one drop should be enough by quillingmesoftly

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one drop should be enough

Written for Back to Middle-Earth Month, G48. I had exactly one match for this: Caranthir's Wife on the Sons of Fëanor Card. I already had an idea for a daughter of theirs, who would be a perfumer like her mother, and fight in the War of Wrath, so I was very excited! But the attempt at writing an angsty look at her didn't work. So I tried combining it with a silly AU prompt, namely: 

'So we’ve never met but our showers are on opposite sides of the same apartment wall so sometimes we’re showering at the same time and we sing duets.' 

And thus, this was born. 

Title is taken from Little Mix's song 'Black Magic'.

Tirion swelters in the heat of Laurelin. The Light of the Trees is not tempered by the heights of Pélori, where the snow-capped peaks balance out the fierce, blazing heat created by the Light. Instead, sitting in the Calacirya, Tirion receives the heat of the golden Tree without anything to counterbalance it. 

Malótë drips with sweat beneath her robes, increasingly unimpressed with King Finwë's choice of location. Her first perfumes – the first ones that she had designed herself, instead of mixing to her master’s specifications – have been delivered to the client, and she had felt almost ready to fall over with relief, as the client exclaimed over the perfume. Her master had taken one look as she returned in through the door of the work-room, and given her the rest of the day off. 

Now she walks straight back to the guesthouse, her hair frizzing up angrily in the heat, to the baths on the lowest floor of the house. 

Even as she walks down the steps, the temperature drops, the air cool and still, but not humid and draining. She turns into the door on the left, the entrance to the women’s baths. The room is cool, grey stone and tiles illuminated by gentle blue light from the Fëanorion lamps. On the other side of the dividing wall, she can hear the water of the shower running, and a nér’s voice singing. 

“Far away, in Cuiviénen, 

Under stars, over hills, past swamp and fen,

There she walks, my pretty Avar: 

Farewell, farewell, girl of the star!” 

He has a nice voice, she thinks, as she strips her shift off and walks into the pool, sighing as the water swims about her feet, bringing a wave of relief to her. Not spectacular, perhaps, but very nice. She wades further into the pool, the water cool around her knees, thighs, hips, and she sighs again, content to remain there for the moment.

Then she realises that the singing has stopped, and disappointment twists through her. He has a lovely voice, and the song is one that she knows by heart. There are not many songs in Tirion that she knows so well, since she was raised in Valimar, but this is one from the Journey, a simple song of lost love that her father’s father had sung to her in the cradle. 

She splashes in the water for a moment, thinking. The shower is still going, so he has not stepped out yet. 

She clears her throat, and starts the next verse. 

“She said to me: ‘Why do you seek

Such blinding light, beyond the peaks? 

The starlight on the water is clear,

Our love shall shine so brightly here!” 

On the other side of the wall, she hears no sound other than the shower running, the water falling into the pool. But then, after a beat, she hears a snort of amusement, and then the other Elf’s tenor takes up the song again. 

“That night, she danced in the fire’s light,

My heart sang with grief and delight,

Though she moved like a bird on the wing,

Still I would follow my King!” 

The song is not a merry one, but she laughs anyway, and they sing the next verses together. He laughs when she splashes the water of the pool in time to the rhythm. When the sound of the shower stops, her voice falters for a moment, only to pick up when she hears the distinctive slap of wet feet on the water. He is dancing to the song on the other side, and she continues singing. It feels intimate and silly at the same time, and they are both laughing, as their voices run over the verses, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, occasionally stuttering. His speaking voice is very different from his singing voice, when it cracks in frustration: “Wait, no, that’s not how that line went!” But after that song, he starts another, and then she starts another. 

They while away the time like that, until she hears the sound of feet on the stairs. Somebody else is coming into the baths. At that, she falls silent, and after a moment, so does he. He moves on the other side of the wall, his footfalls no longer heavy like a jump, or quick and pattering, but steady, one after the other. 

He’s leaving the baths.

She’s not sure why the thought disappoints her so much.

The next morning is busy. A month from now, there will be the fifth begetting day feast for the King’s granddaughters, Princess Irissë and Princess Artanis, which means that all of the lords and ladies of Tirion – as well as many from Valimar and Alqualondë – will be mingling. Up and down the street, the looms of the weavers have been clacking and clicking constantly, new cloth for the tailors for new robes and dresses. 

