to sing at today's meal, and we'll make it a feast. Let the Vanyar be favored on Taniquetil. Here it shall go as seems good to us."

At these last words they laughed; a family joke, perhaps, from the way he said it. But Tyelko had not finished.

"And let the Fair Ones live, love and above all marry," he said in his lazy drawl, "where they ought to: among their own kind. Pity it's too late for the House of Finwë; that damage has been done."

He said it without thought; I'll give him that much. In the sudden silence that followed he looked at me and went quite red, before defiance set in his face. I glanced at Maitimo; he frowned, watching me with an odd, wary expression, as if waiting for me to speak. Had he said anything, even in his brother's defense, I might have been less harsh; to this day I don't know why I took out my anger on him alone.

"At least in the house of Finwë and Indis, and Nolofinwë their son, we know how to count, and grasp the difference between third and fifth," I said, my face stiff with anger. I had pondered on Maitimo's father-name for many days, had meant to ask questions, though never with the intent of slighting him or stirring up a quarrel.

He seemed dazed for a moment, like a man lashed by a snapping branch before he feels its full sting. Then his mouth tightened and his eyes went dark, whether from hurt or resentment I could not tell.

"Your father," he said coldly, "may be the one most at liberty to feel wronged by my name, and yet he chose not to let it come between us. Nor has he ever blamed me. It would seem his son is less generous."

"His son also regrets having to leave now," I said. I jumped up and stalked off, feeling strangely as if walking inside a narrow tunnel. How I got back to the house and to my room I scarcely remember. Once there I sat on the bed, face in hands.

For a long time I did not move. Sérondo and Andamaitë were set to return to Tirion the next day; I did consider begging to let me come home with them. Then I thought of having to explain to my father that I had chosen to disobey him because my cousins had made some unfriendly remarks (the odds of which could hardly have escaped him, when he had pondered sending me here). About his good opinion of me, his eldest child and grandson to Finwë Noldoran, I had been uncertain for years; I now saw that this desertion would not help my case. So after feeling sorry for myself a while longer, I resolved to stay, and at last lay down and drifted off to sleep.

A tapping on the door woke me. It was Sérondo come to remind me that the meal had been served, and that I had been missed.

"Wear your best garments," he said as he walked away. "They've decided to make it a grander event than usual."

I had little desire for food, and none for facing Maitimo and his brothers, yet I did as told. As soon as I entered the hall I saw things were indeed grand; while at mealtime it was always full of people, now it seemed near bursting. It was warmer, noisier, more colorful than ever; the smell of warm bread, roast meat and spilt wine was thick.

I've mentioned the absence of a high table in Fëanáro's hall. Today there was one; a dais had been set up at the far end and one of the trestle tables placed upon it. There sat my aunt and cousins, and a number of others, among them Sérondo and Hallanarë, the man I had met on the steps the day of our arrival. He wore no smith's apron now, but a robe of green and silver and a wreath of leaves. To the right of the table stood a great harp, splendidly carved, shining darkly. I made for the end of the table, toward Sérondo. Nose in the air, looking straight ahead, I pretended not to see the empty seat at Maitimo's side. But as I went by him he grabbed my wrist.

"Sit down," he said. Not loudly, just so I could hear him above the noise.

I tried to shake him off.

"Sit," he said again. "Your place is here."

He was then a good deal taller than I, but had little to show in girth; already I was wide through the chest, and would be the larger before long. Compared to mine, his wrist seemed as delicate as a child's. Yet I felt the steel in it. I might have been able to break free, but not without drawing attention. Avoiding his eyes, I climbed over the bench and sat down,

"Here, eat. You're plenty late as it is." He poured my wine and pushed over the silver dish before him; sharing a plate had been a common thing for us to do for some days now. I ate, and soon felt the better for it.

After a while he got up and moved about the hall, talking here and there, as he always did. It felt strange to see him so well dressed; I had got rather used to him in his kilts and skimpy tunics, shoeless most of the time, his hair in a loose plait. But now his robe and sleeveless russet mantle hung in neat folds to his ankles, his sandals were set with jewels, and a wide gold clasp held his gleaming sheaf of hair. He seemed taller yet, bright as a living flame. Makalaurë and Tyelkormo had followed him. They looked well, I thought. But one had not quite his charm, and the other not quite his grace.

Soon the dishes were taken away. Then more of the pale wine was brought in, and cider and sweet wafers, and baskets of woven silver, filled with berries the hunters had brought back from the forests. Berries, you likely wonder, this early in the year? But while our gardens and fields have seasons of sprouting, ripening, fruitbearing, and rest, as have the cornfields of Yavanna, in the hills and woods and plains all grows as it pleases. There's never a span of year wholly without yield in Valinor, never one of frost and death. At times now, on dark winter afternoons when the rays of Vása break through the clouds only to reveal the terrible bleakness of black bough and frozen lea, it seems a distant dream. And if I write as though all of this remained untouched by the changes in the Blessed Realm, forgive me; I may be wrong. I've not looked upon my home in a while.

Later, after wandering through the hall, I withdrew into one of the window niches. Maitimo walked by. He hesitated, then sat down on the narrow seat next to me. We watched the table on the dais being taken down; only the bench and the harp remained. Presently Makalaurë began to play, quite softly, merely weaving a veil of sound. People took their seats again, though there was still talk. Now was the time, I thought. I might never speak otherwise.

I said, somewhat hoarsely, "I was wrong to slight you as I did; I'm very sorry."

"Maybe," he said, "but I was a fool to take offense. And Tyelko's a hotheaded lout, and he was most surely in the wrong. But -- don't think him entirely disagreeable."

"I don't."

"Look," he said, "I can't promise that while you're here, you'll never hear a remark like his again. I can however promise that you'll not hear it from me."

I nodded; what else was there to say? I knew little enough, never having picked up more than shreds of talk at home. Fëanáro might well have shown less subtlety and care with his sons, regarding that painful business. Who knew what bitterness had been sown in their hearts.

"Are your brothers angry with me for what I said?" I asked after a while.

"Are you joking? They thought it hilarious. Makalaurë only wishes he'd thought of it himself; he can't wait to poke fun at father for his 'lack of counting skills'."

