Racing Towards the Start by Agelast

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Chapter 6

I apologize for the excessive length of this chapter! It's been peculating for a while now and grew and grew. Many thanks to Elleth for having a look at it, despite her cold. She is good and valiant friend. ♥

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It was an unexpected sight: Nindë, who had grown from a small child to a lanky adolescent in the space of a few, short years -- for surely it hadn’t been that long since Findekáno had seen her? -- and Nolofinwë, his father, still dressed in his rich court-robes. They were deep in discussion in the courtyard when Findekáno entered, and Nindë, at least, slid off the marble top of the balustrade, and made an awkward sort of bow.

“Please, none of that,” Findekáno said, embarrassed for himself. He touched the back of his head and felt the sleek rows of braids, threaded with gold. He regretted having chosen today to give his hairdresser leave to go wild.

Nindë grinned and stuck her hands back into her pocket. She was wearing what must have been her work clothes, a shirt and a leather hose, with an apron tied around her waist. Everything she wore was patched and stained and looked as if they had seen long use. Her hair was tied back into a single braid, which would have looked severe on her, except for her broad grin.

“I hope the fountain has not dried up again?” Findekáno glanced beyond Nindë to his father, who gave him a benign look. On Nolofinwë, however, such an expression could mean anything.

“No, no, it has not dried up. It flows as well as it ever has,” Nindë said, “it is only…” Suddenly, she looked uneasy. Nolofinwë took up the conversation smoothly. “After you brought up the matter of the fountain at council, it and the Weaver’s Quarter became a matter of interest to me. The quality and richness of what they produce is high, and yet those who labor over it are very poorly compensated.”

“Yes,” Findekáno said slowly, “I know.”

“Findekáno, why do you look so worried? I swear, you looked the same when you were a boy of thirty and had smashed your grandmother’s favorite rose-vase, and hide the shards at the bottom of the garden.”

Nolofinwë nodded towards Nindë, “He made a full confession of his crimes -- with tears and all -- before the shards could be discovered.”

Nindë chuckled. “Somehow I am not surprised.”

“Now that we have dredged up that painful memory from my past, may I ask what --?”

“There are tensions boiling under the surface in the Weaver’s Quarter, as there are all over the city. I trust you have not remained ignorant of the cause?”

“I think I would have to be both blind and deaf to miss the cause, Atar,” Findekáno somewhat stiffly. The growing tensions between Nolofinwë and Fëanáro infected everything -- including Findekáno’s relationship with his father. He knew that Nolofinwë disapproved of him spending so much time with Maitimo, and disliked more than usual, Findekáno having accompanied his eldest cousin and his family to an excursion to the far-west, to the very shores of the Outer Sea.

They had only come back recently. It had been a strange trip, and stranger was Findekáno’s reception back home. More and more, he felt as though his friendship with Maitimo was seen as a type of disloyalty to his House. The thought made him more than a little furious, and he had trouble containing himself. Why should he not be able to be a good friend to Maitimo as well as good son to Nolofinwë -- why wouldn’t they let him be?

“But what does Nindë have to do with this?”

It was then Laston, Nolofinwë’s manservant, came in to the courtyard and gave a delicate cough. He looked pointedly at his master and said, “My lord, your meeting started five minutes…”

Nolofinwë got up with a sigh. “Ah, and now I am very late. I only hope the lords can find it in their hearts to forgive me. Findekáno, make sure Mistress Nindë is looked after --” And with that he bowed and left.

Once they were alone, Findekáno to turned to Nindë and said, “Nindë! Then you are my father’s spy?”

“Hardly a spy!” Nindë scoffed. “I don’t hide my support for your House, and besides, with my father gone and Herenë expecting twins --”

“Oh, I’m sorry. And congratulations.”

“Yes. We need all the help we can get. And if I pass along some information that everyone who isn’t some lord would know, then where’s the harm?”

“How much does he pay you?”

“Pardon me, Prince Findekáno; you were kind to me once, but I do not think you have the right to ask me that.”

“No, you are right. I apologize,” Findekáno said, and began to pace. “But how does your family feel about this? Your father, I know, supports Fëanáro.”

Nindë nodded gravely. “He does, and so does Herenë’s husband, but… My father is gone now -- that is to say, my parents are estranged, and he has moved out of the house. And I don’t talk politics with Herenë’s husband -- he’s a good man otherwise.”

And Nindë would say no more about her family.

Findekáno said, after a while, “I cannot imagine you are the only one who is so employed. There must be others, in other quarters. And of course, anything my father does, my half-uncle must do it twice-over, and so the city is probably crawling with people reporting back on each other. Eru, what a mess! What would Maitimo say?”

“I’ve never seen your Nelyafinwë Maitimo, did you know? I’ve seen that brother of his -- that dark, red faced one. He once threw a bucket of water out the window and it spilled all over some festival-goers down below. I saw it with my own eyes. Always thought that was a bit rude, myself.”

“He isn’t my Nelyafinwë Maitimo. And yes, that sounds like Carnistir. He has thrown things at me many a time. The festival-goers should have been thankful it wasn’t anything pointy -- he has a very good aim.”

“He ruined their good clothes, anyhow. But I suppose good clothes doesn’t mean much for a prince. All of your clothes are good ones... And wasn’t your friend named that way as a direct insult to your father? I mean, the Third Finwë, it’s not very subtle…”

“You are very politically aware for a weaver’s apprentice,” Findekáno said, stopping and staring at her.

“I am not a weaver’s apprentice,” Nindë said with dignity, “I am a dyer’s apprentice. See?” She held out her hands, and yes, her hands and good portion of her arms were colored faintly blue. The color had also leached into the lines of her palms.
“Do you like it?” Findekáno asked, curious despite himself.

Nindë rolled down her sleeves with a scornful laugh. “Who likes work? The chemicals make my lungs ache, and I’ve seen people turn blue -- really, honestly blue, after a while! And there are stories of apprentices falling into huge boiling vats of dye and their fëar not being release from Mandos because they died so stupidly… though that might just have been a tale my mistress told me.”

“What would you like to do instead?”

Nindë considered it. “That,” she said, turning and pointing behind her.

“Gardening?” Findekáno said blankly, looking at the rose bush that dominated the back wall of the courtyard.