Their work-room is quiet, but ten orders in one day is no light matter, especially when half the orders are requests for scents tailored to the client themselves. Her master will take three of those, but she has delegated two of them to Malótë, as well as the orders for the existing range. As the afternoon goes by, and she finishes her notes for the two new designs, her thoughts turn to yesterday in the baths, the laughter of the moment as she and the nér on the other side danced to an old song that was not merry at all. A peaceful, delightful moment, in the middle of the whirl. 

Then her master reminds her that the other perfumes still need to be made up, and she scrambles off her stool. 

When she returns back to the guesthouse underneath Telperion’s light, she goes down to the baths again. There is no tenor singing, no childhood lullaby, only a soft murmur of voices from some other guests. 

Malótë scrubs herself quickly in the pool, and then dresses in her shift again, not even bothering to dry her hair. 

Unable to catch her breath, she stares at the wreckage the broken glass on the floor of the house. Her feet have been cut by one of the shards, a jagged, crooked line across the top of her foot, exposed by her sandals. The child responsible stares back at her at her side, from where he had bowled her over, charging like a tiny Tulkas. His eyes are bright with frightened tears, and she takes a deep breath. 

You’ve done worse yourself, she reminds herself sternly. You’ve done worse. You have no right.

Someone is already calling for a broom and scolding the child, picking him up and settling him on her hip, and Malótë forces a smile. 

“It’s alright,” she says. “It’s alright.” 

Her master squeezes her shoulder gently, and the child’s father appears, apologising profusely, broom in hand as he sweeps the shards of glass up. The perfume seeps into the bristles of the broom, the smell of almond oil and jasmine filling the air. Her work, now spoiled. 

Malótë takes a deep breath again, and forces the words out. “It’s alright. I remember the ratios. I can make the mix again.” 

So much for sleep.  

She spends the night in the work-shop, re-mixing the order and waiting for it to settle, singing to strengthen the scent beyond what the time allows. She tries to sleep, hunched over the bench, the stone of it cool underneath her cheek, and fails. 

It is not like the mix of yesterday. It is approximate, but it is not the same. How could it be, when the mix took two weeks to steep to the right intensity?

She delivers it to the house in the morning, and forces the apology for the difference off her tongue. 

The client, the wife of a visiting Vanyarin lord, is calm, and a little apologetic. Apparently the boy is her nephew, and he had missed his time playing with his friends in the halls of Tulkas. That is why he did not look where he was going, and why he ran into Malótë. 

Malótë forces a smile, hands the perfume over, and manages a pleasantry about how delighted she is that the child was not hurt, before she leaves the house, her feet already turning to the guesthouse. It’s just after lunch. The baths should be empty.

She makes it to the pool before the tears break free. 

Ridiculous and irrational and stupid. That’s what it is. Utterly ridiculous, to weep over something that’s nothing more than a mix of alcohol and oils, but she weeps all the same for the work, for the fact that she did not sleep, for the fact that two days of work was wasted. It was a scent of her own design, the subtle, spicy mix illustrating the woman’s calm disposition, and the playfulness that Malótë had sensed beneath.

The same kind of playfulness that would regard the child’s foible as nothing more than an expected by-product of everyday life. Her mother would have felt the same way, but the water is still cool around Malótë’s hips, and she is still crying. 

There are footsteps on the other side of the dividing wall, and then a hesitant voice speaks. “Are you alright?” 

The singing nér. His voice is still familiar, and she tries to reply, but an inarticulate noise comes out, instead of her intended response of: “I’m fine.” 

He is silent, before she hears something thumping against the wall, and he begins to sing again, a soft lullaby. 

“Come, stop your crying, it will be alright,

Come, take my hand, hold it tight…” 

The sound that escapes her is something between a laugh and a sob, but as he sings, her cries quiet, and she even manages to join in on a few lines. By the time he comes to the end of the lullaby, she is only sniffling. 

He sighs on the other side of the wall, and there is silence, broken only by her sniffles and the movement of the pool. 

“Do you…want to talk about it?” 

There is no pity in his voice. Hesitation, as though he is afraid of saying the wrong thing, but no pity. She manages a shaky laugh.

“It’s stupid.” 

“Really?” 

She wipes at her eyes, at her nose, splashes water on her face to clean it. “I was delivering a perfume to a client yesterday, but a little boy was running around. He knocked me over, and the bottle broke when I fell down. So I had to make up the mix tonight, and it wasn’t as good.” 

Silence again, before he says: “I don’t see why it’s stupid to be upset about that.” 

