Tsenerlingn Sher by Chestnut_pod

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Tsenerlingn Sher

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“Your father probably wouldn’t approve of you practicing Vanyarin lindma, would he?” 

Maglor snuck a look sideways, squinting against waxing Laurelin to make out Elemmírë’s face beneath her hat and flyaway hair. Backlit by the Light, Elemmírë seemed all of one color, her golden hair and brown skin seeming to radiate warmth. It was a lovely effect, although the impression was undeniably aided by her mustard-yellow houppelande.

“My father is somewhere down there,” he said, gesturing vaguely downwards to where Tirion glittered far-off in the foothills below their mountain perch. “He’d have to climb for three days to get here, and that’s not counting the acclimation.” 

“That’s not a no.” Elemmírë slanted an amused glance at him, and Maglor felt the tips of his ears flush. It seemed so juvenile to have such a thing as a father who disapproved of his musical tastes, when Elemmírë went where she wished, lived with only a friend in a small two-story house an hour’s walk from the consortium. 

“No,” he said, but Elemmírë didn’t laugh, just kept smiling the little quirked half-smile she wore always, except when composing or singing. 

Emboldened, he went on. “You know he wouldn’t be caught dead on the slopes of Taniquetil,” he said, giving it the same exaggeratedly bombastic tones his father used when forced to discuss the somewhat ad-hoc living arrangements of the Vanyar. 

Elemmírë did laugh this time, an inelegant chuckle-snort that made Maglor’s ears burn all the harder. “Good thing I wouldn’t be caught dead in the avenues of Tirion, then,” she mocked, and laughed again. 

“They wouldn’t know what to do with you in Tirion,” Maglor said, and Elemmírë laughed harder. 

“I daresay not! I doubt a single one has ever experienced proper North Vanyarin lindma fiddling!”

“Or heard of the fifth mode of the harmonic minor scale,” added Maglor. 

“Or been to a darkness viewing!” 

“Or drunk goats’ milk kefir!” 

“Or held a spelunking party!” 

"Or helped during lambing!" 

“Or even seen a head of blonde hair that doesn’t come from a bottle!” 

“Well,” Maglor interjected, loath to interrupt the game but inexplicably propelled to defend his family, “Tyelkormo-"

“Tosh,” said Elemmírë, “I said blonde, not white as the driven snow!”

“Findaráto,” insisted Maglor. “Little Artanis! Uncle Arafinwë, and Aunt Findis too, sort of.” 

“They’re all at least quarter-Vanya, they don’t count,” retorted Elemmírë. “And they’re aunt and uncle now, are they?”

Maglor frowned and looked away, feigning that Laurelin’s increasing brightness hurt his eyes. “All of Grandfather’s children have always been very kind to me and my brothers,” he said, picking at the grass between his crossed legs. “Once my hundredth begetting-day celebrations are over I’m going to stay with them a while and teach Findaráto the harp.”

“Have you told your father this yet?” asked Elemmírë, sounding arch. 

“I don’t have to!” How babyish, Maglor thought, wincing, and hastened to add, “I’m of age, and there’s nothing strange about taking a few years to visit family. All Father’s objections are pointless, anyway- what need have the Noldor for succession?”

“Hark at the princeling!” Elemmírë turned to face him fully on the ledge, and Maglor eyed the distance between her back and the edge warily, though he knew Elemmírë was surefooted as a mountain sheep. Her half-smile seemed sharper, though still amused. “Would you really care to do away with your circlet and your title, Kanafinwë, and come live as a commoner on the slopes of Taniquetil?” 

Maglor shrugged. “It’s not like I do anything as a prince,” he told her. “Maitimo is the only one with any head for administration, and he’ll have to take the civil service exam anyway, just like anyone else.” 

“And is it what princes do that makes them princely, then? Is it that your father the prince is not allowed to do enough that he strives for all to recognize him as the most princely? I admit I am but a Vanya addled by holiness, and a commoner in your eyes at that, but it does not seem to be the case.” 

“Father just wants his rights. And you’re not- well, you’re not common in my eyes.” 

Elemmírë hummed, leaning back on her hands. Maglor could hardly see her face for the backlighting, but he struggled to keep her gaze regardless. “Káno,” she began, and Maglor wrinkled his nose at the pet name, “If the Noldor have no need for succession, and it truly seems they don’t,” she said, sweeping her hand about as if to encompass the entire mountain and all the little leaderless Vanyarin communes that made up this branch of her people, “Your father’s rights mean nothing, and his title, as you say, will never have cause to be used. He has the same rights as all other Eldar, and any further privilege he should win by example, not because of some imagined birthright.” 

Maglor fished around for an answer. “It’s different in Tirion,” he said, feeling even as he said it that his argument was weak. “It’s how we’ve chosen to organize ourselves, and Father’s rights have to do with that order,” he added, trying to make sense of it to someone who’d never lived under a true kingship. 

“It seems to me that the privileges Prince Fëanáro seeks have more to do with his supposed right to dictate what rights his siblings may access,” said Elemmírë, “And little to do with the right of all Noldor to order and a stable form of government, whatever that may be.” She gave him a sideways sort of look, and Maglor felt his ears flush again, this time with frustration at feeling on the wrong foot. “Perhaps it would do the House of Finwë good to focus less on the advantages they’d like to become rights, and more on things like-”

She stood suddenly, pulling Maglor up with her, “-their second prince’s abominable melisma.” 

“It’s a new technique for me,” Maglor protested, still somewhat confused and angry but letting himself be dragged to his feet. 

“I thought you were meant to be the pride and joy of the Noldor, with a voice to make the Valar weep!” 

“I still need practice!” 

Elemmírë began to drag him away from the cliff, back towards the lower reaches of the mountain where the daytime musicians of the consortium could be faintly seen, bright splotches of color moving about between the small, disconnected music buildings. Elemmírë was laughing, and as she tugged at his hand Maglor began to laugh too, letting the tension of the almost-argument fall away. 

“Practice doesn’t get you the singer’s spot at the next shearing gathering!” 

“That spot’s mine!” Maglor shouted, feeling warm all over and letting Elemmírë drag him precipitously down the slopes, laughing and listing dangerously over the uneven ground. 

“Maybe next year, princeling -- you can’t get everything because you were born to it!”

A clump of mountain sage gave up the battle against gravity under Maglor’s feet, and he skidded a full body length down the mountain, gasping with laughter. Breathless, Laurelin's light still dazzling his eyes and eating up Elemmírë at the edges, he gave up the argument in favor of tumbling down the slope after her. 

 

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Chapter End Notes

Proper Vanyarin lindma fiddling. Once Maglor gets control of his vibrato, their first collaboration really heats things up at the monthly cave poetry slam.