A Walk down Memory Lane by Raiyana

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A Gift

Inkwell

Pectoral ornaments (Ferno's outfit was inspired by these, though mostly by traditional aztec jewellery)

 

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As a begetting day gift, it was hardly ostentatious, he thought, considering his reputation, which allowed him to get away with giving much finer gifts than most. Furthermore, it was practical, a gift Telperína could use every day, scribing her plays and stories.

The gilt bronze he had used showed perfectly, forming intricate patterns of lines and spiralling whirls surrounding small roundels of brightly shimmering shell bartered from Artaresto. The play of colours reminded him of Telperína, changing in hue from a vivid green – her favourite dress – to the soft pink of her cheeks blushing.

He had considered silver gilt for the highlights, but somehow that did not feel as right as making the small ornate inkwell from gold and bronze, reminiscent – he’d never admit the reason beyond artistic preference – of his own eyes, his favoured colours and the colours of his house. There was no bright red, and he had not traced the famous Fëanorian star into the work – he had been tempted but he had restrained himself – the small inkwell carrying traces of both of them only to his eye. The tiny hinges, too, reminded him of their first meeting, though they were hidden within the lid, the decoration on the outside of the box much finer than the work he had been doing that day.

Looking at the small eight-sided inkwell, Curufinwë smiled, imagining her joy in receiving it.

Wrapping the gift in silk and tying a green silk ribbon around the box, he moved to the next task on his list, casting an anxious glance at the sky; he didn’t want to be late.

 

Trying to decide what to wear was a far more daunting prospect, though he had long-since realised – mostly based on Carnistir’s disdainful looks – that his sense of the aesthetic did not extend to outside his workroom. Instead, he allowed Carnistir – whose taste no one dared question – to dress him for official functions, accepting the badly veiled teasing as his brother’s due for the favour.

Tonight, Carnistir’s sartorial whims saw Curvo dressed in a dark silk robe with pale grey leggings and his favourite leather boots. The robe was open somewhat further down his chest than he might have chosen, but Carnistir had insisted, and at least the sleeves – wide and puffy around his upper arms – tapered closely around his forearms and wrists. The billowing sleeves that seemed to be the height of fashion these days he had refused, never feeling quite comfortable in clothing that would potentially drag across the materials of his workroom – no matter that the black silk robes were much too fine to wear in the forge.

At the very least, there was no hint of the colourful sprawl of Káno’s robes – Curvo did not wish to resemble a great glittering beetle-wing – and he had stopped trying to sneak in yards of ruched fabric, which meant Curvo would accept the plunging neckline without protest.

Carnistir had sighed at him, when he touched the tight sleeve with a satisfied smirk but that was a point of contention long-since fought between them. Curvo might be aware that he was woefully inept when it came to fabrics, but Moryo seemed almost physically pained by his attempts at tailoring, which made threatening to ignore his suggestions a valuable tool of extortion.

The black robes, to Moryo’s credit, came with a copper-tone leather lapel and high collar; crisp swooping lines to match his slim but powerful build. The leather, which Curvo had tooled and dyed himself even if the design was Carnistir’s creation, was decorated with the spikes of Atto’s Star surrounded by tiny faceted garnets. It filled him with a sense of comfort, somehow, wearing materials he had worked himself. The soft but stiff leather collar was held together across his chest with a simple ring of burnished copper and decorated at the shoulder points with dangling golden ornaments, in deference to the sparkling fashions of court.

Curvo had to admit that his brother had done well in the making of the garment – even if it meant enduring Moryo’s smug looks – because when he looked in the glass he looked… well, he looked like someone who belonged at a party full of the best and brightest young artists in Tirion, which was the point exactly. Adding a pair of extra-pointy earbobs – his own invention, though  Carnistir had somehow made them all the rage of current fashion – made from matching filigree to his person, Curvo felt ready to brave the social circles of artistic Tirion. For luck – and as a last-minute addition – he added a small piece of silver wire to the pocket of his cloak, fingering the bow on the present absentmindedly.