I tried to picture poking fun at my father, and failed. "It's odd, though, all these years - and none ever wondered about you being named 'Third Finwë'? Does no one call you that?"

"Some do," he said. "It's the names Nolofinwë and Arafinwë that are never mentioned here. Anyhow, I daresay I prefer Maitimo."

"As you should. It suits you well."

He gave an embarrassed snort of laughter. Looking sideways at his fine clear-cut profile under the crown of woodruff and ivy I thought I saw him blush, though I could tell it was hardly the first time he had been told.

"Move over, cousin," said someone next to us. It was Tyelkormo. He wore a gold and amethyst carcanet of great beauty, and carried a cup of wine in one hand, a wreath of harebells in the other. There were baskets of wreaths, and of single flowers and posies, all through the hall; I now realized I had forgotten to choose from them.

"Here, for you." He placed it on my head and threw himself down on the seat, crowding me against Maitimo. His own wreath perched rather crookedly on his brow. Maitimo draped his arm over the back of the bench to make room; when I leant back against it he drew me close for a moment. We grinned at one another, like boys with a secret.

Meantime the music had grown louder, and a flute had joined in. I could recognize a tune here and there. My aunt walked by, holding her youngest by the hand. Seeing us she gave a wide smile, and suddenly her face seemed plain no more. Moryo pulled away from his mother and came running; by the time he had contentedly curled up in Maitimo's lap he had managed to bruise my shin and upset Tyelko's cup. Then the harp and flute were silent; a hush fell over the crowd, and Makalaurë began to sing, and for a while all clear thought was wiped from my mind.

IV. Gold

“Mother believes,” said Maitimo, “that if Káno spent a year sitting at Nienna’s feet and did nothing but listen and learn, he might well make trees weep and rivers run uphill with his voice. I say give him time, and he’ll succeed in doing so on his own.”

“Káno?”

“Makalaurë. Lauro, Kanafinwë, Káno— dearest brother, songbird, appalling little show-off -- he answers to all those and to a few more besides. He calls me Russandol, did you know? None too inspired a choice, I think, given his lyrical talent. Well, I adore him nonetheless. But you’ll have noticed that by now.” A yawn, half suppressed, tightened his jaws. He rubbed his temples, then settled his chin on his crossed arms.

Few people remained in the Hall. Some lay sprawled atop the benches, dreaming, dozing, staring at the smoke-dark ceiling; others talked. Somewhere a woman sang, softly. Maitimo’s brothers had long gone up to their chambers, Makalaurë cradling his harp with the tenderness of a man carrying his weary child to bed.

“His voice is—magnificent,” I said awkwardly. “As… as if the very gold of Laurelin had become sound.”

“Funny you should say that. Father always claimed he let Káno have a sip, when he brought him as a baby to Varda’s hallowed vats. Don’t look so shocked, my dear; I doubt it’s true.”

After a pause, I said, “What an abundance of names you and your brothers have.”

He eyed me through his lashes, not bothering to lift his head. “Yes, yes. But can you see my problem?”

“No, what is it?”

“We can’t very well have another Káno here, so what may I call you for short?”

“Anything you want,” I said, before downing another swig. The wine was strong. It warmed my throat and belly, though my head seemed curiously light.

“’Fíno’ sounds nice enough, what do you think? Or is it a new name altogether you wish for? Have a care, through, I’ve a raging imagination.”

“Go on. Astonish me.”

“Why, now,” he said with a low chuckle, sitting up a little, “is that a challenge?”

“Rather.”

“And if you should resent my choice, what then?”

“That’s hardly the point,” I said, bold as brass. “It’s for you to choose, and for me to live up to it—or to prove you wrong.”

“My valiant cousin. I expected no less.” He held up his hand, closing his fingers slowly upon his thumb a few times as he spoke, signaling ‘braggart’. I laughed and flicked some drops from the water-basin in his face.

On we went, back and forth, whetting our wine-muddled wits, heads close together, oblivious to all else. Does it bear mentioning that in the end he chose no epesse for me that day? That he thought the matter worth his while was ample reason to make my chest swell; that he sat for hours talking with me, as a man will with a friend, an equal, filled me with enough pride to last a year.

Our flagon empty, we agreed on a last one, and sent for it. Afterwards his answers grew slow in coming. His cheek rested on his folded arms again. Presently I realized he was asleep. The clasp had come loose and his hair spread out from under the wilting garland, shrouding his face. At last a page brought the jug and set it down on the tablecloth, adding a few more stains to the lot.

“He’s had a bit much, eh?” he said, pointing his chin at my cousin. I did not care for his grin. Half rising from the seat, I said, in a voice so unlike my own I gave myself a start, “Mind your tone, boy, when speaking of your prince.”

Only after the youth had scampered off did I recognize the voice. It had been my father’s, and those would have been his words, brisk and chill, like a wind blowing from the sea.

Having poured the wine, I sat undecided, hesitant to wake Maitimo. Perhaps he would then want to go up. And when he’ll rise from his bed to another day, I thought, his brothers will be there. And everyone else, and work. But surely it was unkind to let him sleep in this cramped, undignified pose? After this cup, I told myself. My own lids felt heavy, my eyes dull from the smoke from the hearth. For a while I mulled over what Maitimo had said about Makalaurë and my uncle, and the sacred rain of Laurelin’s blossoms. If a jest, it was a poor one. Yet it fit the picture I had painted of Fëanáro in my mind. I wondered how one so irreverent of all things holy could command respect from his sons, his servants, his people. I had then of course no way of knowing that respect was not what Fëanáro desired; it was my mistake to measure him by his half-brother’s standards.

Moot tales of past sacrilege aside, my uncle’s second-born was indeed gifted with a glorious voice. Clear, sweet, true as gold; too powerful, it seemed, to rise from so slender a chest, so supple it might have spilled from a bird’s throat. With one’s eyes closed, it was at times hard to say whether a man, a child, a woman was singing: his range was extraordinary, the timbre unlike any other. An unsettling voice, flawless, the fairest of all.

