The Greatest of Gifts by Michiru

Chapter 1

The Greatest of Gifts

The Greatest of Gifts

When he first discovered that music made his fëa soar, he had wept, bitterly frightened, for no one he had met in his whole short life was thus afflicted. His father had taken him aside and told him the tale of the Ainulindalë.

“So you see, little bird, Ilúvatar’s Music made the world,” Fëanáro had finished. “And your music is a gift from Ilúvatar, to show that He loves you.” And so he had learned to let go of his fears and embraced the music living within him, growing in skill and understanding day by day, until he stood trembling before Manwë and Varda, singing for them in the ultimate test of his voice. When he finished, they rose and applauded him, the stars brightly shining and the wind ruffling his hair.

“Truly,” Manwë had said gently, “thou art most gifted of all the Eldar in song.” There was sadness in him as he said it, which Macalaurë could not fathom at the time; later, his father muttered that it was jealousy. “Eru loves thee dearly.”

So he lived, singing at every important function in Valinor at his father’s urging, and his mother chided Fëanáro, fretting over her second son. “You push him too hard,” she would say sternly, when they had their talks they thought their children could not hear. “You will exhaust him and his delight in music shall dry up; his talent will wither if he goes on like this.”

“Nay, Nerdanel,” Fëanáro countered confidently whenever she said this. “You underestimate him; his delight runs deeper than you know, and he shall never drink enough of it.”

Yes, his heart had whispered in the dark of his bedroom, curtains drawn to block out Telperion’s light, listening to his parents. You are right, Father.

Secretly, he loved his gift more than any other that Ilúvatar had graced him with; more even than his family or the priceless trinkets his father made for him.

When they were exiled from Tirion, Macalaurë had stood in the center of his room while the rest of the household furiously packed, screaming at the top of his lungs, tormented, senseless cries. Fëanáro had long since lost his patience for him, or for any of his children; he shouted only for him to stop making noise or to go to the Abyss. Finwë was horrified, but Macalaurë had secretly stopped caring about his father’s insults and short temper, and he ignored his grandfather’s efforts to calm him as well.

It was Maitimo who came to him, gathered him in his arms and sang him a lullaby until his agonized voice found its way back to tears and words, weeping that his talent was gone, he was ruined.

“Filit,” Maitimo murmured, “it is the Valar who banish us from this city; what power have they over your place in Ilúvatar’s heart?” Macalaurë whimpered, clinging to him, burying his face in his long, glorious hair, and he finally knew what it was to love this, his dearest of brothers.

And, indeed, his talent was not gone, though his throat ached from screaming and Fëanáro snarled at him venomously the whole way to Formenos. Macalaurë kept his head high, his eyes fixed north, and plucked idly at the strings of his harp, the only thing he took with him into exile.