Racing Towards the Start by Agelast

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Chapter 5

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There was a certain point in the race when Findekáno’s mind sprang free and all went quiet around him, except the sound of his feet beating against the ground, and his ragged breath. Worries were stripped away and away. Since that night at Fëanáro’s house, much had happened. Fëanáro and his sons had embarked on one of their long journeys, wandering the very edges of Aman, never staying in one place for long. Findekáno missed Maitimo terribly, of course, and resented very much that he should not be allowed to accompany him. Maitimo’s letters, though amusing and informative, were not the same. Turukáno and Elenwë had decided on a long engagement, as was fashionable, that was now just coming to an end.

And by-and-by, Melkor had been released.

Findekáno stumbled over a small pebble in his path, and looked around him quickly. But, fortunately, the field of runners had thinned considerably since the start of the race.
The course was brutal -- a meandering route up and down the hill of Túna, through narrow side-streets and alleys -- until it broadened to a wide and spacious field, outside the city. That was where the rest of the athletic competitions had taken place, with the finish line being in front of the stands where the King and Queen of the Noldor sat and observed the race.

Findekáno crossed the finish line with plenty of time to spare, though he was not the first, nor the second or third. He had let himself become frightfully out of shape, recently, and grown too complacent. But still, he congratulated the winners cheerfully in turn, and gratefully accepted the cup of water someone gave him.

Someone else gave a piece of cloth to wipe his brow with. Looking up, Findekáno saw that it was his grandmother, Indis. She embraced him, and said, “Congratulations, Findekáno!”

“Congratulations? Don’t you mean, condolences? I didn’t even place,” Findekáno said, a little plaintively.

Indis smiled. “I saw that you did not, but Artanis did. Where you very distracted, my dear?”

She led him to a pavilion, where he sat on a cushioned armchair. Findekáno groaned and shook his head. “Not very -- though now I regret, somewhat, supporting mixed racing. I don’t think I would have if I had known Artanis would beat me in every one! Where is she now?”

Indis laughed and shook her head. “She is being honored as a winner ought to be, of course.” And indeed, Artanis was still on the finish line, surrounded by a bevy of admirers. She took their adoration as a matter of course and shook her remarkable hair loose from its braid.

“At least she has put up that hair of hers,” Findekáno groused.

“Come now, Findekáno, it is not like you to be resentful,” Indis said in gently-remonstrating tone. Findekáno nodded, gloomily. He had to start practising again -- both racing and managing not be resentful.

“Ah,” Indis said, surveying the crowd, “there are some friends of yours here -- Makalaurë as it happens, how lucky! Makalaurë! Over here!”

Makalaurë detached himself from the larger group when he was called; he looked immediately and spotted them. He and Indis embraced warmly before she pulled away -- someone was calling her name. Indis had been Makalaurë’s first music teacher and had gifted him his first harp, there was affection between them that was rare for any of the sons of Fëanáro for the queen.

After Indis had left, bidding goodbye to everyone and placing a kiss on Findekáno’s forehead, Makalaurë shook his head sympathetically and said, “Poor old Findekáno, you do look like a squashed tomato.”

Findekáno straightened up and looked at his cousin with narrowed eyes, “And you, Makalaurë, have returned to civilization! I suppose everyone has returned as well… and you seem very bright and focused this morning, have you had a breakthrough?”

“Oh, we’ve been back for some time now,” Makalaurë said, and at Findekáno’s confused look, he shrugged. “Atar thought it best not to announce it to all.”

“Not even to your friends? Maitimo has not written to me about it,” Findekáno said, staring at his dust-streaked shoes. Makalaurë sighed and tapped Findekáno’s shoulder.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about my new song?”

“Tell me about your new song, Makalaurë.” 

“It’s not finished,” Makalaurë said, rubbing the side of his face thoughtfully. “Though now, thankfully, it’s not as loud in my head as it used to be. The tune isn’t quite right yet…”
He looked prepared to tell Findekáno all about it when the sound of voices raised in anger came to them both. Exchanging a swift glance, they went out to see what the trouble was.