It was also a pitiless voice, as keen and arrogant as a sword’s blade. In Makalaurë’s defense you might ask, how not? He was then but a few dozen years past boyhood, pleasure and praise having been his whole life, with nothing asked in return. For all I know, he never did follow his mother’s advice. Maitimo was right: in time Makalaurë achieved all he yet lacked in the sheltering grace of Aman. He may have wished for a less cruel road to that end. But any fool can sing of sorrow, pain, and love; the true power to stir the soul comes at a price. Whether change first set in when darkness fell, or whether it came with the oath, I cannot say. I know that after Alqualondë it began to show, though it took another death, a brother’s agony, and long years of war to bring him to his full might. Today he may still not move water uphill, but he gives a voice to the grief in your heart. He taught Maitimo to weep again when I’d lost all hope.

I’m leaping too far ahead, as usual.

While in thought, I’d been twisting a strand of my hair about my finger, a habit from childhood. Maitimo’s locks lay spread over the table. Without being quite aware of my fingers’ intent -- a state you’ll recognize, if you’ve ever been in your cups -- I watched myself reach for two of the long strands, and entwine them with my own in a neat little plait. A silly thing, really. I was about to undo it when a piece of crockery, dropped by a careless hand nearby, burst on the tiles, and Maitimo flinched and sat up. He tried, anyway. There was a startled yelp, lost among my own curse of dismay. Our necks bent at an awkward angle, the plait dangling from a bridge of hair between us, we stared at one another.

He burst into laughter. My face scalding, I fumbled with the ends of the plait to unravel it, but he seized my hands.

“Wait, let me.” He’d drawn his knife and held it up, brows raised in a questioning look. When I nodded, he began to cut, carefully. He let the small tress drop to the table and tucked away the blade, then searching the sleeve of his tunic pulled a loose gold thread, and wrapped the ends of the plait into a loop. In spite of all the drink, his long brittle fingers worked the knot smartly.

“There, that was easier, wasn’t it?” he said as he slipped his right hand through the plait, without meeting my eyes. I’ve seen ten-year-olds lie more convincingly.

The cord of hair made for a humble bracelet next to the broad copper one he wore. Nothing anyone would notice. Even so, the next day it was gone; I did not see it again until many years later, when he decided I needed it more and gave it to me. It remains with me still, though it never did fit over my broad knuckles. And I often wonder if anyone watching us that day might have picked up more than there was to see and hear. I certainly failed to grasp the undercurrents, much as it amazes me now. Whether Maitimo, hardly less innocent than I in those days, but older and wiser to the pain of self-knowledge, worried he had revealed too much, I cannot say. I’ve never asked. I do remember he was heedful of how much he drank for years to come, at least around me.

With a glance toward the row of western windows, Maitimo now said, “Ninquelótë will soon take to his rest; come and watch with me.”

I thought we might sit outside on the steps, as we had done before, but instead he took me to a hilltop beyond the carved stone arch. The brisk walk did him good. By the time we reached the slope and began to climb, his speech had lost the slur and his eyes had a sparkle. There came a last steep piece over bare rock, then the ground leveled out. From here one had a fine prospect of the plain.

I have often been asked to tell of the Mingling of the Light, by those who have never witnessed it. As a rule I smile and tell them that some things cannot be described. I daresay the look on my face discourages them from asking again.

But were I to oblige, I might say this: it is the gentle hour, when the birds fall silent and the air grows still as the wind ceases and any rain dies away, when vows are spoken and quarrels ended, and even the most fretful infants sleep in their cradles. Beasts lie quietly, suckling their young. Mallets rest and quills are tucked away, the forge fires burn low, and the hunt slows to a halt. It is a time for drawing together, to food, tales, song and laughter; yet some desire to be alone. And those who face west and give their minds in wonder, they hear the song of the Trees as one wanes and the other waxes. They breathe the keener scent of earth and grass and damp leaves, of flowers heavy with dew, and know the hour to be holy. The skies are as deep as the sea and the clouds like shining pearls, and a pale mist rises from the valleys as the realm recalls itself in awe and gratitude.

The words are not my own. They owe most to Makalaurë’s Song of Ezellohar. Which I will not write out here; it speaks of all in the past, now lost and vanished. I occasionally find solace in pretending.

We spoke little during our stay on the hilltop. I was weary, and my cousin seemed as one in a dream. Later, back at the house, I took at once to my chamber and to sleep, but Maitimo stripped himself of his finery and went out into the fields.

My gloomy predictions came true. Maitimo had small use for me in the time that followed. Now that his brothers were back, he doubled his efforts on the building of his father’s study. Working us hard and himself raw, he grew short-tempered and cross when things went not his way. Yet no one appeared to mind. They bore it almost cheerfully. I admit it puzzled me. Even my father, esteemed and admired as he was, would for certain have met with long faces, were he to drive people with such rough words. Except that Nolofinwë, prince of Tirion, would sooner dance naked through the city than allow his anger to show so plainly. I mused aloud on this, leaving out the dancing bit, to Andamaitë one day as we hauled a cart loaded with cut stone across the muddy, deeply furrowed site.

“I will tell you,” he said. “Fëanáro may be their lord; they’re as fond of him as can be, and prouder than peacocks of what he is, and they would follow him over a cliff, singing as they went. But it’s his first-born they love.” He wiped the sweat from brow and neck, smiling, his plaits streaked with dust. What token courtesy he had shown me in the past had turned a sort of amiable candor, lingering just this side of insolence. Working close, day after day, had hardly helped; still my reluctance to take him to task was not easy to defend. It may have been a sense that I was being goaded with some skill, maybe even with a purpose. Any hint of success would have pleased him far too much. Closer acquaintance does not always make for greater love. I had been surprised to find a quick mind lurking behind the mocking smile and the chatter; one at least was never in danger of tedium with Andamaitë about.

We had stopped for a moment to catch breath. I let the harness slide off my shoulder, stretching my back. Without thinking, I said, “And you, son of Téramaitë? Would you follow either of them over a cliff?”

He hesitated, making a show of breathing hard. His eyes were flat, guarded of a sudden. “My first allegiance is, and always will be, to Finwë Noldoran. As is your own, son of Nolofinwë -- no doubt.”

“None, and none of your concern,” I said coldly. “Yet you asked to remain at my uncle’s court, and Sérondo rode back to Tirion alone. Why?”

“Because Sérondo did not care for my company?” He opened his eyes wide, his lower lip quavering in feigned distress. I had to turn away to keep from laughing.