 

At least the dress Ammë had made her was more than fine enough, even if Makalaurë – as usual – resembled a peacock more than an Elf. Hiding a smile behind her hand, she watched him strumming a lyre he had found somewhere – unless it had been stuffed up one of his voluminous sleeves, he had not brought the long-necked instrument – abandoning his silver harp for once, playing to a gaggle of tittering ladies. Wryly, she once again thought of a peacock – the blue sleeves, the gem-strewn hair-piece, and the iridescent green cape completed Makalurë’s ensemble splendidly – with a harem of female admirers.

Feeling smothered by the amount of people who had descended like vultures on what ought to have been a small party to celebrate her begetting day, Telperína sent Makalaurë a harsh glare that he completely missed. Sighing – Why was she friends with a Prince, again? – Telperína poured herself a goblet of wine, looking at the gathered crowd. A few of the cousins she had personally invited were cowering timidly in a corner, staring wide-eyed at the sea of Noldor who seemed to have overtaken her small home in a flood of chatter, perfume and some kind of herbal smoke that filled the air with cloying sweetness. She doubted she knew even half of them; most of them probably had no idea this was meant to be her celebration, not Makalaurë’s. The wine he had ordered was good, at least, from a Vanyarin vineyard she liked, but it didn’t ameliorate her simmering temper.

Abandoning her friend to the loud clamours of ‘Encore’, Telperína made her way through the crowds, silently hoping that Makalaurë wasn’t the only of Fëanáro’s sons in attendance. She had invited Curufinwë, personally, for friendship – Surely, they were friends now? – though he had not given a decisive answer either way.

Catching no sight of the dark curls – cut short since he had set half of his hair on fire when the little Ambarussas startled him in the forge – her mood fell somewhat, but she made a determined effort to ignore the slight of his absence. Curufinwë was her friend.  

 

 

“Dance with me!” Cousin Ferno, the only one who looked more glittering than most of the Noldor, called, catching her around the waist on her second circuit of the main room. Telperína laughed at the sight of him, decked out in an outrageous golden get-up she recognised from the court of Ingwë as the costume of Laurëlin from the spring festival. Decorated with gems and beads, it gleamed against his brown skin. Chiefly made of brightly polished gold; it left almost nothing to the imagination, but her favourite cousin had never been shy. Ferno grinned cheekily, probably aware of her thoughts, and pulled her along towards the impromptu dancefloor that had formed by Makalaurë who had been joined by a few other musically inclined acquaintances and was occupied with a rousing rendition of an old Telerin shanty that put colour in more than one set of cheeks with its lewdness. He winked at her, and Telperína laughed, letting Ferno twirl her around. The music was swift and joyous and Telperína forgot that she had been annoyed at her friend’s absence.

 

 

He was late, Curvo realised when he arrived at the house his carefully penned directions indicated. The sound of several instruments, a few singers soaring above a sea of conversation and laughter, streamed from the open windows, floating towards him as he walked through the balmy night air. Telperína had called it a ‘small get-together of friends’ when she invited him, and this looked more like most of everyone Káno knew in Tirion – a few obvious travellers from elsewhere in Aman.

The crowd was nearly overwhelming, the heat of many bodies pressed together hitting him with an almost physical force as soon as he reached the door. Someone handed him a goblet of dark wine, and Curvo had emptied it before he managed to cross the floor, intending to ask Káno where he could find Telperína, the small present in its carefully selected wrappings weighing on his mind. Anticipation made his steps light, and then they faltered, leaving him buffeted by the crowd until he ended up wedged beside an end table – which held a carafe of wine, so he refilled his goblet – and a large planter overflowing with elanori. Curvo hardly noticed, his eyes glued to the lithe steps of Telperína dancing with some ner he did not recognise, the nut-brown skin and golden hair marking him a Vanyarin like her ammë. The green dress with its wide neck lined in wavy silver embroidery and gossamer sleeves split at the shoulder swished around her legs when she twirled in time to the music. Her feet were bare, aside from a thin silver anklet with three small bells on it; the same Telerin type he had been coerced into making for little Artë a few months ago. The metal glinted in the candlelight when the ner picked her up and spun them around, making the dress flare out behind her. She smiled at the stranger and Curvo began to wonder why he had thought coming to this party was a good idea. Telperína laughed, saying something to her partner that made him grin at her. Curvo scowled at him.

