Racing Towards the Start by Agelast

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Chapter 2

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There it was, outside the window, the flash of red he had unconsciously been waiting for.

Findekáno left just as the tailor put down his scissors, ignoring Turukáno’s irritated exclamation. Down the marble steps, he met his mother just coming in from the garden, a basket of flowers on her arm. Cut roses, pink and red, their scent rich and heady.

Findekáno nearly lost his footing on a loose carpet when his mother exclaimed, catching sight of him. “Where are you rushing off to? You know that we have dinner with Elenwë’s family tonight.”

He turned to look at her. “Yes, Amil, I know, I just need to step out for moment–”

Anaire held up a handkerchief, which he took. Then, on impulse, he kissed her cheek and took a rose from her basket. Anairë laughed, surprised. It was a nice laugh, rich and low, and a rare thing in their far too serious household. “What was that for?”

“Only that you looked so lovely,” Findekáno said, going to the door. He looked out anxiously, but could see nothing through the gates and over the throngs of people outside.

Anairë said, rather regretfully, “When shall we see you married, my dear?”

“Oh stop, Amil, you know Turukáno has to do things first.”

He saw the flash again, and was out the door before his mother could reply. The streets were packed, for it was market-day, and venders shouted out their offers to him, right and left. A sale on parchment, on copper sheeting, mother-of-pearl from Alqualondë, resins from Tol Eressëa, and many more things beside.

A new song from Makalaurë, a box of candied violets, a sharp new knife. Nothing he was looking for. Findekáno looked around. Had he only imagined Maitimo coming by. And if his cousin had been here, why had he not stopped by?

His run slowed to a walk, and he began to meander through the city, away from the center where he lived, into the poorer districts. The streets were narrower here, and not so well-swept. There was a small fountain in an alcove, where he stopped and sat. A few children, carrying clay pots, gathered around him, giggling into their hands. Findekáno looked down and saw that he still work the absurd costume purposed for the wedding party – there was to be an exchange. Elenwë’s people were to wear blue and white and silver, and Turukáno’s, yellow, green and white.

Findekáno looked nothing less than a giant dandelion in his clothes, and he pulled off a yellow ribbon from his shoulder and gave it to a little girl who was a bit braver than the rest, and had stepped forth, looking at him curiously.

“Are you a clown?” she asked, accepting his gift gravely. She was very small, her dark hair tied back with a bit of cloth. Her small clever face seem too sharp somehow, there was not enough softness in it, though she was child.

Findekáno blinked. “No. Though I suppose I look very silly?”

She nodded.

“May I help you?” He gestured at the large clay pot, currently empty, that lay on the ground beside her. She bit her lip, seeming uncertain, but looking at him further, she gave a cautious nod.

She held his handkerchief and flower – giving the latter a few surreptitious sniffs, as they made their way into the even narrower side-streets, up a cobblestone hill, until, finally they came to a draper’s shop. Behind it was a door, which the girl knocked on.

“Nindë, you foolish girl! What took you so long? I was beginning to get worried – Oh!” The young woman who opened the door flushed deeply went she saw Findekáno at the door. “Sir,” she said quickly, “I hope there was no trouble. Nindë is a good girl, she never misbehaves or –”

“No, no, I am sorry – Nindë?” Findekáno looked down to see that Nindë had turned suddenly shy, and hiding herself behind the young woman’s skirts, and peered out at him with large, frightened eyes.

Findekáno smiled and she gave him a tentative smile back. “Nindë is not in trouble at all. She let me bring the water pot back with her.” And he gestured to the pot he carried on his hip, forgotten in the hub-bub.

“I will take that,” said the young woman, whose name turned out to be Herenë, and soon the sisters (for they were sisters, and the years between them were the same between himself and Turukáno) were chatting, their initial awkwardness forgotten. Usually Nindë did not have to walk so far to get water, but the fountain in the closest square was broken, and the only repairman who would come to this part of the city insisted on charging the residents an exorbitant price for fixing it.

Findekáno shook his head in disbelief and opened his mouth to say something, when a flash of color danced in front of his eyes. “What is that?” He pointed to the window, where a scrap of cloth waved.

Herenë sighed, and Nindë said, “It is Amil’s.” Their Amil, as it turned out, was a very fine seamstress and embroideress, who had been taught her craft by – here Herenë dropped her voice – by Míriel Serindë herself.

Findekáno raised his brows – both of them – and wondered how a student of Míriel’s could be living here, in such condition – for though the courtyard was neat, the house itself and everything in it looked like they had seen better times. But the answer to the puzzle was provided by Nindë herself.

“Amil’s hands –” she clenched her own hands as if to demonstrate – “they were hurt, and the healers said that she was lucky to have kept them.”