She wades deeper into the pool, until she is up to her neck, and then kicks up so that she is floating on her back. “Isn’t it? The boy wasn’t hurt. Neither was I. That’s the important thing, isn’t it?” 

“But you were hurt. Your work was ruined. Why should you not be upset and angry about that?” 

A knot in her chest loosens at his words. He sounds gentle about it, and a little bemused. She can already hear her mother’s response to his words, though, and it falls from her tongue before she can think about it. 

“But…that means that I shouldn’t love my work too well. If I can’t even be happy that the boy wasn’t hurt–”

He makes a derisive noise in the back of his throat. “You sound like a Vanya. Grieving for your work doesn’t make you a stupid person, or make what you feel stupid.” 

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes, before she opens her eyes, staring up at the blue lamps. It’s not the first time she’s heard something like that, but it’s still infuriating. “My mother is a Vanya.” 

Silence again. The only sounds the lapping of the water, and her breathing, and his. Until, eventually: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – I didn’t – I spoke before I thought.” 

Obviously, is the first response that comes to mind, and she takes another deep breath. But then, she hears something else in his voice. Shame, self-reproach.

He means it. 

“Do you do that a lot?” she asks, after a while. “Speak before you think?” 

He sighs. “Yes. It’s one of the reasons I’m in this guest-house.” 

“You’re not from outside of Tirion?” 

“No, my family is all here. But I keep arguing with one of my older brothers, and my eldest brother suggested that perhaps if I got some space, we’d like each other better.” 

“Oh.” She stops floating and stands up in the water, getting out of it, and reaching for the towel. He is quiet on the other side. “Apology accepted.” 

He snorts. “Thank you. But you don’t have to say that, if you still feel angry.” 

She feels a kind of odd warmth fill her at that, in her hands and in her toes, as she starts towelling her hair dry. His insistence on her right to be angry is oddly endearing, his insistence that she does not need to scrutinise and judge her feelings. It probably should not endear him to her.

“I choose to say it,” she says, because her anger at the careless remark has been washed loose. It probably should not endear him to her, but it does. “Do you know Three Little Stars?” 

He laughs on the other side. “Who doesn’t?” 

Their voices curl around the music, her rough alto, and his tenor, warmth surging through her as they sing. 

Her master doesn’t protest when she asks to shift the hours of her apprenticeship, so that she works during Telperion’s hours, instead of Laurelin’s. Her mood improves, and it is easier to get her work done, in the silvery light. She can think, as she could not during the golden light of the day. She creates the notes for her designs and leaves them there for review, and then mixes the perfumes according to her master’s instructions, revising them the next day according to her master’s notes. Instead of meeting with customers, she sleeps when Laurelin’s light is shining, and every day, after eating lunch, she walks down to the baths. Every day, the nér is on the other side of the dividing wall, as the weeks pass, and they sing, but also speak, sometimes.

She learns more and more about him, with each song, each day, each week. He knows an absurd amount of the current songs, and apparently knows what Prince Makalaurë’s next piece is going to be. He often speaks roughly, or says the wrong thing, but he is always kind, and he always seems to sense when she is upset or thinking. He has far too many brothers, and refuses to give her a specific number; his father is a smith, and so is his mother. He does not like the forge, though; instead, he prefers the loom, and weaving. 

She learns other things, too. The sound of his laugh, the notes in his voice as he speaks about his youngest brothers, the sound of his feet slapping against the tiles when he gets so excited that he jumps. The respect in his voice as he asks after her work, never calling it frivolous, and the derisive noise he makes in his throat when she admits to her anxieties over her latest design.

She splashes the water to signal her displeasure. “It’s not funny!” 

“Of course it is,” he says, and his voice, damn him, is amused. “We both know how capable you are, how well you know your craft. Of course it will turn out well.” 

His faith is flattering, and makes her smile, even though her voice is still a little irritated when she speaks. “Are you determined to be my confidence?” 

“If you’ll have me.” His voice has turned a little shy. “You could probably do better. I’m not very good at encouraging people.” 

Her cheeks flush, and she tries to think of the right words. What comes out is: “You’ll do.” 

On the other side of the wall, he laughs, and her cheeks flush even hotter. 

You don’t know his name, she reminds herself. You don’t know his name, you don’t know if he's courting someone or betrothed or married, because you don’t know his name.

Circling back to those details had seemed like unnecessary awkwardness, after their first two conversations, but now, she regrets not asking. 

When she leaves the house to go meet with her friends, the sound of his laughter echoes in her ears. 

