A Walk down Memory Lane by Raiyana

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Feast of Splendour

This chapter was partially inspired by the Notion Club Challenge, the In Rare Form challenge (including a fairy tale), and the Season's Greetings challenge as well as the mirror from the original Museum Challenge xD

Back of finely inlaid mirror

Fairy tale

“But you simply must come!” Makalaurë wheedled, giving her his best pleading look. “It’s the Asar Alcarinqua! Everyone is going to be there!”

Telperína laughed. “It’s a Ñoldo festival, Makalaurë,” she pointed out, “and I am no Ñoldo.”

Truth be told, she was somewhat tired of hearing about the Festival of Splendour; everyone in Tirion seemed to be in a tizzy over the festival and its attendant challenges and displays of skill. She had not yet moved here when the last one was held, though she remembered hearing of it in Alqualondë.

“But you’re my friend!” Makalaurë protested, waving off her lack of Ñoldor affiliation with an annoyed gesture. “And everyone is welcome at the festival grounds, regardless. Do say you’ll come!” Catching her hands, he smiled that smile that usually made people do his bidding. “I’ll be premiering a new piece of music, too, and there are the craft challenges which are praised by all – Curvo has hardly left his workroom in weeks, and Atto is working on something he promises will be spectacular though he’ll say nothing else about it. And I heard that your ammë is taking part in the tailoring challenge this year, I think,” he added slyly.

“Some day, I will figure out how you can always know all the gossip despite never being seen to be gossiping yourself!” Telperína groaned. She had hoped he would be unaware of that small fact. Ammë had only just decided to enter the challenges that morning!

“Little birds tell me,” Makalaurë replied, entirely deadpan.

Telperína laughed, though part of her thought it might be the honest truth – Tyelkormo could speak to animals, trained by Oromë, so why should Makalaurë not be able to converse with birds? – and Makalaurë’s smile didn’t say, either way.

“Very well,” she said, caving to his infectious joy, “I will attend your recital.”

He cheered.

“I should get going!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I need to have a word with…”

But whoever it was trailed off into thin air, and with a small peck to her forehead, Telperína was abandoned in the gardens.

Shaking her head to herself, she chuckled. It was so typical of Makalaurë to remember an appointment only when he was already late for it, and she had become used to his abrupt goings over the yéni; by now, it was simply something her friend did.

Looking out at the garden, she enjoyed the breeze, scented with honeysuckle, that wafted her hair gently, the shade of the large tree she leaned against keeping her from being too warm even at the height of Laurëlin’s power.

 

 

Curvo wandered through the gardens on his way back from the kitchen – his leaf-blade had been so much admired that he had played with the thought of shaping more plants from metal, but that required studying specimens in their own habitat – munching on a bowl of raspberries he had charmed from the cooks.

She’s back.

Telperína was sitting beneath the large beech tree, dappled shadows moving over her with every rustle of branch, one leg bent to support a lap easel holding a sketchbook that looked like the ones he bought from Parmatan. Hers was bound in thick blue paper, while he always bought the crimson ones – he liked the bright vibrancy of it, set against the gold-leaf embossing, even more than he enjoyed the affiliation to Atya’s house – matching her thin linen dress and the blue ribbons in her hair. Her fingers held the ink brush with the seeming carelessness common to those who have learned how to write or draw for hours without straining the hand or fingers, moving in gentle strokes across the creamy paper.

“You have been abandoned, Tel- my lady?” he asked, almost without meaning to, her name turning into a more formal address as an afterthought.

Telperína jumped slightly, her brush leaving an unsightly blotch of ink on the paper, and the hummingbird she had been drawing disappeared from its bright blossom at the sound of Curufinwë’s voice.

Gah! She had thought herself quite alone – the walled gardens of Fëanáro’s house had been planted to foster a serene privacy in those who walked it, an escape from the noise of Tirion – and Telperína was not best pleased about the interruption – or the splattered sketch.

“You startled me, Prince Curufinwë,” she told him, looking up at him.

“My apologies,” he muttered, looking genuinely contrite. “I did not mean to.”

Telperína smiled at his concern – Curufinwë really was a kind ner, despite the stories of his prickliness that floated among the inhabitants of Tirion. “No matter,” she said, giving him a liquid shrug as she blew across the page, drying the ink. “I was only playing with a new brush.”

“Is that what brings you to our gardens?” Curufinwë wondered, popping a berry from the bowl he held into his mouth. “I did not know you were an artist.”

Telperína’s cheeks heated slightly. “I’m not, she admitted, “but sometimes words won’t cooperate and so I draw instead.”

“I should have thought Makalaurë’s antics fodder enough for any writer’s pen,” Curufinwë chuckled, “but I have not seen him today. Was he meant to meet you?”

