The Untrodden Path by Cirth

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Chapter 2

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A big thank you to my insightful betas, Zopyrus and Ugly Duchess.

Chapter Two

It could be an effect of Laurelin's Light, but I am almost blinded by Tirion's sleek lines and gold accents. At times the city's neat, ordered structure seems boring, and I find myself pondering what the untouched bottoms of the seas look like, or what troves of secrets lie beyond the Belegaer in Ennor. It all seems frustratingly far away.

Makalaurë links his hands behind his head and lifts his chin to observe the gleaming spires of our grandfather's house. Sweat glistens at the hollow of his throat, his garments are stained with filth, and his hair springs from his skull in wisps despite the fact that he'd tied it back firmly during our walk. Yet somehow he retains, even with his slovenliness and his closed, abrupt manner, an air of one who has been raised in splendour, among the finest artists and scholars in Aman. I've seen high lords scrabble for the kind of aristocratic loftiness he embodies, and never attain it.

We reach the tall gates of the palace and are ushered in by two porters, who offer a nod to me and a grin to Makalaurë. The gardens are dotted with neat topiary and fantastic stone sculptures. When I was a child I would pretend the little girl with hooves could talk, and sometimes for hours would sit before her and chatter about the little happenings in the palace: the attendants' gossip, a mare brought as a gift from Alqualondë, a new punishment my tutor had given me for my careless handwriting.

One day, while gesticulating enthusiastically, I accidentally broke off her plump index finger, and stood a moment in stunned silence. There was no warm, stringy flesh, no shard of bone, and though this was vaguely expected, the full realisation that she – it – possessed no fëa struck me as a blow in the gut.

We enter the mercifully cool great hall. I want to usher Makalaurë into my chamber before my family sees us and badgers us with questions, but a booming, happy voice breaks my thoughts as Grandfather comes striding towards us, dressed in fine robes of olive green. "Findaráto!" he exclaims with a large, rather silly grin that would better suit a goatherd than a monarch. "You never said you would go out today! And, look, Makalaurë is here, as well! Fëanáro is probably tearing his hair out with worry."

"Grandfather Finwë," Makalaurë says formally, ignoring the reference to his father and inclining his head in a bow. But Grandfather gathers him up in a fierce embrace, nearly lifting him off his feet. "None of that! I have not seen you in days." He lets a flustered Makalaurë go, takes his face in his tremendous, rough hands, and noisily kisses his cheeks, once on each side. "Grandfather," my cousin repeats in mild reprimand, his voice weak with embarrassment. Grandfather fondly ruffles his dark locks and turns to me.

"Findaráto." His arms envelop me, solid as oak boughs, and I get a whiff of fresh cedarwood. After a moment he lets go and turns back to Makalaurë. "You can stay a while," he says. "I will send a messenger to your father."

"Please don't, Grandfather," Makalaurë replies quickly. "I will return on my own; I can take a horse from the stables."

"As you have done before," Grandfather says wryly, brows raised. Makalaurë chews his lip and studies the floor, though he doesn't apologise. At length Grandfather shakes his head and relents. "At least be at your house in time for supper." He kisses Makalaurë's brow, presses his own against it, and smiles.

I avert my eyes; I feel as though I am intruding on a close, exclusive moment, and imagine they resent my presence. Squeezing my eyes shut, I forcefully batter the unwanted emotion down.

"Let us eat in my chamber," I say, once Grandfather has sauntered to the other end of the hall to speak with one of his advisors. Makalaurë briskly re-ties his hair into a tight knot atop his head. "Lead the way."

My room is on the second floor and boasts a broad balcony that offers a fantastic view of the city, and beyond that, of the serene expanse of the Belegaer.

With the quick movements of a lively, inquisitive bird, Makalaurë glances 'round my spacious chamber, and in his eagerness nearly presses his nose against the mosaic of Ezellohar, opposite the bed, which mesmerises the eye with its intricacy, its bold shades of black and gold. Every vein in each leaf is clear, each groove in the barks distinct. The tops of the Trees stretch into the ceiling, and rather than appearing flat, give the illusion of tapering gently into an ivory sky.

"It took me months," I say quietly. Usually I do not tell people how much effort goes into my art; it ruins the love that is put in, or so I've heard, and still believe. Yet I feel that telling Makalaurë of my labours will not sully my work.

Makalaurë remains silent. He slowly steps back from the mosaic and tilts his head to the side, then towards me. His eyes search mine; I wonder what he's looking for. When he looks back at the mosaic, eyes wide and gleaming, I feel as though he has breathed a new dimension into it.

