A Walk down Memory Lane by Raiyana

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An inventor's goggles

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She was Makalaurë’s guest, the young maiden with the shining silver hair that looked like his favourite metal wire, except it must be soft, swishing gently against her fine green silk dress as she walked beside Makalaurë through the gardens. Her hair, pulled back with some kind of leather hairpiece fastened with a reddish wooden pin, had been decorated with a small pink rose that Curvo recognised as one of those that grew in Ammë's rose garden. Well, it was technically Ammë's garden of statues, but the roses thrived there, winding around their bases and filling the air with their scent. He wasn’t close enough to hear them, fascinated by the way her hands moved like birds through the air when she spoke. Káno’s eyes crinkled, laughing at whatever it was they discussed. The girl pulled a battered quill from her belt and pretended to stab him, which only made Káno laugh harder and then her face split in an answering smile and she jotted down something on the paper she carried.

“Curvo!” Atto called, impatient but not yet angry, breaking the spell of his thoughts. “Stop dawdling, son, there’s work to be done!” Fëanáro snapped.

Curvo had long-since learned not to mistake his usual gruffness for anger; it would vanish once they began actually working and he could feel that same drive to create singing in his own fëa. He nodded.

 “Coming, Atto,” he smiled, but Atto had already turned around to head for his own work area, a ‘you were the one who wanted to learn to work bronze.’ thrown carelessly over his shoulder. Curvo turned away from the girl and forgot about her in favour of focusing on his work.

 

 

“…but what if you added drums, simulating the sound of waves?” Telperína asked, leaning back on her elbows and tossing a few strands of grass at Makalaurë, who was strumming his lap harp, trying to get his theme to work. “I could ask one of my cousins to play Ulmo; and you know you could persuade Carnistir to play Ossë…” Makalaurë laughed.

“Moryo on the stage?” he asked, the fog of musical distraction giving way to complete focus as he heard what he had just said, boggling at his silver-haired friend.

Telperína looked straight at him, her face entirely serious. Makalaurë opened his mouth, already shaping the first words of a long rant about why that was the most insane idea he had ever heard. She let him go on for almost a minute before her straight face cracked and she burst into clear laughter.

“You were pulling my leg,” Makalaurë said rolling his eyes in displeasure.

“Your face!” she crowed, chuckling.

“I suppose Carnistir might offer to do costumes to escape such a chore…” Makalaurë grinned mischievously, poking her hip with his foot.

Telperína looked down to be sure he hadn’t dirtied her dress; she was well aware that her presence in the house of Prince Fëanáro would not be received gladly by its illustrious patriarch – but being dirty and unkempt wasn’t likely to endear him to her presence if they ever met. Poking him back with her own foot, Telperína still couldn’t help return his smile.

“You’re the one who wanted to do a play about the Great March!” she pointed out. “I was perfectly happy telling the story of the construction of Tirion – perhaps then your Atar might approve of my presence here! – but noooo, the mighty Prince of the Golden Voice had to butt in with his grand plans.”

“Tirion is dull!” Makalaurë objected. “The Great March is far more interesting.”

Telperína sighed in response, throwing up her hands in a plea for patience from the Valar that Makalaurë ignored in its entirety. Sometimes the King’s grandchildren were more vexatious than they knew.

She wasn’t really angry, and Makalaurë knew it, his grin that combination of teasing familiarity and amusement that usually made her temper dissipate like dew before Laurëlin. Telperína sighed again, exasperated, getting to her feet and scowling at her unrepentant friend. Muttering to herself, she stomped off, promising dire retribution as soon as she had found a cool drink. Turning back in the doorway of the house, she offered to fetch one for Makalaurë, but he just played a few more notes, all his attention returned to the harp in his lap. Shaking her head at him, Telperína turned, striding off in search of the kitchens.

If he had known where she would end up, he might have stopped her – or at least warned her – but Makalaurë did not look up to see where Telperína’s feet led her.

 

 

“Hello?”