“Your brother…” she trailed off, gesturing with the brush in the vague direction of the bustling city that existed right outside the walls of the grand house – when you were inside the gardens it seemed hard to credit that there was a whole city so close by – and shrugged. “He went off somewhere.”

“Makalaurë is a poor host,” Curufinwë said, looking towards the closest wall with a small yawn. “Abandoning his guest with no refreshments or company.”

“I am accompanied by the birds,” Telperína replied, tapping her drawing with a finger. “Though you have a point about refreshments… it is very warm.” She had barely finished the sentence before Curufinwë had thrust the bowl he carried at her, filled to the brim with juicy-looking raspberries, an abundance of deep red deliciousness. He looked tired, she realised, remembering Makalaurë’s words. “Would you… perhaps you might join me?” she added, patting the grass beside her in invitation. “If your own work is not pressing?”

Curvo sat down at once, seeing the surprise on her face clearly, long legs stretching out upon the grass beside her. “Not so pressing, for now,” he offered as some sort of explanation; he rarely spent time with her alone, after all, remembering too clearly what he’d felt last time.

But it’s not going away, this feeling, Curvo thought, and with his customary practicality resigned himself to the desire for her company and her smiles that steadfast denial had not diminished. And Atto will just have to accept it. Somehow.

Not that he was in any hurry to make that happen, either.

Telperína’s smile when she stole another of his raspberries made him feel warmer than the golden light of Laurelin.

“What are you working on?” he asked, trying to hide the way his cheeks heated.

“I meant it to be another instalment on my series on the Valar as people,” Telperína replied, frowning at her sketchbook, “though the words do not wish to flow, and so I am drawing sketches instead.”

“What is the story?” he asked, leaning closer to look at the book.

Telperína’s slender fingers turned back a few pages. “I was exploring the nature of Tulkas,” she explained, “and then… in the Library, I came across a scroll – just the one – which claimed that he and Nessa have a son.”

“The Valar have children?” Curufinwë exclaimed, looking at her with something like astonishment.

“Maybe,” Telperína shrugged, “but not in the manner of birthing them, I think – or rather, not in a physical sense of birthing, though some mingling of essence seems to occur. Tulkas and Nessa, for example – their son is called Telimektar, in the scroll – we know as honour and courage for Tulkas, and swiftness and grace of foot for Nessa… and their son is a warrior, also, but different to his father, for he is a guard, and not a soldier.”

“Guarding what?”

“I don’t know!” she sighed, putting her brush down. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The scroll also made mention of Meássë Ráva and her brother Makar, but the material was so weathered with age that it had almost disintegrated entirely.”

“So make it up,” Curufinwë grinned. “Make a new story for them – who can say it is not the truth? – and you can read it to the audience at Asar Alcarinqua.”

“Just… make up a story? I couldn’t do that…”

“Surely, you could – it’s like inventing a new object, something no one has thought of before; often, you base it on concepts from earlier works, from the minds of your teachers or mentors, right?” Curufinwë said, eye alight with passion. “But that doesn’t make the object useless or wrong, you see? It’s just new.”

“I like the way you think,” Telperína laughed, picking up her brush and flipping to a blank page. “Well, then…”

“Once upon a time now shrouded in myths,” Curufinwë intoned, settling himself against the tree and snagging a couple of berries, “there lived a young warrior called Telimektar.”

Telimektar was brave, for so had he been created, and skilled in the arts of the body and weaponry. He was a master of horses, and a lover of bright blood-red flowers.

In this land, there also lived a woman, and her name was Meássë Ráva. She was fierce and strong, and spent her days with her brother, Makar, hunting bears and wolves in the freezing north and draping herself in their freshly cut off skins.

In all the land, no huntress was as skilled as Meássë, whose skin was stained red with the blood of her kills more often than not.

And she was who Telimektar’s heart chose.

But Meássë spurned him, for she loved freedom, and feared to be chained to one who might seek to corral her spirit.

His mother counselled against it, telling him to see sense, to choose a love among ladies of refinement and beauty, and brought before him the loveliest of her handmaidens.

Telimektar danced with the ladies, but none stirred his heart as did Meássë.

His father laughed, but agreed with his mother, though the lovelies he presented were of different stock, able to fight and ride horses; more than one even beat Telimektar in battle.

But Telimektar’s heart was not so easily changed, and in the night he went to Meássë again, promising upon his blood that he should never seek to diminish her, if she would call his heart home.

And Meássë saw the truth in him and was moved by it, but still she would not be swayed so easily, and rode off laughing, challenging him to win her kisses in a race.

And Telimektar rode for her, all through the night, until they arrived at the Stone at the Heart of the Forest. There, he caught her – though some say Meássë let him – and kissed her sweetly.

