Be more cruel, Love, and so be kind. by Agelast

It was one of those immeasurably long and pleasant days of summer when the whole world stretched like a song one instinctively knew by heart. Laurelin’s light and heat were somewhat tempered by large clouds that billowed out like a ship’s sails across the wide horizon.

Carnistir lay on his side on the soft, deep grass in the shade of an oak tree. He watched the reflection of the clouds on the dark waters of the canal. Swans swam past, slowly, in pairs or singly, and behind them, slowly, came a long and narrow boat with a square-cut bow. It was navigated on one end by a man in a large straw hat.

He handled both the pole and punt quite well, which was for the best, since his passenger did not help at all. She was absorbed in reading a slim red book. A parasol dipped dangerously close to the water, before its owner jerked it back up again with a sigh.

Carnistir watched the couple for another moment before turning his attention to the light and the sky.

He had been exiled to a day out of doors and away from his books by Maitimo, who had gone as far to push him outside and locking the door behind him. He had walked, rather than ridden, and had come much further than he thought he would. He was quite out of the city proper, into a quiet woods beside the tranquil canal, where he could rest. But though his body lay idle, his mind did not. He recognized the couple in the boat; it was his half-cousin Findaráto and the Vanyarin lady who was said to be his beloved.

Carnistir sunk into the grass a little more, so he might be more or less hidden in the shade. He had no desire to talk to Findaráto in the least, and hoped to avoid it if he could. But it was all for naught, for he was spotted immediately.

“There’s Carnistir!” Findaráto cried out. He took off his hat and waved it at Carnistir rather frantically, the idiot. “What-ho, Carnistir!”

“Well, I don’t see him,” said Amarië -- that was her name, Carnistir remembered it now. He had been introduced to her often enough. Her eyes barely left the pages of her book.

“He’s in the grass, under that tree over there. Carnistir! Would you mind terribly if we picnicked with you? I know there’s a dock nearby where we can put the boat.”

Carnistir did not say yes or no, but Findaráto beamed as if he had received the most effusive of invitations.

There was nothing to be done.

Carnistir steeled himself for an afternoon of forced joviality.

At least, he thought gloomily, as he waited for Findaráto and Amarië to come to him, there was a good chance that their food would be top-notch.

His stomach still grumbled from the mostly raw meal he had had this afternoon -- it was the twins’ turn to cook and they had declared that cooking ruined the intrinsic nutritional value of the food and so the whole family had suffered, that week, with the meals they had come up with.

Today there had been puréed kale and spinach, with a side of warmed walnuts, and Carnistir was positive that violence would break out, sooner or later.

“There you are,” Findaráto said as he came down the path, picnic hamper in hand. Amarië came behind him with a blanket draped over her arm. They spread that out on the grass and then stretched out on it.

She went back to her book almost immediately, as Findaráto laid out the table settings. He spoke continuously as he did so; Carnistir did not think he paused once for breath.

“It is a lovely spot, isn’t it, Amarië?”

“Mm.”

“The bridge over the canal is, admittedly, not most complex of designs, but sometimes a simple arch achieves more than other, more elaborate schemes would not be able to --”

Then he paused to consider. He held up two small glass pots, one red and one orange. “Strawberry jam or marmalade? Does anyone have a preference?”

“Let's have both,” Amarië said. She put down her book and scrutinized Carnistir.

Then she asked, “Are you always this quiet?”

The wind tugging lose her curling, golden hair. It was darker than Findaráto’s (he shared the same tones of silver and gold as his sister did) and honey-colored, streaked with wheat. Her eyes, too, were dark blue, the bridge of her nose was freckled and so were her cheeks.

Carnistir found himself staring at her for a moment, then two, and looked away. “I speak when there is something to say,” he said at last, as Findaráto set down a plate before him.

“I put two extra plates here, just in case,” he explained cheerfully, and presented their lunch to them.

It was a glorious feast, without a doubt. There were bread-rolls, golden-brown and light, with pats of flower-shaped butter and tiny pots of jam and marmalade. There were fruits -- blueberries and raspberries, jewel-like in their brightness. Salads appeared, a riot of different shades of green -- emerald, ice, spring, mixed with eggs, sliced expertly so that the bright yellow egg-yolks were still slightly runny.

There were also tomatoes so ripe that when Findaráto cut into them, their juices gushed out, red-tinted and gently sweet and rich. Next came a roasted chicken, with rosemary and thyme, and lemon slices tumbling free from its inner cavity. Little fingerling potatoes were nestled in between rice flavored with saffron, their pink skins breaking easily to reveal the buttery creaminess inside.

Of wine, there were several types, the most memorable of which was a white from Valmar. It bubbled fiercely when Carnistir popped its cork, and nearly soaked his shirt through.

Desert was a perfect almond torte, dusted with powdered sugar, and tiny cups of strong, bitter coffee, from a silver flask.

Carnistir closed his eyes and threw back his head, deeply satisfied. Findaráto was finally silent, his eyes fluttering close. Amarië spoke only once, as her fork rang against her porcelain desert bowl. “This was all Ingoldo’s doing.”

Findaráto opened his eyes and smiled slightly at the mention of his mother-name, and turned his bright gaze to Carnistir, who felt this to be rather unfair. His cousin looked rather expectant.

“It is a magnificent picnic,” Carnistir conceded at last, if only to get Findaráto to stop looking at him that way. It made him feel unsettled and vaguely irritable, and guilty for feeling that way.

Afterwards, it was difficult to move or think too hard about certain things, such as cleaning up. So they all chased the last of the shadow of the oak and laid down on the soft grass, and fell into a deep, natural sleep.

Carnistir woke slowly, from a dream that he could not yet recall. There was a line of black ants marching through the ruined landscape of the picnic blanket, and it came dangerously close to his sleeve. He sighed and accidentally got a mouthful of Findaráto’s hair for his trouble. He spat it out again, disgruntled.

Findaráto stirred and said, “Only a moment more.” His eyes were firmly shut.

Carnistir pushed him away, firmly, and rolled around to see that Amarië was already awake, sprawled out on her stomach, still reading her book. For the first time, Carnistir could see the cover and the title. It was An Exploration into the Evolution of Language by Curufinwë Fëanáro -- which Fëanáro had written long before Carnistir had been born.

“My father wrote that,” he said and cursed himself for his stupidity. Of course Amarië knew that already.

“Yes,” she said, “I know. I’m giving a presentation on it next Valanya, would you like to come and see it?”

Carnistir felt that this encounter should be a one time occurrence -- as it went, his set and Findaráto’s just didn’t mix -- but instead of refusing as he supposed that he should have done, he said yes. It wasn’t as if he liked them, really, how absurd would that be? But they had worn him down, that was it, Findaráto especially, and Carnistir was not sure what he felt about him now -- irritation or -- something else entirely.

“Good,” Amarië said, smiling, and really, she was very lovely.

Findaráto, by this time, had pulled himself away from the Irmo’s grasp and sat up stretching.

“It’s later than I thought it would be,” he exclaimed, looking at the sky with something like alarm. Indeed, the mingling of the lights had now tipped over more to silver than gold. They began to pick things up and wash them off, leaving what leftovers that could not be eaten again to the birds.

“I am glad that we met with you today,” Findaráto said, as they made their way to the dock to see to the boat.

“Yes, I am too,” Carnistir said, handing the folded picnic blanket to Amarië.

“Are you sure you can’t come back with us? This canal goes quite far,” Amarië said, freeing her parasol from the bottom of the boat.

“No, I think I shall walk home,” Carnistir said, and turned to leave before they could protest further.

He was half-way down the path when Findaráto shouted, “We will see you at Amarië’s presentation!”

Carnistir turned back and shouted, “All right!”