Findekáno looked down, “I am sorry to hear that.”

She gave him a bright, uncomprehending look. “Why? It was not your doing.”

“Nindë! Hush!” Herenë had come back with little cups of tea for the three of them. Though Laurelin was fast waning, Findekáno could not see how he could refuse, and so he sat on a cushion and drank tea, which, though was weak, was hot and strong. After a few sips, he nodded to the scrape of color still fluttering outside the window. “It is a thing made by your mother, I think?”

“Yes, but it is only a hair ribbon, Sir. Nindë, go get it.” Nindë was off with a swirl of brown skirts and white little legs. Findekáno turned to Herenë and said, “Please, do not call me Sir, my father is Sir, and only when he is angry! I am simply Káno.”

Herenë gave him a cautious smile. “Of course, Sir. I mean, Káno.”

By then, Nindë had come back with the ribbon. Findekáno peered at it and smiled. He had thought as much. It was the exact shade and color of Maitimo’s hair – it was beautifully made, if simply. He dug into his pockets, looking for the little bag of coins he had put there in the morning, before any of this took place. With a little cry of triumph, he found it, and pressed it into Herenë’s hands. Herenë flushed again, and looked as if she was going refuse.

“Please let me have this ribbon,” Findekáno said, “I know what little I have is not enough for it, but it is a little indulgence on my part. It reminds me of – someone.” Here he blushed as much as Herenë had, and she caught his look and gave him a small smile. Nindë opened up the pouch and dumped its contents on the ground, over her sister’s protests.

The sisters looked at the pile of gold coins on the ground, and then back at Findekáno. Who swallowed nervously. “Is that not enough? I may have more.”

“That is –” Herenë looked distressed, “far too much, my lord, for a humble thing.”

“No,” Findekáno said, getting up at last and pocketing the ribbon. “It is exactly the right price. Goodbye, Nindë! It was a pleasure to have met you.” Here he bowed low and kissed her hand. She giggled and curtsied. When Findekáno turned to Herenë, to do the same, the young woman only shook her head and thanked him.

As he was leaving, Nindë cried out, “Oh, but what about your handkerchief?”

Findekáno turned to say that she could keep it, along with the flower and his yellow ribbon, when Herenë took it from her sister and glanced at the crest embroidered on it. Her eyes widened in recognition. She gasped, “Prince Findekáno!”

Findekáno bowed one last time, and sprinted away before anyone could stop him.

The house was in an uproar when he returned. Turukáno, red-faced, shouted at him for being late and Anairë chuckled over the state of his clothes, which, true, were dusty and torn in some places.

Hopefully, Irissë asked, “If Findekáno is in disgrace, isn’t it better if he should not go?” Quickly, she added, “I could stay behind and keep him company!”

“No! Amil, tell Irissë that all of us must go, including Findekáno,” Turukáno cried, looking as though he was on the verge of tears. It took a lot to bring his normally phlegmatic brother to this state, so Findekáno, which much prompting from Anairë, went quickly to his rooms, washed, and dressed. The costume with the colors of the House of the Golden Flower was unusable, of course – one of the perils of dashing off during a fitting – but Findekáno’s ordinary formal dress robes would have to do.

There was slight knock on the door, and Findekáno steeled himself for another lecture from Turukáno – who must be truly nervous for the dinner tonight, though Findekáno could not seek why, Elenwë was madly in love with him, goodness knew why, and her father was hardly going to call the whole thing off even if one person did not make the dress code!

But instead, it was a servant, who handed him a letter and left as quietly as he had arrived.

Findekáno recognized the handwriting at once – it was hard not to, Maitimo’s hand was so strong and distinctive, his father’s tengwar flowed like a river on a page. Findekáno repressed a sigh.

Now he was rhapsodizing about Maitimo’s handwriting! He was far gone. Findekáno read quickly, as he finished his preparations for the evening.

Maitimo had written:

Dear Káno,

I came to see you this afternoon, but your mother tells me that you ran out on a tear only a few minutes before I had even arrived. I hate to have missed you, since now we shall not see each other again for the whole summer. It will be no great hardship for you, I know, since your affairs keep you so busy.

Do not do anything foolish.

Best regards,

Maitimo

Oh, Maitimo! Findekáno was sure that at one point, ‘dear’ had been ‘dearest’ and ‘best regards’ had been ‘love’ – he could see the uncharacteristic hesitation over both of those places. He supposed that there had been a first draft of the letter.

Perhaps Maitimo had written it here, and Findekáno could...

No, Maitimo would have burned that, or took it with him. Findekáno was sure he meant to tease him with such a note. He paced a little about the room and wondered if he should send off a letter in reply. But no. Glancing at the clock told him that it was too late, if he lingered any longer in his rooms, Turukáno would surely explode with fury.