Curvo stiffened at his workbench; everyone knew better than to disturb Atto in the forge; even he was barely tolerated here. Ammë might be the only one whose presence would not be greeted with a fierce scowl, and she would never just barge in; it wasn’t her voice either way. Pushing his goggles up his forehead – Carnistir claimed they made him look like peculiar owl, but Curvo found his invention useful when he was creating tiny details – he turned around, lifting a hand for silence.

His hand fell, but he managed to keep his jaw from following.

Her silver hair seemed to shine in the dim light of the forge, catching the gentle glow of Telperion and spinning it into silk. It looked even softer up close.

She blinked, her eyes unused to the dimness coming in from the brightness of day.  

“Can I help you?” Curvo asked, vaguely surprised to hear the words leave his mouth.

“Oh!” she said, blinking large green eyes – a peculiar pale colour, but it seemed to suit her; a Vanyarin by blood, perhaps? – and biting her lip. “I- I’m afraid I am lost,” she added sheepishly. Curvo nodded. She was new here; it was easy to get lost in their sprawling home.

“Curvo! Did you finish the hinges yet?” Atto called from further in the forge area; Curvo’s shoulders stiffened as he cast a guilty look at the hinges that he had been etching patterns into.

“Not yet, Atto!” he called back, unsurprised to hear Atto sigh, but more than a little astonished to feel him come up behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder and looking down at the piece on the worktable.

“Not bad, son,” Atto murmured, tracing the design with a sooty finger hovering just above the metal. Curvo felt a glowing ember of pride in his gut. “And who are you?” Atto continued, his head snapping up in the direction of the most beautiful creature Curvo had ever seen. He wondered if her hair would feel like silver in his fingers. The thought made him blush, but even his sternest admonitions had no effect on the heat in his cheeks.

“Ai!” she gasped, bowing hastily. “Prince Fëanáro! I am Telperína, Faniel.” Curvo did not wince, feeling Atto’s hand tightening on his shoulder, though he felt tempted. Fananis was famous in Tirion for her beautiful garments, and someone Moryo had competed with – and lost to – in design challenges, Curvo knew. Furthermore, she served as Indis’ personal tailor, and Atto had little but scorn for anyone even loosely connected with the Queen’s household. Telperína looked like she knew that already, however, her lip back between her teeth as she darted a nervous glance past Curvo’s ear.

“Why are you in my house?” Atto asked, in that voice that meant Curvo and his brothers would be in trouble soon.

“I am… I am here with Makalaurë,” she replied, “we are working on a play together…” Almost despite himself, Curvo was impressed that she didn’t shy away from Atto’s simmering temper.

“And where is Káno?” Atto’s voice clearly implied that she was hardly welcome with his son, but most assuredly unwelcome alone.

“In the gardens, my lord,” Telperína replied, bobbing a quick curtsy. “I meant to return there, but I was… lost.”

“I’ll take you back to Káno,” Curvo heard himself say, unprepared for the bright smile he earned from the girl at the offer. He absently wondered if she could see the heat in his cheeks, hoping the darkness of the workshop and the brown hue of his skin would conceal it. Atto sighed behind him. Curvo turned his head slightly.

“Very well, Curvo,” Atto frowned, still looking like he wanted to banish Telperína from the grounds entirely, and then his hand left his shoulder, “but I expect those hinges to be finished this afternoon.” Curvo nodded. With a final curtsy from Telperína, Atto returned to the depths of the forge.

Curvo hurried to offer her his arm, just like he’d seen Maitimo do for the ladies at court – even if Maitimo’s fingers were never smudged with charcoal at court. Telperína smiled again, making him feel warm all the way down to his toes when she took it like he was a proper adult, her fingers resting lightly on his forearm, distanced from skin by the leather arm guards he wore.

“This way,” he said, thankful that his skin was darker than Ammë’s; maybe she wouldn’t notice his blush.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said demurely, following his lead.