+

It was a nine-day’s wonder among their extended family when word of Carnistir and Findaráto’s new friendship got out. Carnistir’s brothers, especially, could not seem to believe it. Tyelkormo was the worst of them, though Curufinwë was not much better.

“Honestly, Moryo, what could you be thinking of,” Tyelkormo said, sliding in to the seat next to him at dinner time. Curufinwë took the other seat beside him without a word. Tyelkormo went on, leaning back into his seat with a sigh. “Findaráto and his little girlfriend are such terrible bores. And so smug too. Be serious now, are you spending time with them as a joke? I can’t find any other explanation for it.”

“Perhaps Carnistir has designs on that Vanya girl,” Curufinwë said neutrally, taking a sip of water.

Tyelkormo laughed so long at that that they had to pound his back, since he was almost choking.

“That is very rich! Moryo should steal her out from under him, it would serve Findaráto right. Did you know what he said to me last year at the harvest festival …?” And Tyelkormo launched into a long story that Carnistir did not listen to.

Tyelkormo finished, “... It isn’t right for them to be so … matching. Irritating, I call it.”

Carnistir did not reply to their jabs, he did not even hear them.

In a strange way, he felt less of a stranger with Findaráto and Amarië then he did with his own brothers. Though that was no one’s fault, exactly. Maitimo and Makalaurë were the eldest and had grown up together. Ambarussa were twins and never to be separated. When Carnistir was young, he had stuck to Tyelkormo like a burr, but he did not share the joy his brother took in nature and in the hunt. There was no especial bond between them, as there was between Tyelkormo and Curufinwë.

Carnistir was a loner by instinct and by choice, but still, it had always stung to see his family form into small, self-sufficient groups and himself outside of it all.

Findaráto, now, seemed to move heaven and earth to include him in things. Amarië allowed him to be as strange and as quiet as he wished, after her initial doubts had faded away. Carnistir’s own initial suspicions dissipated with wave after wave of Findaráto’s goodwill and kindness. It was odd. Carnistir had never thought that he should be friends from that side of the family.

But they were both so good, and their friendliness was infectious. Carnistir felt happy when he was with them.

Amarië’s presentation was a great success and all her instructors were momentarily without a word of criticism. (Though Carnistir knew that would not be the case if his father had been present -- Fëanáro had many things to say about the Þ to s-shift, not all of them printable.)

Afterwards, they snuck away from all the academic sniping and stepped into the cool, clean air of the evening. Wandering down the cobblestone streets in the silver Treelight was pleasant enough, until Amarië began to complain that her shoes were hurting her feet. They were slippers more than anything, paper-thin and pretty, and had worn away to nothing.

Findaráto and Carnistir took turns supporting her until they came to a little no-name tavern near the edge of the city and bought, on a dare and a whim, a dark-brown liquor said to be an invention of Aulë’s.

After taking a swig of it, and feeling the fiery ball of liquid pass through his throat to his stomach, Carnistir could well believe it. Amarië took her shot nonchalantly. Findaráto laughed after drinking his -- though his eyes watered.

“Which one of you would like to kiss me, I wonder,” Amarië said, after more drinks had been consumed than was wise. She watched them through her lashes and there was a queer half-smile on her lips.

“But I thought -- you two --” Carnistir gave Findaráto a startled look. His cousin blushed and Carnistir tried not to stare too much at how color made its way across Findaráto’s face.

Findaráto cleared his throat and waved a vague hand to Amarië, “It is … complicated, with us.”

“We are lovers, friends, best friends, only friends, betrothed, unbetrothed, depending on the time of day and which way the wind blows,” Amarië said with a giggle. And that was something in and of itself, for she was not usually a giggling kind of person.

“Oh, I see,” Carnistir said. He didn’t, and it must have shown in his face.

Amarië seemed to decide to something then. She put down her glass, reached over, took Carnistir’s chin and angled his face up, gently, and kissed him. She was a good kisser -- and more experienced than Carnistir was, by far, and when they broke away, Carnistir was blushing and blinking, pleased and wishing that the ground could just swallow him up.

He looked at Findaráto who smiled back at him, and reached for another drink. His hand, long-fingered and clever, brushed against Carnistir’s forearm, and it was that touch Carnistir remembered long after the memory of the kiss had faded.

+

It was not right, he thought. I am not right.

His mind kept coming back to it, the kiss and the touch, until it was all that he could think about.

Carnistir stood awkwardly alone in midst of a chattering whirlpool of brothers and cousins and near-cousins and friends-of-cousins. Once or twice, someone made to grab his hand, but Carnistir pulled away and kept his arms hanging stiffly at his side.

He did not look for Findaráto’s familiar shape now, nor did he listen for Amarië’s distinctive laughter. After that night in the tavern, he had taken pains to avoid meeting with them, deflecting Findaráto’s questions and ignoring Amarië’s teasing notes.

He felt as though he was on the cusp of making a great mistake, the greatest in his young life. Tyelkormo was right, Curufinwë was right, he had nothing in common with them. They did not fit with him.

To avoid getting knocked over by over-eager debutantes (and their devoted beaux), Carnistir moved to the other end of the ballroom and kept going until he reached a wall, and a pair of pillars. From here, he could sit on a bench and see people coming into the ballroom and being announced, but he himself would be at least partially hidden from view.

A waiter came by, almost by mistake, and did not notice when Carnistir snagged a flute of wine from his tray.

The band struck a new song and the announcer ushered in Turukáno, son of Nolofinwë, and Elenwë, his betrothed. Carnistir made a face into his wine-flute. Nothing about Turukáno endeared him to Carnistir, not the arrogant way he surveyed the room, or how he held his fiancée’s hand, casually possessive.

What Carnistir liked least of all was that Findaráto and Amarië came in after Turukáno and Elenwë. There they all were, perfect friends and perfect lovers, and with no room for anyone else.

He felt as though there was not enough air in his body. He had to get out of this stuffy, awful ballroom -- he set down his drink and got up, his eyes on them -- until he bumped into someone behind him and yelped in surprise.

Maitimo steadied him and said, “What are you doing here, Moryo? Why are you hiding?”

Carnistir looked at his eldest brother suspiciously. “Why are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m waiting for Findekáno, but he’s late, as usual.” Maitimo said in a affectionate kind of way that most people used when talking Findekáno, though frankly Carnistir never saw what was supposed to be so special about his valiant cousin.

Valiant indeed -- rather, impulsive, impetuous -- and a bit stupid.

Maitimo was soft touch with him, which was something Carnistir could not wholly understand.

“I need a breath of fresh air,” Carnistir said, trying to push past his brother, but this was not easy. Maitimo held him back and studied him, his eye narrowed. After a long moment, he nodded, saying,“You do look a bit peaky. Go on then.”

Carnistir didn’t need to be told twice.

The gardens were lovely and gilded with silver. The water in the fountains played, the night-flowers bloomed. All of that was terribly boring, but anything was better than being in there.

+

He did not answer any of Findaráto’s letters, and eventually they withered away into nothing.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to my beta, Elleth. You are a gem on par with a Silmaril. :'D

Chapter titles are from Edna St. Vincent Millay, William Shakespeare, Lewis Carroll (slightly augmented in the absence of the sun), and Gerard Manley Hopkins. The title is from a poem by Queen Elizabeth I, On Monsieur's Departure.

The music rose like a tide over the empty seats of the theater.

Makalaurë hardly listened to it. Instead, he was busy scribbling on the margins of his score and occasionally shoving a piece of paper into the hands of his eager assistant, to take to the orchestra pit or to the actors on stage.

Carnistir was stuck painting the sets.

Since he had no great skill for it, he was tasked with the unimportant details -- the leaves in the trees, the stars in the night-sky, and more leaves, more trees, more sky.