But Makar, who had been watching, laughed at Telimektar, and called the game too easy.

‘Nay,’ he said, ‘for to win my sister, you should fear her whip as much as you long for her kisses.’

This, to Telimektar, sounded wise, and so he proposed a different race.

This time, they would race to the sea, and if he caught Meássë before then, he would kiss her – and if he did not, he should flee before her whip until they reached his home and there she would win a forfeit.

And so the game of Miquë Roitaro was invented, and it was taught to the Noldor by Tulkas, who was the father of Telimektar, in honour of his son who guards in the heavens.

 

But Vairë’s loom did not show Telimektar living happily with his wife for all time.

For darkness and ill-content grew among the people, whispered words taking roots in corrupted hearts until it could not be concealed, and the Enemy was free to make war upon the Valar and the world.

It is known that he was defeated, chained by the great Tulkas, and thrown into the depths of Mandos.

But it is less known that the one to stand guard over the vanquished foe is the brave Telimektar, though his shape is wrought in the stars of Varda’s hands, his silver girdle and shining sword ready to defend evermore.

And Meássë yet roams the frozen lands, hunting the fell beasts of the north, draping herself in their bloody skins… but not always.

Sometimes, she will return to her lover, her arms still stained with the blood of her kills, and Telimektar welcomes her home with a smile and the kisses she earned so long ago.

 

Telperína smiled when she left the daze of a completed first draft; she would refine it further, but the story was there now – and as Curufinwë had said, who should say if might not have happened…

“I like this, Curu- oh!” Turning to share her joy in her new creation, she saw only his long legs for a moment, stretched away from the tree and then warm weight of his head resting on her own outstretched thigh registered.

Looking down, her smile grew softer as she turned a page and picked up her drawing brush once more.

Curufinwë’s mouth was smeared with raspberry juice at the corner, and his long lashes cast beautiful shadows over his brown skin.

He looks so tired…

Telling herself that was the only reason she did not wake him, Telperína turned her attention back to her sketchbook, draping a fold of her discarded cloak over his shoulders on a whim she carefully did not examine further.

The brush drew bold lines and swooping curves until Curufinwë’s sleeping face filled the page, making her happy to have captured his likeness so well, shading the side of his nose and the small dip in his chin with great care.

“I did not think you an artist, too, my lady.”

For the second time that day, Telperína glared up at an intruder, though this time she managed not to splatter her drawing with unwanted ink.

“Prince Maitimo!” she gasped, staring up – and up, it really wasn’t fair on her neck for Curufinwë’s brother to be so tall – at the serene face of the eldest son of Fëanáro.

Maitimo bowed gracefully, sweeping off his hat with a flourish that would be more suitable to a grand ballroom than a small garden – and more welcomed by one of the tittering ladies that always seemed to be eyeing him than a somewhat disgruntled writer with a dash of ink across her nose… and his brother’s head in her lap.

At least it was neither Fëanáro nor Makalaurë who had caught them, she thought, a warm blush spreading across her fair cheeks.

“An idle pastime,” she shrugged, keeping her voice low although a quick glance showed Curufinwë still fast asleep beside her, face softened in repose in a way that made him resemble his ammë.

“It is a fine piece – very true to its subject,” Maitimo objected calmly. “Do not disdain it.”

“As you say,” Telperína replied, but her joy in the sketch had diminished – part of her felt it should have been just hers, to share or not, or at least only shared with Curufinwë himself at first.

“I am pleased to see him sleep,” Prince Maitimo added, “he works very hard… I,” he paused, considering her with a look that made Telperína suddenly aware of every crease in her dress and wonder if her hair looked like a bird’s nest. Maitimo smiled, and a bird trilled in the branches over her head. “I should be obliged to you if you let him sleep.”

With another bow, Prince Maitimo was gone, and Telperína could breathe again.

 

 

In the end, Curufinwë awoke soon after, when Telperína had gone back to staring at the garden’s flowers as she thought about her story – speculative imagination rather than purely historical, which was new and terrifying on several levels… but also freeing, in a way, leaving her wondering what other stories she might dream up to entice an audience.

“Wh-” Curufinwë spluttered, sitting up straight in an instant, Telperína’s blue cloak falling down to lay across his leg. Twisting around, he stared at her, blinking some sort of dream out of his eyes. “Telperína?” Glancing down at her thigh, her dress creased in the shape of his head, he flushed, golden eyes flashing back up to her face with a guilty cast to them.

For a moment, time was suspended between them, and Telperína felt herself drawn into his eyes, the memory of the time she had hugged him coming unbidden to her mind.