At length he rubs his chin and says with a sigh, "How quiet it is." He slides his satchel off his shoulder and onto my desk, and without invitation plumps himself on my chair. I find I care not. I've grown oddly fond of his lack of pretension, his brazen straightforwardness – qualities that are generally sorely lacking in court. Father always says you need to dip your tongue in a pot of honey and let it soak a while before you can wag it before the king's counsellors.

"It is," I admit, "a bit too quiet, at times."

"And that's why you were ambling about today," he says, fixing me with a shrewd glance. I give a solitary nod. He continues, leaning back languidly, "Sometimes I feel I could pluck out my front teeth for a bit of silence. Isn't it odd how you find Tirion boisterous, and I find it peaceful? No one ever disturbs me when I come here. Today was the first time someone asked me a string of irritating questions, as if he'd known me for years, and then casually invited me to his house."

"It is technically your house as well," I return. "You could walk in here at any unholy hour and none would turn you aside."

He shrugs, and once again laces his fingers behind his head. "Why did you sit down by me, though?" he asks earnestly. "I was reading, I was focused; my body language was closed. Usually, that screams: don't talk to me. You're not very subtle, are you?"

"You are hardly one to grouse about lack of subtlety."

Our eyes lock; the air between us is taut as an arched bowstring. In the next moment we collapse into helpless giggles, and I trundle over to the little cabinet by the bed where I keep a small stash of food and crockery. As I open the double doors, Makalaurë peers over my shoulder. "That's a good idea; I ought to do it, too. I might never leave my room again, though."

In a short while we are sitting in the balcony on wrought-iron chairs, sharing a box of crystallised figs and a pot of steaming, peppermint tea. Makalaurë blows on his tea, watches the little leaves in the glass cup twirl about like a miniature storm. He sips and breathes a long sigh, and his eyelids flutter shut as though he is lost in pleasant memories.

I decide to not disturb him. Leaning back in my chair, I take a bite out of a chewy, sweet fig, and wipe my sticky fingers on a napkin. My mother used to be my favourite companion to share this delicacy with, before her time was taken up in tending to my infant brother's demands. I don't grudge him her company, but there are things I sorely miss, not the least among them the way she would sit with me on the soft grass of the gardens and name the flowers for me: plumeria, jasmine, honeysuckle. Findekáno, my old accomplice in bold deeds, never had much patience for any of those things, and prefers the more difficult businesses of scaling cliffs and of diving off waterfalls in the hills.

The clatter of a plate assails my ears and I open my eyes, which I hadn't realised I'd closed. Makalaurë is staring at me, mouth twitching with the suppression of a smile. He looks as though he is in the throes of constructing an exquisitely mocking remark. After a taut silence he says, "I'm glad you offered me the figs. My family isn't fond of sweets."

I grin and push the finely embossed, silver box towards him. "Help yourself; there's plenty to share. Though I'm surprised about your family's tastes, given your own evident fondness for confections."

"It's true, nevertheless," he says, as he picks another fig and sinks his teeth into it. Little crystals of sugar cling to his lips, frost on rose, and he brushes them off with the back of his hand. "Father does not particularly enjoy sweetmeats; nor do my brothers. Mother does, but she's usually too absorbed with her clay and her chisel to gripe about food; you could set a plate of boiled leather before her at supper and she'd eat it without complaint. Maitimo and I tried it once, as a prank, and snatched the leather out of her hands just as she was going to bite into it." He erupts into a fit of good-natured snickers and rolls his eyes.

I pause thoughtfully, and peer into my tea. "What a remarkable mother you have." I try to picture my own slender wisp of a mother working for hours in a hot, grimy chamber with a hammer and paints, and fail. Her soft hands were made for carrying children, feeding them, spoiling them; there was hardly a time when she wasn't by my side when I was a boy. I can't quite picture it any other way. "You seem very close to your older brother."

Makalaurë's face glows, and I squeeze my hands together beneath the table. "I love him more than anyone. Growing up, I'd watch how hard he worked at everything, and put the same effort into my music – or tried to." His expression grows wistful, and he averts his eyes. "He wanted to have one special, artistic talent, but...well, I don't think he needs one. He's good at a lot of things, particularly smith-craft, and he's an excellent athlete."

A sharp knock disturbs us, and an attendant's voice floats from behind my chamber door: "Findaráto? Your father is calling you and Makalaurë downstairs to the foyer."