He couldn’t complain, he had begged for something to do that summer, and Makalaurë was anxious to have everyone help in his first-ever staged production. He had been commissioned by Finwë to compose a three-act play about the Great Migration, in honor of High King Ingwë’s begetting day.

Carnistir had volunteered to help before he learned the bad news -- Findaráto was to play Ingwë! This was an outrage and completely inaccurate casting -- as Carnistir repeatedly told Makalaurë, Findaráto looked nothing like Ingwë, even the color of his hair was wrong. Makalaurë should cast Laurefindil -- no one would find Laurefindil objectionable!

“Moryo,” Makalaurë finally burst out, “speak sense, will you? Laurefindil’s singing voice is hardly on par with Findaráto’s. I don’t know what’s happened between you two, but if you have the urge to fight him, kinsmen or no, I will throw the both of you out of rehearsal by the ear.”

(It was true -- Findaráto’s singing voice was second only to Makalaurë’s own. It was also true that Makalaurë, usually so calm and collected, would happily resort to violence when pushed too far.)

So Carnistir suffered to see Findaráto everyday, always smiling, always handsome, and always irritating. There he was now, leading a sulking Artanis by the hand onto the stage. Artanis was to play the child Indis, though she, like all thespians, thirsted for the truly great roles -- of Varda, Manwë, and, in Tirion, at least, Finwë.

(Finwë, surprisingly, was not played by any of his very numerous grandsons at all, but by a virtual unknown whose name Carnistir always forgot.)

The rehearsal dragged on and on, as it often did, and Carnistir, done with his duties backstage, sat in one of the seats in the front to see the actors go through their lines. Some had a difficult time of acting while singing, but others were natural performers.

Such as Findaráto, who modestly disclaimed the applause following his performance with a slight smile. He loped off the stage with singular grace. What was it about him that set Carnistir’s teeth on edge?

As Carnistir tried to figure this out, Findaráto came and sat by him.

He started off at once. “Why haven’t you replied to any of my letters?”

The actors on stage flailed wildly and shouted, “Elwë! Elwë! Where are you?”

“I didn’t see the point,” Carnistir said, as one by one the actors stopped their searching, their necks bent with defeat. Olwë came forth, looking sad, yet noble, and took up a staff that Elwë had abandoned. He said, “We will go on!”

Findaráto said, “Who looks for the point of friendship? It is an end to itself.”

“What if I do not wish to be your friend?”

“Carnistir, what have I done wrong? Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t… hate you --”

The assistant director stood up and looked around. He was a harried-looking man, twelve years Makalaurë’s junior. He shouted, “Ingwë! Where is he? Tell him get on the stage!”

Findaráto sprang up and shouted back, “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Then he looked down to Carnistir and said, in rapid, intimate whisper: “Amarië’s father was called back to Valmar and took his family with him -- she will be gone for who knows how long. I don’t understand why you have abandoned me as well.”

“What about Turukáno? Has he abandoned you?” Carnistir hissed, his tone nastier than he had wanted it to be. But he still got a vicious shot of joy, seeing Findaráto’s face fall.

“Ingwë, for Eru’s sake, come to Valinor!” shouted the assistant director, somewhat hoarsely. Findaráto turned and ran down the aisle and up the stairs. later, when he sang the song of welcome to the newly arrived Teleri, his perfect voice cracked a little.

But Carnistir was not there to hear it.

+

It was opening night and Ingwë was in attendance, as were Indis and Finwë. Fëanáro and his sons took over the left side of the theater, and Nolofinwë and his family on the right. Arafinwë and Eärwen and their children sat in the middle, behind the kings and queens.

A fever of expectation ran through the theater, especially backstage and in the pit. Makalaurë was in a state of panic, with which he infected all around him. Someone knocked over Telperion and the silver crystals scattered all over the stage. Everyone, both the actors and the stage-crew, scrambled to string them up again while on the other side of the curtain, the audience grew restless.

Finally, the show began with one single note -- Makalaurë stepped on to a darkened stage and sang in the light, and the rest of the music, and the other performers. He sang so very well that no one seemed to mind that he had given himself the role of Eru Ilúvatar.

In the dressing rooms, his song was sadly muted, but all paused in their activity to hear it.

Carnistir, who had just finished threading leaves into Yavanna’s hair, looked up from his work to see Findaráto leaning against the wall. He was already in costume, in the light cotton chiton that all of the early Elves were supposed to have worn -- this was before the discovery of fashion.

His face and shoulders, his arms and legs were all dusted with gold, and his eyes were lined with kohl. Some thoughtful soul had even had thought to put him in a wig. On the whole, he looked quite uncomfortable, despite his splendid costume.

Carnistir got up and went to stand beside him. A little awkwardly, with the knowledge that he had treated his cousin rather poorly in the last few weeks, he said, “Don’t look so worried. You will do well.”

Findaráto brightened up. “Do you think so?”

“Yes. Of course. Who could do it better?”

His cousin laughed and seeming only impulse, kissed Carnistir on the cheek. Except Carnistir jerked forward in shock, and Findaráto’s lips touched the edge of his.

Carnistir reacted with a squeak -- a sound that he refused to believe came from his own lips -- except it clearly had. He knew he ought to push Findaráto away, but what he did was turn and press his own lips to Findaráto’s, and deepen the kiss until it was Findaráto who pulled away. He looked quite astonished.

“Carnistir,” he said, somewhat breathlessly. “I’m sorry.”

He did not look the least bit sorry.

“Please don’t be,” Carnistir said, too miserable to be believed.

“Findaráto!” Someone stuck their head through the open door, “you’re on!”

Findaráto left hurriedly, with several backward glances and hesitations. Carnistir sat down on the seat in front of the makeup table and covered his hot face with his hands.

+

Intermission came quickly and the whole house was in an uproar.

Artanis had astonished everyone by her performance as Indis. Hers were the best lines (despite anything Makalaurë had written), and her appearances garnered the most applause. Now Findaráto carried her on his shoulders through the crowd, and she tugged at his hair impetuously, from time to time, when she wanted to go faster.

Carnistir watched their progress for a while before some long-winded lord, a supporter of his father’s, got a hold of him and proceeded talk his ear off over the outrageous rise in the price of copper. Calimo was a good man, but he could never judge his audience well. Carnistir nodded along distractedly before excusing himself at the earliest possible opportunity.

He thought he was going to make it backstage without talking to another soul when he nearly collided, head on, with Findaráto and Artanis.

“This is impossible!” he muttered, vexed beyond words. He had gone weeks without talking to his cousin at all, and now here he was at every turn.

“You’ve got gold dust all over your face,” Artanis said suddenly.

“Yes, I suppose, I’ve been putting it on a lot of people, and not all of them stood still,” Carnistir said with a quick look at Findaráto, who laughed in a fake way. Carnistir began rubbing the dust off his face quickly.

Artanis had a very penetrating stare, it was almost frightening to think of what it would be like when she was fully grown.

Finally, she said, “You shouldn’t be so mean to my brother. He likes you a lot, for some reason.”

“Shush, Nerwen. Remember what we talked about?” Findaráto said, stooping so she could get off. She frowned, her small forehead creased in concentration.

“Yes,” she said carefully. “I can look inside someone’s mind only if they’ve invited me in to do so.”

“That’s right. Now what do you say?”

“I’m sorry, Morifinwë,” she said contritely, and Carnistir nodded, not quite daring to say anything. “But you really should be nicer, you know,” she said, and then darted into crowd before Findaráto could stop her.

“I really am being as nice as I can be,” Carnistir said, bewildered.

Findaráto sighed and said, “I know.”