“You seemed to sleep so sweetly,” Telperína said, offering him a small smile, “I thought it a shame to wake you…” And I liked having you with me when I worked – you’re not a distraction, like so many people, you’re just… there. Of course, she couldn’t tell him such things, but it didn’t change the fact that she had liked the way he felt next to her, had enjoyed the solid weight of him against her body.

“I should…” he trailed off, eyes darting down once more only to be forced back to her face.

She opened her mouth, fingers poised to flip the page, to show him the drawing she had made – Maitimo had seen it, it seemed only fair – but Curufinwë was on his feet in a flash and striding out of the garden in the next moment, leaving her to stare after him in utter confusion.

 

She knows, Curvo thought, exhilarated and panicked at once, speeding towards the sanctuary of his workroom. Looking at himself in the mirror – eyes shining, cheeks flushed and his hair in more disarray than usual, a tell-tale crease on his cheek from sleeping with her dress – her leg – as a pillow – he groaned.

She must know, now. Telperína’s soft smile filled his mind but did not give away whether she felt for him the fondness due a friend’s younger brother or… more.

What will she do? What will I do?

Pacing his workroom did not bring him an answer, and thinking about her only made him wish that he’d been brave enough to lean into that frozen moment, to learn if she would move towards him or not, which would have been a clearer answer than his own speculations.

Her lips look so soft.

Touching his own bottom lip, Curufinwë kept pacing, wondering just how this girl could affect him so greatly – particularly considering his general lack of interest in the ladies of court, whose presence he found a boring vexation at best. And still he had sat with Telperína, listened to her talk about a craft that he didn’t much care for himself without being overwhelmed by familiar boredom. He hadn’t even wanted to wander off when she had fallen silent, an intense look of concentration on her face as she wrote letters into her book, muttering partial sentences to herself.

No, he’d found her calming.

Calming enough to fall asleep in her lap, with no memory of how he’d ended up there, his head resting on the soft fabric of her skirts and his nose filled with the sweet scent of honeysuckle and the sharpness of fresh ink.

And the work he had so worried about earlier had crystallised in his mind, needing only the labour of his hands to bring it forth… and Telperína’s presence was the reason.

Scoffing at himself for the sentiment, still he felt it was true, trying simply to void the realisation waiting around the next corner of his mind.

“You are my best inspiration; always you make me see the things in my mind clearly.” The words, spoken with excitement, were some he had overheard many yéni before… but they were Fëanáro’s and he had known they were a declaration of love made to his ammë.

I… love her? He had known that the fondness and interest he’d felt when he first met Telperína had grown, deepened… but the realisation of his own heart’s desire hit him like a sledgehammer.

Curufinwë stumbled, leaving heavily on his work desk to keep himself upright.

I am in love… with Telperína.

Sinking in the chair, he turned the thought over in his mind, watching it shift from the malleable diffuse haze of a new idea to the crystal-clear diamond of realisation.

I love Telperína.

 

 

 

 

“We’re going to miss the best part if we don’t hurry up!” Makalaurë announced.

Telperína opened the door to her house, a yawn still playing around her mouth. She had been up late the night before, spinning a tale she did not know where would go until she watched the words form on paper before her. This new form of writing was exhilarating… but also hazardous to her sleep. Staring at Makalaurë, she blinked sleepily, smothering another yawn with her hand.  

“The craft fair begins early – I want to see what Curvo did, and Atya’s secrecy should be revealed, too, he said.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she laughed, putting on her shoes, “hold your horses.” She would almost rather have stayed home to see what else might spill from the new wellspring in her mind and onto the page, a snippet dancing just out of reach in her thoughts.

“That reminds me, I should show you the games!” Makalaurë continued, eyes bright with anticipation as he tugged on her hand.

Telperína sighed, following him down the street. She had not told him of her story of Telimektar, or of Curufinwë inspiring her to write something new, but Makalaurë did not seem to note her preoccupation, continuing to babble about the festival as they walked.

“There are ball games, yes,” he continued, “but also Miquë Roitaro – you’ll have heard of that; my cousin Artanis usually trounces all the young neri brave enough to challenge her.”

“I have heard of the kiss hunting game,” Telperína replied, intrigued despite herself, resolutely not examining the possible reasons for her sudden interest.

“It’s good fun!” Makalaurë exclaimed. “Even Moryo likes going, so I’m sure you’ll love it.”

“We shall see.”

 

 

 

It was fun, Telperína had to admit, admiring a piece of fabric woven with a pattern of tiny white flowers against a blue-grey background – it was too thick for a full skirt, but she thought it might do for panels interspaced with fabric of similar hue but different weave, as well as a bodice. Perhaps with embroidery done in silver…

Ammë would like to see it.

On a whim, she bought four lengths of it, smiling at the nissë who wrapped up her purchase. Despite her own lack of interest in the craft of tailoring, Telperína remained her mother’s daughter, and she had always appreciated the effort it took to make clothing.

