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

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The Play's the Thing

---

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.