“No, you royal dunce. That sculpture, there,” Nindë said. And there so there was, an utterly forgettable one, almost swallowed by the heavy red roses of the bush, of a bored-looking maiden with a fish’s tail. At Findekáno’s dubious look, Nindë said, a little defensively, “I could do better than that, of course.”

“Well, yes. Hmm. Why didn’t you apply to be a sculptor’s apprentice?”

Nindë snorted. “I wasn’t born in the Mason’s Quarter! Who’s going to take a chance on me?”

Findekáno snapped his fingers. “Then I know exactly who to introduce you to.”

 

+

 

On their way to Nerdanel’s workshop, Findekáno paused for a moment. He wasn’t lost -- he had been this way a hundred times before -- but felt as though he needed get something straight with Nindë. “We are friends, are we not, Nindë?”

She said, “I should think so. Otherwise I would be languishing in some terrible dungeon somewhere. I don’t really think you are a dunce.”

“We don’t really have dungeons per se, though there are some rooms people are put in if they make trouble -- refuse to pay their bar tab, get into fights, things like that. All I can say about the rooms themselves is that they are furnished rather sparsely and not always in the best taste.”

Nindë said, after a while, “That is the thing. I can’t always tell if you are joking or not.”

“Most people have trouble with that aspect of my character, you shouldn’t trouble yourself about it -- ah! We are getting close. Have you been in this part of the city before?”

They had climbed numerous stairs before coming to a new level of the city. It was a well-designed and pleasant neighborhood, the artists and craftsmen who made their home here were the best in their respective field. They left the marks of their craft here more than anywhere else in the city -- from the windows, signs, even to the cobblestones.

Nerdanel’s workshop was more of a show-room than anything else -- her work required more space than Tirion could give -- but Findekáno knew that she had spent some days here, and expected that she was here still. There were many people going in and out of the workshop -- Findekáno was about to join them when he felt a tug on his arm. It was Nindë, who looked a bit pale.

“You didn’t tell me that you were taking me to Nerdanel,” she hissed.

“What’s wrong with Nerdanel? Are you nervous? I can’t imagine why someone who is completely at home with joking with my father should be nervous about Nerdanel. She’s very kind.”

Findekáno maneuvered them to a little corner where they would not be trampled by anyone.
“There’s nothing wrong with her! It’s just that --” Nindë bit her lip. “I’m not good enough to see her. It would be like showing your grocery list to Rúmil.”

“I don’t know, perhaps he’d be flattered to know someone kept to the old way of writing.”

“Oh you are…”

“Nindë, listen. We are, both of us, part of a remarkable people. I believe we can learn anything that we put our minds to -- and learn it well, if we have good teachers. Now, the question is, do you want to learn?”

Nindë nodded. “I do.”

“Good. Come on then.”

They went into the workshop. It had a cluttered feel to it, with sculptures and various statues taking up most of the space. At former times, there had been as much work by Fëanáro there as there was by Nerdanel, but since the couple’s last estrangement, everything of Fëanáro's had all but disappeared.

“Where is Mistress Nerdanel?” Findekáno asked one of the apprentices who had come in, dragging a bag of clay with her.

“She’s gone to deliver a project -- she should be back shortly. One of her sons is here, if you need to speak to him, Prince Findekáno.”

“Oh?” Findekáno said, trying to sound disinterested, ignoring the foolish surge of hope those words brought to him. His chances were low, after all -- only one in six. He tried to hide it by blustering. “I do hope it is Ambarto, for I commissioned a project from him not long ago, and hope it is finished.”

The apprentice smiled easily. “That’s the one.”

“Findekáno!” It was Ambarto, who came rushing in. He held aloft a sleek wooden box. “I was just going to go deliver this to you. Thank you for saving me the trip! Oh -- hello, I didn’t see you there.” He nodded to Nindë, who was inching behind Findekáno all during this conversation.

“Hello,” she said, her voice muffled by Findekáno’s body.

Findekáno stepped aside and took the box from Ambarto. “Thank you! This is my friend, Nindë. She’s interested in apprenticing with your mother.”

Ambarto hesitated, looking suddenly unsure. “I do not know if Amil is still taking apprentices -- they are hard work, you know!” And catching the look of disappointment on Nindë’s face, he hastily amended, “Of course, there are always exceptions. If Amil likes you, for example, or you happen to be outrageously talented…”

“Yes,” Findekáno said with a cough, “well, we’ll see. And about this!” He held up the box. “Is there more that I owe you? For additional materials and such?”

Ambarto shook his head. “Really you should have asked Atar to make them for you. Or even Curufinwë would have done in a pinch. I am still a beginner myself when it comes to mechanics. But I enjoyed going out into the woods and observing my subjects… ”

“I am sure you have done excellently -- and anyway, only you were interested in the project to begin with -- and…” He fell silent and watched as Ambarto and Nindë, while still nodding along to his words, had drifted closer to each other, almost without realizing it.

Ambarto was fresh-faced and handsome, his hair brighter and redder than his twin’s. He was amiable, mostly, and not a terrible choice in … Findekáno coughed again. Ambarto looked up and said, distractedly, “Did you say something?”

“I said, when will your mother be back?”

“Soon. You might want to look around, Findekáno, in the meantime. There is something here that’s sure to interest you.” A very cheeky smile accompanied this remark and Findekáno stared back at his young cousin rather sternly. That, of course, had no real effect on him, and he began to talk to Nindë animatedly, ignoring his cousin entirely.
Nindë, after her initial reserve, was more than equal to him. Occasionally, they both laughed and glanced back at Findekáno, and laughed again.

Young people, Findekáno thought with growing exasperation. He wandered around the workshop, wondering what Ambarto could have been thinking of. But eventually, he found it, and grew embarrassed for the second time that day at his apparent transparency. For it was Maitimo, of course, it always was.

Maitimo in marble was almost as lovely as he was in flesh. He stood straight, his remarkable height apparent. One of his hands was half-extended, as if in greeting. His expression was one that Findekáno recognized well: serious and intent, but with warmth in his eyes. There were veins of red running through the white marble, red and a darker grey. Other than some drapery across his hips, Maitimo was nude…

Which was only proper, artistically speaking. Findekáno was sure of it -- on impulse, he reached out to touch Maitimo’s extended hand. It was cool and smooth -- and only marble, after all.