The fabric also gave her an excuse to visit the metal-crafters’ stalls, losing Makalaurë to an impromptu concert along the way without noticing as she hunted for some silver thread and a piece for her hair to match the garment taking shape in her head.

“Well met on this morning, my lady.”

Looking up at the words, Telperína smiled. “This is your work?” she asked, gesturing at the wealth spread out on the table before her.

Curufinwë nodded. “Some of it – these are simpler pieces, not the competition work,” he explained, “during the Asar Alcarinqua, I am here as a smith first, a Prince second.” Tilting his head, he looked at her, studying the parcel under her arm and the silver bracelet she was fingering. “I had not expected many Teleri to show up.”

“The Noldor are not alone in appreciating a day of feasting,” Telperína replied, regretting her sharp tone when his face blanked. “I’m sorry – I did not mean to be rude.”

“I didn’t mean – you are welcome here, of course,” Curufinwë protested. “Just… I did not expect to see you here.”

“Makalaurë was most insistent,” Telperína shrugged. “And you yourself said I should bring my – my story to read here.”

Looking down at the glittering pieces on display – a wealth of jewellery, of course, but also finely wrought iron tools with inlaid handles – she tried to decide if she could afford the price a Prince’s work must command, putting down the bracelet with a small sigh of regret.

“I’m… I’m pleased you came – I am sorry I was not…” he flushed.

“Think nothing of it,” she hastened to reassure him, “I was not at all offended by your uhm… falling asleep.” Blushing at the memory, she managed to smile at him, noting the tenseness leaving his shoulders.

“Still… have you signed up for the readings?” Curufinwë asked. “I should like to hear it.”

Telperína shook her head – she had thought about it, but she hadn’t quite dared to stand before the whole gathering and declaim something that was essentially an elaborate dream put to paper. “Not today… It’s too big, here.”

Curufinwë did not press her, as Makalaurë would have, and suddenly Telperína realised why she had not told her friend about her newest work.

“I’m sure you will find enjoyment here regardless,” Curvo heard himself say, not quite prepared for the bright way Telperína suddenly smiled at him, making his heart pound in his chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured, fingers still resting on the small silver bracelet.

“It would suit you,” he muttered, nodding at the bracelet, oblong silver beads set with iridescent freshwater pearls. It would be perfect for her, echoing the silver of her hair and the pearl studs he had seen in her ears once. He had made it with Irissë in mind, but suddenly it was Telperína’s bracelet.

“But not my purse, I fear,” she admitted, cheeks glowing slightly, taking her hand away.

Curvo caught her hand, deftly clasping the bracelet around her wrist before he even realised that he was holding her hand. “Call it payment for being the first to hear a story you wrote,” he mumbled, and dropped her hand like she had burned him, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the way his fingers trembled with the memory of her skin.

Telperína’s cheeks were on fire, staring at him and pressing her hand to her chest as she tried to come up with an appropriate response to Curufinwë’s unexpected kindness.

“Are you… sure?” she wondered, reluctantly holding out her hand towards him so he could take it back. Please say yes.

Curufinwë nodded tightly, his face set in a mulishly stubborn expression.

“Then… I thank you, Haryon Curufinwë.” Curtseying deeply, Telperína hardly dared look up him, afraid of what her face might betray. In her chest, her heart hammered like it might beat its way out of her body.

“Just Curufinwë,” he replied brusquely, staring at his own boots. “We are friends, after all.”

She couldn’t read the expression on his face, but Telperína’s heart slowed a little at the words. Friends, yes… and how would he know that the giving of pearls among Atto’s kindred is tantamount to a declaration of deeper feelings than that?

Moving around the table in a flash, Telperína rose on tiptoes, pressing the smallest of kisses to his cheek; he might not have intended more than the gift said, but she still felt it required a special response… “Thank you, Curufinwë,” she whispered, ghosting away as swiftly as her feet would obey her, certain that her flaming cheeks would tell everyone who saw her how impertinent she had just been.

She hoped none of her friends had spotted her, at least, certain that she’d never live down the presumptuousness of kissing a prince. Groaning to herself, she ducked into a space by the juice-seller, tossing down a cup of cool pomegranate cordial and tried to calm herself.

I still like him more than I should, it would seem.

 

Back at his table, Curufinwë stared after her, fingertips gently touching the spot she had kissed, stupefied by the whole interlude.

Why did she…?

It took three tries before he heard Tyelkormo calling.

 

 

 

“There you are!” Makalaurë called, startling Telperína out of her circling thoughts. “What are you staring at goats for?”