“I suppose it’s Carnistir and Angamaitë fighting again,” Makalaurë sighed, but it was not. It was two young noblemen that they both knew, one a son of follower of Fëanáro and the other a follower of Nolofinwë. The fight was over, the two participants pulled away from each other, and, when questioned, did not have much to say about it other than to give each other sullen glances.

And though the two were sent off in separate directions, Findekáno was troubled. He could not remember a time when there had been harmony between his father and Fëanáro, and suspected that such a time had never existed. But still it was one thing to be used navigating a rather fraught landscape of family divisions, and another to see such division crop up, strange and unwelcome, in the outside world.

“Hot-headed idiots,” Makalaurë said finally, occupied by his own thoughts. Then he turned to Findekáno and said, “Get washed up and come with me. I’ve got a song to show you.”

Makalaurë’s song, as it turned out, could only be truly appreciated inside a tavern. The tavern itself was one that Findekáno had never been to, in the Smith’s Quarter, though of course not all of the patrons were smiths. There was a pair in the corner who were arguing loudly over the best techniques for Aulëization. The air was smoky -- whether from the pipes some smoked, or rather just a whiff of it that many brought in with their clothes and their hair -- it was difficult to tell.

Makalaurë cleared his throat and announced to the tavern at large that he would be premiering his new song tonight. But first he needed a drink! Several of them, in fact. So he sat by Findekáno and they downed as many drinks as the barkeep would give them.

It was clear that everyone here admired Fëanáro, and the feeling was mutual, judging from a letter pinned to the wall behind the bar. It was written in his distinctive hand, praising the beer and meat-pies. There was, as well, the seven-pointed star affixed over the bar. But Makalaurë had assured Findekáno that -- no one would bother him -- indeed, no one would know who he was. And it was true that Findekáno was dressed rather plainly, in dark-blue robes, and had not had the chance to put in the customary gold threads back into his hair. In all else, he looked like an ordinary Noldorin elf, which indeed, he was.

Finally, it was time for Makalaurë to sing. He sprang up from his seat, swaying a little, and cleared his throat. His voice was shaky at first, and little cracked, but soon he got in the groove of things. He sang a pub-song, a new song, but one that was familiar enough that people could sing along to after the second refrain. It went like this -- a smith had a sweetheart whose eyes were brighter than any jewel, whose voice was sweeter than an anvil’s ring. They were very happy until the smith's forge proved more tempting than his sweetheart, and she left him in grief. And now all the smith could go was weep and drink this tavern’s beer!

Alas! But at least beer was excellent!

It was not the most complicated of songs, but Makalaurë sang it well, and with so much feeling that there were some men with hard, craggy faces blackened by the forge who were now weeping openly.

After several encores, Makalaurë was finally able to sit down at their table. He ordered another drink and drained it dry before finally saying to Findekáno in a low voice, “How did you like it?”

Findekáno was impressed. He said, “Did you just make it up on the spot? It seemed a bit -- improvised.”

Makalaurë nodded. “I like to keep people on their toes. Now, Findekáno, tell me true, what are your intentions for my brother?”

Findekáno nearly spat out his drink. “What? Which brother? … I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finished quickly with a cough. Makalaurë smirked and shook his head.
“All I ask is that you hold on to him,” Makalaurë said, sobering up. “Nelyo takes things very much to heart. Perhaps…” He hesitated and looked uncertain.

“I think you should drink more, Káno, and then perhaps you’ll make more sense,” Findekáno said firmly, pushing a filled mug of beer into Makalaurë’s waiting hands.
“Certainly, Káno, but I doubt you will.”

Hours later, they were both very drunk and had done little talking beyond that. The tavern had closed and they had been escorted out by a rather apologetic barman. Someone, he explained, would come and fetch them, but Makalaurë rebelled at that, and Findekáno supported him in this. They broke free from the barman’s lax oversight and went running through the streets. Sometimes, they stumbled and fell, and once Findekáno came dangerously close to falling down a long flight of crystal stairs, due to unseen puddles.

It was Makalaurë’s idea that they should sing. There was nothing so beautiful as two drunken elves of good family and excellent musical education, warbling their favorite drinking songs in the dead of night. Someone opened their shutters and shouted imprecations at them. Someone else threw a shoe, which only narrowly missed Makalaurë’s head, and hit Findekáno squarely in the chest.