I frown. "Did he say why?" I call, getting up and advancing towards the entrance. Makalaurë follows, his expression apprehensive, and his fingers curl around the strap of his satchel on my table.

"He didn't."

When we reach the foyer, my eyes grow wide and my heart hammers against my ribcage. Father, who looks harried and flustered (I can tell only by the way he blinks quickly; otherwise he is immaculate), stands stiffly by the double doors, and is accompanied by none other than Curufinwë Fëanáro. He is clad in dusty riding boots, and his clothes are stained with soot and sweat, as if he has just stepped out of a forge.

He juts out his chin when he sees us, and I stifle a gasp when I glimpse his sharp, gleaming eyes. If Makalaurë's gaze holds mysteries, his father's bares its passion to Arda. I am drawn to those eyes almost inexorably and yet wish to remove myself from their scrutiny, their judgement.

Fëanáro's lips curve into a sharp smile and he spreads his arms wide. "Ah! My wayward child is returned to me," he announces, sarcasm and annoyance evident in his clear, deep voice. "How fortunate it is that I galloped to the city, where I suspected him to be." I am startled, and force my expression into neutrality; such blatant display of vexation is uncommon in Grandfather's house.

Makalaurë does not reply, but walks into his father's arms, which lock around him firmly. Then, stepping away and gripping Makalaurë's shoulders, Fëanáro mouths, "We will speak of this later." He turns to my father and says, "Thank you for your assistance."

"It is no trouble, brother," returns Father. His gaze flits somewhat nervously to Makalaurë, who still has his eyes piously lowered, as though he is in the presence of a Vala. His hands are clasped together and he twiddles his fingers like he's fumbling with rosary. Clearing his throat, Father continues, "Do not be too hard on the boy, Fëanáro. At his age, children are inclined to be – "

"He is my son, not yours. I have four children, and you have but two. Do not thrust upon me a lesson on parenting."

Father, ever the diplomat, inclines his head in a respectful bow. "I did not mean to do so. Forgive me if my words came across as didactic."

Fëanáro ignores him and turns to me. "This must be my half-nephew. So, you are the one who has kept my son from me today."

I feel my blood surge – half-nephew? – and catch a quick, warning glance from Father. I breathe slowly through my nose, making sure to look inconspicuous so I do not offend the high prince.

Makalaurë raises his head sharply, and steps towards his father. "Findaráto had no part in my absence. I was going to come to Grandfather's house in any case, and then ride home."

"No doubt you were," returns Fëanáro. "The next time you do something like this, expect less kindness from me."

"Yes, Father."

I grit my teeth; I am sorely tempted to shake Makalaurë by the shoulders till I can hear his brain rattle in his skull; never did I expect such blind obedience from him. His eyes flit to his father's, and quickly lower again. He is ashen pale and stone-still, a statue of his mother's.

Fëanáro bends, takes his son's face in his hands, and kisses his temple. I blink, confused at his sudden tenderness. "Play for your grandfather again," he says. "This time at the palace. We'll make it a feast, and can stay on for a few days, as well. We have not done that in a while." Makalaurë's lips twitch. He lifts his chin resolutely and nods.

My father clears his throat and asks if the two would like to stay. Fëanáro says curtly, "No, thank you. We'll not take any more of your time." He puts a hand on Makalaurë's shoulder, and they leave without glancing back. The porter closes the double doors behind them with a dignified snick. I think he may as well have slammed it.

Father turns to me and arches an eyebrow. "I suppose we will have to ready some guest chambers," he says. Though there is mild confusion in his voice, he doesn't press me with questions, for which I am grateful. I give a noncommittal hum and scamper off.

When I reach my room, I see that the balcony doors are still conspicuously open. The box of figs lies half-finished on the wrought-iron table, and the little leaves in the now tepid, sepia tea are wilted and still; momentarily, I am tempted to tip both cups in the drain so that it does not appear as though a time of happiness was interrupted. Hunger banished, I straighten the chairs, replace the lid on the box, and clear away the crockery.

The next couple of fortnights are a blur, spent largely in idleness. I touch up my mosaic, pick at my harp, and try to concentrate on my studies. Mostly, I lie on my bed and think of daisies and figs and willows.

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The sturdy pillars in the great hall are afire with strings of bright marigolds, and trestle tables groan under the weight of food and drink. The smells of wine and roast meats and saffron are suffused the air. Most of the household is present; at the high table Findekáno straddles a bench and chatters gaily to my father, who smiles and nods politely at everything the other says. Someone in the crowd, already in his cups, is singing in confident but almost offensively dissonant notes. On a podium at the south of the chamber rests a great harp – a hulking beast, set apart from the rest of the hall in its conspicuous silence as it awaits the ministrations of a musician's fingers.