Things continue like that for almost three months, and she learns even more about him. His often stormy relationships with his cousins. His curiosity about the ways of the Vanyar, which always seems to have a strange undercurrent of guilt running through it, as though it is wrong for him to be interested. His habit of going to tea with his mother every sixth day, an hour before the Laurelin waxes to its full strength, and the time when one of his older brothers spoiled a soup so badly that they still haven’t let him hear the end of it, twenty Years later. 

He learns about her, too. How her mother and father met, and what it was like growing up in Taniquetil. The names of her cousins, and her admission of envy that he has grown up with siblings. How much she misses the Rites of Nessa and Tulkas, and of how proud she was, the first time her master pronounced one of her designs excellent. 

She learns that his laughter appears in her dreams, and other sensations. Warm arms around her; warm lips at her throat, her neck. She learns that it becomes harder and harder to concentrate on the new songs that he sings, and on the shape of the words. She is trying too hard not to think about him, and about the wall in between them, thin enough that she can hear every hitch in his voice, every breath that he takes, every shift of his feet. 

It continues like that, until it comes to a head one day. 

The song is a new one that he’d just taught her, one of Prince Makalaurë’s new ballads. He had left a few minutes before her, but she had lingered in the pool and daydreamed, before hauling herself up out of the water. Now she walks up the stairs to her room, humming the song as she comes to the landing on the stairs. She turns into the corridor, and pauses. 

Outside one of the doors, Prince Turkafinwë Tyelkormo is lounging against the wall, flipping a knife casually in his hand, and humming a harmony. 

She yelps, and his eyes go to her. 

“Well, hello!” he says brightly, sheathing the knife, clearly sensing her alarm. His thumbs hook into his pockets, and he rocks back on his heels, before reaching over and knocking on the door to his right. “You’re humming Makalaurë’s new song, so you must be Moryo’s girl! He didn’t mention your name, I’m afraid. Mine is Tyelkormo. Yours?”

The names fly through her head quickly, as the string of names connect together. 

Makalaurë. Tyelkormo. Moryo. 

Morifinwë Carnistir.

The singing nér on the other side of the bathhouse wall is Morifinwë Carnistir, fourth son of the High Prince Fëanáro and Nerdanel, smiths and artists and consummate creators. The fourth son of seven, and younger brother of Turkafinwë Tyelkormo. 

The door is flung open, and Morifinwë Carnistir stands there, glaring at his brother. His black hair is damp, curling around his neck. His cheeks are flushed, his arms crossed, his shirt askew. Then his eyes slide to hers, and they widen.

She should say something. Some witty quip about how this was not how she’d expected to meet him. Some kind of attempt at a polite introduction. Instead, she swallows as she watches droplets slide down his neck. 

Morifinwë Carnistir opens his mouth to say something, and she hurries up the corridor to her room before she can embarrass herself any further. 

The knock comes on her door about an hour later. She knows it’s him; she knows the rhythm of his breathing, his foot-steps, the way he takes a breath before he’s about to speak. She has never seen him before, and yet, in some ways, she knows him as well as she’d know a lover.

She opens the door, and he stands there, with a bolt of deep crimson fabric in his arms. His cheeks are flushed, but he bows to her and then meets her eyes steadily. 

“Can I come in?” 

She eyes the fabric in his arms, and nods, holding the door open for him. “Yes.” 

He sets the fabric down on her bed, and studies her for a long moment, before he speaks again. “I prefer Carnistir to Morifinwë. You?” 

The key to this nér is that his speech usually starts about halfway through his thoughts. The revelation of his name does not change that. If she had to put a scent to him, she would make something of sea salt and sandalwood, sharp and fresh and with an unexpected loveliness beneath them, reflective of his words. In this case, the abrupt words are not about his own preferences at all, nor about hers. He is only asking for something very simple. 

She smiles at him. “Malótë.” 

His smile is soft, and he glances away. He makes a tiny movement, which he quickly stills, and she wants to tell him that she already knows that he bounces on his toes when he is excited. But he has only just learned her name. 

“Malótë,” he says, quietly, as though the name is very weighty in his mouth, as though it cannot be spoken carelessly. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry about Tyelkormo, too. He doesn’t mean to be rude. He’s just like me.” 

She steps forward, daring greatly now, because she was a coward for so long, and squeezes his shoulder, so that he knows that she is not angry. “Your brother seems kind. Just…very energetic.” Carnistir snorts at that, his eyebrows rising at her choice of words. “And you didn’t tell me, but I didn’t ask, and I could have.” 