“Ah, I’m hit! Go on without me,” Findekáno said, grabbing Makalaurë’s hand tightly.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Makalaurë said, dragging him along. It seemed to them that they had had come a very long way. Telperion was was its zenith, most people were in bed. They came upon a bench in an quiet terence and alighted there with twin cries of relief.

Makalaurë began to take off his boots. At Findekáno’s sidelong glance, he shrugged. “What? My feet hurt. Finno, do you know this place at all?”

Findekáno looked around closely. Far ahead the Mindon Eldaliéva rose like a slim white needle against the silvery night sky. A eastward breeze blew through the Calacirya, bringing with it the smell of the sea. It was a beautiful night, almost too beautiful. He sighed. He had no idea where exactly he was, though he could probably navigate his way back home, using the Mindon as compass point.

He said all of this aloud -- Makalaurë did not hear him, or at least paid him no mind. He was too busy listening, his head tilted to the side.

“Er, Makalaurë? Are you with me still?” Findekáno said, waving a hand over Makalaurë’s eyes. Makalaurë blinked and then scowled at him.

“I think I over-do it, sometimes,” Makalaurë sighed, looking out to the stars, which were visible, but just barely, over the haze of silvery light.

“What? The absent-minded genius thing?”

“Mm. When I was younger, it was easier to plead off looking after Tyelko and Moryo because I needed to go to my lessons, I needed to write my songs. Now, no one bothers me, and I suppose poor Nelyo has borne the brunt of it. It’s partially my fault -- I shirked my duties.”

“Perhaps I’m not the right person to tell this to? Or at least -- not here?” Findekáno bumped against him, but Makalaurë pushed back half-heartedly.

But then Makalaurë grabbed his hand, suddenly intense. “But that’s what I mean. Nelyo never had a chance to lose his head over someone and act a fool when he was younger --he was far too busy looking after us. And now -- if he does -- well, it will be too much, I think.”

At Findekáno’s skeptical look, Makalaurë went on, “Sometimes he thinks he knows best and really, he doesn’t -- and I suppose you are the only one brave enough -- and foolish enough -- to disagree with him. I think that is the reason you ought to be with him.”

“Have I your blessing, then? I’ll take it, though your relationship advice is rubbish,” Findekáno said, getting up.

“Then I suppose I’m back to threatening to break your legs if you hurt him, but you know how much clichés pain me,” Makalaurë said, following him down the stairs and onto a street that could lead them home.

+

Breakfast the next morning was an agonizing trial. For one, everyone was there, from Nolofinwë and Anairë, to Turukáno and Irissë and even Arakáno, grimly gnawing on a piece of bread. Findekáno came in and took his usual place near the head of the table. He ate what was set before him morosely, without tasting a bite.

“Had a rough night, dear Findekáno?” Irissë asked, not bothering to hide her mischievous smile.

“Not at all, darling Irissë, I am as fresh as a daisy,” Findekáno rejoined, slicing open a fried egg so the yolk bled across his plate.

“A daisy that been trampled multiple times, perhaps,” she said. “And then chewed over and spat out.”

“Children, please,” Nolofinwë said, and they fell silent.

“Of course, you should not keep such late hours, Findekáno,” Anairë said, with more than a hint of reproach in her voice. “Nor is anyone in the mood to appreciate such loud singing at such an early hour. There were complaints.”

“You sounded like a pair of cats,” Irissë said, nodding. Arakáno followed the conversation silently, his eyes wide.

“I think Makalaurë did very well, considering,” Turukáno said, with a sudden smile. “It was only Findekáno who was a little pitchy.” 

In view of his family’s great amusement, and because he really did love them very much, Findekáno said nothing further, except that he would work on his singing. After breakfast, he went to his office, causing a great deal of confusion among the staff. After the fuss had died down and Mercas’ ruffled feathers had been soothed, Findekáno settled into a day of answering his correspondence and shuffling papers from one box to another.

Most of the letters were not addressed to him -- that was to say, they were addressed to him, but only so far as they wished him to act as an immediate between the writer and the person they really wished to speak with.

That was perhaps overly-cynical.

His father, after all, was a great believer in the power of bureaucracy. But that was, Findekáno suspected, due to the fact that Nolofinwë knew well how to make the system work to his advantage.