+

It was ten minutes to curtain call and Carnistir and Findaráto were kissing rather frantically in the broom closet. It was cramped there, and dark, and broom handles dug into the small of Carnistir’s back, but it had the distinct advantage of being free of the cast and crew, not to mention frighteningly perceptive little sisters.

Even the stale air wasn’t so terrible, since his face was buried in Findaráto’s fine, if a little sweaty hair. Findaráto seemed to vibrate with pleasure, purring almost, and eager to be touched. He was so --

Carnistir wanted this altogether too much, and all thoughts of how this was impossible, wrong and guaranteed to be as short-lived as possible, went up in smoke. He didn’t care, he didn’t want to think about how little he cared, he wanted Findaráto, and that was all.

Findaráto was saying, “We should --”

“Yes, yes,” Carnistir said ardently, “we should do it all, given time.”

He peeled back the shoulder of Findaráto's chiton until the robe fell down around his cousin’s narrow hips. Findaráto threw back his head, his throat moving, though no words came out from his open mouth.

Findaráto, speechless -- Carnistir never thought he would see the day.

“I mean,” Findaráto started to say, because nothing lasts forever, “we should go to the coast, after the play’s wrapped up. I know a place.”

“Yes, all right,” Carnistir, picking himself off the floor, where he had fallen on his knees, without noticing it. Findaráto helped him up, and Carnistir helped him put his clothes back on. Regretfully, yes, but he did it.

+

There were five curtain calls, and then another, until Makalaurë was pulled on stage and took a bow and sang one last song. The next day, everyone who had been there, and many who had not, called the play a tremendous success.

Carnistir, when asked about it later, could not remember a single thing about it.

Though even he did not say so in his elder brother’s hearing.

Even he was not such a fool.

The wind picked up and whipped at their clothes, tugging the hats from their heads.

Carnistir’s was lost, now half-way down the cliff to the beach below. The briny air made his skin itch, and his hair spilled over his face. Of course, Findaráto looked very well. Somewhere along their journey from Tirion to the outskirts of Aqualondë, he had acquired a nice tan (while Carnistir had merely burned) and his hat stayed on his head, and looked good doing it.

It was enough to almost hate him, really.

They had both campaigned hard for this trip to happen, and had found an unexpected ally in their grandfather, Finwë, who was, by all accounts very pleased by Carnistir and Findaráto’s unexpected friendship. This was, he had announced, how he had hoped all of his children and their children would be -- united in friendship.

They had two weeks and a pack of supplies that would last them a bit longer, and a cottage by the sea.

The cottage, Findaráto was explaining, had been built by his uncle -- not Nolofinwë, but one of Eärwen’s brothers, and he had always had rather eccentric tastes. It was not a very big house, indeed, it was more of a cottage -- or a shack -- than a place anyone could live in, year round.

It sat, precariously, on a craggy rock above the water, a house made from driftwood that had floated, for centuries on end, from the other shore. Findaráto placed a loving hand on the doorpost. “To think, these trees grew and died, never having seen the light of the Trees.”

“Or any light at all, if the loremasters are to be believed, except starlight. One has to wonder how they grew,” Carnistir said. His finger caught a splinter and he hissed in surprise.

“Come on, the key’s in here,” Findaráto said, lifting a rock on the front step. And to be sure, there it was, and when Findaráto opened the door, the stale smell of shut-in house rushed to greet them. They opened the windows and doors to air everything out, and then Findaráto insisted they go see the beach.

Carnistir looked at the pile of things that still needed to be unpacked and shrugged. This had all been Findaráto’s idea, he had gone along with it because it pleased him. And it had also amused him to see the disbelief in Tyelkormo and Curufinwë’s faces when he announced that he was running away to Aqualondë with Findaráto for two weeks.

Well, it was a bit farther than Aqualondë, and perhaps for more than two weeks, but the point still stood.

Along the path, someone had planted flowers; daylilies, gazanias and sea-pinks. The season was ending soon, and already their petals had begun to look bedraggled, but still as the cousins rushed past them, all they saw was a riot of colors.

There was a stairwell, carved from the living rock, that went down to the beach. The beach itself was pebbly, with grey and white speckled rocks, and none of jewels that the Noldor had gifted the Teleri to adorn their beaches with were in evidence.

The water was a dark blue and shockingly, breath-stealingly cold.

Carnistir asked, teeth chattering, “How can you like this?!”

“It’s invigorating!” Findaráto said, splashing him.

“You’re mad!”

Findaráto cackled and stamped his feet against the rocks, a Noldorin prince transformed into a wild sea-elf. He stripped down to his underclothes and rushed into the water, leaving Carnistir on the shore with his mouth agape.

“This doesn’t make you look less mad,” he shouted to Findaráto’s retreating back.

And after a moment of contemplation, Carnistir rushed to join him.

The water cut through him like a knife. But with the cold came a sharp, inexpressible happiness.

+

The driftwood fire spat out sparks and burned blue and orange.

The fish-pies that were to be their dinner began to smoke a little, and had developed scorch-marks before Carnistir could rescue them from the fire. He made a face, hating even the idea of fish-pies.

But at least Findaráto’s uncle believed in keeping a good cellar, as the row of wine-bottles on the mantle proved. Carnistir picked out a red wine from Tol Eressëa and popped the cork out. It bounced once, twice, and fell into the fireplace and was consumed with a little lick of flame.

Carnistir debated the merits of starting without his cousin, but in the end it was all for naught, since Findaráto came in just then, still drying his hair with a towel. He bumped his shoulder against Carnistir and reached for the bottle.

The night commenced with drinking and eating, and soon the fish pies lay cold and abandoned, and they were sprawled in front of the fireplace, with only a thin blanket between to ward off the chill of the air and hardness of floor.

It was Findaráto who made the first move, a feint to grab something just above Carnistir’s left ear. But Carnistir had not grown up in a house full of brothers for nothing and soon he had Findaráto on his back, with himself on top. He felt very smug about it.

He said, smiling down at Findaráto, “What would Amarië say if she saw you like this, cousin? What would her parents say? It is not very proper, is it?”

Findaráto strained upwards, his mouth curved into a feral grin. “I thought Fëanorians cared not a jolt for propriety.”

“Really? And I thought that was all Arafinwëans cared about,” Carnistir said, his lips grazing the knuckles of Findaráto’s outstretched hand. His cousin pressed the palm to his mouth, and Carnistir kissed it. There was a long moment when they were both silent.

“I suppose we are not so different after all,” Findaráto said with a sigh, taking his hand away.

Carnistir lay down beside him and said, “Don’t be silly. We could hardly be more different.”

Findaráto said, “Perhaps we’re so different that we loop back around and become the same.”

“You’re impossible to talk to when you’re drunk.” And considering it further, Carnistir said, “And when you’re sober.”

“You like talking to me, I know it. That’s why you always avoided me before. You don’t like liking things! It makes you feel vulnerable.”

“What rubbish,” Carnistir said warmly, rubbing his chin and peering blearily at Findaráto and the fire.

“I do love Amarië, you know. I love her! And she loves me. But the problem -- if it is a problem, and I don’t think it is -- is that we are as content to be apart as we are to be together. Everyone says that we should be married while we are still young, but I don’t see why. We have so much time. All we have is time.”

“Very profound, but what does it have to do with me?”

“She likes you, you know,” Findaráto said, looking at Carnistir uncertainly. Carnistir opened his mouth to say -- I understand it. I understand but I don’t care, do shut up, Ingoldo, shut up and let me kiss you, I will make you forget all about --

“I like her too,” Carnistir said instead, pulling away from Findaráto. But I love you.

Findaráto patted Carnistir’s thigh. “Yes, I know.”

Carnistir slapped his hand. “Egotistic arse.”