“Call me Curufinwë,” he replied, once more feeling the light of her smile wash over him, along with an itch in his fingers to test whether her hair truly was as soft as it looked.

“Very well,” she acquiesced, “thank you, Haryon Curufinwë.”

 

 

When they emerged into the Tree-Light, Telperína felt light as she escaped Fëanáro’s simmering anger on the arm of Curufinwë, abruptly deciding that he was her favourite of Makalaurë’s brothers, even if Prince Maitimo had been more graciously welcoming. Noticing the fading blush in Curufinwë’s cheeks made her wonder how young he was; not much older than her, probably, she judged. The splash of colour across his cheekbones was oddly adorable, and she felt her mouth stretch in a smile in response as she walked with him. He remained silent, even though his mouth opened a few times as if to speak, and Telperína had ample time to study him as they walked, intrigued by this younger brother of Makalaurë, who did not seem to have much in common with her friend. He resembled his Atar greatly, as the stories said, but there was a lightness in him that she had not seen in Fëanáro. His clothes were less fine than she would have expected from a Pince – Makalaurë always looked like he was ready for a ball, and Prince Maitimo had been gallant like a hero from a story – but Curufinwë was dressed simply: a red shirt, sparsely decorated around the collar, fingerless leather gloves that stretched to his elbows, and a pair of buckskin leggings. The peculiar eyepieces remained pushed halfway into his dark hair; she wondered what they were for. He had been making intricate patterns in metal when she interrupted his work; using the funny-looking eyepieces – perhaps they enhanced his sight or accuracy? – and a set of metal instruments that resembled a cross between pens and knives, tapping on the handles with a small mallet. She wanted to thank him, but managed only a polite curtsey when he left her at the entrance to the garden – she could hear Makalaurë’s playful harp in the distance – before turning on his heel and leaving her to stare at his surprisingly strong-looking shoulders as he walked away.

 

 

It was surprisingly easy to pump Makalaurë for information about his guest, Curvo thought, doing his best not to smirk at the thought. All he had had to do was drop a disinterested half-warning about his brother keeping his friends away from Atto’s forge in future, and he had been treated to a long lecture expounding on Telperína’s presence at the house, her many virtues, and brilliant artistic skill – Makalaurë’s friends were always ‘the best’ at some form of art – apparently Telperína was a playwright.

“I thought her quite brave,” he offered placatingly, near the end of Makalaurë’s tirade, “she did not cower when Atto asked her who she was – and she a Vanyarin, to boot!” Of course, the Vanyar could be brave, but those who hailed from that people tended to quail at Atto’s dark regard – Telperína had not, and that alone would have made her interesting to Curvo’s mind, even if he had not been intrigued by her smiling eyes or her silvery hair already. His brother took the bait. From the other side of the table, Maitimo shot Curvo the kind of glance that told him his oldest brother knew exactly what he was doing, but was inclined to let him – even Maitimo liked to tease Káno sometimes.

“Half-Telerin,” Makalurë corrected, as Curvo had known he would, sniffing haughtily, “her Atar is a Telerin merchant, trading in cloth. Her Ammillë is Vanyarin; Fananis, the tailor.” Curvo hid his smile in his goblet. “Telperína doesn’t think of herself as a Vanyar, though,” Káno added, spooning up the last of his dessert.

“Aye,” Curvo replied, lifting the cup in a silent toast at Maitimo, “but ye’d best keep her away from Atto nonetheless, if you’d like her to keep visiting.”

Maitimo’s smile was mischievous for only a second, the tilt of his head wry as he returned Curvo’s toast, but it was enough. Maitimo approved – and he wouldn’t tell Makalaurë, which was at least as important – even if Curvo still didn’t know how his oldest brother always knew what he was up to. It was vexing, at times, though not so much as Káno’s likely response. His second oldest brother liked teasing, and Curvo was not at all inclined to listen to wild speculations – or, Aulë forbid, songs – about himself and a girl he had met only the once.