From his own view, it seemed like a pointless task. Findekáno sighed, resting his head lightly against the blotting paper of his stationary. He listened for the rattle of the tea-cart and Mercas’ light muttering under his breath, Findekáno looked up expectantly -- hopefully -- to see him, when in fact, it was Maitimo who brought in the tea-cart, fulfilling an obscure fantasy that Findekáno was not even sure he had had until now.

“You,” Maitimo said, bringing the tea-cart to a stop in front of Findekáno’s desk, “are a bad influence.”

“Hardly that,” Findekáno said, smiling so hard he thought his face would break. “Makalaurë is older than me, and presumably wiser. Shouldn’t he get the blame for corrupting me?”

“If I was a big enough fool to believe it,” Maitimo said, pouring himself a cup of tea, before handing another to Findekáno. It was exactly how he liked it -- not too sweet and with a bit of lemon.

“I don’t suppose you came here just for me to stare at you adoringly all day,” Findekáno said when the tea was finished and a miffed Mercas had taken it away and closed the door behind him.

Despite his words, Findekáno was quite able to tear his eyes away from Maitimo.

Maitimo smiled and reached across the desk for Findekáno’s hand. Maitimo’s hand, like everything else about him, was perfect, the fingers long and tapering, tanned slightly, and strong too, though not roughened and cracked, like a smith’s hands would be. Maitimo had learned early that he was not for forgecraft, and though Findekáno knew that was a painful discovery for his lover, he was selfishly glad that fire and metal had not marred the perfection of Maitimo’s hands.

Though there was a spot of ink on his thumb… Findekáno frowned. “What have you come to me about? You aren’t leaving again for some remote spot east of the Pelóri, are you? Or some encampment on the shores of the Outer Sea? If you are, I will come with you, whether you will or no.”

“The next time,” Maitimo promised. “But in fact, I am here for something else entirely. My father is going to unveil something tonight, and I thought I should invite you to see it.” His voice was deliberately casual, but Findekáno sensed something was wrong.

“That is an honor, but only for me? Am I right to say that my father is not invited?”

“He will see it soon enough -- Atar will debut it at the next great feast on calendar, no doubt. Tonight, it will only be the eight of us -- nine, if Amil comes, and you and Haru, of course. If, that is, you choose to come?” Maitimo looked at him, his expression more guarded than he usually was, around Findekáno.

It seemed to Findekáno that it was somehow important to Maitimo that he should accept, and so he swallowed up any lingering feelings of disloyalty and took Maitimo’s hand and kissed it. Maitimo flushed but did not take his hand away.

“I will come if it is important to you,” Findekáno said, relinquishing his lover’s hand at last.

“It is,” Maitimo said, getting up. “Come before the mingling. Haru will ride with you.”

“Does this have to do with --?” Findekáno closed his mouth again and looked at Maitimo. It had not been long since Melkor had been released from his chains, and though it was said by the Valar and some of the Noldor alike that he had truly repented of his misdeeds, though that was indeed difficult to accept. Melkor himself was often seen in Tirion, and his fána resembled no one as much as Fëanáro himself.

(Melkor was no longer a great believer of in originality, it must be said.)

No one, as far as Findekáno knew, would admit to using the knowledge that Melkor so freely and loudly offered. But it was difficult to deny that certain technologies had sprung up quickly after Melkor’s unchaining, including things from Fëanáro’s own workshop…

“No,” Maitimo said firmly. “They are something that my father has put everything of himself into -- all his skill, all his lore, and even a part of his fëa, or so he says. They needed to be seen to believed.”

At Findekáno’s doubtful look, he smiled and got up.

“I will see you tonight,” he said, and left.

Findekáno was troubled for the rest of the day. It seemed to him that the sky had taken on a darker aspect, and the crowd of people going about their business outside were oblivious of the coming trouble. But in truth, it was only he who had been oblivious. He had attended the ceremony that released Melkor, of course, but he had not much to do with the fallen Vala in the least. Findekáno had no great skill at crafts that should tempt Melkor to his side.

With a sigh, he went back to his desk and began to write a letter. He finished it, and started on another one. Eventually, he looked to the window and saw to his surprise that it was almost time for the second mingling. There was a knock at the door and it was Finwë.