“Is it possible to love someone too much?” Findekáno asked himself quietly, before he was startled out his reverie by a well-known voice.

“Perhaps -- but I’m not sure,” Nerdanel said. Findekáno turned and took her hand. She smiled crookedly and nodded to the sculpture. “Hello, Findekáno. How do you like it?”

Findekáno cleared his throat and said, “Ah. I’ve never seen it before. Is it new?”

Nerdanel began to walk slowly around the sculpture. Findekáno followed her, feeling a bit like a lost puppy. Thoughtfully, she said, “It was finished years ago, but Maitimo didn’t seem to like it. He said there was something off about the ears.”

“Really? They seem perfectly fine to me,” Findekáno said, stopping to check. The ears were, indeed, perfectly fine.

“I think he was a little embarrassed, though that’s just a guess. Now, Findekáno, about what you said before,” Nerdanel said, stopping abruptly and turning to look at him.

Nerdanel was shorter than Findekáno, and indeed, she was shorter than most people. But with her powerful frame and fly-away brown hair and sharp, clever face, Nerdanel was never one to be intimidated by anyone.

Findekáno struggled to keep from apologizing. Instead, he said in a carefully-careless voice, “I suppose you think I am immoral at worst, and at best, terribly misguided.”

Nerdanel cast her eyes downward and gave a rueful laugh. “Help me move this, will you?” She patted Maitimo’s rump.

“Where are you putting it?” Findekáno said, confusedly.

“Where Fëanáro’s sculpture was.”

“Oh, then it is serious,” Findekáno said. For as long as he could remember, Fëanáro’s sculpture had stood glowering down on everyone who came to the workshop from its special alcove. It was the result of the first time that Fëanáro had agreed to model for Nerdanel, the first time they had worked together. He scowled, his perfect mouth curled, his body hunched -- a joke between two young artists, who laughed at stricture that beauty had to always be pretty.

No matter how many times Nerdanel and Fëanáro had fought and separated -- only to come back to each other over and over again -- the sculpture had stood there, in mute judgment to all. But no more.

“What will happen to it?” Findekáno had been too distracted to notice when he had come in, but the alcove seemed terribly empty without its usual inhabitant. The sculpture of Maitimo, as handsome as it was, didn’t seem like it would be enough, somehow. He pushed against it, experimentally, but it did not move.

“That is for Fëanáro to decide. Careful! It is heavy! Ambarto! Come here, we are moving Maitimo. Ask your friend to come too.”

From across the workshop, Ambarto sighed heavily. He shouted back, “All right, but before we do that, can I get something for all of us to drink?”

“Very well!”

Ambarto and Nindë left together slowly, still deep in conversation.

“Now,” Nerdanel said when they had gone, “why do you think I would condemn you for loving Maitimo?”

“Well,” Findekáno said warily, “it is not something that is exactly widely accepted. Or even countenanced. The laws and customs say nothing of it.”

“I think,” Nerdanel pensively, “I think that our shared family history should tell you that the laws and customs do not always take into consideration all the sorts of love that are possible.” Quieter than before, she said, “Hold on to him. Try.”

“I will --”

“Here we are!” Ambarto said, carrying with him a large pitcher of lemonade. Nindë carried with her four cups. Nerdanel sat down on a low stool and took her filled cup with a murmured thanks. Findekáno was also grateful to receive his cup.

Confessing was thirsty work.

Meanwhile, Nerdanel was examining Nindë closely. “You are Íverin’s younger daughter, aren’t you?”

Nindë blushed, surprised. “Uh, yes! I didn’t know you knew -- my mother, Mistress Nerdanel.”

“Why not? She made my wedding dress. I’m sorry to hear what happened to her -- it’s a wretched thing, for a weaver of her caliber to lose her living like that -- it is something that all craftsmen fear. I suppose you are apprenticed to another weaver? How far along are you?”

“I am apprenticed to a dyer, ma’am, but --”

“She wants to do what you do, Aunt. And Nindë is my friend -- Ambarto just met her,” Findekáno said, leaning against Maitimo’s pedestal.

“This was a stupid idea,” Nindë said, looking at her feet, her face a dull red.
“Do you work with pigments in general, or just dyes?”

Nindë looked up, a little startled. “My mistress does mostly clothing-dyes, but she also has a sideline in paints and inks that I help prepare.”

“I do not think I could outright steal your mistress’ apprentice from her. But if you wish -- I could commission some paints to be brought here and you can see if this is the sort of life for you?”

“Thank you! I would like that so much!” Nindë said, her eyes shining. For the first time in a very long time, she looked as young as she was.

“Good! Now,” Nerdanel said, springing up from the ground and dusting herself. “Let’s move this thing.” A groan echoed through the workshop, but Nerdanel was unmoved. But, through their combined efforts, Maitimo was not.

 

+

Elenwë had waited patiently for all the presents to be cleared away -- except for one. She tore open the elaborately wrapped gift and said, “And this is from you, Findekáno?”

He nodded and Elenwë cleared away the paper and unlatched the box carefully. From it burst forth a cloud of butterflies. They fluttered around the room, here and there. It took a moment to see that they were not living creatures, but small automatons, skimming through the air on wings of malachite, amber, garnet, opal and lapis lazuli.

One landed delicately on Elenwë’s extended finger and fluttered its dark blue wings. “How lovely!” she breathed, delighted. Turukáno, who sat beside her, gave Findekáno a startled look of gratitude, as a garnet-winged butterfly fluttered by him.

Elenwë, her eyes still following the butterflies around the room, asked him, “Who made them?”

“It was Telufinwë -- that is to say, Ambarto. He has a great interest in lepidopterology, you see, and volunteered to make them after I described what I wanted him to do.”

“But I didn’t know Telufinwë could do something like this,” Turukáno said, “doesn’t Fëanáro prefer the other twin?”

“Well, Nerdanel is not unpractised in these matters,” Findekáno said, a little testily. Then he shook his head and said, “I believe he might have gotten some suggestions from a Maia of Yavanna.”

A malachite butterfly settled on the lip of his wine glass, and he bent down and rotated it slowly, for a better look.

After a collective sigh of appreciation, the whole family soon was up and milling around, gathering up sophisticated bits of food and flutes of bubbly wine. It had only been a small celebration on the run up to the actual wedding celebrations -- only the immediate families of both the bride and the groom were present.