“Yes… I-” Telperína realised that her aimless wandering had indeed brought her to the livestock area of the festival, a placid goat chewing on some long grass as it stared back at her. “Eh…”

“Come on, they’re about to announce the winners of the crafting competitions!” Makalaurë interrupted, grabbing her parcel and walking back into the crowd, annoyingly certain she would follow.

Which she did, huffing at herself.

High-handed Ñoldo. Then she had to smile, remembering the excited look on his face. Catching up with Makalaurë, she linked her arm with his to avoid losing him in the crowd again. “So who are we rooting for?”

 

 

 

It wasn’t the first time he’d stood on the platform for the judging of crafts, but Curvo suddenly felt incredibly aware that the crowd might contain Telperína – would she care to see the forgeworks show or would she be more interested in the fabrics and finery of the weavers’ guild?

He didn’t know, looking out over the crowd almost without seeing, trying to spot her silver hair.

“Nervous, Curvo?” Tyelkormo asked, but nerves were far from his mind at that moment – or at least the kind of nerves that Turko meant.

“No… I know I’m good.” Technically brilliant, if that wasn’t too boastful, though he only really cared about Atto’s opinion of his work, Mahtan and Aulë coming in second on that scale.

She’s here!... with Makalaurë.

“Oh wee Telpë? Yeah, I spotted her earlier; her ammë is up against Moryo, I think,” Turko replied, making Curvo realise he’d spoken aloud.

Flushing, he turned away from where he’d spotted the distinctive silver hair that marked her Telerin heritage, forcing himself to pay attention to the announcement. His own effort for the contest was a hand-mirror, the back of it decorated with golden inlays against the deep red cherry wood in a pattern of constellations around the central medallion of their family crest and set with rubies. It was skilfully made, though Curvo thought it lacked… something.

“You never are satisfied with your efforts, eh, Atarinkë,” Tyelkormo teased.

Curufinwë punched him good-naturedly in the arm. “Don’t call me that.”

“Just saying,” Tyelormo laughed, rubbing his arm with a slightly rueful grin. Huan did the dog-equivalent of a laugh, headbutting Curvo’s hip. “You can’t deny he does that, too.”

“It’s just… it’s pretty, but it’s not new, you know,” Curvo muttered, scratching the dog’s head gently. “I’ve made hundreds of mirrors – I’ve made a lot of everything, improved existing things, but there’s nothing really new to do… The other day I started ‘weaving’ – only don’t tell Moryo I called it that – a shirt of metal wire, just to try something I’d never done before.”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Tyelkormo opined, tugging playfully on a long lock of his hair. “Where would you wear a thing like that? Isn’t it heavy?”

“Well, a little – but less than I’d thought, really,” Curvo admitted. “I don’t know – maybe if you’re working with something sharp you don’t want to be cut by? But then it’d need sleeves…”

He barely heard the excited announcer award him a prize, lost in wondering at the possibilities for making useful things with the metal wire. Protection seemed a noble goal – he had made arm guards for Turko to that purpose, for example, protecting his arms from the sting of a released bowstring – and if that was the purpose, it should be extended towards the thighs and over one’s arms…

“Think you could make a whole suit of it?”

Not that such a thing would necessarily be useful, but it’d be a fun project, making a metal-suit that a ner could walk around in. Maybe he would get Turko to test it – it seemed just the thing Tilion would be game for, shooting his friend with arrows to watch them bounce off the metal mesh suit.

It’d need to be something other than silver, for that, though, it was too soft. The silver version could still be pretty, though, added to everyday clothing. The thought made him look for Telperína again, wondering if she was proud of his winning; she had been his unwitting inspiration, after all.

But she wasn’t looking at him at all.

Curvo stared at the crowd without seeing anything but the way her hand stayed on the strange ner’s arm – she would touch Makalaurë, of course, though only as a friend, and he knew him so it didn’t matter regardless. But this stranger was wrapping his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close enough to press his lips against her temple.

And she smiled at him.

 

 

 

“Curufinwë looks… odd,” Telperína said, looking up at the stage. He looked almost angry, as though he was annoyed with the praises showered on his workmanship.

Beside her, Makalaurë shrugged. “He’s got an idea for a new project,” he assumed. “It usually looks like that on Atto, too. Preoccupation.”

“And on you, actually,” Telperína added, “when you’re coming up with a new piece of music.” But is it? There’s something else in there…

“Well, he is my brother,” Makalaurë sniffed, breaking into a grin. The thought she had almost snatched disappeared like smoke in the air, and Telperína turned back to her friend. “Speaking of family, if you want to see your Ammë’s work we should head over there,” he pointed, “that section is dedicated to the crafts of Vairë’s domain.”

“Aunt Fananis got Eldalótë to model for her,” Leptafinya added. “I helped her with the sewing.” They held up their fingers, wiggling them to show off the bandaged tips. “So much sewing.”