+

The next day, Findaráto disappeared for the whole morning and came back with a silver-haired, taciturn man, whose skin resembled boiled leather.

“This is Lingwimityo,” Findaráto said proudly, “he’s kind enough to take us fishing today.”

Carnistir had spent the morning frantically ransacking the cottage’s tiny kitchen for any trace of coffee -- or tea -- even the tasteless, flowery sort Findaráto favored. The best he had managed was to brew a sickly green cup of herbal tea. Of what herbs it was made of he had no idea, but it promised to be the most disgusting drink this side of Aqualondë.

“I don’t think I can go,” Carnistir said, taking a firm sip from his cup. He heroically stopped himself from making a face. Then he looked at Lingwimityo critically. “Your parents were unusually cruel people, weren’t they, Fishguts?”

Lingwimityo gave a loud, phlegmy laugh, though his eyes were flinty. “They weren’t the only ones, Red-Face.”

Carnistir felt his face grow hot -- damned timing! -- when Findaráto interrupted hastily. He said, “Think of it as an adventure, a new experience to write home about.”

“Boat’s already been paid for,” Lingwimityo said, and spat on the steps.

Carnistir took another sip of his tea.

+

It had started well, their fishing expedition. The sun was out and the sky, clear. Their small boat chugged out into open waters with surprising speed. Lingwimityo barked out orders and Findaráto obeyed without question. Carnistir kept out of the way, mostly, clutching the rail as hard as he could, trying to ignore the way the deck went up and down beneath his feet.

He was not seasick, he was not --

“If you move around, it won’t be so bad,” Findaráto said sympathetically. And it was true that he didn’t quite feel like falling over when it came time to haul up the nets. But overhead, the sky had turned dark and the wind picked up. Soon it began to rain, sheets of it, lashing against the deck.

A sudden gale rocked their boat to-and-fro on the rough waters.

“It seems that Ossë has taken a shine to you, young sir,” Lingwimityo shouted at him over the dim, with almost demonic pleasure.

“Bugger Ossë!” Carnistir shouted back, getting a faceful of salt water for his troubles.

“That’s between him and Uinen, you blasphemer!” Lingwimityo said, as a peal of thunder rattled their little boat. Findaráto, who had disappeared below decks as this exchange was going on, appeared again.

“Carnistir! Hold on to this!” Findaráto shouted, giving him a rope tied to the mast. And Carnistir held on for dear life as the salt spray stung his face and hands. He wondered if he should be knocked from the boat into the water, if he should drown and go to Mandos, see his grandmother, Míriel, for the first time... and have to explain to her how he had died under such idiotic circumstances.

He heard Lingwimityo shouting -- again -- and he realized a second too late it was for him to duck. After a long moment of utter darkness, and Carnistir woke up to Findaráto’s anxious face, lit by the glow of the fireplace. Carnistir sat up quickly and regretted it.

He was hit by a strong, fishy smell and faltered in his fury.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Findaráto said in his most soothing voice. “After you were knocked out, the storm abated and Fishguts was able to bring us back to shore. He let us have his bed for the night.”

“Does he sleep with fish?” Carnistir asked weakly, too tired to put much bite to his words.

Findaráto’s mouth trembled, but he said, quite seriously, “Not that I know of.” Then he patted Carnistir’s cheek. “The healer will be here tomorrow, but I think you’ll be all right. You have a remarkably hard head.”

Indeed, when the healer came -- a brisk-looking woman with dark-braided hair with a shy apprentice trailing behind her -- she declared him to be in perfect health, though he was to stay indoors for the next few days. And perhaps, in her professional and personal opinion, he ought never to mess about with boats if he could not listen to the captain.

Here, she and Lingwimityo exchanged a significant glance. Carnistir nearly growled aloud. The healer’s apprentice caught the look on his face and retreated backwards, alarmed.

After a breakfast of blackened fish, Fishguts saw them go, looking no worse off for having missed a night of sleep.

Stiffly, Carnistir thanked him for saving him. But Lingwimityo waved off his words. “It’s your kinsman you ought to thank. He grabbed ahold of you as you were about to go over and the both of you nearly drowned.”

The news of Findaráto’s heroics did not surprise Carnistir in the least. But what did was the uncharacteristic silence that descended upon them on their way back to the cottage, and how, afterwards, Findaráto begged leave to take a walk along the cliffs, alone.

Carnistir watched him go with a word of protest, wondering what had happened.

The rest of the day passed slowly. He had a slew of letters that needed answering, but he only gave them a disinterested look through before feeding them slowly into the fire. Night fell and the wind picked up again. Rain hit against the windowpanes, and Carnistir wondered if Findaráto had met with some accident on the steep and narrow path leading back to the cottage.

Not likely, he assured himself. Findaráto seemed to be at least some part goat, given the sureness of his steps. The rain fell harder and Carnistir resolved to go out and seek out his cousin, the healer’s instruction be damned.

But he did not have to, for there came a knock on the door, and opening it, Carnistir found Findaráto leaning against the door-frame, soaked to the skin.

Carnistir cut off his harsh words at their roots, and led Findaráto to the fire. Without asking, he stripped Findaráto of his clothes and brought a towel to dry him. Findaráto was silent and strange throughout, and did not stir even when Carnistir served him a hot bowl of soup.

Now, Carnistir was not accounted to be the best of cooks. Indeed, among his brothers, he was accounted to be the worst of the lot, even before the twins, but Findaráto ate the peppery potato soup that Carnistir ladled out without a single word of complaint. Then he put down the bowl and looked around, as if he was seeing everything for the first time.

Carnistir cleared away the rest of the bowls and spoons, and they sat together, silent except for the crackling of the fire.

After a long, awkward moment, Findaráto spoke.

“Carnistir,” he said, and Carnistir stirred from his seat, where he was hunched over, nearly half-asleep.

“Yes?”

“Do you think that it is possible to see the future?”

Carnistir stirred uncomfortably. “They say it is possible, that some of Elves are born with that ability. Why? Do you have it?”

“Yes,” Findaráto said, matter-of-factly, “I think I do.” At Carnistir’s raised brow, he said, a touch impatiently, “Usually it is small things. What color tunic father will wear tomorrow, what song I will sing at dinner. But yesterday, when you were drowning, I saw --”

“What did you see?”

“Darkness. I have never seen so much darkness! There were bodies, and they were drowning, their lungs full of blood. I heard your voice, but I could not understand what you were saying. A voice told me that it would have been better that you died today, innocent, than live and become … something else.”

Carnistir wrapped his arms around himself and looked into the fire. “I -- I think that I would like to live.”

“And I would not let you die!” Findaráto said fiercely. “I cannot understand what cruel thing could have possessed me to see that and to think in that way.”

“Findaráto...”

“What is this thing I saw? Why does it haunt me still?”

“Findaráto, listen to me. They say that to see the future is to see only one sliver of it, a possibility of a possibility. I do not know what coming disaster you saw but … it’s probably nothing.” He felt his cheek begin to redden and knew that he had said the wrong thing.

“You don’t believe me,” Findaráto said flatly.

“I did not say that. Findaráto...”

“Stop, stop,” Findaráto stood up and pushed away the blanket that he had been wrapped in. “I grow impatient with you. You come close, then you push me away. You think that you love, but you’re content to hate. Why did you come here, Morifinwë, son of Fëanáro? Did you come to laugh at me, to have the audacity to touch you? How do I dare, a son of a lesser house, think myself your equal?”

Carnistir started. It seemed to him that the Findaráto he knew had disappeared and had been replaced with an impetuous stranger, whose hair might fall, golden, upon his shoulders, but whose sneer was much his own. Findaráto spat out more words, words that had festered in the dark corners of Carnistir’s own mind, things he had never thought to say, until Carnistir could not bear to hear him speak. Findaráto had to be stopped.