Arakáno and Irissë were tasked with gathering the butterflies, who had by this time settled on any available surface -- from table-tops and cake-stands, to being tangled in someone’s hair. They still fluttered when approached, and to make them lie still, one had to stroke their dark golden bodies.

Only one was lost in the confusion, victim to an errant boot, its wings only a smear of turquoise powder on the marble floor.

By this time, Laurelin was at its zenith and the small morning room where they had this informal gathering had filled with light. Nolofinwë and Anairë walked arm-in-arm with Elenwë’s parents, and Indis was there too, putting the rest of the presents away. Elenwë and Turukáno had only eyes for each other, while the rest had eyes only on the food.

As he bit into a luscious strawberry tart, Findekáno looked up to see Laurefindil approach him. He made room on the sofa where he sat, and Laurefindil sat down beside him with a sigh. “You have given my sister quite an impressive gift.”

“Ah,” Findekáno said, putting down the tart crust down. “Are you going to ask me whose idea was it?”

“Not at all,” Laurefindil said quickly.

“As a matter of fact, it was mine. Though I perhaps learn that butterflies were Elenwë’s favorite animals from Turukáno. He is completely versed in all of her favorite things, and everything else about her. It is one advantage of having such a long engagement, it removes all doubt about whether you truly belong together. He hardly talks of anything else besides Elenwë and the wedding.”

Someone set down a flute of wine in front of Laurefindil who picked up and sipped from it. He looked thoughtful as he said, “Love, I suppose, will do that to you.” He paused, and then said, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Ethelion at all?”

“Hm?” To Findekáno, it seemed a strange leap. But then again, he had come to realize that most of his conversations with Laurefindil lately seemed to turn on Ethelion. And love…

Findekáno said, “No, nothing since we fixed the fountain together. Of course, Ethelion and I are not the closest of friends. But it seems that you two are?”

“What? No, no, of course not, I am strictly disinterested in Ethelion. That is not to say that I find him boring. Or that I don’t like him. I do. He is a good musician and -- well, it is worthwhile to know such talented people. Or so they say.”

But then Laurefindil frowned. “Of course, like many artists, he is very vexing, and as you say, difficult to know.”

“I don’t know that I really said that.”

“No, no, I suppose you didn’t. My personal feelings intruded. Not that I have personal feelings about Ethelion. I hardly know him.” He finished his drink very quickly after that and got up from his seat.

Distantly, he bid Findekáno goodbye.

“Goodbye, Laurefindil…” Findekáno said to Laurefindil’s quickly retreating back. He had the distinct impression that he ought to go and help Laurefindil out of his confusion, except it seemed to him that Laurfindil enjoyed his own confusion immensely. And besides, there was an entire plate of strawberry tarts to finish off, if Arakáno hadn’t already gotten to them…

Here, Findekáno’s luck ended. He came back to the table to find that Arakáno had, indeed, gotten the better of him -- all of the strawberry tarts were gone.

 

+

 

It was a week before Turukáno’s wedding, miraculously free of all engagements. Findekáno woke early and dressed, treading lightly down the hall past Arakáno’s room. He took so much care that he nearly ran into a disheveled-looking Irissë.

Eyes narrowed, she asked, “You aren’t planning to sneak out and only come back on the blessed day, are you?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Findekáno said, neatly sidestepping and bounding quickly down the hall. “Thank you for the idea!”

“Don’t you dare!” Irissë spun around and hissed, “Findekáno, I’m serious! Turukáno will have a fit!”

Findekáno took a few steps toward, not near enough so that she could smack him easily, and said in a faintly patronizing tone, “Dear sister, you’re overwrought -- no one would host me for a solid week! I’m only going for a run.”

A crafty look stole across Irissë’s beautiful face. “Then let me go with you.”

“But you look like you’ve just rolled out bed.”

“I did just roll out of bed -- but I won’t take long to get ready! After all, I take much less time on my hair than you do yours.” Irissë darted back into her room before Findekáno could protest.

She was true to her word and came out before long with her hair combed and parted, and dressed simply in a white shirt and trousers -- which was exactly what Findekáno was wearing. She held out a comb and a ribbon and gave him an appealing look. With a sigh, Findekáno took her offering and braided her hair into a single plait.

“Ouch! You always pull too tight,” Irissë said, patting the top of her head as Findekáno finished.

“Hush! You’ll wake Arakáno,” Findekáno said quietly, and indeed, there was sounds of stirring across the hall. They quickly ran down the stairs and out of the door -- pausing only to raid the fruit bowl for some apples to tuck safely in their pockets -- and were out in the square. Laurelin was slowly gaining strength and in the early morning light, everything from the fountains to the fruit-stands and sleepy guards seemed like gilded treasure.

They wandered to a square near the house to think of what to do. “Race you,” Irissë said, her eyes shining with excitement. “Whoever loses must give up his jewelry budget to the winner for a year.”

“Wait, that’s too much to wager,” Findekáno said, alarmed, which earned him a quick side-long glance from his sister.

“A month, then. As if you don’t have enough! Ah, there goes the modest and humble Findekáno, we can hear him coming from a mile away…”

Findekáno huffed impatiently and crossed his arms. “Ridiculous! Irissë!”

But Irissë had already gone ahead, her slim white form disappearing around a corner. But Findekáno could not allow this to stand. He raced to catch up with her, and when he did, the siblings stayed neck-in-neck for as long as the race lasted.

Neither of them proved above sabotage: Irissë unhooked a gate holding in a barking dog that rushed into Findekáno’s path, Findekáno pushed her into a passing hay cart. In the end, panting and sweaty, in the same place they had started, both claimed to have won the race.

“Never mind,” Findekáno said, collapsing on a wooden bench, startling some pigeons from their rest. “You can take it. May all the stones fall off your rings and all your silver, tarnish.”

“Ugh, what graceless loser you are,” Irissë said, sprinkling some cold water on his face. Findekáno wrinkled his nose and batted her hand away. She sat down beside him and stretched her legs. They looked very alike, Findekáno and his sister, with the same nose and same straight, black hair. It was a wonder that they were not close -- but perhaps it was their similarities, in personalities rather than looks, that separated them.