“He never does. A poor answer; try again.”

“Well then, how about this,” he said, as we slipped the harness back on. “It seems that the house of Fëanáro is in need of another groom.”

“Another groom, when their horses run free all hours of the day? I never heard anything so absurd!”

“That was not for me to judge, when my lord Maitimo put the request to me.”

“It was my cousin’s wish?” Perhaps if my voice, which had of late dropped quite a bit, had not betrayed me with an awkward squeak, my dismay might not have showed so plain.

Andamaitë looked like the proverbial cat in the cream dish. “The son of Fëanáro has always dealt graciously with me,” he said, “how could I refuse him?”

To this I had no answer. Nor to why Maitimo had said nothing, had merely given a shrug and a nod when I had brought up my groom’s desire to stay.

Soon after we arrived at the foot of the wall, and people came to unload our cart. When I saw a girl struggle with a large stone, I rushed to help. I stuck with her and her friends until the day’s labor was finished. They sang prettily as they worked. Between songs we cursed the dust that made us cough, and, with an eye on the orchard, we spoke of the future harvest. On Andamaitë I wasted not another glance. I wish the same could have been said of my thoughts.

Once work on the site rested again, with three of the walls finished, I had time on my hands. Maitimo made certain he had none. Withdrawn and brooding since the feast, he found sundry small tasks in need of his attention. Even our meetings under the willow had ceased. When there remained nothing at all left for him to do, he seemed to prefer the company of Makalaurë. I was little given to introspection, but now spent hours wracking my mind over what grief I might have caused. At last, at the end of my wits and too foolish to ask, I grew angry, as was my wont; I stopped following him about, and went off to sulk alone.

One day my wanderings brought me to a seldom used part of the gardens. Grass grew knee-high here, and the vines had a look of having sprouted in the days of Yavanna’s first labor. The path had disappeared; my feet trod on moss and fallen leaves. I ducked under a bough dripping with pale golden blossoms, so fragrant they made my head reel and my nose prickle, and finding myself in a clearing, drew breath in surprise.

The glade was a near perfect circle. Not large, no more than twenty paces across. A carpet of grass and white flowers covered the ground, all but shrouding the stone bench at the center. My surprise, though, had been for neither.

With wary steps I neared the closest of the three marbles, the one just to my left. A slender youth, his polished shape slumped against a mound of stone left quite untouched by the chisel. He lay partly wrapped in a blanket or cloak; the sprawl of limbs, the calm of the face with its closed lids spoke of peaceful sleep. One hand was flung to the side, the other rested upon what I first mistook for bunched folds of his cloak. It was only when I drew around that I saw the tiny fist and the infant’s face, the curve of the mouth a little distorted by the cheek pressing against the youth’s chest. I half expected to see the eyelids flutter, the lips twitching into that quaint newborn smile.

Now, sculptors are as common in Tirion as pebbles in a riverbed. The young are handed hammer and chisel as soon as their wrists are strong enough to wield them, and most are able to cut a straight block or carve a decent dogtooth pattern by the time they’ve shed their milk teeth. Those who have the gift will take it further. The results are all over the city. So accustomed was I to fine stonework that that I hardly ever gave it more than a fleeting look. But I knew that I had not seen this kind of mastery before.

The second marble was nearly overgrown; the vine had found its way into the clearing itself. I had to tear back some of the tendrils. The same youth, I realized as soon as his face lay free. Already it seemed graven into my memory, though here it wore an air of absorption so fierce it was almost a frown. He sat crouched over a small anvil, hair bound tight at the nape, holding something in one hand. A large cut gem, I saw as I edged closer, dark as sweet wine. It had been neatly fitted into his marble palm; when I nudged it with my finger it stayed in place.

Coming to the third statue, I looked up slowly as one might in a sacred ceremony, half-aware there was a reason I had saved this for last, though it was the one my eyes had set on first. Like the others it was life-sized, yet here the boy’s figure rose straight and upright, just a little taller than I, and some of the height owed to the pedestal. I could have sworn he was my age to a day. He seemed to gaze at some distant point over my shoulder. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but it was not a happy smile, and the faint pucker of the brows made it all the more poignant. He was wreathed with flowers though his hair had not been plaited; rippled by an unseen breeze it flowed to his lean waist. There was boundless pride in the lift of the narrow head, grace beyond words in the tilt of the hip. Nothing in that self-assured stance seemed to agree with the troubled yearning of the face, yet when I went around there were the hands, clasped behind his back with such force the veins and knuckles stood out.

I laid my own hand on the gleaming shoulder and let it trail to the hollow of the flank, hardly daring to breathe, lest he might disappear like the dream one clings to just before waking.

This, I recall thinking for the first time, is beauty.

A flock of birds flew up; from a distance drifted voices. I froze as still as the statues. When the sounds had passed, I slipped back through the thicket and returned to the house, but not before breaking a sprig of the golden vine, and twisting it into my hair.

V. Strife

It was around the time the currants first reddened and the meadows were in full bloom that I began to miss the city in earnest. It is one thing, and quite fashionable among her dwellers, to complain and wish away the noise, the crowds packing the trading stalls, the smell in the hot season when the sweepers cannot be troubled to keep up with the waste; it is another thing to find it indeed gone. Restless and bored, deprived of my hours alone with Maitimo, I took up writing to my uncle Arafinwë, former accomplice in mischief. His answers were sporadic, and not without a touch of gentle reprove. You have no concept, I wrote back angrily, how tiresome it is to be trapped in this place where, walking half a league in any direction, one meets with nothing but trees, a few sheep, and a silence so profound it assails one's ears! My uncle loved me and would have kept the letters; my hope of him spotting them on a chilly day in search of kindling endures. 

Likewise, I waxed passionate about Tirion, to everyone and at every chance. Interest was scarce. I might as soon have praised the air to the carp in the pond. A mare had foaled, an event worth another feast, and a full three days of heated debate as to the filly’s future owner; what more could one ask for? The corn stood abundant; Yavanna and her maidens had been seen walking, blessing the tender stalks and bruising none, for no trace of their steps had lingered. The gardens would soon bear the first fruits. The fish were so keen on being caught, they all but jumped into the nets. Another hunt was to take place! The most brilliant bard, the finest sculptor of the land called this hall their home. As for the greatest mind among the Noldor, it was only a matter of time until his return. What reason had I to pine and sigh?  