Downing his third goblet, Curvo kept watching – he wasn’t the only one caught by the sight of the strikingly handsome couple; Telperína with her colouring reminiscent of Telperion and her partner exuding Laurëlin’s warmth. The gold in his hair echoed in the wide golden collar he wore, lapis lazuli beads flashes of bright blue combined with warm red carnelians. The golden arm-lets, decorated with more carnelians in a geometric pattern of squares caught the light, reflecting onto his golden skin – he was not wearing a shirt or a tunic or anything – and the golden-hued tan of his leather leggings. Suddenly, Carnistir’s whims seemed modest in the extreme, and Curvo toasted his absent brother with another mouthful of excellent wine.

“Onórincë!” Káno exclaimed, clearly more than well on his way towards inebriation, and stole Curvo’s goblet, draining it in one swallow. “I didn’t think you were coming!” His voice, a few levels louder than the din around them, slurred only slightly – Káno rarely sounded drunk, even though his balance was obviously affected.

“Here I am,” he agreed, wondering if Telperína would mind him leaving without greeting her – he could always bring her present over tomorrow – while Káno continued to babble drunkenly at him.

“Little brother!” he continued loudly, “Here you! Are! All dressed up for Telpë’s begetting day!” Curvo winced. Makalaurë gave him a somewhat off-centre smile and a small wave before turning away again, pushing the wine carafe into Curvo’s hand along with his now-empty goblet. “Come, all you jolly sailors,” he began singing, somehow still able to hit the tune perfectly, lurching back towards the group of musicians who picked up the rowing tune almost immediately. Curvo shook his head in amusement, pouring himself some more wine.

“That on the Seas do ply,” Another singer chimed in, catching Káno by the arm and attempting to dance with him. Curvo chuckled, the warmth of the wine he had drunk spreading in his belly.

“Haul up your boats and wet your throats,” Káno replied, his voice harmonising with the Telerin elf’s on the last line: “For rowing makes us dry.”

Curvo snorted, wondering if Káno had ever tried rowing a boat and deciding it was unlikely – his concept of sailing ran along the lines of ‘I will play you music to paddle by’, which had made Tyelko splash water at him, but Maitimo had taken the oars with Tyelko, proving that they were just as good at sailing as Angaráto and his brothers. For a moment, he relived the look on his cousins’ faces when they had beaten them to the finish line, but then a new singer broke through his thoughts, her clear voice rising above the melody.

“Come all you pretty fair maids,” she sung, “wherever you may be.” Curvo’s eyes once more found Telperína, no longer in the arms of the golden stranger, but standing next to Káno who was laughing between notes as she sang her verse, the tune flowing through the small silver flute Curvo had made for his last begetting day. “Bring in your lines and pour out the wines; the sailors return from the sea.”

A chorus of voices soon took up the song, merriment sounding through the building as more and more celebrants joined in.

 

Come, all you jolly sailors
That on the Seas do ply
Haul up your boats and wet your throats
For rowing makes us dry

Come, all you pretty fair maids
wherever you may be
Bring in your lines and pour out the wines
Our sailors return from the sea

Come, all you wealthy merchants
who keep your goods in store
the sails are trim and the light is dim
The crew is now coming ashore

Come, all you crafty Captains
who read the wind and tide
Abandon the wheel, enjoy a good meal;
the ale down thirsty throats slide!

Come, all you clever scribes
whose hands are stained with ink
lay down your tomes and come from your homes
to give pretty lassies a wink!

Come, all you singing potters
who make ceramics so fine
bring out the jugs and pour ale in the mugs
then lay back and see the stars shine!

Come, all you bonny farmers
who bring in corn and grain
The harvest is stored and dues paid the lord
so lifting your glass is no strain

Come, all you crafty coopers
who shape the barrel and cask
You’ve earned a drip and as for a sip
you don’t even have to ask!

Come, all you busy scholars
who stand around and think
bring up a seat and get off your feet
The time has come for a drink!

Come, all you drunken dancers
who move with stumbling grace
Come through the door and step up to the floor
to find your lover’s embrace!