Irissë took out a weathered-looking apple from her pocket and frowned at it. However, when Findekáno fished out his own, equally bruised apple, she took it with a regal thanks.

“I will be all right with just half of it,” she said, still disposed to be kind, and she bit in to the apple. “Tyelkormo says all jewelry is vulgar, though I don’t see him saying so in his father’s hearing.”

“Ah, Tyelkormo. He would be happier if we went back to wearing skins, like the poor benighted Avari,” Findekáno said smugly. The position seemed to him to be quite bizarre and possibly contradictory -- that was to say, typical of Tyelkormo.

“Or nothing at all, like they did at Cuiviénen,” Irissë said with a giggle. This earned her a sharp look from her brother.

“Well, to Cuiviénen there is no returning,” Findekáno said repressively, ignoring the sharp elbow Irissë aimed at his side. “What’s happening with Tyelkormo and you anyway? Does he mean to marry you?”

“Marry Tyelkormo!” Irissë exclaimed, so loudly that the people passing paused for a moment to look at her. She glared at them until they moved on, uneasily. In a quieter tone, she said, “I can’t imagine a worse idea. We’d fight constantly and about everything. And he does everything Fëanáro tells him to, without a question. I won’t have a husband of mine looking to his father to tell him when to sneeze and when to fart.”

“Irissë!” Findekáno said, laughing.

“I think if he and Aunt Nerdanel had had daughters, Uncle Fëanáro would not have turned out half as odd. Girls aren’t half as biddable as boys, and it would have done him good to be disobeyed once in a while.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, girls in our family, at least. When was the last time you saw Aunt Írimë do anything other than what she liked?”

“I don’t think Maitimo can be described as biddable, somehow…”

Irissë now looked wise, which was difficult feat as she was still gnawing on her apple-core. “Ah, yes, your hero Maitimo, the one who can do no wrong. Really, Findekáno, at your age, most of us know better than to have such idols. And for all of his supposed nobility and intelligence, I don’t doubt that if Fëanáro asked him to jump, he would only ask how high.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” Findekáno said a little hotly. “With Maitimo, what you see is what you get.”

Irissë smiled and shook her head. “That describes you, Findekáno, not Maitimo. Anyway, you should hear the rumors going around about him. Some of them are quite shocking.”

“Maitimo and I are the same,” Findekáno said, getting up. “And you shouldn’t speak about things you have no understanding of -- or seek out distasteful rumors.”

Irissë sprang up and said hotly, “I don’t seek them out! If people are talking around, what am I supposed to do? Stop my ears? And you shouldn’t be so superior, there’s nasty things said about you, too.”

“Well, don’t tell me about them, for Eru’s sake,” Findekáno shouted behind him as he began to run.

“Not that I was going to! You rotten pig!” Irissë shouted back.

When Findekáno got back home, a boy was waiting for him with a letter. he snatched it and up from the startled messenger with barely a word of thanks, and was tearing it open as he mounted the steps. The writing was unfamiliar, but envelope and paper was not -- they were from Nerdanel’s personal stationery. The letter was from Nindë, written with a careful hand. It informed him that she had been released from her old apprenticeship with very little trouble -- on her part, anyway.

She further reminded him not to utterly forget about her (again), and to visit Nerdanel’s studio soon and see her progress.

Findekáno had made it to his room -- but not before shouting for hot water to be brought up to him -- and dropped the letter on his desk, to be replied to when he was in a better mood. With a sharp sigh, Findekáno began to pace around his room, shucking off his clothes impatiently. There was a knock at his door.

“Come in!” he barked. A servant came in with the hot water and a heavy look of disapproval. Findekáno scowled back and wait until his bath was ready. He dismissed the servant and sank into the water with a sigh.

The damp made his braid heavy against his already aching scalp, since in his haste he had forgotten to unbind his hair. He did so now slowly, carefully, with far more attention than the task deserved. Finally, when he was done and his hair floated around him, Findekáno’s head sank under the warm, soapy water.

He hated that his first and second instinct was to talk to Maitimo. But why should that be? Couldn’t Maitimo come to him, for once? Findekáno rose and blew out the soapy water from his mouth.

“There’s nothing for it,” he said aloud. “Maitimo must know.”

There was kick at his door. Irissë’s voice came faintly through the heavy wood. “You still owe me! Remember, Findekáno! Half!”

 

+

 

The next day, Findekáno made peace with Irissë, promising her not half, but the whole of his monthly jewelry budget. She listened to both his apologies and promises stonily, and only looked up from her breakfast once to say, in a flat voice, “I know there’s no truth to the rumors. I only thought you might want to know, that’s all.”

Arakáno, who had been picking at his breakfast, pricked up his ears. “What rumors? Is it the one about Findekáno and his secret wife in the Weaver’s Quarter?”

“Oh,” Findekáno said, vastly relieved, “is that all?”

“No one tells me, I’m just a child,” Arakáno said, with quiet dignity.

“Not really,” Irissë said.

With a sad shake of his head, Findekáno departed for the palace. He had questioned some of the friendlier guards earlier and knew that the odds were good that both Fëanáro and Maitimo were meeting with Finwë, in the east wing of the palace.

The east wing was original home of Finwë and Míriel Serindë, and it was not, strictly speaking east of anything, as it was merely surrounded by other parts of the palace that had been built after the queen’s death. Findekáno had never been here, though he knew its history well enough.

Míriel Serindë’s presence seemed to linger on here, from its antiquated architecture and decor to her tapestries that still hung on the walls. They were her lesser works, if such an artist could be said to have lesser works. Fëanáro had taken most of his mother’s work, and Finwë had the rest hung in his own chambers. The ones that remained were too delicate to be moved, though there were plans to do so at some future time.

Findekáno paused to look at them, and it was not difficult to believe that Míriel had been a broideress like no other. Scene after scene stretched out before him, mostly showing Elves on the Great Journey. Among the Elves and birds and beasts of all description, there were other things, lurking in the shadows.

Things that had too many legs, too many hands to be real, surely?

One such part of the tapestry had an Elf, with tarnished hair that had once been gold, wandering into a gaping maw of a cave. Though her face was no bigger than Findekáno’s own fingernail, he could see clearly the expression on her face, the fear and apprehension.