Carnistir clenched his fist and took a step towards him. “Do not presume to speak for me. You do not know me well enough for that. Stop or else I will --”

“What will you do, Moryo, my dear? Hit me?”

If Findaráto had on a shirt, Carnistir would have grabbed his collar. As it was, he grabbed Findaráto’s arm and Findaráto snaked the other around Carnistir’s waist. They glared at each other for moment, and the kiss that followed was more of a blow than anything else. Findaráto bit down on his lip, enough to draw blood.

When it was over, Carnistir staggered back a little.

“Is that all you can do?” he said, with a shaky laugh.

Another kiss, longer this time. Findaráto pulled the clothes from Carnistir’s body, his hands ungentle. Carnistir pulled down his trousers down his hips, and Findaráto soon followed. Their clothes lay puddled on the floor around their legs.

Findaráto’s hands, those long fingers, grabbed a hold of both of their cocks, and slowly, deliberately, slid them against each other. The friction was not enough, and yet, it was already too much and Carnistir swore as he came. He used Findaráto’s trousers to clean himself off, as revenge.

But Findaráto only laughed and shook his head. He kissed him again, softer now, almost pityingly, his cock still hard. He reached down to finish it. But Carnistir knocked his hand away and brought him off.

They went to Findaráto’s bedroom hurriedly, almost tripping each other in their eagerness. Their first time was competitive and frustratingly short, but neither thought to give up. Eventually, when the window facing west began flood with golden light, they found sleep at last, arms thrown around each other.

+

Carnistir woke and found Findaráto was still in bed. He was trying to untangle his hair, which had dried into a golden frizz. Carnistir took some of it into his hands and marveled at it, silently. They worked until all of Findaráto’s hair flowed down his back, silver and golden mingled. Afterwards, Carnistir pressed his face against it and breathed in Findaráto’s scent, mixed with sea and himself, and was pleased.

Findaráto turned and quirked his lips upwards into an expression that was not a smile. Not yet.

Carnistir’s heart beat rapidly in his chest as he drew Findaráto on top of him, their fingers laced together. They did not know exactly how their bodies were supposed to fit together, but this time, Carnistir lasted a little longer, and when he came, sated, he looked to Findaráto with a speculative look in his eye.

When Carnistir had first heard of a maiden’s taking a man’s cock into her mouth, to give pleasure but not to bind to each other, he had thought it a lewd tale with no basis in reality. His own cock, while serviceable and not hideous, would not be a thing he would expect anyone to put into their mouth.

His brothers had, naturally, spoken of this at length. Even Maitimo’s cock, which everyone agreed (except Maitimo, who pointedly did not participate in the conversation) was the best shaped cock possible -- even that was not so tempting.

But now, Carnistir could understand the impulse. His face heated up and his skin felt as if it was covered entirely in sweat. And, he said, quite steadly, “I want to take you into my mouth. Do you have any objections?”

Findaráto, to Carnistir’s secret relief, also blushed.

He said, hesitatingly, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Yes,” Carnistir said, sounding braver than he felt.

Findaráto’s tanned skin petered out below his flat belly and became fair. His cock was more lovely than Maitimo’s could ever be, or perhaps Carnistir only thought so because he looked at it as a lover would. It was pink and smooth, except for a little vein on the underside of it. A light dusting of hair, darker gold than up top, completed the picture.

Findaráto was wonderfully responsive whenever Carnistir touched him.

Carnistir, who had no particular musical skill, thought he might be able to play Findaráto better than Makalaurë played his harp. But that, like all things that were worth doing well, would take practice.

+

They spent the remaining days entirely in each other’s company. They did not speak of Amarië or what awaited them in Tirion. Instead, Findaráto taught him how to fish with a fly, a rod, a reel, and weighted line.

There was a stream, a few steps from the cottage, that became so full of salmon that a fishing line ceased to be necessary -- one could just scoop out the wriggling fish with bare hands. And this they intended to to do, until Findaráto spotted a mother bear and her cub lurking at the edge of the woods. They retreated back to watch the two bears frolic and hunt in the stream, filling the air with droplets of water and panicking fish.

They went swimming, almost daily, on the sandy beach a mile away from the cottage. There was nothing there except endless stretches of ocean, sand, sky and the waving sea-oats. Carnistir would lie on the sand and soak in Laurelin’s light, which was weakened, so far from Ezellohar.

Findaráto would come upon him, dripping wet and they would kiss, lazily and slow, until the mood struck them to do something else.

Carnistir started finding sand in the most irritating of places; he complained, but not as hard as he could have.

“I see, that is how to manage your temper,” Findaráto said, one day as they were lounging on the beach. His teasing came with an edge to it now, a bite that Carnistir found more than a little tempting.

“Do you think so? That you can temper my harsh temper with a good hard fuck?” Carnistir said, blandly. Findarato laughed and shrugged. When Carnistir was not watching, he picked a handful of wet sand and dripped it down his back.

Carnistir sprang up with a cry and gave chase. But Findaráto was faster, and used to running in the sand.

After several rough starts, they grew familiar with each other’s bodies, learned what the other liked, and disliked, what felt good for both of them. The discovery that they could use cooking oil in bed was a revelation, though their suppers suffered for it.

They fell into patterns.

Findaráto was aggressive, demanding with sex in ways that he was not, could not be in ordinary life. Carnistir could let go, lose control without losing it all.

Once, Findaráto threw a necklace made of shells, white, lavender and blue to him, and Carnistir knew that as a son of Fëanáro, he ought to complain about the simplicity of the design and the plainness of the shells. But he found that he could not and wore it everyday until the string broke.

Two weeks passed. Then a month. In the back of Carnistir’s mind stood the knowledge that this could not last. Their lives would swallow them up again, separate them, perhaps forever. Findaráto did not speak of it, but Carnistir knew that he would go back to Amarië and do what was expected of him.

Carnistir understood that, but understanding did nothing to lessen his anger. But still, it lay dormant as the last, sweet days of summer ended. The sea changed again, from the color of Findaráto’s eyes, blue and candid, to Carnistir’s, grey and stormy.

One morning, when they lay together in bed, Carnistir woke to a pounding at the door. Someone was calling his name. Beside him, Findaráto stirred. “Five more minutes,” he said, burying his head in his pillow.

“Someone’s at the door,” Carnistir hissed at him. Findaráto looked at him blankly for a moment and then yawned.

“Judging from the noise, they’re looking for you.”

Carnistir dressed quickly and went to the door.

“Moryo! Moryo! Are you in there? Or have you died?”

Carnistir opened the door, scowling, to the smiling faces of his brothers, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë.

“I’m here and I’m alive,” he said and closed the door again. They redoubled their knocking, and by that time Findaráto had come down and stood beside him, quiet for once. When Carnistir opened the door again, his brothers shouldered in, laughing and shouting.

“Everyone thinks that you have killed each other. You don’t answer letters, you don’t come to town. It was only by Haru’s command that no one came to fetch you. He seemed to think that your friendship was worth cultivating, for some reason. Hello there, Artafindë, I didn’t see you there. You’re looking well.”

“Thank you, Turkafinwë, so are you.”

Curufinwë said, “Tyelko always looks well, that’s his tragedy.”

“The only tragic thing is how his fat head ruins his looks,” Carnistir said, closing the door.

“I see that you are as pleasant as ever, Moryo,” Curufinwë said with a thin smile.

“Well, now your days of idleness are over and it’s back to Tirion you go,” Tyelkormo said briskly. “Although, wait a minute, I’ve got a letter for you, Artafindë, from King Olwë. I suppose he wants to you stay over in Aqualondë or something.” He threw a letter, thick and cream-colored, at Findaráto, who caught it easily and tucked it into his pocket.