I might have said I missed my mother, which was true; this they would have understood. Maitimo always listened, all patience, but I daresay it was for my sake, not his. In Makalaurë alone I found some curiosity. 

“Tell me about the street singers, about the poets,” he would say, with an odd yearning in his large gray eyes, guiding my fingers across the harp’s strings as he taught me new chords, “sing me their songs.” 

So I did, what few I recalled. I spoke to him of far-shining Mindon Eldaliéva, tall Galathilion and the Halls of Learning’s fine arches, of the Heights' winding white streets and terraced gardens; of roaming with my uncle and his band of friends, trailing the dancers with their ribbons and bell-strung anklets. Of the Eastern Downs, ever-shadowed maze of alleys, taverns and cobbled squares; haunt of wild-haired boys and lovesick poets, where the idle and the cheerfully unwed live among the unskilled and the nameless. 

With some ease I forgot that not only had these secret outings dwindled this past year, my uncle having become a father and an uncommonly devoted one at that, but had occurred far less often than one might have guessed from my tales. Moreover, my passion had always been an outsider's, a sheltered boy's fascination with a life even more alien than the merry chaos of Fëanáro's hall. Yet listening to me, you'd have thought me an authority on everything from bawdy songs to gambling at fivestones. 

Maitimo must have guessed this had played a part in my being sent from home, though after our first talk, having found that things were not well between my father and me, he did not ask again. He could be shy that way. By then I knew him a little, enough to read his faint frowns, the sudden pity in his eyes. 

The study stood finished, smelling of sawdust and plaster, awaiting its owner. Maitimo's temper flared less; perhaps his brothers had at last lost patience and told him off. It was what I thought at the time, anyhow. Again, I knew him a little. 

As to the new addition, it did nothing at all for the proportions of the already massive, rambling house. Whatever design there had once existed was now lost to the eye forever. Beyond the great hall lay an abundance of chambers, some crowded with furnishings, some sad and empty, leaves and bird droppings gathering in the corners. Floors were linked by sweeping flights of polished stairs, or wooden steps more suited to a chicken coop, or steeply winding ones, absurd and delicate, wrought of black iron coils and flowers. Passages branched off and led nowhere, doorways loomed, and carved beams soared to insolent heights. The bedchambers on the upper floors and in the towers were crowded to bursting, as Maitimo had said; along the ground floor, entire wings stood derelict. To any stranger, the house seemed a hopeless maze, a mockery of symmetry and reason, with far too many dark corners. To one raised among the pale grace of Tirion, its wealth of color -- from the glazed windows to the tiles, mosaics and painted friezes, entwining endlessly -- seemed bold, garish even. Yet I grew fond of it, and for a time thought it superior to all else. 

Upon my arrival, the great hall's hearth had struck me as far older than the house itself. And true it was; Aulë's own hands, Maitimo told me on a rare walk alone with him, had fit these stones together, and at this very hearth he first spoke to the Noldor of fire and metal. 

"Then, in the years after, Grandfather and his people built the hall around it. The oldest part, anyhow. Though Father had most of it torn down and rebuilt," he added. 

I needed a moment to grasp that he spoke not of the King of the Noldor, but of Mahtan Urundil, a figure so fabled few might picture him a man of flesh and blood. That none could recall seeing the Servant of Aulë in five-score years did not help matters.

More surprisingly yet, the house had a name. 

“Minyamár.” First House. He said it with a firm nod, as if awaiting dissent.  Having just heard its history, I had none to offer. As to whatever dwellings the Vanyar had raised in their time, you might understand it was nothing to either of us. 

“How odd that the son of Nolofinwë should not know.”

“I was not told,” I said, cross. “Not in all these years. Not even when I was sent here.”

“It seems there’s much else you were not told. The name of this house cannot matter a great deal.”

“Father ought to have mentioned it. Someone ought to have mentioned it! Why this secrecy? He took me aside before sending me on my way, and told me to be mindful and courteous, but left me a stranger to all, to my kin, to my destination. Why keep silent on so many counts?” 

“I am not Nolofinwë,” said Maitimo, “but perhaps he meant for you to learn for yourself.”

“And judge for myself?”

We walked on in silence some time, along the path to the house, bounded by briar roses. Their sweet heady scent came to us on the breeze like water lapping at the shore. Finally he said:

“The King chose well when he named your father.”

“But why keep the hearth burning at all times, even in this weather?” I asked later at mealtime, sweat beading my face, still hot from working with the horses. The flames flared as a huge log broke apart with a sigh and settled back to a sullen glow. 

Maitimo seemed rather astonished by this question. “To honor Aulë, of course,” he said. “It is never allowed to go out. Mother would be angry indeed if it did.”

My family was respectful of the Aratar, naturally, though my grandmother alone took trouble to pay reverence to Manwë each day, burning fragrant herbs and bits of resin, and scattering the ashes with a handful of blue petals from the tower. Kind-hearted and gentle as she was, she suffered not the least slight of the Lord of the West, and she thought us lax. But then she was a Vanya. 

“And your father?” 

“I doubt he’d notice. It’s not the forge.”

“I still don’t understand,” I said. “Does the Lord Aulë demand this? Would he take offense if you let the hearth go cold?”

“No,” said Maitimo shortly. “But we keep it burning all the same.”

                                                                            ***

It grew very warm. Daily we swam, in the lake between the apple orchards and the pasture, after showing off on horseback. For a dozen or so grueling days, Tyelkormo, having found my horsemanship wanting, set to improving it. Not to crumble into a quivering heap after a lesson took every bit of willpower I had, though Makalaurë’s grin and Maitimo’s mere presence did their part. I sat straight and chatted, making light of my bruises, a smile etched into my face. You could have knocked me flat with a straw. 

Once I proved I could switch horses at full gallop and not wind up a tangle of limbs on the ground, and clear a hurdle in decent form, I was let off, on the understanding that I had learned all that could be expected of me. Makalaurë took up his harp and sang of my ordeal, a ditty I’ve done my best to forget, though at the time I had the good sense to laugh. In fairness I should add that Tyelko taught me well. All of Fëanáro's sons, down to the youngest, had an air of having been cradled, nursed and raised on horseback. As with all else in their lives, good or ill, they raised it to an art. 