“Aww, you poor thing,” Telperína giggled, catching her cousin’s hand and blowing gently across the wounded digits.

“I’m sure Moryo’s fingers look the same,” Makalaurë replied, “he’s been working on the creation ever since Fananis announced that she would be taking part.”

“I do wonder why,” Telperína mumbled.

“She wanted to show off,” Leptafinya shrugged, “and getting one over on Fëanáro’s son would sweeten the pot for her, I don’t doubt – even more so than beating Morifinwë himself, I mean.”

“Has something happened?” Telperína replied; Morifinwë’s rivalry with her ammë had been ongoing for years now, but it was usually a friendly thing so far as she knew.

“Some sort of clishmaclaver,” Leptafinya shrugged. “Involving one of the creations she made for Indis… but as I heard it – you know how gossip flows through a sewing room – it was Fëanáro’s doing; he never did like the Queen.”

“Well, let’s go see what my brother has created then,” Makalaurë said, gesturing for Telperína to precede him. “I suppose we’ll have to be on rival sides now.”

“Should we not congratulate Curufinwë?” Telperína wondered, though she began moving towards the area he’d indicated. “Bring him along?”

“Nah, he’ll be heading to his workroom or the forge, I bet. Shame, really, he’ll miss the races.” Makalaurë shrugged. “He and atar are both like that – ammë, too, to be fair. And Moryo.”

“And you,” Telperína chuckled, bumping him with her shoulder.

“I don’t know what you mean, lady Telperína,” Makalaurë replied, mock-affronted, “for I am the soul of courtesy and would never abandon my friends to create a song.” He tried to keep a straight face, but it cracked in seconds. Laughing, he waved at Morifinwë up on the platform, his younger brother scowling back.

Telperína tried to smile at him, but the scowl grew at that, so she turned her attention to Ammë’s creation, unveiled at that very moment, hardly recognising Eldalótë beneath the dress that sparkled like jewellery in the Tree-light.

“Oh!” she whispered. Eldalótë’s beauty was praised deservedly, but it nearly drowned in the glory of the dress. She couldn’t quite tell what the material was, clinging to every curve of limb yet kept oddly modest by the sparkling gems washing up her body in a sinuous wave of stars. “Varda’s Stars…”

“That is… quite something,” the person beside her mumbled.

Telperína nodded but did not look to see who had spoken.

There was little competition, despite the beauty of Morifinwë’s creation, which had been made in a deep green silks and linens and looked as though it was stitched from leaves, leaving the model looking like she had stepped from a dream of Yavanna’s making. Telperína thought it might be the more technically advanced dress – and certainly special.

But the Star-dress outshone it.

She did not quite like the gloating look on Fananis’ face when she accepted her prize, however, wondering what exactly had been said between Queen Indis and Prince Fëanáro.

 

 

 

“I’m going to beat Irissë today,” Tyelkormo sang, Huan jumping around them as they walked towards the athletics field and the race tracks.

“You always say that,” Curvo pointed out, “but she beats you just as often.” Gesturing towards the field, horses and people already milling around, watching the stone-hurlers at play, he added, “Moryo’s books are proof of that.”

Turko simply shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. We play for personal stakes.”

“You don’t play it for kisses?” Curvo wondered. “I’m sure you could win easily against any other lady.”

“But that’s the glory of it!” Turko protested. “We’re equally good, so it’s more fun – Irissë gives me a challenge…

“And none of these other ladies have the ability to put you on your arse with a bow,” Curvo replied drily.

“And I don’t particularly want their kisses,” Turko nodded.

I do… at least one of them, Curvo thought, spotting the bright silver hair of Telperína next to Káno’s pink-and-grey shoulders.

The ner who had kissed her temple in greeting was still with them.

“Do you feel alright?” Turko asked. “You look a bit off – ate something odd?”

“I’m fine.” Curvo forced the words out through gritted teeth, surprised by the strength of his jealousy when he watched her laugh at something the stranger said.

“I’ll give you odds on Artanis’ first challenge,” Moryo said as he walked up. “Angaráto has money on two minutes – what’s wrong with Curvo?”

“He ate something off,” Turko replied, patting Curvo’s shoulder. “It’s the wrestling for her?”

“Aye,” Moryo nodded, “I actually had someone come and ask me what the odds of her losing were.”

Tyelkormo almost fell over laughing, supporting himself on Curvo’s shoulder.

“You’re not sick are you?” Moryo asked, chortling himself as he reached out to feel Curvo’s cheek. “You don’t feel warm.”

“I said I’m fine, “Curvo grumbled, pulling away from Moryo’s touch. “We should go watch Artë trounce whoever dared challenge her.”

