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

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Summer to Your Heart

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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.

 

 

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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.