Of another kind of art there was no shortage in my new life. After stumbling upon the marbles in the clearing, I had roamed the house and grounds with a keener eye, making note of much formerly overlooked. There had never been a doubt as to their origin. My aunt's renown had reached my ears, if not stirred much curiosity, until now. It was not by chance that I presently found myself in her workshop, and began hanging about. 

I soon learned that she would suffer my presence more gladly if I brought a small bribe: a piece of fruit, a handful of cakes perhaps; she disliked to break from work for as tiresome a thing as meals and she was often alone, with no servants to ask. Having placed my offering, I would hover nearby, watching, waiting for her to speak. Most days she did; if she paid me no heed I left as quietly as I'd come.

One day was different. Entering the shop I looked around for her; her current work, a near finished marble bust of her youngest, stood neglected. When I heard voices from the other end of the long space, I moved toward them, but froze in mid-step at the sight of the three young women on the wooden platform. 

None among the Noldor are strangers to naked flesh outside the private chamber. Being covered is good etiquette and all, but you bare yourself if circumstances call for it, and no one cares. Growing up at court, away from the public baths and with a great deal more space to call my own than others my age, I was perhaps less prepared to handle it well, when faced with it of a sudden. Yet, had I used my wits, the many drawings of nude bodies pinned along the workshop’s walls might have alerted me to the odds of finding their fleshly counterparts on reveal at some point.

My appearance set off some stifled laughs, though they held their pose – grouped about an unseen centerpiece they pretended to water, armed with clay vessels – for a time, until my aunt, exasperated, tossed her charcoal stick to the ground and called for a break. I apologized and made to leave, but she would not hear of it.

“Stay, my dear, don’t mind the silly geese.  Are you very much bored again today?"

“My aunt’s presence and skill will undoubtedly cure me of any such mood,” I said, bowing deeply, and we both laughed. 

She stretched her arms, groaning, then lifted a few strands of hair off her neck and tucked them under the tight kerchief. Her feet were bare, the toes caked with marble dust; she must have worked on the bust earlier. In contrast her fingers were smudged darkly with charcoal. I noticed a fresh cut on one knuckle. When she wore finery on occasion, it was her hands that stood out ugly, rather too large and bony to begin with, and raw from frequent scrubbing; when doing what she was born to do, one saw only the beauty of creation. 

I brought her some water from the pump. Having smiled her thanks, she sat with her eyes closed, humming a song Makalaurë had played at yesterday’s meal. The girls were watching me still, hoping for a blush perhaps. An open folder of sketches caught my eye. Laziness had kept me from plaiting my hair; it formed a welcome screen as I made a show of thoroughly studying the drawings. 

They were old, much handled, darkened at the edges. Some studies of horses and birds, a portrait of a wide-eyed youth I did not quite recognize, drafts of windows and archways, the last oddly familiar as well. This was not the work of Nerdanel; the lines were cautious, too precise, lacking her quick ease and assurance. Even so I thought it remarkably fine. Myself, I scarcely could put two dots and a squiggle together to call it a face. 

“Ah,” said my aunt as she rose to arrange a weighty drape over the dais, “you found Maitimo’s old sketches. I came across them only yesterday when going through that trunk over there. They’ve not seen the Light since we left Tirion.” 

Tirion, I thought, of course. That row of windows, it’s the passage from the gallery to the throne room in the palace. Then her words came through. 

I said: “He was little more than a boy then, and he drew -- this?” 

“And nothing since. Oh, he does have the gift all right.” She might have said he had a talent for petty thievery. I was silent, stunned by her look, and the bite in her voice.  

“I know,” she said with a wry smile, “what you would now put forth in heated defense of him, son of Anairë, if you weren’t too well-bred to speak thus to your elders, and I love you the better for both. As to my firstborn, in time I daresay I shall care less that he threw away so much so early in life.”

“Perhaps he works in secret still?” I offered.

She only shook her head. “I should know.” 

“Yet he may take it up again.” 

“Not Maitimo. His father –-“ 

She broke off, having ventured too far, perhaps, from safe ground. There are family matters unfit for a stranger’s ears, even if he is your nephew.  Briskly she shook the last folds of the drapery into place, and called one of the girls back onto the dais. Still the two remaining, sprawled on a bench, showed no hurry to get back into their clothes. The one with the curls at least had drawn a shawl across her middle.  A furtive glance told me that I indeed knew her; we had seen a bit of one another during the building of the study.  She smiled, but I wanted none of it.

Then, surprising all, Maitimo walked in. Now they could not find their clothes fast enough. He returned the greetings, but one could see his mind was elsewhere. He kissed his mother; me, he spared a brief smile across the room and a wink, as he often did.  Maitimo and Findekáno, it said. You and I, cousin. As a gesture, it was slight; as a gift, it weighed the world, and I treasured it as such. 

Watching his mother work, he slouched in a chair for some time, one leg over the armrest and the other bouncing restlessly. A sullen frown darkened his face. At last he spoke. 

“One of the colts went lame.” 

“Truly?” said my aunt, reaching for a new stick of charcoal, having worn the last to a nub. “Then should not Nindiel be told?”

“She’s the head groom, and as such found me with the news,” said Maitimo tersely. 

“But why come to me, and not your brothers, with tales of horses? I know nothing of their care.” 

“Why indeed. What of the kitchen, then? I spent the last hour there, having words with everyone from the cooks to the scullery boys, and the steward tells me the salt is low, the gardens need weeding, and today’s bread was left  in the ovens to burn. But he was busy with the linen, and with the festival near, the harvest will keep him busier still. Meantime Makalaurë gripes that he can’t find any paper, but neither will he look, unless he hopes to find it in the woods – with the help of his bow.” 

My aunt rose with a sigh, dismissing the girls. She said, “I will go to the kitchen.”   

Maitimo made to leave as well. “While I,” he said, “must meet with the potter. One of the boys dropped a stack of bowls, and we need new crockery for the festival. And should you see a great mess on the walls behind the scullery, remember it as the predictable outcome of your youngest entrusted with a basket of eggs.” 