He strode in and closed the door to the uproar in the office. It was not everyday thing the king visited here, of course. “Hello, Findekáno,” Finwë said cheerfully, strolling opening the door. “I’ve been meaning to pay you a visit. Is this what your father means by keeping you busy?”

“Oh yes, hello, Haru,” Findekáno said, springing up, leaving his desk in disarray. He gathered his things quickly, hoping that his grandfather would not linger. “I’m afraid I will never be good at this sort of thing, not like Atar is. I haven’t the patience for it.”

He threw one last look at his office, and turned to join his grandfather out in the hall.

“Patience is something that needs be learned, Findekáno,” Finwë said, “and you will find it useful before you are very much older. That’s a lesson I have not fully taught all of my children.” He heaved a great sigh, and they went down the stairs to the waiting carriage.

“I hope you do not mind the carriage -- perhaps I am getting decrepit in my old age, but I find that I prefer it to riding in the open air,” Finwë continued on. “And there are some more formal clothes for you to change into, if you should wish to do so.”

The more formal clothes were the ones that Indis had gifted to him on his last begetting day. They fit well enough, though Findekáno was not terribly fond of the color or the texture, which was a sea-blue silk. But once he had put it on and set his hair to right, he felt better about the whole thing.

Findekáno and his grandfather exchanged pleasantries as the carriage glided over the hillside, on its way to Fëanáro’s house. Of course, Finwë’s favorite conversational topic was Fëanáro himself. He spoke of his son with a kind of concentrated fondness that made Findekáno wonder. Was he  like that when he talked about Maitimo?

No, that was impossible.

(But still he made a note to vary his own future conversational topics as much as possible.)

 

+ 

Dinner was quiet family affair -- though neither Fëanáro nor Curufinwë were present, and Nerdanel had declined the invitation. Fëanáro’s servant situation, always in a state of flux, had by now completely broken down. As it was, they were served by Pityafinwë and Telufinwë, who then sat down to eat with them. Findekáno was seated across from Makalaurë and next to Tyelkormo and Carnistir. Finwë, as the guest of honor, sat at the head of the table, while Maitimo sat on the other end.

Tyelkormo was content to pour a constant stream of talk into Findekáno’s ear. Carnistir sat in an attitude of irritable silence. He stabbed at his salad like it had mortally offended him, and when he caught Findekáno giving him a side-long glance, he snarled, practically. “I don’t know why you’re here. Atar said tonight was only for family. Curufinwe didn’t even ask his wife to come.”

“To be fair, it is possible that Curufinwë only forgot to tell her. She is very forgettable,” Tyelkormo said with a yawn.

“That does not seem like a very kind thing to say, especially when the lady is not present to defend herself,” Findekáno said stiffly and looked down the table to where Maitimo sat, slightly slumped in his chair. He straightened immediately, as if he felt Findekáno’s eyes on him. They exchanged a glance and Maitimo lifted his shoulder an fraction of an inch.

“It’s true though,” Tyelkormo said, and subsided quickly when hit with a withering glare from Maitimo.

After dinner was over, the party was ushered, vaguely, into the library. The second mingling of the Trees flooded the room with soft light, nearly dazzling. Maitimo called for the curtains to be drawn and so they were, until they were all sunk into the darkness.

Makalaurë settled into a chair and began to play quietly on a harp he seemingly had produced from nowhere. Findekáno stood away from his cousins, and from his grandfather. He wished almost to go -- the suddenly solemn atmosphere did not please him, nor did the silence that fell upon them. All, it seemed, waited for Fëanáro’s arrival.

Maitimo slid next to him with a sigh. “What you must think of us!”

Findekáno quirked an eyebrow at him. “As if you cared!”

“I do care,” Maitimo said, and reflexively, he bunched his right hand into a fist. “Perhaps too much.”

“Poor Maitimo! I am sorry.” Then Findekáno said conspiratorially, “I will help you stay aloof.”

Maitimo gave him a wry grin. “Your jokes have always been quite terrible, Finno.”

“Hush now, Atar is coming,” Makalaurë said sharply, and silence descended upon them all, heavy with anticipation, and with an edge of -- was it fear?

