Hearing Inside by Himring

Chapter 1

Warning for mental health issues.

Like the rest of the family, young Makalaure had done his turn attempting to lull little Carnistir to sleep, or at least to rest.  He had rocked him in his arms or, as his arms tired, in the cradle, singing one lullaby to him after another, for hours, while Telperion waxed and waned and Carnistir went on screaming as if he was being flayed alive, until they were both hoarse, golden-voiced Makalaure and the howling baby. It had been a blow, somewhat, to young Makalaure’s pride that his singing could not soothe Carnistir, for already he was aware—and a little vain—of the unusual quality of his voice and his talent for music. At the time, however, any hurt vanity was swallowed up in the growing general anxiety, for nobody else could calm Carnistir, either, however highly Makalaure considered their authority and their powers, neither Maitimo nor his father nor grandfathers Mahtan and Finwe. Even Nerdanel, with the advantages of motherhood, often struggled and failed, and if Tyelkormo occasionally briefly seemed to succeed, that success seemed to be more attributable to Huan.

Eventually, of course—but how excruciatingly long it had taken them—they had worked it out: that the early onset and unusual strength of Carnistir’s osanwe had exposed him to too many incomprehensible thoughts and emotions to deal with and their growing fears for his health had fed back into his mind in a dangerous feedback loop.  But Carnistir had pulled through, finding a way to live and deal with his all too sensitive perceptions and the proximity of people, although it was never easy for him. His brothers learned to read the signs of rising tension in him, the build-up to outbursts of seemingly unprovoked anger, and to recognize how often they were provoked by emotions and thoughts that they had failed to guard against in his presence, however hard they might have tried.

Because of all that, Makalaure remained for the longest time very uncertain how Carnistir felt about his music, or indeed any music. It had seemed selfish to be worrying about that, when things were so hard for Carnistir. But it was not, for Makalaure, a trivial question and, by that time, hardly a matter of vanity at all. He was an established musical artist and, if he hankered still for anyone’s approval of his work, they were admired fellow artists.

But Makalaure was not only a musician when he played, he also thought as a musician. Like his mother, he perceived others partly through the medium of his art. When he considered other relatives and friends, it was in a notional swirl of music: music that he himself associated with them, music that he knew they liked. (Although some of his more conservative teachers considered Makalaure’s compositions exaggeratedly unconventional, as a performer, he had never been above picking any song that promised to have the desired effect or lift the mood in the room, however popular or unsubtle.) Only about Carnistir there hung a sense of uneasy silence.

It was difficult to conceive, in Aman, of an elf hating music, but the thought had occurred to Makalaure that Carnistir might.  They were grandchildren of Miriel, sons of Feanaro, and, what seemed unthinkable was not necessarily so, in their case. But the evidence did not exactly support this interpretation, either. True, Carnistir avoided large public performances and even smaller concert parties. But he would have intensely disliked such assemblies in any case, because they featured too many people, people who tended to be in an expansive mood; whether these glittering gatherings also featured music was probably incidental.

Even amongst themselves, at home, when Makalaure played or sang, his music seemed to have little impact on Carnistir, although he did not seek to avoid it. It seemed that Makalaure still could not play anything to soothe or calm him, in his anger, no more than he had been able to when Carnistir was a small child. And he showed little sign of being entertained by any song. Nerdanel’s foot might be tapping, Maitimo might be humming along, Tyelkormo gently swaying in his seat—Carnistir seemed unmoved.

But when Makalaure sat hard at work composing, trying out and tossing out musical phrases, with results by no means always lovely to the ear—it was then Carnistir would often seek him out. He would quietly appear and come sit in a corner of the room, often bringing along a task of his own that required no little concentration, a complicated mathematical equation or an intricate piece of cut work or whitework, apparently happy to work alongside as Makalaure experimented. But if Makalaure ever asked his opinion on any piece or musical problem, he seemed to have none.

Makalaure could not quite fathom it. Trying to talk things out with Carnistir was not, in his experience, always the best way to go, but in the end, in one of these shared sessions, he set down his viol and risked asking the question that was beginning to haunt him, as gently as he could.

Immediately, the familiar painful frown line appeared on Carnistir’s forehead. He did not raise his eyes from the strip of white rosettes he had been working on, but he did not refuse to answer.

‘I do not hear music as you do, I think,’ he said hesitantly. ‘It’s just sound to me, really. Even noise, when it’s loud! But when you compose—it’s still just sound to me, the notes that I hear, but your thoughts, the way they move—that is special. A bit like Mother’s, when she is working on a sculpture, or Father’s, when he has a new idea. Only even more so. Like colours blending into each other, although I don’t really understand about those either. What they mean by harmony, I guess? All the numbers working out? When you are at work, composing, and it’s coming together, that’s what I hear…’

His cheeks flushed and he stabbed the needle into the bit of white cloth in a way that looked random and far too violent.

‘It’s not enough, is it?’ he asked, savagely, looking up. ‘Your music is meant to be heard with ears…’

The fear of being both too much and not enough, once again, swum in his eyes.

‘No!’ cried Makalaure, instantly. But however heartfelt that denial was, he knew he would have to come up with a more reasoned explanation why not, for Carnistir.

When Carnistir was a baby, he recalled, they had briefly feared he might be deaf, but he had quickly turned out not to be. His inner hearing had just been so much stronger than his outer hearing that he did not always react to physical sound.

‘It is true, Moryo,’ Makalaure said, slowly, ‘usually my music is intended to be heard with ears. But what you hear is special—you hear what I am hoping to achieve, I think, the music that I’m trying to compose rather than the actual result. That is special to me, too, that you are able to hear that, in a way nobody else can…’

Leaning forward, he reached out and with his thumb tried to smooth out that painful frown on Carnistir’s forehead. Greatly relieved, he felt Carnistir relax a little under his touch.

And as they sat like that, Makalaure felt the uneasy silence fall away. He knew now what Carnistir sounded like, to him. It did not matter at all, if played out loud, those notes would be just sound, to Carnistir, like any others. The music held. He thought Carnistir heard it, too, inside; he almost smiled.

They spent many peaceful hours working together, after that—until things changed in Tirion.

Chapter End Notes

Quenya names:
Makalaure = Maglor.
Carnistir (also Moryo) = Caranthir.
Maitimo = Maedhros.
Tyelkormo = Celegorm.
Feanaro = Feanor.

Note on "cut work or whitework": some fans have the headcanon that Caranthir had inherited needlework skills from Miriel. I have not fully adopted this, but I liked the idea of him occasionally doing such tasks. These two are particular kinds of white-on-white embroidery that resemble lace making.