Come, all you rowdy singers
whose voices sound out in cheer
lift them all high, then drain your cups dry
I’ll pay for a song with my beer!

Come, all you friendly strangers
who met the first time tonight
Enjoy the grape’s boon and strike up a tune
we’ll feast till Laurëlin’s bright!

Curvo listened to snatches of song, escaping through the open doors and finding him on the airy balcony where he had sought refuge, looking out across the brightly lit windows of Tirion. The scent of roses hung in the air around him, coming from a large planter filled with white night-blooming flowers.

 

“Have you seen Curvo?”

Telperína looked up – looking at Prince Maitimo always made her feel especially small, even though she was about average height herself – and shook her head, the sting of disappointment from before piercing her once more.

“I haven’t, Haryon,” she said, “I didn’t think he wanted to come?” She had hoped, yes, but Curufinwë was not much for parties, and this had turned out rather a bit larger than she had planned when she asked him.

“I saw him!” Makalaurë mused drunkenly as he came up behind her, leaning heavily on her shoulder as he blinked blearily at his older brother, “little brother, my little baby brother, Curufinwë Atarincë! With a goblet of wine.” He gave them a drunken grin, and then turned back to the two musicians still playing, demanding back his lyre. Prince Maitimo – somehow she still felt awkward leaving out the honorific, even in her own mind – sighed, shaking his head with a small smile.

“I’d take him home, too, if I thought he’d come,” he apologised quietly, nodding towards Makalaurë, which made her notice the vacant expression on Findekáno’s face, hiding in his cousin’s large shadow, both arms wrapped around Prince Maitimo’s waist. Telperína suddenly thought she might get used to calling him Maitimo – at least in her head – looking at the gentle way he picked up the incoherent ner. “I’ll have to get Finno to bed, though; someone convinced him to try some herbal smoke and he rather overindulged, I think.”

“It’s fine,” Telerína replied, glancing over her shoulder as her friend twanged his way through an old ballad. They both winced. “Makalaurë has slept here before; I’ll brew him some tea and send him home when he wakes.”

Maitimo laughed, though she had a feeling it wasn’t at her.

“Well, I’ll leave that to you, but if Curvo is here… keep an eye out for him?” he asked, looking as dignified as a King, even with Finno drooling on his shoulder. “Finno isn’t the only one who is new to the joys of alanessë.” Maitimo gave her a wry smile, and Telperína ignored the way Finno was nuzzling into his neck, muttering something soft and slurred.

“I’ll go look for him again,” Telperína promised, ignoring the warmth in the pit of her stomach at the thought that he might have come to her celebration, after all; it wasn’t every day a nissë turned 80 yeni.

“Thank you, Lady Telperína,” Maitimo said, offering her a polite bow and hoisting Finno higher into his arms, soothing him with whispered words when the dark-haired ner muttered something she did not catch. “And congratulations on your begetting day, once again.”

With a final nod, Maitimo and his semi-conscious burden were gone. Snagging a goblet of wine to wet her suddenly parched throat, Telperína set off for one more circuit of the party, skilfully avoiding Ferno’s second attempted dance.

 

He lost track of time for a while, the redolent scent of the roses mingling with the heady wine he had guzzled as he looked at their fair city – Atto would have been disappointed to see him act like an inexperienced youth unused to wine, Curvo thought, raising his goblet in a silent wry toast at the spectre of his absent sire.

“You came!”

Curvo startled, nearly dropping his goblet, which had somehow remained half-full, and whirled to face her.

Her smile was as bright as the Mindon Eldaliéva, her gentle green eyes sparkling with delight and her cheeks flushed with wine and cheer. He smiled back involuntarily.

“Telperína…” he murmured, one hand sliding into his pocket, twisting the ribbon that tied the wrappings of his gift closed between his fingers.

“I’m glad you’re here, Curufinwë,” she said, wobbling slightly when she moved to stand beside him, leaning against the balcony railing. “I thought you weren’t coming – why didn’t you come talk to me?” she asked, looking across the glimmering city. Curvo didn’t have a reply – how to explain the painful way his heart squeezed watching her dance with Prince Half-Naked? – and remained mum. “It is my begetting day,” she continued, turning her head to pout at him after a few minutes of silence.