Findekáno went to the mirror to give himself a finally check. His color was high, but otherwise, he looked well enough. On impulse, he left aside his customary gold threads and tied his hair back with the red ribbon.

+

In many ways, Laurefindil was the ideal dinner-companion.

His wit, though keen, never crossed over to meanness. He understood too, that the purpose of dining was not to show off, but to consume food, however delicately, so did not fill his companion’s ear with idle conversation when there was, say, a particularly challenging jelly (or a lobster not quite dead) on the table.

Now, there was a lull in both the conversation and the eating, Laurefindil’s best qualities came out. Findekáno could not quite understand how Laurefindel could be so very good-looking. Certainly, his parents were pleasant-looking people, and their kindness and sophistication did much to recommend them. But Laurefindil was an entirely new creature. Often, Findekáno would pause from his soup or salad, to glance to his right, to Laurëfindil and just marvel.

His face was perfect in profile, like a cameo carved in marble, but the delicate flush of his cheeks gave lie to that assertion. His eyes were very blue, and not mixed with grey, as Findekáno’s were. Laurefindil’s brows were a shade or two darker than his hair, and they were strongly marked, and not overly plucked, as was the fashion among certain members of the court.

But it was Laurefindil’s hair that was his crowning glory. Findekáno, who was perfectly happy with his own black hair, thank you very much, had to concede that he often felt a faint tremor of envy whenever he saw someone with hair like Laurefindil’s.

It was darker in color than Artanis’ hair, pure gold rather than an alloy, though the shade seemed to shift from old-gold, the color of treasure, to ripened wheat and every shade in between.
In the candlelight, it even took on a reddish hue.

At that thought, Findekáno sighed and looked away.

Laurëfindil, who had been aware of Findekáno’s admiring gaze, noticed now that it was absent. He inquired, “Is anything wrong?”

There was another admirable quality of Laurëfindil’s – his voice was rich and smooth, pitched low enough to be intimate, but not over-familiar. His perfections were quite maddening.

Findekáno blinked. “Not at all, why?”

Laurefindil smiled (a boyishly charming smile, the swine!) and said, “Nothing. It is only that you have been silent for a whole time, and I began to worry.”

“Oh,” Findekáno said, feeling rather foolish, “I am sorry, I was thinking back to today.”

“Oh yes! I have heard about your exploits – Turukáno gave us an earful coming in,” Laurefindil said, looking a little too amused over the whole thing.

“Well yes, I was a little – distracted, but I must say, you look very well in our colors. Not that is news at all. You always look well. That is to say – I. Well, Elenwë is looking lovely, is she not?” Findekáno wished now that he could drown himself in the soup, but it was the dessert course now, and putting his face in the slice of many-tiered cake, white and gilded with edible gold and pearls made of sugar. Instead, he attacked his slice with a fork and stuffed the piece in his mouth so he would not speak anymore.

Laurefindil spoke slowly, “Yes, Elenwë is looking well. She is very calm about the whole thing, I must say.”

“It is only Turvo who has become a holy terror over it,” Findekáno said at last, when he was quite finished with his cake. And the rest of dessert, and the last course was given over to discussing the wedding and gossip.

The ladies left soon afterwards, going to their parlor, and Findekáno knew what was to come, and so decided that it was best done quickly. He approached his father, who was deep in discussions with Elenwë’s father over matters of dowry. Findekáno waited patiently – he had no desire to interrupt – but eventually Nolofinwë looked up and gave him a slight smile.

Caliswë’s attentions were drawn away by Turukáno, and Findekáno sat next his father and accepted a little candy that melted quickly in his mouth, leaving behind a faint green taste of mint.

“I have not seen you at all lately,” said Nolofinwë, to start off with. It was an innocent observation, and Findekáno resolved not to think too deeply about it.

“Yes, I am sorry,” Findekáno started to say, but Nolofinwë interrupted him.

“What is there to be sorry about? I am glad that you have a life outside the family. I would not like to keep my children so close than they grow stunted because of it.”

“Like –” Findekáno stopped himself in time. Nolofinwë gave him a long look.

“I am glad you are spending more time with Angaráto and Aikanáro, they look up to you as an elder brother. It would not do to disappoint them.”

“I hope I am a responsible friend to all who wish to befriend me,” Findekáno said carefully. “But Atar, that is not what I wanted to speak to you about. There is a broken fountain in the Weaver’s Quarter, and the children there have to walk a mile or more to get water for their families, do you not think...?”

Nolofinwë leaned forward, his eyebrow a little raised, and listened to Findekáno make his case.