She nodded absently. “Moryo -- has anyone seen him lately?” 

I said that I had not. Maitimo only gave an impatient shrug. “When last I caught sight of him, he was with Tyelko.” 

It was then that Tyelkormo burst in from the garden entrance, to inform us that a horse had gone lame. When he found it old news, his anger burned brightly still. 

“You rode him last,” he said, fixing me with an accusing glare. 

“Fool,” said Maitimo, his voice ringing out before I could open my mouth, “I rode him last, and today in the pasture he stumbled at play with the other colts. Now let our cousin hear your apology, and swiftly.” 

“He will hear none! Father gave you leave to rule over house and servants in his absence, but not over me!” 

“Well now, what is this?” said my aunt, “must I listen to my sons argue the rule and keep of my own house, as if I were also absent?” 

“There’s no quarrel from me,” said Maitimo, with an angry flush, “but are you still aware that the house stretches beyond the walls of this workshop?”

Never, not at my most defiant, should I have spoken in so rude a tone to my mother. Had I done so, worse yet, in the presence of my father, I should have spent a score of days -- at the very least -- banished to my chambers. But my aunt waved off her eldest like a tiresome fly. 

“Oh, be silent. Both of you.” She tore off the kerchief, shook out her hair and went striding for the door, barefoot as she was. 

“I won’t have you insult Mother, you lout,” cried Tyelkormo when she had gone, “how dare you talk to her as to a goat-herd!”

“Well, be her good boy then; quit blabbing and be off!” 

They shouted some more and grew angrier still, and might have come to blows, had there not been a stir from the hall, rising even above their voices.  There was a woman’s cry of distress, and the loud, frenzied chatter of many. Baffled, we listened, staring at each other, then ran toward them. As we reached the hall, we came upon the master of the forge who carried Moryo, stunned and broken, in his arms. Maitimo rushed to take the small figure from him, but his mother would not allow it. 

“Let him not be handled more than necessary,” she said, “bring him up to my chamber, Hallanárë.” Then raising her voice she called for warm water and linens, bandages and a splint, seeing that the child’s left arm hung in a ghastly way, and for her waiting-woman to hush and cease her wailing.

She was all calm, though her lips were without color as she parted the locks over her son’s forehead, to examine a large lump. He had, said Hallanárë, climbed the rafters of the forge, unnoticed by any until he fell. On the way down he had struck a beam.

He was brought to bed; his scrapes were washed and his arm bound tight. He did not open his eyes for many hours, though he was sick a good deal. When at last his wits returned, he was able to take some broth, but his legs would not move, and all feeling had gone from them. 

Maitimo passed the news to me, when he saw me at mealtimes. In turn I could but offer my aid, for which there was little use. The family had drawn together behind the doors of my aunt’s chambers, and the servants were tripping over themselves to attend to their needs. So I kept at a distance, like everyone else. 

On the fourth day Moryo claimed a tingle in his legs. Soon he moved his toes. But the next hours went ill for him, for the feeling restored brought with it the pain, and he moaned and cried aloud; Tyelkormo, having kept a sleepless watch by his brother’s side, could bear it no longer and fled. Later I found him in a window seat in the hall. He was whittling a chunk of wood, slashing at it with sharp, furious strokes. 

“Your mother had a draught prepared,” I said, for I happened to be in the kitchen when her woman had arrived with the order, “it will ease his pain and help him sleep.” 

As he looked up, his eyes were wet; he wiped them with the heel of his hand. He had come to his size and strength at such an early age that often I forgot how young he was, not much older than I.

“Thank you, cousin,” he said. “I will see how it is with him now.” Suddenly he flung the wood across the hall. It came down hard and skidded across the tiles, having done no harm, though there were some uneasy glances and mutterings. “I told him to go away, at the stables. I said not to touch the colt, and when he did, I shoved him, hard.”

“Did you lift him into the rafters? He thought up that folly all on his own; don’t blame yourself for his fall.”

He glared, bristling at the notion. “I don’t!” 

“Splendid,” I said. His bluster had lately lost its brunt on me. 

“The colt was limping less today,” I added in leaving, sensing him in need of good news. It seemed to give him some relief; he smiled, and when he went up the stairs, there was a spring in his stride.

                                                          ***

Ten days later Moryo took his first steps, and presently returned to the hall. Finding many a willing ear and scant censure, he brightened up with ease, the beam whence he had slipped rearing to ever greater heights in his tale. He was a little thinner perhaps, the color in his cheeks not so ruddy, though his mouth worked as well as ever. 

As did Tyelkormo’s. Truce, brought on by the youngest brother’s misfortune, could not last. Not while remorse made him cross, and trouble lay heavily on Maitimo. The breaking point came as it must soon after, on a day when a hard rain fell and the clouds hung low. I could not fault Maitimo this time; he had kept quiet, giving the snub to Tyelko’s efforts to goad him. 

Work had endured longer and harder in the nearing of the Festival. The harvest was upon us, and the gathering of cherries both red and black, of peaches, apricots and sweet damsons, currants and berries of every sort, needed the effort of all. Even my aunt could be seen in the orchards, Moryo by her side and a basket of early quinces on her arm. The storerooms filled quickly with parsnips and carrots, leeks and radishes, the hampers and baskets overflowing. Of the fruits that ripen year round, the largest and most flawless were chosen.  Those were dearest to me, the limes, lemons and great sweet oranges that I shall not taste again, nor smell their white blossoms, for they will forever be strangers to the chill mists of Hithlum. One of my early memories is of bearing a basket of oranges from the palace’s own groves to the Festival, placing them before the Star-kindler, though I cannot recall her face.

Drying herbs hung bundled from the racks, the scent of fine breads, cakes and wafers beckoned from the bake-house. The time then came to prepare honeyed sweetmeats, and as the quinces and currants were stewed into jellies, their fragrance drew longing sighs from all. Even Maitimo relished it with a smile, eyes half-closed, distant and dreamy. But then the shadow came again, and he withdrew where I could not follow, though I hardly left his side now. Unlike before the accident, he no longer avoided me. We toiled together, trading few words, needing none. 

