The Pastry Shop by oshun

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Under the Light of the Trees

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Maedhros reached across the table and covered Tatië’s^[1] hand. It felt soft and small to him, almost like that of a child. His touch was not impetuous but intentional. When one was courting a maiden, a willingness to show fondness in public took one further than any verbal expressions of romantic interest.

The golden light of Laurelin warmed his face and helped him loosen up. Before he had remembered this amazing café and discovered she had a passion for cream-filled pastries, the muscles of his jaw had ached from the effort of trying to orchestrate the conversation while holding an interested smile. Now he could relax while she exclaimed with delight over a sweet treat consisting of layers of thin, flaky dough with an apple filling and drizzled with sweet cream icing. She pulled her hand away to take a quick gulp of her tea.

“Wow!” she said. “I’ve heard of this pastry shop all of my life but never came here before.” She blushed and he grinned back at her. He had always found it incongruent that it had been a favorite of his father. Apparently, he had been willing to overlook its pink and white frou-frou décor, dripping with lace curtains and beribboned placemats, for the perfection of their baked goods.

“It’s a fixture in the center—very popular in the evenings after the theater or concerts. My parents used to bring me here when I was little kid. I particularly liked their sticky cinnamon buns. We lived just around the corner from here in those days.” He felt his cheeks burn with self-consciousness. Valar forbid, that she might think he was bragging about living in the palace!

She laughed. “Everyone knows where you grew up, Nelyafinwë!”

He thought that she really knew nothing about how he grew up—his enjoyment of the nursery, filled with marvelous toys and books, and luxurious amenities of palace life had been marred by his father’s discomfort there.  Finally, after many unexpected spates of hard travel initiated by his father’s need to escape the household of Finwë and Indis, they began work on their house on the outskirts of the city. When they finally moved in everything changed—his mother had already been expecting Macalaurë. His father was still preoccupied with the construction. He had no one fussing over him. In fact, he was supposed to clean up after himself and be at his parents’ beck and call. He definitely had not always lived as a pampered prince.

“Perhaps I will tell you sometime about my childhood. Probably not exactly as you expect it was,” he said smoothly, controlling the irritation he felt when people thought they knew everything about him. Most of the time what they did know was inaccurate conjecture or pure fiction. He reminded himself it was not her fault that his celebrity preceded him. That was the price that one paid for being the eldest grandson of the king and the son of the notorious Crown Prince Fëanor.

He should forgive her hapless and good-natured ignorance. It was not that he did not find her attractive but at times looking for a partner felt too much like work. She was pretty in a girlish way and not unintelligent. A typical upper class Noldor, she had a look which was much admired in court circles in Tirion: glossy black hair and dramatically arched dark eyebrows over large, expressive gray eyes. Most people would consider her beautiful. He figured she would be unobjectionable to his parents and approved by the rest of the family. Even his brothers could get used to her.

Since he had dropped by her house to pick her up for this prearranged outing they had both been trying too hard to appear nonchalant; conversation had come slowly. He mused that his idea to bring her to the pink-shuttered café famous for its pastry was brilliant. After she tucked into the gooey treat she had become positively chatty. Her easy laugh and relaxed manner now softened the groomed-within-an-inch-of-her-life style affected by young women of her station in Tirion.

“May I pour you some more tea?” he asked. She nodded vigorously as though she dared not trust herself to speak with a mouthful of apple and cream. He warmed to her instantly. He liked a girl who enjoyed her food.

Late morning was ideal for relaxing in the city center, too early for courtiers and clerks to begin spilling out of government administrative buildings for their midday breaks and overwhelming the cafes surrounding the fountain. The golden light shining upon the sparkling waters of the fountain reminded him of his own innocent days of sailing boats there.

“Look at those toy boats!” he said to Tatië. “Today’s are sleeker, faster, and more elaborate than the ones I remember playing with.”

She laughed. “I would have thought you had the best boat of any of the kids.”

“Ha! My father and mother were both too distracted in those days. If I had asked, they would have wanted to teach me how to build one myself. My grandmother Indis gave me a more than adequate one that I loved at the time. Red bottomed with a double sail.”

She swallowed the last bite of her pastry licking the cream off her lips with a satisfied sigh. “Look at the white one with black and gold trim—the one sailing too close to Ulmo’s foot. It’s carved and painted exactly like one of the great Swan Ships of the Telerin shipbuilders at Alqualondë. I hope it does not crash!”

“Oh, no!” Maedhros groaned. He could not believe his bad luck. If it was luck!

“It’s fine,” Tatië said. “That tall boy is going to help the little ones. See! He’s rescued their Swan Ship!” Maedhros did not think he had ever heard Fingon characterized as tall before.

o0o0o0o0o

“Yay! Yay!” Turgon and Finrod shouted in unison, jumping up and down while splashing water all over their older cousin’s leggings and tunic. “Huzza! Huzza! You saved the fleet!”

Fingon looked over toward the pink pastry shop. Well, that got their attention. “Calm down! You’ve blown our cover.” He was amazed they had allowed him to observe Maedhros and the girl undetected as long as they did. “You did well, but you’ll need to be quiet if I take you over to buy sweets.”

“Does that mean we can stop hiding and have our cinnamon rolls now?” Turgon pleaded, all but drooling like a starving dog. Meanwhile, Finrod looked up at his cousin with pleading eyes, his once white child-sized Telerin sailor suit wrinkled, grass-stained, and dripping water onto his canvas-clad feet.

“I won’t even try to deny that you both did very well. You’ve earned your treats. Maybe someday the two of you can head up the king’s intelligence service.”