The library door opened to a flood of light, so bright that Findekáno put a startled hand up and saw the light shine through it as if it was bone-china. It took a few moments to adjust to it and see the three jewels that sat on Fëanáro’s brow. Fëanáro, who always burned bright, could hardly be looked at now. He was dressed simply and wore no other jewels except the three -- like diamonds they were, but more, and better, giving off light, not just reflecting it.

Findekáno took several steps toward Fëanáro -- he could not help himself, he had to, he needed to see more. Curufinwë, who followed in his father’s wake, warded him off. “Do not approach!” he hissed, and even Maitimo pulled him back, shaking his head. But it was not only Findekáno who drew forward, towards Fëanáro and his remarkable jewels. Makalaurë’s harp lay on the floor, where he had let it fall. All was silent, it seemed as if no one hardly dared to breathe.

t Fëanáro ignored them all and went straight to where Finwë and presented them to his father, like a child who knew that he had done well. “They are the work of my lifetime, I shall never surpass them,” he said quietly and a sigh went through the room. Fëanáro spoke true.

Oh, Findekáno thought dreamily, I would be content just to look at these jewels for the rest of my life. The light was familiar and yet strange, constantly shifting and changing. Perfect light. Someone -- Tyelkormo -- stepped in front of him, blocked the light -- it was almost as if Findekáno had gone blind. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, almost stumbling to the door. No one marked his departure, all were held enthralled by the jewels and Fëanáro.

As soon as Findekáno closed the library door behind him, he returned to himself. He blinked again and shook his head. He could see double of everything -- it made his descent down the stairway a little difficult -- he had no desire to slide down it today -- but once he got to the bottom, he felt more like himself. He walked out into the night and breathed in deeply.

Everything was as it had been before and yet… And yet, things had changed. Anxious to clear his thoughts, Findekáno headed quickly to the stables. No one would notice that he was gone, he was sure. They were probably still occupied with the jewels.

But just when he thought he was going to make a quick escape, a familiar step at the door of the stables proved him wrong.

“Were they not remarkable?” Maitimo said, the strange hungry look still upon his face.

Findekáno gave an unsteady laugh. “I suppose your father has been working on them since that flap over Artanis’ hair.”

“It has been long coming,” Maitimo agreed, coming towards him. He paused for a moment. “Are you stealing my horse?”

Findekáno put down the bridle that he had been holding. “Ah. No?”

“You needn’t -- I will ride back with you,” Maitimo said, nodding to himself. “Haru wished to stay here tonight, but I suppose everyone will be expecting you.”

“Probably so. But I must ask, Maitimo -- why did you want me to come tonight?” Findekáno made a helpless gesture with his hands. “I wasn’t much use to you.”

“No, I think you were of great use. If it had been only us, I think, I would have doubted the reactions that the jewels drew. But you felt them too, didn’t you? They drew you to them?”

“I did not like them.”

“Hm. They will soon be hallowed by the Valar. Then no evil could touch them, nor is there evil in them.”

“Perhaps it is only a stupid feeling…”

“Yes?”

“What you said about the draw they have, it’s true. I felt it too, but --” Unaccountably, in the warm summer evening, Findekáno felt as though a sense of chill crept down his back.

“You are too noble to bend to it,” Maitimo said with a smile that could have meant anything.

“Maitimo, I mean to be serious.”

“I am too,” Maitimo said, brushing a little braid past Findekáno’s ear and kissed him, his hand still on his face.

Findekáno thought, perhaps in a hundred years or two, he would grow used to kissing Maitimo so much that he would accept it with both equanimity and pleasure. It would not be like this feeling of plunging fast and deep and then being pulled back again, to the feeling of Maitimo’s face, his hands on his face, and Findekáno closed his hand over Maitimo’s and closed his eyes for a moment. Remember this.

He opened his eyes again to see Maitimo smiling at him. 

"Are you sure you must go?" Maitimo asked him softly.

Findekáno swallowed hard. “I think, perhaps, they will not miss me so very much…”

Maitimo waited for a moment before he said, “The gatehouse is free tonight, and if you stayed there, everyone will think you have already gone.”

Findekáno nodded solemnly and followed Maitimo out.