Not in the mood for desultory conversation – such as tends to occur during large parties – I hold my tongue and lean back in my seat, and allow the noise and pomp and life to heighten my humour. I'm tempted to bring out my own harp and to convince Findekáno to sing a duet with me, but the chalice in his hand is half-empty and he is beginning to act silly; he would likely cast aside the idea of singing and instead brashly offer to go outside and race his horse against mine. He's done it before; it ended with him breaking his nose, though that didn't stop him from recounting the tale with gusto at every formal dinner for the next fortnight.

Smiling at the memory despite myself, I sample a slice of spiced cheese from the table and nearly spit it back in my hand when the trumpets sound the arrival of Fëanáro and of his two eldest sons. For whatever reason, the rest of the family are absent.

Seeing Makalaurë now, I realise I had etched in my mind a romanticised image of him, had woven over his features my own fancies: his jaw I had made stronger, and his lips fuller, less wide; I'd stained them the hue of wolfberries. I had arched his eyebrows and lightened his hair. With but a glance in my direction – a mere flick of his lashes – these illusions are dispelled and he is once again Makalaurë, all disproportionate features and connate grace of movement. How could I have distorted him so? I blink twice, silently reprimanding myself. Vaguely, I register that white gems are threaded like stars through his hair, which is twisted into a plait that is charming in its artlessness.

Fëanáro sidles up to him and clasps the scruff of his neck, as one would a disobedient pup, and Makalaurë allows himself to be propelled towards the high table. After customary greetings are uttered, we give our attention to the feast. While the denizens chatter and laugh and burst into songs, I pick at my food and cast furtive glances Makalaurë. As I am squeezed at the other end of the table, I cannot speak with him, but see him briefly rest his cheek on his brother's shoulder in affection. In return, Maitimo – that's his name, is it not? – pecks his temple and smiles, and the corners of his eyes pucker into crinkles.

I discreetly skim my gaze over Maitimo's form. Whereas Makalaurë is deliberately unobtrusive despite his liveliness, his older sibling radiates a vitality that demands to be noticed. The top of his head rises a hand's breadth above his father's, and his movements are strong and sure and suffused with alacrity. His deep green, silk tunic is buttoned to the collar, with not a crease in the folds, and his hair scraped into a thick tail atop his head.

At length the volume of the din is lowered, and people lounge in their seats and sip mead, and Makalaurë is called onto the podium. A hush settles over the great hall as he gives a small, polite bow to the audience and sits down on a stool beside the harp. His fingers stray across the strings, slowly at first. The instrument throbs, and Makalaurë begins to sing, and for a while nothing exists but his voice.

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When the tables are cleared and the guests have begun to trickle out of the great hall, I crane my neck to find Makalaurë, but find that he has disappeared. He is probably being patted on the back and admired by people, so it may be a while before I speak with him again; I might have to wait till tomorrow, though I've an idea of calling him into my chamber at night and staying up late chatting with him. We could sit in the balcony again; I like watching the stars, and I'm fairly certain he does too. Perhaps we could filch a bottle of wine from the pantry, as well, I think, and grin to myself.

After walking aimlessly about the great hall for a time, I find to my surprise Findekáno chattering to Maitimo, who stands with an amused grin on his face and a chalice of limpë in his fingers, and raises an eyebrow at the way our cousin speaks enthusiastically with his hands. They are in a corner by a window; it is almost as if they are ensconced in a cosy bubble that separates them from the rest of the world.

Presently Maitimo nods firmly and says, "I do not doubt his name will be counted among the greatest bards of Aman in another few years. To be honest, we always knew it would happen; it was only a matter of time."

I advance towards them, curious; surely they are speaking about Makalaurë. They are so engrossed in their conversation they do not notice me, but then again, I am not really intruding on their space.

"You are very proud of him," remarks Findekáno, smiling blithely.

Maitimo's own smile falters a little. "Well, yes," he says. He gives a shamefaced, staccato laugh. "Though, I suppose I am a bit petty as well." He shuffles his feet and studies the floor. "A part of me simply feels that, while he is justifiably lauded, he hasn't had to work as hard as other artists to attain that sort of fame. So much of his artistry is talent gifted by our Allfather." His free hand curls into a fist and his brow puckers. "After all, we work equally hard, I should say, and yet...sometimes I ask myself, out of bitterness, what he's done to deserve all this."