“Yes… Happy begetting day,” he said brusquely, thrusting the gift at her with enough force to make her wobble. Clearing his throat, Curvo felt himself flush with embarrassment, but all Telperína’s attention was absorbed by the small parcel wrapped in silk.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, turning it over slowly. “Thank you!”

The smile she gave him was bright than the first one, as impossible as that seemed.

Curvo’s cheeks heated once more. Rubbing his neck, he nodded at the gift. “Open it.”

 

Telperína didn’t notice the silk wrapping float down to land on her foot, staring raptly at the small inkwell she held, turning it this way and that to watch the colours change with the light. “Oh!” she breathed, enchanted, “It’s beautiful!” Pressing a small hidden catch, the bottom panel of the inkwell – empty, still, waiting to be filled with her favourite ink – popped out, revealing a small tray with four finely crafted nibs. “You’re so clever!”

Looking up – and it was still slightly odd that she had to look up at him, but he had grown an inch taller in the past year – she smiled at the way he fidgeted at her praise.

“You like it, then?” he asked softly, as though he hadn’t been certain she would.

“I love it!” Telperína gushed, carefully lifting out one of the nibs to study it in the light of the stars whirling above. “It’s so useful – and pretty!”

 

“You’re pretty!” he blurted out the words in a single exhalation of sound that ruffled her silver hair – when did she move so close? – and made her smile up at him.

“Thank you,” she replied, pretty pink staining her cheeks as she looked down at her feet, fingering her dress lightly. “Ammë worked hard on it; she said it would be good for dancing, but I didn’t get to do much of that.” A small moue of disappointment flashed across her face then, and Curvo drew a slight sigh of mingled relief and vexation that she had mistaken his words.

“Oh?” he asked, feeling ineloquent and stupid. He was the son of mighty Fëanáro – and an adult, too – not some bumbling child.

“You should dance with me!” she exclaimed, her eyes bright as she smiled at him, catching him by the arm. Her slender fingers felt warm through the fabric of his sleeves, her thumb making small circles on his forearm.

“I’m not sure…” Curvo tried, feeling less than completely steady himself, unsure whether he should blame the wine, still, or her intoxicating presence. “There’s no music,” he tried, gesturing towards the doors she had left open with his free hand.

Telperína pouted. “Dance with me?” she asked again, and he couldn’t say no, not when she looked at him with those green eyes that still made him want to stare at her forever.

Moving slowly, once of his hands caught hers – the one holding the inkwell – bringing it to rest on his shoulder; his other moved to the small of her back, tugging her a few inches closer as he tried to convince himself he was dancing with some uninteresting lady of court – perhaps at one of Grandfather’s balls.

It didn’t really work.

Telperína hummed, a slow tune Curvo recognised as one of Káno’s compositions. Her hair, artfully styled and held with pearl combs and roses, still fell down her back in soft silver waves, tickling his fingers. It was as soft as he had always believed. Her body, pleasantly curved – he knew that, from watching her, but it was different to feel it beneath his hands – swayed lightly to the tune she was humming, leaning into his touch in a way that was a hundred times more heady than the wine.

“I’m glad you came, Curvo,” she murmured sleepily, leaning her head against his shoulder. It couldn’t be comfortable, what with the stiffness of his leather collar flashed through his mind first, swiftly followed by the familiar use of his name, making his spine sing.

“I’m glad I came, too,” he whispered, losing himself for a heartbeat or an eternity when she looked up at him, her smile soft in the starlight. Telperína’s soft humming continued, though neither made much effort to follow the steps of any dance learned at balls. Then she giggled, tracing her fingers along the outline of the Star on his lapel.

“I called you Curvo,” she said, the giddiness of the wine evident. “Cuuuurrrvo,” she continued, rolling each syllable around in her mouth in a way that made it sound more than half-way indecent. Curvo shivered.

“You can call me Curvo,” he replied, his mouth dry, “I like it.”