+

A warm tongue licked Findekáno’s face, and he pushed away the warm, furry muzzle with a groan. Huan whined and pawed at him. Findekáno sighed and said, “Oh Huan, what are you doing?”

Huan was not yet fully-grown -- his ears and paws gave promise of his future stature. But still, he was beautiful, was Huan in his youth, his fur was shaggy and grey, with parts of black and bronze, and his eyes were dark and warm. He licked Findekáno’s face again, as sort of apology for waking him.

Findekáno sat up and gave Huan a one-armed hug and sighed. He missed it, the feeling the living warmth of a dog beside him. He had had to give poor Linnen up when his former owners had appeared again, somewhat sheepishly. They had come after reading the notices that Findekáno had put in the paper, at his father’s suggestion. He hadn’t had a dog since then.

Findekáno looked around.

He had fallen asleep on the bed. Laurelin’s light filtered through the curtains, it was still early enough that she had not yet reached her full strength. Findekáno’s clothes were strewed around the room and Maitimo was nowhere to be seen. He sighed ruefully.

The night before still burned brightly in his memory. They hadn’t thought to bring a lamp with them from the stables (at least Findekáno hadn’t, but he suspected Maitimo liked the clandestine nature of the proceedings.) They had climbed the stairs and and had got to the guest room upstairs and could wait no more.

The bed squeaked terribly, embarrassingly, and Findekáno blushed and Maitimo’s indulgent smile became wicked. They exchanged a kiss and then another… They had not, in the end, done very much, only kissed and touched, and then Findekáno had fallen asleep, his last memory being of Maitimo taking off his boots.

Huan barked, interrupting Findekáno’s reminiscences. Findekáno sighed and began to stroke Huan’s glossy, grey coat. “Now what are you doing here, boy?” Huan cocked his head and looked at him as if he wanted to pose the same question to Findekáno.

“He must have come in when I went out,” Maitimo said, coming in, carrying a basket with him. He and Findekáno exchanged almost shy glances, before Maitimo turned to business of setting the writing desk with breakfast. Findekáno dressed quickly and went downstairs to find the bathroom. When he came back, Huan had gone and Maitimo was waiting for him.

Breakfast turned out to be hot, crusty bread that steamed when Maitimo broke it open, and pats of butter to smear on the inside. Along with the bread, there were peaches, blushing pink and golden, and when Findekáno bit into it, his mouth filled up with fragrant sweetness. The tea was black and slightly bitter -- but then it was sweetened, somewhat, with liberal applications of honey.

The honey still lingered on Findekáno when he said, “The word will be out already, about your father’s jewels. And my own father will want to know about them.”

Maitimo, who was reclining on the armchair, sat up and frowned. “What will you tell him?”

Findekáno laughed and got up. “What else could I tell him but the truth? I was too hasty yesterday. Fëanáro has truly outdone himself.”

Maitimo got up too and murmured, “I hope you do not tell your father everything you did yesterday.”

Findekáno went out the door and shook his head, “No, not everything. Though it does feel -- I do feel that I’m abusing their trust, a little.”

“Do you want to make a clean breast of it to your parents?”

“And never be alone with you again? No, never,” Findekáno replied fiercely. The very thought made his steps falter so that he stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Maitimo, who was coming behind him, stopped as well and put his hands on Findekáno’s shoulders.

“It’s all right,” Maitimo said, though of course it was not, and they both knew it.

Findekáno craned his neck around and smiled. “Come now, Maitimo, don’t make me feel shorter than I already am. Stop looming, will you?” He stepped onto the ground floor with a thump and turned around to look at Maitimo expectantly.

“Oh, am I looming? I’m sorry but I can’t always be aware of how people feel down there,” Maitimo said with a sincere frown. Findekáno bit his lip to keep from laughing around and lifted his face up, expecting to be kissed.

Maitimo did kiss him, but sadly, that was also the time Huan made his return, bounding through the open door, and attempting to weave between their legs. But Huan was no longer the small puppy who was able to do such things, and Findekáno and Maitimo fell against each other, until they were all on the floor together, a tangle of two Elves and dog.

“Oh, Huan,” Maitimo sighed, over Findekáno’s howls of laughter. Huan made his apologies by licking their faces, over their protests.