Carnistir’s eyes sought Findaráto’s, but he could only see his own apprehension and disappointment in them. Finally, gathering himself together, he said, somewhat carelessly, “All right, I was getting bored anyway. Let’s have breakfast and then pack. Tyelko, there’s good hunting in the woods here.”

“We ate at the inn on our way here. It was terrible, the stupid cook put seaweed into the soup. But -- hunting, you say? Curvo, let’s see what we can get.” Looking at Carnistir, he said, “You’ll be finished by the afternoon?”

“Of course.”

“Good. We’ll leave then. Come on, Curvo.” Tyelkormo was out the door like a shot.

Curufinwë shot Carnistir a bright, knowing look and left the room. When he closed the door behind them, Carnistir found that he was trembling.

Findaráto was at the window, watching them go. He did not speak until their backs were swallowed up by the woods. “Were you truly bored here?”

“No! I -- I’ve never had such a wonderful time,” Carnistir said, rubbed his fingers together, feeling the the little scar that a fish hook had made on the pad of his thumb some days ago.

“But why then did you say...?”

“My brothers always put me on edge,” Carnistir said, not apologizing, not quite.

+

Breakfast was a subdued meal, comprised of all the leftovers they had that were still worth eating. They did not speak much; a definite feeling of gloom had settled upon them both.

After breakfast, they wandered back to their rooms and began to pack. Along with his clothes and books, Carnistir tucked the broken shell necklace into his bags.

After he was done, he sat on the bed he had not slept in since the beginning of the trip. The window before him looked out to the rocks and sea beyond. It had begun to rain again and the sky was greying and dark.

He expected at any time to hear another knock at the door, to have Tyelkormo declare the day’s hunting to be a wash, but it did not come. Perhaps Tyelkormo -- and it was always Tyelkormo who did this -- did not wish to give up the chase merely because of some inclement weather.

There was a soft knock on his door.

“Come in,” he said, his eyes not leaving the window.

“Are you packed?” Findaráto asked.

“Yes, I’m ready. Are you?”

“Oh, I don’t need to take much back with me. I shall be back here, by and by.”

“Findaráto,” Carnistir said, turning to look at him, “come here.”

And Findaráto came, expectantly. He was wearing one of Carnistir’s shirts and his hair was tied back with a piece of string. Carnistir pressed a hand over Findaráto’s heart. He was so beautiful, it hurt to look at him. But Carnistir did; he drank him up, all of him.

Findaráto said, tentatively, “It’s not like we’re going to be separated forever. We can see each other as often as we like.”

“It wouldn’t be the same, and you know it,” Carnistir said. Then he kissed Findaráto’s bright and expectant face and led him to the bed. It creaked alarmingly under their combined weight, and Carnistir pulled Findaráto down to him.

“We haven’t much time,” Findaráto said, in between their kisses.

“Yes, I know that,” Carnistir said impatiently, “we have to make the best of it.”

And they did make the best of it, because there was nothing more to do, and nothing less, than that. To escape the inevitability of fate, of choice, and luck (not all of it bad) now, that was impossible. So, Carnistir ran a hand inside the smooth line of Findaráto’s thighs and watched him transform into a hazy-eyed creature of love and sex and he shuddered when Findaráto bit into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Carnistir swore, a blacksmith’s curse he had learned from Mahtan as a child -- his grandfather hadn’t known he was hiding under that particular table -- and Findaráto laughed, which splintered and cracked into a million pieces.

They were quick to make love, and quick to separate.

They left Findaráto at the harbor of Aqualondë, surrounded by many people who clearly adored him. Over the noise of the fast-growing crowd, he shouted one last farewell to Carnistir, and something to Tyelkormo and Curufinwë. Carnistir watched with a pang as he disappeared, while his brothers quietly joked amongst themselves.

“Are you ready to stop moping?” Tyelkormo said, as they wandered up the harbor road, waiting for the carriage that would take them back to Tirion.

“I’m not moping,” Carnistir said miserably. He picked up a pebble from the road and tossed it away. It hit an upended swan-ship that was resting on the side of the road. The boy who was painting its side turned to glare at him, and Carnistir glared back.

“There’s no point in talking to him now,” Curufinwë said, bored, as the carriage came in.

Carnistir sat on one side of the carriage and his brothers sat in the other. To avoid having to talk, he looked out of the window to see Aqualondë and its harbor, shining in the distance. He thought suddenly of Findaráto’s dream, half-forgotten in everything that had come after. As stubbornly prosaic as he was, Carnistir could not shake the feeling that Findaráto had dreamt true. But what did it mean for them?

He rubbed a nervous hand against the inside of his wrists, observing how his tan was fading already.

Curufinwë nudged his feet and Carnistir jerked away with a sigh.

“So, I was wrong,” Curufinwë began.

“Must you speak?” Carnistir said tiredly. Tyelkormo had fallen asleep by this time, his only contribution to the conversation was a quiet snore.

“It wasn’t Amarië you were interested in, after all,” Curufinwë went on, as if he had not spoken. “It was Findaráto! How stupid of you, you have to know it’s never going to go anywhere. He’ll be married, eventually, and where will that leave you?”

“Mm. What are we talking about?” Tyelkormo had shaken himself awake by this time, and peered at them owlishly.

“Carnistir’s made a fool of himself over Findaráto, that’s all,” Curufinwë said casually.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort!” Carnistir said hotly.

Tyelkormo gave him an understanding smile. “Nevermind. I’m sure Moryo was only playing at it. Weren’t you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Carnistir said, and Tyelkormo shrugged.

Curufinwë gave him a bored look. “You’re hardly the first to be unlucky in love.”

“Leave off him,” Tyelkormo said easily, and Curufinwë did.

But it was too late. Carnistir felt a sudden, sick sense of doubt, as if his stomach had turned inside out. Findaráto would go back to Amarië, and only to her. Carnistir was a fool to hope otherwise, clutching hard at the remnants of a summer infatuation that meant nothing. He felt as though he had been tricked, made a fool of, his heart had been taken and then tossed away like a worthless bauble.

+

Amarië came up beside Carnistir and took his hand.

“Come along,” she said.

He hesitated. The people who were milling around them on the garden path had stopped and were watching them.

“Let them stare, if they haven’t anything better to do,” she continued on, walking briskly on, her steps making sharp little clips on the walkway. He followed her, curious as to what she would say.

Autumn had faded into winter -- even in Aman, there was winter. It was mostly for variety’s sake, to see the landscape change from vibrant greens to something more subtle and cool. A hint of chill came with the wind, invigorating rather than cold.

Winter also gave the Elves an opportunity to wear more elaborate, heavier clothing and be more comfortable in them. Such as the one Amarië was wearing: a silk dress edged in lace and pale blue ribbons, with a pattern of semiprecious stones stitched into the collar. She caught him eyeing it, and rolled her eyes.

“My father insists that I dress more formally when I am at court. To make a better impression.” Somewhat impatiently, she picked a ribbon that had escaped from its bow and now trailed down her forearm.

“Ah,” he said. It was not improbable that Amarië’s parents were ambitious, and had definite hopes about their only daughter’s prospects.

“Not everyone was born at the top,” she continued on, rightly reading his expression.

“Quite. But that’s not something you have to worry about, with you and Findaráto...” he said, trailing off awkwardly. Suddenly the gravel beneath his feet became incredibly fascinating. They wandered through a gate of a sprawling hedge-maze.

They went in, and did not speak until they were completely alone, near the center of the maze.