“Are you going to call me Tyelpië if I do?” she asked, grinning at him. Sliding her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, her smile softened. “Your hair is pretty,” she murmured, her other hand leaving the stiff leather to tangle in his hair with its fellow.

“So is yours… Tyelpië,” Curvo sad hoarsely, giving up any pretence of dancing in favour of holding her.

Telperína laughed softly, green eyes shining brightly up at him. “Thank you, Curvo…” she murmured, licking her lips slowly, making them glisten.

Curvo wanted to kiss her, fall into those eyes and kiss her like he had not dared before, remembering a bright summer day in a verdant glade where the impulse had been overcome by his own anxieties. Her nails scratched lightly through his curls, fingertips tugging gently at the short hairs on the nape of his neck.

Glancing at her mouth once, he leaned in slowly, closing his eyes instinctually. Her breath smelled sweetly of wine.

“There you are, Onórincë!” Makalaurë bellowed drunkenly, making Curvo’s head snap up just before he could meet her lips with his own. Telperína stiffened in his arms. Curvo’s eyes flew open, his head jerking back as he let go of her. “Was- was looking for… for you!” Turning his head, Curvo aimed his harshest glare at his drunken sot of a brother. Makalaurë smiled vacantly back at him. “Nelyo left.” Makalaurë nodded to himself, listing dangerously as he tried to leave the support of the doorpost.

Curvo caught his arm with a scowl. Telperína caught the other, holding Makalaurë steady until he could manage to take most of his brother’s weight. “Well, you found me,” he bit out. And I pray you could have waited a minute, brother, he added silently, glancing at Telperína, who was staring wide-eyed at Makalaurë, her face completely blank.

“You didn’t say hello to our hos- … hos-… my friend!” Makalaurë continued belligerently, poking Curvo’s chest at each word and staggering drunkenly. “It’s impol- imperlite, what it is!” he added, scowling. Curvo scowled back.

 

“Perhaps you should go get some sleep,” Telperína suggested, carefully not looking at Curufinwë – was he really going to kiss her? – who looked like a thundercloud as he glared at his brother. He… he was. Curufinwë… Curvo wanted to kiss her! Telperína felt herself blush, but he had told her to call him that, hadn’t he? The heat in her cheeks increased making her feel oddly tongue-tied as she looked up at Curvo’s forbidding glare, so unlike his shy smile and suddenly reminiscent of High Prince Fëanáro in a way that she rarely noticed anymore.

“Telpë!” Makalaurë exclaimed, noticing her presence for the first time. “I found Curvo! Little Curvo! My brother, Curvo!” Gesturing wildly at a point slightly to the left of his brother, her friend beamed genially. His childish excitement was almost enough to make her smile. If only Makalaurë had showed up a little later… The heat in her cheeks flared again, and Telperína carefully looked down at her bare feet, hoping that neither brother would read the direction of her thoughts on her face.

“Yes, you did,” Telperína agreed soothingly, ignoring the nickname, “and now he is going to take you home to bed, yeah?” And then she would find her own bed and determinedly not imagine the heat of his arms around her body… much.

Makalaurë nodded happily, slumping against… Curvo’s chest. He shot her a look over his brother’s drooping form, but Telperína could only shrug; she might have offered them a place to sleep, but somehow she did not think the offer would be met with gratitude this time.

“Yes… night Telpë,” Makalaurë agreed.

 

Curvo sighed heavily, grabbing hold of Makalaurë’s robes with one hand and yanking him rather ungently into his arms. He’d never been good at ósanwë, but, somehow, he knew it would work this time. I may never forgive you, brother, he promised darkly, sending the thought into Makalaurë’s mind with all the venom he could muster and feeling slightly appeased by the pained groan that escaped the sot.

“Good night!” Telperína called behind them, watching him stride through the balcony doors.

“Goodnight…” Curvo called back over his shoulder, adding her Telerin nickname only in his mind. Tyelpië… happy begetting day.

He was halfway down the street when her gentle voice reached him, ósanwë clearer than her speech had been. Despite the smell of alcohol and the reek of sweet alanessë that clung to Makalaurë, Curvo smiled, feeling the soft affection of her thoughts caress his fëa.

Dream well… Curvo.