The cave’s darkness seemed alive somehow, undulating, moving…

Somewhere down the hall, someone opened a door. Findekáno fought a sudden impulse to hide himself behind a tapestry. Instead, he squared his shoulders and went down the hall a little ways, towards the source of the draft. He saw that on the left there was another corridor, at the end of which was a door. Someone was leaning against it, his head bent almost to his chest. Findekáno could recognize that head anywhere, and the rest of him too.

“Maitimo!”

Maitimo looked up, and his face transformed from pure indifference to joy, and then tempered into cautious sort of happiness. He was carrying something, which he dropped to the floor. It made a dull metal thud on the stone floor. They both reached for it, but Findekáno got to it first. He pulled it out leather sheath and examined the object closely.

He knew what it was, of course. Swords and bows and other kinds of weapons were used in the Great Journey, and many families had not thrown away these antiques when they had come to Aman. Instead, they hung on walls and over mantlepieces.

This, however, was nothing like the roughly forged swords of the Great Journey, nor like the thin, mostly decorative rapiers that were used for dueling. It was a beautiful thing, so finely crafted that Findekáno had no doubt that it had been made by Fëanáro himself, not by an apprentice, nor a son.

Maitimo sighed loudly and said, “Findekáno, give that back.”

“In a minute,” Findekáno said mildly. He held it up to the light and took an experimental swing of it.

It was heavier than it looked, and the edges looked almost absurdly sharp. There were fine jewels encased in the pommel and delicate engravings on body of the sword itself, but it was clearly not just a piece of art, but an instrument made to maim and kill.

And it felt -- it felt right in Findekáno’s hands, like it had been made for him. He looked up to Maitimo, a thousand questions in his head. Maitimo held out his hand for the sword, which Findekáno gave back to him -- reluctantly.

“Did your father make this for Haru?”

Maitimo said, “Yes. If You must wait a little if you want to see him -- he is in a meeting with Atar and I have been sent away to guard the door.”

“But why?”

Maitimo shook his head slightly and said, “You know -- whenever Atar gets it into his head to make something, there’s usually no stopping him. But it is nothing to --”

At that moment, the door opened and Fëanáro stepped out. The eldest son of Finwë, the greatest of the Eldar and a difficult man to deal with besides, gave the scene before him a brief overview.

He looked rather put out.

“Findekáno,” he said.

“Uncle,” Findekáno said with a nod.

Though Fëanáro looked like he wanted to correct him, for once, he forbade the temptation, though the struggle showed clearly in his face. He cleared his throat and said, “I have not seen you in my home for a long time, Findekáno. Have you forsaken us?”

“Not at all, I will gladly go at anyone’s invitation,” Findekáno said carefully.

“There was a time when you needed no invitation,” Fëanáro said mildly.

After an awkward pause, Maitimo said suddenly, “Findekáno was just admiring your fine work on the sword, Atar.”

“And I wonder what use could it be, here in Aman,” Findekáno said, “we have no monsters to slay here, nor evil to fear.”

“Truly, Aman is free from evil creatures,” Fëanáro said, “But not evil thoughts. Especially here in Tirion. People seem to trade rumors here as if they were currency.”

“And yet you cannot run through a rumor with a sword,” Findekáno said.

“And if you were to run through the rumor-monger, the evil-doer would be yourself,” Maitimo finished smoothly, giving both of them a complacent smile.

“Yes, well,” Fëanáro said with a sniff. He would have continued on, except he was interrupted by Finwë, who emerged from the room, looking vaguely troubled.

“Ah,” he said, his face breaking into a broad smile, “what a welcome surprise to see you here, all of you!”

“Haru, it is good to see you,” Findekáno said, hesitating a little. Finwë came over to him, patting his cheeks affectionately. “How much you look like your father when he was your age! It does my heart good to see you. The wedding, I suppose, is keeping everyone busy?”

“Yes, though I am not directly involved in the preparations.”

“Still,” Finwë said, “a wedding’s a fine thing, to bring a family like ours together. I hope there are many more to come.”

Fëanáro, who had been standing idle for too long, took the sword from Maitimo and swept past them. He was half-way down the hall before he turned and said, “Yes, well, Atar, I must go -- this is not quite ready and I’ve left Curvo to finish the rest, but -- nevermind. Nelyo, come along.”

Maitimo did not follow him. Fëanáro turned, faintly puzzled. “Nelyo?”

“Atar, I’d like to stay and speak to Findekáno, if I could.”

“Hm,” Fëanáro said. “All right, but remember -- you are needed at home, as soon as possible. Goodbye, Atar. Findekáno.” With a final nod to Finwë, he was gone.

Fëanáro’s very absence seemed to have a presence of its own. Very nice! It followed the three back to the main hall. Finwë was distracted and silent and turned aside to go to another part of the palace. He offered them lunch, but they both declined.

Findekáno and Maitimo were finally alone. Maitimo was quiet, almost moody. He was still dressed in his scholar’s garb, black and severe. It was only his bright hair and copper circlet that gave hint to his princely status.

Feigning to adjust his own sleeves, Findekáno tried to take Maitimo’s hand. But Maitimo put his hand out of reach, saying with a sigh, “Leave off, Findekáno. I’m not in the mood.”

At Findekáno’s hurt look, he shook his head. “Nevermind. Follow me, I want to show you something.”

They walked down two long corridors, Maitimo leading the way, until they came to door that opened to a small mossy courtyard, which was overshadowed by a clock-tower that dominated the little square of sky. A small fountain bubbled in the middle, its basin green with algae. The figure in the middle of the fountain was so worn by time that it was difficult to see what it had once been.

“It is said that my grandmother taught my father how to walk in this courtyard,” Maitimo said, looking around. All of the windows looking out into the courtyard were dark and empty, and yet, still seemed to be full of watchers.

After casting around a safe topic of conversation, Findekáno said, “I saw a sculpture of you at your mother’s studio -- one that I had never seen it before! I helped set it on the alcove where -- well, where Fëanáro’s sculpture had been.”

Perhaps it wasn’t very safe topic, because Maitimo frowned deeply. “I thought she’d destroyed that awful thing. I did ask her to, when it was made.”

“Why? It’s a perfect likeness! And so beautiful!”

“No, you’re wrong. You see, I -- and so the sculpture too -- we have a long mouth,” Maitimo said, rubbing that mouth with his fingers thoughtfully. “It’s impossible to be beautiful with that. It really throws off my entire face.”