I realise Findekáno looks pale. "Fíno?" I say, and turn around. Makalaurë is standing nearby, looking at us icily. Without a word he abruptly turns his heel and strides away. After a long, tense silence I detach myself from the others and scuttle after him.

Makalaurë is an angry storm in the guest chamber, rushing back and forth and yanking things out of his cabinet and dumping a large, worn pack on his bed. He has tied his hair in a haphazard knot and has removed his tunic, along with all his jewellery. I gape at a pair of unlaced boots that have been thrown on the floor. "Where are you going?" I ask.

"Away," he replies, without looking at me.

"I can tell," I say in a placating tone. "But where?"

He slings a waterskin across his torso. "The wilds."

"The wilds?" I repeat stupidly, as he hefts his load onto his back and strides past me. When he reaches the door he turns around sharply, eyes flashing with a challenge, and demands, "Can you ride? Can you hunt?" He leans forward as he speaks, as though daring me to say no.

My cheeks burn, and I snap, "Of course I can ride! And I do not hunt, for I do not eat meat, as you know." In the next heartbeat I realise what he had tried to imply. Makalaurë glowers sullenly at a spot behind my shoulder. His sharp clavicles rise and fall in a steady rhythm, and I find myself oddly mesmerised by their movement. He is as the wind, wild and untamed and formidable, and I am but a leaf who is carried along his current; he has paused a moment for me.

I say, almost unconsciously, "I can ride with you."

His lips purse, and he blinks once, smoothing his brow. Surely, that is what he had wanted me to say, and I realise faintly that I had, too. He looks at me tentatively, appearing young and unsure and wretched. I hold his gaze calmly. At length he clears his throat and says, "We will need some things from the pantry. Take a cloak of mine; it will be windy where we go."

In a quarter of an hour we are in the damp stables, breeches tucked into boots and knapsacks on our shoulders. There isn't another soul in sight; everyone is at the feast.

"We'll ride from the back," says Makalaurë, as he mounts a tall mare, who snorts and shakes her head from side to side, as if in assent. He chuckles softly, and says to me, "Come."

I hesitate briefly, then haul myself onto a powerful, chestnut stallion, and clutch the leather reins. The sky rumbles lowly; a light drizzle begins to fall from dark clouds and cools the earth. I glance at Makalaurë, who is studying me with an odd, apprehensive expression. His unruly hair is bejewelled with raindrops, brighter than the gems he wore in the great hall. I open my mouth to tell him that he is mad, that he will get us into bucketfuls of hassle, but instead find myself murmuring, "Lead the way."

He draws his hood over his head and fluidly wheels his horse. "We ride south, across the hills."

"Are there roads we can take there?" I say, coming up beside him.

He gives me a sidelong look. "There are paths that are unmarked on maps. I know several – and one or two that even Father does not know of." His lips curl into a dry smile. "Mother and I have sometimes wandered the hills together, leaving the rest of our family to visit Lord Aulë." Then he frowns. "Do not think ill of my older brother."

"I don't, really," I say truthfully. "But you're hurt."

"Yes. But we all have our petty moments; heaven knows I do. We will make up, eventually." His voice wobbles a little as he says this.

I fiddle with the reigns. "They will come after us."

"I need to be alone, if only for a day or two."

"You will not be alone, Makalaurë; I am with you."

He pauses. Then he wipes his chin, says, "I think you had better start calling me Káno," and, without waiting for a response, urges his mare ahead. In something of a stupor, I follow him through the dimly lit back gardens, and mutter under my breath, "Káno. Káno," tasting the name on my tongue.

We advance briskly, neither of us speaking. Presently we urge our horses into a canter, and the clop clop of their hooves on the grass sounds vague and distant, as though I am in a dream. The din of the feast behind us grows soft and eventually thins into silence.

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Chapter End Notes

Findaráto - Finrod
Makalaurë/Káno - Maglor
Maitimo - Maedhros
Findekáno/Fíno - Fingon
Fëanáro - Fëanor

I peg Finrod to be someone who enjoys creating, viewing, and collecting art and artifacts. This idea was inspired mostly from Christopher Tolkien's notes in The Lays of Beleriand:

"...Fuilin filled with mead a great ancient silver cup that had come from Valinor:

carved in gladness,
in woe hoarded, in waning hope
when little was left of the lore of old. (2038-40)

It was of such things as that cup...that my father was thinking when he wrote of the treasures that Finrod Felagund brought out of Tirion...: 'a solace and a burden on the road'..." (p. 111).