The Follower by Ivanneth

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Chapter 3: Brothers

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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.