A harpist's injury by Aprilertuile

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A harpist's injury

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Maitimo was in the house library when one of his father’s assistant, and the one who was supposed to keep an eye on Makalaurë for the day, came to find him:

“Prince Maitimo? I think you should… Come speak to your brother… If you don’t mind.”

The red-head raised an eyebrow at that, but rose to his feet to follow the other elf.

“Did something happen?

-I’m afraid I don’t know, your brother doesn’t seem to want to talk to me. He was playing the harp and suddenly he stopped and started to cry. That’s… I’m sorry, prince Maitimo, it’s probably nothing, and perhaps I shouldn’t have bothered you but…

-But you’re not a babysitter, and forge work is actually easier to understand than a crying child? Said the younger elf with a light sigh.

-Aulë, yes!! I mean, no, I can… Well, yes, a bit, I mean…

-It’s alright, don’t worry, we know.”

The poor elf must have been close in age with Maitimo, if a little older, only he had the disadvantage of being new to the household and apparently not at ease with children.

It was just the third time this week…

Really, if it was to have his brother left under the care of panicked young elves who ended up dumping him on his laps, perhaps Maitimo should offer to keep an eye on his brother himself. At this point, it was the case more often than not anyway.

When Maitimo entered the music room, he found his little brother crying his heart out, pressing his hands against him, his back turned to his harp, and a book of sheet of music thrown nearby on the floor.

“Laurë? What’s the matter, little song bird?” Asked the red head gently, aware that his father assistant left the room, closing the door between them.

One could never know, perhaps a crying child was contagious…

“I can’t do this, Nelyo. Sniffled the child.

Maitimo sat next to his brother, with a curious tilt of his head.

“What is it you can’t do, little song bird?

-Play the harp.

-What happened, Laurë? Just tell me.”

Though that sounded strangely like his mother’s bad moods when she just couldn’t work with this or that new tool or material. If that was it, Maitimo would take his brother and go to his father and let him deal, just because.

The child hesitated, and Maitimo gave him the space he obviously wanted, until Makalaurë showed him his right hand… With two fingers who were a deep red color, and one that had a blister forming already.

Maitimo winced seeing that, and rose to his feet, sweeping his brother in his arms.

“I was p. Playing and I just. I just wanted it to be right. But I couldn’t. It wasn’t good, and. And I kept trying and… It hurts.” Whispered Makalaurë in his ear.

That particular streak of stubbornness to the point of ignoring everything around, including his own health, on the other hand, was entirely their father.

“It’ll be alright, Song Bird, we just need to clean your fingers and put some salve on them. You won’t play until that blister is healed, but it’ll be alright, and you’ll be back at the harp in no time.

-I can’t.

-No? Why not?

-I hate it. I’ll never. I’ll never be any good at it.”

Maitimo brought his brother to the kitchen, wondering how to answer to that.

Luckily for him, in the kitchen was the most perfect person ever, meaning an Adult In Charge, meaning this time, their father and if someone knew how to deal with creative crisis, it was him.

Fëanàro looked up from his blueprint at their entrance, and got the crying child from Maitimo’s arms.

“That’s the matter, little Song Bird?” Asked Fëanàro.

The red-head explained the situation to his father, while looking in their first-aid cupboard, and what did it said about their family that their first aid kit was in fact a full cupboard and was in the kitchen, an easy access from the forge, the workshop and anywhere in the house or garden?

Maitimo let his father talk to his brother, while he put salve on his brother’s fingers to sooth the light burns.

And he smiled as his father weaved a tale of his first foray into forge work, how complicated and impossible it had seemed, how he kept breaking the thin threads of metal he had to make jewelry with, and how he even had an accident with his first hammer once.

At the time, disappointed, the child he was had wanted to give up, but his father had been there too, and talked to him, as Fëanàro was now talking to his son, and now he was one of the best around, wasn’t he?

Little Makalaurë looked entranced by his father’s tale.

“So, will you give up, Filit?

-No. And I’ll become the best harpist, like you!

-That’s the spirit, little one!”

Maitimo looked amused at the exchange.

“But for now, you must let your fingers heal. How about you and Nelyo go to the library and find a book to read? I’m sure your brother will be happy to stay with you and help you with it. Or you could go play in the garden instead.

-Nuhu. The library’s fine, atar.”

Fëanàro smiled and kissed the top of his son’s head.

“Be more mindful of your health, little one.”

That had Maitimo snort a laugh. Speak about the cauldron calling the pot black.

Fëanàro threw his eldest a mock look of warning before turning toward Makalaurë:

“I think your brother is laughing at me.

-Just a bit, atar.

-Be gone, evil child.”

Maitimo chuckled and grabbed his little brother to go back to the library with him. 

It wouldn't help his work much... But at least Makalaurë wasn't crying anymore.