When three days shy of everybody setting out for the Festival, I found him in the front passage to the hall in another row with Tyelko, I sighed and leant against the wall to wait it out. It was then that Andamaitë, hovering nearby with some others, noticed me. He ambled over, a wide grin on his face. He said the argument had begun with the lord Moryo desiring, with some tenacity, to ride his pony. His eldest brother had forbidden it, saying it was too soon, and the lord Tyelko had thought this harsh, more punishment than prudence. 

I felt shamed by my groom’s forwardness, though more yet by my cousins quarreling in public like stable-hands, and I let him know I wished to hear no more. He shrugged and walked away, out into the rain. He did not take his eyes off Maitimo until he was at the door, and suddenly I knew him by his look, knew him as the youth in Maitimo’s drawing. 

“—quit coddling him, he’ll grow as soft as a scribe and he’ll never make a decent hunter!”

“He’s hardly coddled him of late,” said Makalaurë as he came forward, Moryo on his hip. The boy clung to his brother’s neck, seeming half curious and half frightened by what he had started. “In truth he barely notices him these days, or any of us. And don’t speak of scribes being soft; there’s none greater than Father and I dare you to call him soft.”

Maitimo said, “There’s no need to bring in Father.”

“It’s true!” Tyelko laid his brow into a puzzled frown. “You’ve no time to spare for any of us anymore.” 

“Who has no time?” asked my aunt.  I had not seen her arrive.

“Russandol,” said her second-born. “His hands are busy, but his heart and mind are elsewhere. Perhaps he’s in love? Come, tell us her name.” 

I saw him flinch. Some good-natured chuckles came from the small crowd gathered. Tyelkormo laughed aloud, but my aunt did not, and she stood watching Maitimo from the corners of her eyes, startled and thoughtful.

“Such baseless drivel,” said Maitimo in a strange tight voice, “I expect from a child, not from my brother who claims to be a man.” 

“Baseless? Why then? We’ve not played music in ages! When I ask you to come hunting, you have better things to do; when we want your counsel, you shrug and turn away, or give some crackbrained answer. Why forsake us, like old toys? ” 

Despite the mocking tone, the hurt was raw. Knowing exactly how Maitimo spent his time, I at last understood. I would have to use better judgment from now on; one of us should.

“There’s the catch; you don’t grasp the meaning of forsake. I’ll show you, though.”

“Ah! And how?”

“You’ll learn soon enough!”

“Yes, enough,” said my aunt. “Come along, Moryo – Káno, set him down. The rest of you, you may well end this now.” More meekly than I had ever seen him, her youngest slid his hand into hers, almost shrinking into the folds of her kirtle. 

“Forsake, forsake, for whose sake?” he sang under his breath. He repeated it until he caught a look from his mother, and fell silent. 

“It’s not some girl;  it’s Findekáno who wants all your time!” cried Tyelkormo with renewed ire. He had been slow to follow up; as I think back on it now, he was a mile ahead, not knowing it. 

“What?” 

“You heard me! And if you’d been minding Moryo, that day he fell – but you were with our cousin, were you not?” 

“Do not,” said Maitimo, white as chalk, “do not drag Fíno into this, you little shit.” 

My aunt called his name, sharply. Tyelkormo needed no further bidding and went for the charge, but Makalaurë had him by the arm before any of us knew it, twisting it behind his back with a single move.    

I have my manners, regarding the business of others; I was brought up that way. I felt a stranger still among their close ranks. Maitimo might even turn on me.  And yet, perhaps it was how they were grouped, everyone against him. Someone ought to stand with him, I thought, he’s all alone. I stepped out, as a dreamer walks a slender ridge, and took my place by his side. When he let out his breath, I knew I’d done what had been awaited, certainly what had been hoped for.

“Touch him, and I’ll make you regret it,” I said to Tyelko, quite softly. His expression I won’t forget; it brings a smile to my face even now.

There was a stunned silence. Then Maitimo, seizing my elbow, said, “Come,” and pulled me toward the great hall. At the doors he let go and marched on; I followed close behind. We crossed through as the tables were laid for the day’s last meal, not glancing right nor left, though I took special trouble to walk tall. 

Without turning, he said, “Pack a bag. We’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” We had reached the tower stairs that led to the chamber he shared with his brothers. “But why? Where are we going? Who else--” 

He spun around. “Look – will you come, or no? I’ll go alone, but leave I will.” His eyes were wide and wild, blazing like gemstones under his drawn dark brows. He was quite pale still.

“Calm down,“ I said, “of course I’ll come. Might I know where?” 

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Have you ever been to the sea, Fíno?” 

“I’ve been to Alqualondë. I’ve seen the beaches of Eldamar, and the harbor.” 

“Not the shores of Avathar?” 

“Indeed not! -- who would go there?”

“We would,” Maitimo said. “My father, Káno, and I. And now my cousin and I shall go.”

“The two of us, alone? No grooms?” As his words grew clear, I felt a great smile spread across my face. Then I remembered. “But wait, what of the Festival?” 

His answer was swift and explicit, leaving me quite speechless. He gave a rough laugh, saying, “You can close your mouth now. Well, are you going to pack?”

“At once,” I said. “What should I bring? Food?”

“I’ll deal with the food and the horses. Bring a warm cloak. No, better make it two. Be sure to wear boots and leggings.” 

“Cloaks and boots? Whatever for?” The way to Tirion was easy, and the road from Tirion to the coast perhaps the most traveled in all of Aman; the hot season was upon us, and I doubted the southern shores would be much colder. 

“We’re going over the mountains. Last I looked up there, I saw snow. I hope you’re a good climber.”

Awestruck, I said, “Maitimo, there is no path across! Everybody says so.”

“How fortunate that Father never listens to what everybody says.  Now hurry, unless you want them all hounding and hassling us; meet me by the stables.”

When he had vanished up the stairs, I took a deep breath, then, with a resounding whoop of joy, raced toward the east wing where my own chamber lay.

It was said that Moryo, fully healed, danced with the others at the Festival upon the slopes of holy Oiolossë, and that my mother looked for me in vain. But by then Maitimo and I were fleeing south across the plains, our laughter rising to mingle with the hawks’ cries. For flight it was, and though time and again Maitimo would rebel, never again would he shirk duty, nor cast off his burden.