“Some Vanya,” Moryo shrugged, leading the way towards the wrestling circle, “Aþion, I think he said.”

“I guess he didn’t know any better,” Turko shrugged, “hopefully he’s actually going to try – it’s so boring when they tap out after 30 seconds.”

“He didn’t look like much to me,” Moryo replied, “I think Anga’s two minutes were too kind by far.”

“Bleh,” Turko sighed. “Oh well, it’s still worth it to watch Artë in action.”

 

 

“Did Curvo eat something bad?” Makalaurë said, aiming the words at Tyelkormo who shrugged.

“No I did not! – who is this?” Curufinwë objected, scowling at Makalaurë and gesturing at Leptafinya beside her.

“Congratulations, Curufinwë,” Telperína said, “this is Leptafinya, a cousin on my mother’s side.”

“Well met, your highness,” Lepta added, bowing politely.

“Oh, er – well met,” Curufinwë nodded back.

“Anyone seen Irissë?” Tyelkormo wondered, staring around the throng of people beginning to fill the stands along the racing grounds.

“Cheering on Artanis, I think,” Telperína replied, shielding her eyes as she looked back treewards to see Irissë’s dark hair and white clothing shine in the mingling light. “Not that she needs it.”

“Let’s go watch, then,” Tyelkormo exclaimed, haring off with the large dog at his heels, carving a path for the rest of them to follow, laughing at his eagerness.

 

“Irissë and my brother always race each other first,” Curufinwë explained, gesturing at the two arming up their horses near the starting line, waiting for the last of the stone hurlers to vacate the pitch. “Don’t bother taking Moryo’s offer of a bet; they’re evenly matched and I think they’d both keep going against each other until the horses fell down if not for the fact that there are other riders.”

“You don’t take part, Haryon?” Leptafinya asked over Telperína’s head.

Curufinwë shook his head. “I’ve no desire to win anyone’s kisses, and I’m not so popular as to be challenged to it like Russo or Káno,” he shrugged.

“Maitimo does not strike me as the type to favour kisses from ladies like that,” Telperína chuckled, nodding at someone dressed for a High Court ball feathering her lashes at Maitimo’s kindly bland face.

“Sadly not an epiphany that has occurred to any of those ladies,” Curufinwë grinned. “I keep telling him he’s too kind when he turns them down.”

“Maitimo is a very kind ner,” Telperína agreed, distracted by the horn blowing for the beginning of the races.

At the starting line, Irissë was now facing off with Tyelkormo, clearly deciding the terms of their personal wager.

“Moryo runs the general betting pools,” Makalaurë explained, gesturing at his brother, “but Turko and Irissë always goad each other into personal bets.”

“Beyond the forfeit of a kiss?” Telperína asked.

“Oh yeah, neither of them cares that much about the kissing aspect – it’s bragging rights they go for,” Makalaurë laughed. “Irissë is not so popular a challenge as our cousin Artanis; I think it’s because Artanis looks more innocent, but don’t tell her I said that – I don’t care to be challenged to another wrestling match.” He shuddered in an exaggerated way, the billowing sleeves of his rose-and-grey robe fluttering. The silk ensemble, embroidered with silver feathers and large chrysanthemum blossoms, would be more at home on a stage or in a serene library – definitely not a practical choice for a dusty festival ground.

And yet Makalaurë looked as fresh as he had when he arrived at her house that morning, while Telperína was aware that the bottom hem of her own dress had collected a fair amount of dirt already.

On the track, Tyelkormo was mounted on a large grey gelding, Huan lying in the shade of a tree overlooking proceedings and gasping at the heat.

Telperína rather envied the hound; the day was considerably warmer than she enjoyed, and the throng of people meant any breeze that could snatch at her hair and cool her neck had long-since become no more than a flutter of wind by the time it reached her.

Mounting her own horse – a pure white mare, because Irissë never did things by halves, much like the rest of Finwë’s descendants – Irissë let out a loud whoop and set off in a gallop towards Tyelkormo.

The race was on.

 

 

 

“You win,” Telperína laughed, sucking on her ice lolly as they walked back towards Tirion proper. “I did have fun.”

“Good. Sorry Moryo was a bit…” Makalaurë replied.

Telperína shrugged. Morifinwë had never particularly liked her and she understood his disappointment at losing to her mother even though it wasn’t a reason to sulk at her. “It’s fine – Curufinwë is nice.”

“You may be the first to say that and mean it,” Makalaurë laughed, “but I’m glad we didn’t scare you off.”

“I’m sorry to have to break it to you, Makalaurë,” Telperína told him sweetly, “but it’ll take more than the sons of Fëanáro to scare me off.”

His laughter was infectious, ringing against the stone walls of the building around them.

“You know, I actually believe that.”

 

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