Amarië said, “I understand, you know. More than you think.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” Carnistir said, stopping. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s quite wrong. Findaráto and I are cousins, that’s all. Half-cousins at that. We are not even especially close. In fact, I hated him when I was younger,” he said, pausing to examine a statue of Varda Elentári that stood in a small alcove cut into the hedge. “I was famous for it.”

“But why Findaráto?”

“And his brothers too, I should say. I can’t expect you to understand it -- you’ve probably never disliked anyone in your life, have you?”

“I’m starting to,” she said, tartly, and he smiled at her. He had been told long many times that his smiles tended to discomfit rather than reassure. But Amarië was not cowed. She looked at him, her arms folded.

Carnistir sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He would have liked to lean against something, anything, but the statue was one of his mother’s, and thus could not be trifled with, and he knew better than to lean against a hedge, however thick it may might seem.

He said, “You should be careful, hate can be just as steadfast as love, at times. I cannot even remember how it came about, my dislike for Arafinwë’s children. Something small, something petty must have sparked it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You can have him.”

He turned to go down the path again.

“For the love of --”, Amarië exclaimed, glaring at him. “Is everyone in your family so maddening, or is it just you?”

“I’m not sure,” Carnistir said, honestly.

“Ridiculous!” she huffed, hurrying to catch up his long strides. “Stop. We needn’t do this, you know,” she said. “Findaráto told me everything, from the beginning. He always does.”

Carnistir stiffened in -- what? Shock? No, not that. Anger, perhaps, but that was a familiar emotion for him. His heart seemed to shrink until it rattled in his ribcage. He said nothing for a time, as they walked further into the maze. The dark green leaves of hedge brushed against the velvet of his sleeve and he almost stumbled over a pebble on the path in front of him.

“Morifinwë?” Amarië said, her voice tentative.

“I should have known. My brothers were right,” he said a low, intense voice.

Amarië looked bewildered. “What do you mean?”

Ignoring her, he walked on blindly, still speaking. “That first day. Did you plan it -- the both of you? Why would either of you give me the time of day otherwise... Was it funny to see how quickly I fell for it, how much I wanted -- But I am so ugly, I am so repellant, my tongue is so sharp, my temper so harsh. Surely I can’t be loved. I’m not worthy of it, I --”

“No! Carnistir, what are you talking about?”

“It was a joke, only a joke -- this whole time, he was laughing at me. Tell him --” His voice shook, but his eyes remained dry. “Tell Findaráto that I hate him and I’ll hate him until the end of Arda.”

+

Hours went past, or perhaps it was days, before there was a knock at his door. Carnistir stayed where he was and didn’t reply to any of Maitimo’s questions. His brother let himself inside, though Carnistir could have sworn he had locked the door.

Maitimo said, quietly, “Moryo, I have your supper here.”

Carnistir didn’t stir from his bed, nor did he lift the blanket that covered his head. “I’m not hungry.”

Maitimo came in anyway and set the plate down on Carnistir’s writing table. Then he perched on the edge of the bed. “Do you want to talk about what happened today?”

“No. Never again.”

“Moryo, come here so I can see your face.” His voice was still soft, but there was a note of command in it that made Carnistir sit up and look at him. He knew that his eyes were runny and his face was red. His hair was surely a bird’s nest.

“Seen enough?” he growled, but Maitimo only shook his head and patted the empty spot beside him.

“I’m not a child,” Carnistir said as he crawled over his twisted bedsheets and came to where Maitimo was sitting.

“I know you aren’t,” Maitimo said, as Carnistir sighed and curled up next to him. Despite his words, Carnistir did indeed feel like a child, a small, scared one, frightened by things he could not understand. Like he had done as a child, he found a sort of refuge with Maitimo, who was, at this moment running a hand through Carnistir’s tangled hair, like he would do in the old days.

Unlike some of their brothers, both Maitimo and Carnistir knew the value of silence.

Time slipped by, slowly, until finally, Carnistir said, “What’s wrong with me?”

Maitimo said, instantly, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Don’t lie, Nelyo. Please.”

“All right, all right, I won’t lie. There is something wrong with you. There’s something wrong with me too, and with everyone else you will ever meet. Even the person you’re thinking of has something wrong with him. Or her.”

Carnistir made a face at Maitimo’s hasty addition. “I don’t think so. He’s widely acknowledged to absolutely perfect.”

Maitimo gave him a slightly crooked smile. “There is no such animal, believe me.”

“Do you think I will be alone forever?”

Maitimo yawned, exaggeratedly, and shrugged. “How can you be alone when you have so many brothers to keep you company?”

“That is the definition of cold comfort, I think,” Carnistir said, giving him a watery smile.

“Go to bed, Moryo, and tomorrow it will be like it never happened." He paused and then said, "And I trust that the other person will say nothing about it.”

“People. No, I don’t think they would.”

“People? Oh Moryo, you have been busy,” Maitimo said and got up and was gone.

+

It was another wretched ball, one Carnistir had been forced to attend to prove to everyone that he had not died or done anything equally drastic. It was when the music had started up and the dancers began to fill up the ballroom that he saw Findaráto again. His cousin was, of course, dancing with Amarië. They both turned to look at him, and Findaráto came towards him, saying, “Carnistir, wait! Please, I need to speak with you.”

But Carnistir was determined to cut Findaráto dead, and this he did. It was satisfying to see Findaráto’s face fall. Soon they were both swept away by a rising tide of dancers. Nothing more was said about that summer, never again.

Everything had been orchestrated so carefully, between Maitimo, Nolofinwë, and himself, that when Carnistir began to speak, everyone else fell silent, astonished at this sudden breach of etiquette. Findekáno looked astonished, Turukáno looked merely enraged. On the other side, Makalaurë covered his face with his hands and even Tyelkormo looked vaguely uncomfortable. Curufinwë’s face was carefully blank.

Beside Findaráto, Artanis was perfectly still, though her eyes blazed. Angaráto was shaking with fury. His younger brother turned to him and hissed, “Why are you silent? How can you let this insult to our family stand?”

“Do not do anything without my permission,” Findaráto said firmly. His brothers looked outraged, but Artanis caught his eye and gave him a small nod.

Maitimo pulled Carnistir away, still speaking -- but not before the latter swept the papers off the table. They fluttered up like clapping hands for a moment before fluttering down to the ground. Findaráto got up from his seat, and followed them out.

He could help perhaps, he could do something.

“Go back to your seat,” Maitimo said, his right arm out to ward him off. Findaráto stopped in his tracks. He realized that it was the first time he had seen his cousin Russandol’s right hand since his return -- or at least what was left of it.

Carnistir pushed against his brother and caught sight of Findaráto. “You! You!” His face crumpled, and became mottled and dark-red. Even with Maitimo restraining him, he came forward.

Findaráto ignored Maitimo’s restraining arm and said, “Do you have anything more to say to me?”

Carnistir bared his teeth into a faint approximation of smile. “Well, no. I’ve done my speaking for today. But wait, ” his grey eyes flicked over Findaráto’s shoulders. “I see that Amarië did not come with you. Did she sicken of you so soon?”

His head snapped back from the blow of Findaráto’s slap. He laughed. “You can do better than that! Where’s your anger, Findaráto? Or have you become so neut-”

“That’s enough. Go back and see that no one’s set anything on fire again, will you, Findaráto? There’s a good fellow,” Maitimo said, marching a struggling Carnistir out the door.

There are some things you cannot ever get back, some things you can never come back from, Findaráto thought, as he watched them go. Amarië had said that, when they had seen each other last, all the sly humor drained from her face. Then she had followed him out and said it was all a lie, everything, and in between their kisses, she had said, come back anyway.

He turned back to the council room. He felt very weary, for he saw the task in front of him was a long one, and complicated more by the day’s work. But he had grown used to putting things back together again, as broken as they were, and remained.