Findekáno stopped protesting and stared at him. He felt his cheeks go very red, even as Maitimo gave him a silly grin.

“You vain old cockerel!” Findekáno exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. It was unfortunate that Findekáno now could not stop looking at it, either Maitimo, his mouth, which was pulled into an entirely charming, if crooked, grin. “Nerdanel said it was your ears you hated.”

“Those too,” Maitimo said agreeably, and Findekáno found himself agreeably distracted by the thought of Maitimo’s mouth, and even his ears, which, despite his words were as perfect as the rest of him.

But. Swords. Rumors. What he had sought Maitimo out for. Not for flirtation, however good that might feel, but for information.

“Maitimo,” Findekáno said seriously. “What are those swords for?”

Maitimo’s face fell. “Swords?”

“I cannot believe there is only one. Your father said Curufinwë was making more.”

Maitimo shook his head. “I cannot tell you that. Or what they’re for.”

“If you do not, then when words gets out, all would assume the worst,” Findekáno said.

Maitimo’s face hardened. “If the word should get out. What will you do, Findekáno? Tell your father?”

“Well, I will have to.”

“You think he does not already know?”

“Perhaps he’s heard a rumor,” Findekáno said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “There’s a lot of that going around.”

His back stiffening, Maitimo said, “What about them? Do you believe them? Or do you think my side starts them?”

“Sides?” Findekáno said, dismayed. “Are we on different sides now?”

Maitimo looked as though he was going to say yes, before he shook his head. Almost angrily, he said, “No! I don’t believe that -- Findekáno, let’s go somewhere else, shall we? I don’t like it here -- it’s oppressive.”

As if on cue, Findekáno’s stomach rumbled, and the tension dissipated. Maitimo shook his head ruefully and Findekáno shrugged and said, “Well, that is something I can agree with, at least! Where shall we go? -- And can we get something to eat beforehand?”

“What about your fountain? The one at the Weaver’s Quarter? You know, I’ve never seen it.”

“Then come on,” Findekáno said, taking Maitimo’s hand and leading him out of the gloomy courtyard.

+

They had a meal that consisted of a loaf of herb-crusted bread and hunk of yellow cheese -- “Fine, simple fare,” Findekáno said cheerfully, almost swallowing his portion whole. Maitimo ate his portion more sedately, but with equal satisfaction. They argued, briefly, over who should foot the bill, but decided to split the cost. Already, the day had turned to evening, almost to night and the activity in the streets began to pick up.

Though Maitimo’s distinctive hair was covered by a hood, his height could not be so hidden. As they were walking through the Weaver’s Quarter, on their way to the fountain, a woman approached them. She was wearing an embroidered white cap, indicating her job as a seamstress, stopped Maitimo and started to exclaim over him.

“Why!” She said, her eyes rounded, her hand on his arm. “You look the image of Prince Nelyafinwë” Then considering the matter further, she said, “Except he is a little taller and much better-looking.”

“Thank you,” Maitimo said gravely. “I’ve heard that before.”

She gave his hand a comforting pat and drifted away to group of similarly dressed people, who all turned their attention to the two princes.

“Come on, before they realize who you really are,” Findekáno said, and they ducked into an archway.

The archway led to a tunnel, the tunnel led to a square, the square led to another, until they came to the fountain at last. The place had changed entirely from the time Findekáno had been here last. Though it was still quite deserted, the square did not have the sad, neglected air that it had worn before. Someone had taken pains to sweep the cobblestones, and though the shops were shut, the signs were still out, promising sales and bargains when next they opened.

And of course, the fountain bubbled and gushed. Its stones had been washed and polished, and the jets cleaned so that water issued forth not just from the main geyser, but also all around the central figure. Telperion’s light fell upon the water and transformed it into silver arches and spires, structures that were as beautiful as they were ephemeral.

“Very nice,” Maitimo said. “You must be quite proud of your work here.”

Findekáno shook his head. “Not my work, not in the least. It was Ethelion and the people who live here that did all that. All I did was notice a little girl and her water jug. Sit with me?”

And they sat on the marble lip of the fountain, looking out into the deserted square while the waters danced and whispered behind them. Findekáno said, “I wish you could meet Nindë. She is quite a girl -- her father is a supporter of yours, and now she works for Aunt Nerdanel. Funny, isn’t it? I confess, I don’t like it much, seeing our city split down the middle like that. Between your father’s followers and mine. It makes our -- friendship -- seem that much more improbable.”

Maitimo only nodded, and silence grew between them, like a rapidly growing bubble about to burst. Findekáno cocked his head, as if listening for something. Maitimo, too, seemed deep in thought, his brow slightly furrowed. Findekáno bumped against his shoulder and he looked up, expectant.

Maitimo’s lips parted a little, but he did not speak.

Findekáno said, “Despite everything --- all of this --” he gestured to their surroundings, the Treelight, the fountain, the square, “could be described as -- well, quite romantic.”

Maitimo gave a vague look around, with the attitude of seeing nothing. Softly, he said, “Findekáno! We do need to talk. But listen to me, all right? Don’t interrupt until I’ve had my say. I think -- I know that we should stop seeing each other.”

Findekáno took a deep breath. He was expecting it, but somehow it did not hurt less for all of that. “I thought this was coming.”

“But do you know why?”

“All I know are rumors, speculation. Your father is forging swords and grows jealous for his Silmarils. He argues with my father every chance he gets. I wish he had never made those things.”

Maitimo gave him a sharp look. “It is not the Silmarils’ fault if our fathers fight. The present discontent is not wholly of my father’s making.”

“Nor is it of mine,” Findekáno said grimly. “But whose father, I wonder, has Melkor always whispering his ear? Though they say that Melkor has changed, of course, and his past sins have been forgiven…”

“My father is not influenced by Melkor in the least, I will not have any say so in my presence! In others, I would not endure it so long, and in you --” Maitimo’s voice wavered a little.

Findekáno looked away for a moment and then said, “What does Fëanáro plan to do, with his swords and his Silmarils? Does he hope to use the swords against -- us?”

“No!” Maitimo seemed shocked at the very notion. “I would never let him do that, he would never want to!”

“Then what?” Findekáno’s voice was now desperate and shaking.

