Tengwa malta by Sky

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Chapter 3

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It’s five a.m. outside and the massive autumn rain is pumping against the window-sill. I’m sitting inside and running my fingers through heavy glistening tresses. A rare occasion when one can see the top of the Fëanoring’s head. Maitimo is sitting on the carpet, leaning his back against the sofa on which I am sitting.

His eyes are closed, his face is calm, but not sleepy.  It’s good when he is like that. No things dropped down, no people scared, nothing to be amused about, no questions asked, no jealous looks to be attracted from all around.

A tress to a tress. At the top, they are straight, slightly curling further down.

Can you imagine any other person who had such a sweet pastime as combing the hair of the the eldest Fëanoring and, to my firm conviction, the most handsome of all princes of the Noldor?

Only Findekáno, maybe…

“Tell me, did your brother comb you hair even once?”

“Which of them?”

“I mean, Findekáno”.

The red-haired Noldo raises his eyelids for a moment and casts at me a meaningful look. If rendered into spoken language I think it would sound like: “You bet!”

“Of course he did,” - he says after a little pause. – “Once he attempted to braid my hair”.

“And what?”

“I gave him a beating,” – Maitimo shrugs.

“Just like that, on the spot?”

“No, I had to chase him for quite a long time,” - the Fëanoring says in an utterly serious tone of voice. Then he opens his eyes again and smiles: - “I’m joking. Finyo braided my hair the way he did his. When father saw me he gripped my hair and threatened to cut this disgrace off  to Tulkas' armpits if I didn’t unbraid it right then and there”.

 “Can't you live even one day without a wrangle in your family?”

Maitimo closes his eyes again, then the corners of his lips creep into a small smile. An expression of barely hidden tenderness sneaks onto his face.

“No.”

“I see,” - I continue running my fingers through the abundant tresses. – “Would you like me to use a comb?”

“I… Yes, I would,” - the Noldo responds leisurely, totally dazed by this simple and chaste massage. Cut me into slices and eat them with butter, but this Elda is – a King. My King. The king who likes to drink tea from a cast-iron pot.

I take the juniper-wood comb and run it through his mass of silky dark-red hair. I don’t reach the lower tips so I have to crawl down to the floor and kneel behind the Fëanoring’s back. The comb is sliding through smoothly, almost without catching, and leaves the copper tips somewhere near the carpet with a barely audible dry rustle.  An unbelievable experience.

“May I ask an improper question?” – Maitimo speaks up suddenly. His head is lowered to his chest so his voice sounds muffled and a bit sleepy from the position of the neck.

“Affirmative to listen to an improper question, lord”, - I respond. Maitimo chuckles.

“What would you say about going to sleep now?”

 “Positive.”

But I would like to stay awake for some time, of course…

“Don’t be offended. If you want, I’ll comb you tomorrow” – the Noldo turns, takes the comb from my fingers and looks into my eyes seriously. I stiffen like a  partridge before a fox. Obviously, he looked this way at his younger brothers when they were children.

“All right. Take you at your word.”

 

***

 

Maitimo is sitting on the narrow bed, bending his head obediently. Behind his back, Findekáno is sitting cross-legged, braiding his cousin’s hair with a victorious look on his face. Two of the braids, the thin ones, are stretching from Maitimo’s temples to the back of the head and there turn into the one, tied round at the end with a leather lace. Two more braids, somewhat thicker, begin at the back of the head, one on either side, and lie atop all other hair. Finyo’s deft fingers are entwining one of these braids with a silver lace. It looks just splendid on Maitimo's hair, softly braided into tresses like copper spilled over with red wine.

The Fëanarion’s eyes are closed. His eyelids are trembling a little, but he is not dreaming.

It seems he is simply enjoying the moment. Finyo’s hands are pulling and running through his cousin’s hair. From time to time, the boy softly cups the nape of Maitimo’s neck and the back of his head with his fingertips and quietly asks him to bend his head. The minutes are passing very slowly.

 “Maitimo,” - Finyo suddenly says in a low voice. – “Are you all right?”

The red-haired Noldo opens his eyes and makes an attempt to turn round.

“Everything is fine. Why do you ask?”

Finyo smiles with a gentle smile. It seems that his eyes, light grey with lashes thick like fir-tree needles, are made just for this expression.

“You usually say that you have to go, and how soon will I finish plaiting, and why did you agree to it in the first place. So I thought that maybe, something is wrong?”

Maitimo answers with a smile of his own.

“I like it very much when you are doing my hair”.

“Then why are you always fighting back?”

“I’m not fighting back. I’ve got many things to do”.

“Maitimo, - Finyo ties the last knot on the silver lace and puts his outstretched arms around his cousin’s shoulders, - “Just because you were born the first, it doesn't mean that you have no right to your own life.”

“With my father, it does.”

Findekano lowers his eyes and leans his forehead against Maitimo’s back, atop the flood of hair. For some time they are sitting this way, then Maitimo sighs deeply and leans back, his neck touching Finyo’s shoulder. Quickly, Finyo embraces him. The eldest son of Fëanaro shows affection by himself very seldom.

Maitimo’s eyes are open, he is staring at the ceiling without focusing on anything. Finyo sits pressing his cheek to the Fëanárion’s temple, crowned by a neat braid.

“If you ever think of running away from home, even dream of doing it without me”.

Maitimo smiles slightly – Finyo is still such a boy. Then he closes his eyes.