“Does Grandfather even have spies?” Finrod asked, his blue eyes growing even bigger. He was a preternaturally bright kid who read too many adventure stories and listened to adult dinner table discussions.

“Not yet, but with the population explosion and so many political factions within the Noldor he may need one someday.” As they trudged across the grass encircling the fountain the three boys, separated from the throng of children nearer the water, lost their anonymity. People who frequented this section of the city were fascinated by any sightings of the king’s grandsons. Not only had they drawn the attention of royal watchers, but Maedhros and his young lady could not take their eyes off them either.

“Do you know the girl with our cousin Russo?’ piped Turgon.

“Not really. I know of her,” Fingon said, making an effort to prevent any disapproval from creeping into his voice.

But Finrod was too smart for him to fool. “I think she looks nice and very pretty,” he said in a defensive tone.

“Don’t drip water all over her fancy dress when we get there.” Fingon knew the type. Her dress alone cost enough to feed and house a family of four for a month, even at Trion’s elevated prices. She colored her cheeks pink and plucked her eyebrows to give them an unnatural raven’s wing arch. Ugh! She looked as artificial as the multi-colored little iced cakes in the window of the café. He was winding himself up into a lather of distaste by the time they reached the table. She reminded him of a painted doll and was too short. She and Maedhros would look ludicrous trying to dance together at court.

Fingon breathed silent thanks to the One that she did not look like much of threat. Who could fall in love with a maid who wore such a hideous dress? Dripping with snowy lace and satin ribbons, it looked like something that would give one trouble walking to the street corner, much less riding or climbing!

As they neared the table, Fingon became uncomfortably aware of Maedhros and the young woman’s eyes fixed upon them, hers curious and expectant, while his were as dark and shadowed as a grey sky before a sudden storm.

Maedhros’ voice, unnaturally calm, resonated with a suppressed emotion that only Fingon would be likely to recognize. He unfolded his long elegant body until he towered over all of them. “Well, what a surprise.” It didn’t sound like he thought it to be a happy one. “Tatië, I must introduce three of my cousins.” He snapped his fingers in the air with the unspoken signal to a waiter to bring more chairs.

The silly young woman clapped her hands in glee, unaware of any darkness in Maedhros’ voice. “How delighted I am! I had hoped to meet some of your family but did not expect it would be today.”

“These two,” he said, “are the sons of Prince Nolofinwë.” He gently guided Turgon closer to the table while be all but glared at Fingon. “The tall one,” he said with unnecessary emphasis on the descriptor, “is Prince Findekáno.” No one in their family had ever suggested Fingon was anything but of average height or shorter for a Finwean.

“The younger is Prince Turukáno.” Maedhros lowered his voice and gave the two younger boys a softened smile. “The half-drowned Telerin sailor is Prince Findaráto, the eldest son of Prince Arafinwë.” The blood pounded so hot and hard in Fingon ears that he could barely hear the details of Maedhros’ introduction of Tatië. Perhaps his scheme had been a mistake. Only time would tell.

“. . . well, now you have met three more descendants of the House of Finwë. We call them Finno, Turvo, and Ingo informally and what could be more informal than these circumstances. Most people would have to wait for a court reception to meet them, like the one where you and I first met.”

She blanched at his less than gracious tone but, to her credit, tried to sound light and cheerful. “Should I stand and curtsy to these handsome young men?” Fingon almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

“I think not, my lady,” said Maedhros, imperious again. “I am more concerned about settling them into their seats without anyone trampling your skirts.”

“Ah, here they are now.” Two waiters had arrived with the chairs. “Please sit next to Tatië, Finno. I will trust you to look after her. You two boys sit on the other side of me. May I order something for you boys?”

Turgon jutted out his sharp little chin and narrowed his eyes at Maedhros; he was nobody’s fool. He could recognize when he was not welcome and did not like the feeling. “Finno, already knows what we want; he can order for us.”

“Two glasses of lemonade, a pot of black tea, and three orders of the miniature cinnamon rolls,” Fingon spat out in rush of words. He was feeling a perfect fool and certain he had overstepped his boundaries this time. What if Maedhros would never forgive him? What if he hung onto this maiden simply out of spite?

Finrod looked around the table aghast at the tension he could not understand. He was less used to difficult personalities than existed within the households of Fëanor or Fingolfin. “Maybe we should order some cinnamon rolls for the lady?”

“You’re right we should!” Fingon said. “Can you please make that four orders of cinnamon rolls?” He grinned up at the waiter and forced himself to smile at the girl. “I am sure they will not be wasted.”

o0o0o0o0o

It seemed to Maedhros like the rest of the morning lasted an eternity. No one behaved badly. Turgon and Finrod were at their most well-mannered, which did have its limitations but all and all they did not come off as spoiled brats or slavering beasts. Fingon was cool and polite, although he seemed to be in a mood. If anyone should be in mood it should not be Fingon. He deliberately crashed Maedhros’ assignation—the first one he had initiated in months. He did get a look at the young woman through the eyes of his cousins. She was not as bright or sophisticated as even Finrod, who was, of course, an extraordinary child. The thought of her sitting at a dinner table with his father was appalling. His mother would be kind, trying hard not to be judgmental. No she would not be a good match for a passel of Finweans.

Maybe Fingon sensed the wrongness of it all. But Maedhros could not understand what made him think he had the right to choose what maiden he decided to court. Perhaps he should talk to him about it. Or maybe not. If he did not mention it again it would all blow over. And he had to admit Fingon’s instincts had been right. He decided he would leave it alone. After all, all is well that ends well.
 

[1] In the legend of Cuiviénen, Tatië is the name of the second spouse to the Elf-fathers who first awakened under starlight.