“You know that when we were younger, we often spoke of retaking Endórë, now that Melkor is no longer a threat… My father believes that now is the time to make that plan into reality.”

“And with his Silmarils, he can show its benighted inhabitants the light of the West? I beg your pardon, Nelyafinwë…” Maitimo winced at the use of his father-name, but Findekáno went remorselessly on, “But even a child could see the many problems inherent in this plan! Melkor may no longer be there, but the evil he wrought there remains.”

“I never knew you to be a coward,” Maitimo said shortly.

“I hope there is a difference between valor and stupidity,” Findekáno hissed. “And besides, I do not believe your father is so generous as all that. Not that it matters -- the Valar would never give him leave to go.”

Maitimo snorted impatiently. “And why would we need their leave? We came here out of our own free-will, certainly we can leave in the same way. And you, Findekáno, do you then give the Valar permission to poke their noses so freely into you life, and your decisions? For I can tell you now, however you may fool yourself, they would judge you harshly indeed, for your love of your male cousin.”

This could not be borne.

Findekáno cried aloud, “So this is the reason you would break it off! Could it be that you, Maitimo, fear that same judgment would fall on yourself? Then you are a coward and I am ashamed of you. I would declare my love for you in the main square of Tirion, on market day. I do not care what others think of me.”

“Findekáno the Valiant rises to the challenge once again --!” Maitimo sprang up and began to pace in front of the fountain.

Findekáno followed him behind him, his stomach sinking, his disappointment complete. He felt as though the very last of illusions about Maitimo were being stripped away before his eyes, leaving being someone all-too-ordinary, and all too-fallible.

For he was convinced that Maitimo was making a terrible mistake. “Maitimo, listen,” he cried out softly, “I do not care what your father does. He may make a thousand swords and make war with the Valar for all I care. My only concern is of you.”

He tried to catch Maitimo’s hand, but his cousin pulled away.

Maitimo turned and muttered, “You are being dense, willfully misunderstanding me.” He was working himself up into a state of cold fury that Findekáno had never seen in him -- though he had seen it in Fëanáro.

Maitimo said, “Do you not think I know this plan has no hope of working? That every fight he starts with your father brings us that closer to the edge? I know it, I can see it with my own eyes. This entire city is in the process of ripping itself apart -- and there is nothing I can do about it.”

“Maitimo, if we could go to our grandfather, to address him as our king and as the head of our family, perhaps there would be some hope of a solution?” Findekáno clasped Maitimo’s shoulder, but Maitimo only shook his head.

“My father says that sometimes he hears fell voices in the air -- if he says that aloud, in court, he will be laughed at; they will think him mad.”

“Who are they? We are his family, and yours.”

“My father is very good at disowning members of his family who dare to disagree with him.”

“Even if Fëanáro completely disowned you, you would still have me,” Findekáno said, coming close to Maitimo and cupping his cheek. Their kiss was light and lingering, despite the harshness of their words. Findekáno pulled away and blinked. Something in him ached, and he wished to hang on a little more, but already Maitimo stepped away from him, his expression serious.

“Don’t you see?” Maitimo said with a small smile, “I’m doing you a favor, breaking this thing off. You can find some nice girl to marry, have children, be like Turukáno. I would see you happy and with children of your own -- I think you would make a good father.”

Findekáno wanted to start shouting, but he managed to contain himself -- but just barely. He said, in a tight whisper, “You always do this. Look, I know I am not as brilliant as the great Nelyafinwë Maitimo, but nor am I a stupid child for you to manage. I will not marry someone, having loved another. To do so would be to inflict misery on us all --- to the woman who would be my wife, and on me, and on you. I would not do it, no, not even on your say-so!”

Maitimo took a step back and said, in a surprised voice, “No, I suppose not. Of course you must do whatever you think is best.”

“Then, Maitimo, I think it is best that we face whatever happens next -- together. You seem to think it will make our estrangement inevitable. But I do not believe this is so. And I cannot let you ruin your own happiness.”

Despite their shouting, the square around them was still quiet, still deserted; there was not a single light in any of the windows facing them.

Maitimo said, quietly, “You think that you are my happiness?”

“A part of it, yes.”

Maitimo nodded, not arguing, but still inexorable. “Nonetheless.”

There was a long, heavy silence, which Findekáno broke by saying, “But what about the wedding?”

Startled, Maitimo said, “What about it?”

“You can’t break my heart and then come to my little brother’s wedding! It wouldn’t do at all. And think of the party you’ll miss, the fun. Now, Maitimo, put this out of your mind entirely.”

Findekáno patted Maitimo’s chest comfortingly. “I will do my best to forget it, too.”

Maitimo threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed weirdly in the stillness of the square. Then he shook his head, as if to detangle the thoughts lurking within. “Káno, you’re impossible.”

Miserably, but still with a tinge of humor, Findekáno said, “You’re making a dreadful mistake. We are meant to be together, I know it like I know nothing else.”

“If it is a mistake, then let me make it. Káno, do you not see how very -- how very limiting this thing is; love, I mean? I have seen couples who went about wrapped so tightly in their love that it ended up blinding them, choking them, until they had no choice left than to be apart. I do not want that to happen to us -- it is better to have a gap between us -- a wide one. As there should be. That distance should be there.”

And indeed, it seemed to Findekáno that Maitimo was a stranger then, so transformed was he.

Slowly, Findekáno said, “You make no sense at all. But -- those couples you mentioned -- one of them wouldn’t happen to be your parents, would they?”

Maitimo gave him that crooked grin of his. “Of course.”

“But we are nothing like them! Our passion will not be spent on children --”

“Pardon me, Findekáno, but I must stop you from getting any further. I love each of my brothers dearly, and I know my parents do as well. None of them were the cause of our parents’ estrangement.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Findekáno muttered.

“I know, but there is no more to say -- and I must go. Goodbye, Findekáno, and -- forgive me, will you?”

Maitimo turned to leave, his steps slow. He stopped when Findekáno said, “Maitimo, wait.”

He turned to listen. “What?”

Findekáno said, “Come to the wedding anyway. I won’t bother you and --- well, you’ve already said that you would. It would be a shame to waste those dinners, Amil would be very displeased.”

Maitimo smiled. “Impossible! But I will come.”