He smiles. “Well, that’s true. Why didn’t you?” 

She shrugs. “What was I going to say? ‘Thank you very much for singing to me and comforting me, and oh, by the way, what’s your name?’ It seemed a little too awkward, even for me.” He laughs, the familiar, dear sound, but now she can see it light up his face, see his eyes sparkle with amusement, and her toes curl. “Why didn’t you?” 

He looks sheepish. “You seemed to like talking to me, without knowing who my parents were. I just…wanted that, I suppose.” 

Oh. Yes, that did make sense, now that she thought about it. It was probably not easy, being the son of the greatest craftsmen of the Noldor. 

She smiles at him, and takes his hand between both of hers. They are very, very warm.  

“I’d like to keep talking to you, even knowing about that,” she says. “I wouldn’t like to lose my confidence.” 

The smile that he gives her in response is probably going to appear in her dreams tonight, and he gestures to the fabric. “I had an idea for a design. Would you mind giving me your thoughts?” 

She grins. “Tell me all about it.” 

She ends up giving more than her thoughts on her design, and somewhere along the line, Carnistir insists that it is going to be herdress. 

Looking at the finished design, she can barely believe it.

She has never seen a neckline like this before, curving low over her breasts, creating a shape like wings extended, a wide, shallow vee. There are no sleeves: the dress exposes her shoulders, arms, collarbones, and skin beneath it. It clings tightly down her waist, clings around to the curves of her hips, but then flows out around her lower thighs so that she can move in reasonable steps. The fabric is the same deep crimson he had shown her, and eschews all embroidery, except for a border of golden flowers at the hem.

It is daring and fierce and exposes all of her, the curves that she usually hides in loose linen tunics or flowing robes, the plump arms that she hides in long, dangling sleeves. It is gorgeous and elaborate and incredibly soft and cool against her skin. 

She turns in the dress, marvelling at the movement of the fabric.

“What do you think?” she asks him.

He pauses. “As the maker of the dress, or otherwise?” he cuts himself off, apparently lost for the right word. 

She feels the same way. “Both.” 

He nods once. “As the maker of the dress? I think I did an excellent job.” 

She takes a deep breath, and his eyes follow the movement, before they snap up to meet her own. He flushes.  

Slowly, she pivots in the dress again, feeling the fabric swish against her legs, over her ankles, feeling his gaze on her. It makes her feel warm and powerful, in a way that she has never felt before. “And otherwise?” 

“You’re beautiful.” His voice is not awed, or stunned, or reverent. He sounds nothing like the hero of a romance, in that moment. He sounds as matter of fact as he would be if he had to announce that Laurelin’s light was golden.  

She swallows, feeling her own cheeks heat. “Oh.”  

He takes a deep breath, and now, for some reason, he looks unaccountably nervous. “Malótë. I wanted to ask–” he stammers a little, before stopping altogether, and trying again. “Next week is a celebration for my father. His begetting day. I wanted to ask you if you’d wear that. To it.” 

She blinks at him, and then grins. He is often short-tempered, but he will let her tease him a little, without being offended. She knows this, the way she knows the rhythm of his breathing, and the sound of his laugh as he sings. “Oh! You mean, I have some reason to go to the High Prince’s begetting day feast?” she asks, deliberately coquettish, obvious enough that not even Carnistir can miss it.

Carnistir’s smile flickers as he steps forward. His hands are gentle as he tips her head up, callused thumb underneath her chin. He leans in with an aching slowness, giving her plenty of time to back away, if she changes her mind, but she leans in, too. 

His lips are warm and soft on hers, and so is the skin of his neck underneath her hands. All too soon, it is over. 

When he pulls away from the kiss, she sees that his eyes have darkened, pupils blown wide. She shivers.

His voice is a little raspier than normal when he speaks. “Is that sufficient reason for you?” 

“It’s a start,” she says, tugging his head back down for another kiss.

Chapter End Notes

Nér: man, Quenya. 

Malótë: Golden Flower. 

Malótë's mother is Vanyarin, and she was raised in Taniquetil, but her father is from Tirion. Her conflicted feelings about how emotionally invested she is in her work is something I see as being a carryover from her Vanyarin heritage, as I see them as being slightly ascetic, at least in comparison to the Noldor. To the Noldor, however, it is expected to be grieved when something like that happens to your work. 

Oh, and, of course, apologies for the poetry.

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