A Minor Talent by Lyra

Tirion, 1300

My tutor sighs. I understand her disapproval, but I still cannot help feeling resentful. For once, I am showing some enthusiasm for music. She should be encouraging me instead of sighing pointedly.

Not that she isn't right, of course. It is frustrating, and we'd better stop before either she refuses to teach me further (not that I'd mind, but Father would be very angry with me) or I will have what Mother calls a tantrum. I keep hearing that I am a peevish and rebellious child anyway, even though my aunt Nerdanel says that I am very sweet-tempered and who is a better judge of children, Aunt Nerdanel or my childless tutors?
But of course that sort of arguing isn't getting me anywhere, except to threats that I may not visit my cousins if I misbehave.

My tutor sighs again, louder, and says, "Very well, my prince. Shall we start over?"
She plays the opening scales, which I must have heard about a dozen times today, and begins to sing, "Upon dark waters mirrored were the stars... Prince Findekáno, I cannot hear you!"
It is no wonder that she cannot hear me, for I am neither playing nor singing along, instead staring down at the sheet before me. The notes are clustered impossibly tight, and if I had not heard other people play this tune before, I would assume that it is necessary to have three or four hands in order to manage.

There is yet another sigh. "I did warn you that this song might be challenging." What she actually had said was 'somewhat beyond your capacities'. Not that it makes much of a difference. It is challenging, and my capacities are indeed not up to the challenge yet.
"But you insisted," Caliën rants on. "So do not blame me if you find this lesson cumbersome. You have only yourself to blame – or Macalaurë perhaps." Her lips are very thin after she says the name, because a while back Macalaurë has bested her in a musical contest even though he is a lot younger. It does not matter that Macalaurë bested the other contestants too. Caliën is taking it as a personal affront.

She is twice – no, thrice unfair, I think. Firstly it's not Macalaurë's fault that he plays better than she. Secondly I am not blaming anyone except myself, so she doesn't have to tell me not to blame her. Thirdly, if I were blaming anyone but myself, it should not be Macalaurë.
When I expressed my desire to learn to play Rúmil's Song of the Trees, my parents asked why, and I must admit that I was not entirely truthful. I said that I had heard cousin Macalaurë play it, and that I found it very beautiful, and wanted to learn it.
And it was true that I'd heard Macalaurë play it, and it was beautiful, but then I find everything beautiful that Macalaurë plays, even the silly things, without wanting to learn all of it. And I wouldn't have wanted to learn the Song, either, if Russandol hadn't leaned back and closed his eyes during Macalaurë's performance, and afterwards said, "You know, I do think this is my favourite."

I could not tell my parents this, for Father has previously told me to 'stop idolising Russandol'. I could not answer then, because I did not know what 'idolising' meant and I could hardly ask Father, who obviously thought I knew. I had to wait until I was visiting my cousins again, and then I asked Uncle Fëanáro, who knows everything about words and likes to explain them. Uncle Fëanáro said that it meant 'to adore someone or something excessively'.
I thought I understood, but asked just in case, "Like the Valar?"
Uncle Fëanáro has a special smile when he is delighted (although Aunt Nerdanel calls it devious), and he smiled that smile then and told me that I was a very clever boy.
(And my parents wonder why I like these visits to Uncle Fëanáro and Aunt Nerdanel and my cousins so much.)

I am not adoring Russandol like I adore the Valar, but if I had been truthful and said that I wanted to learn Rúmil's Song of the Trees because it was Russandol's favourite song, they would surely have accused me of idolising him anyway. I am not idolising him, not at all. I just want to be able to play his favourite song at his next begetting day celebration, as a gift. I know that it was wrong to lie, but I did not want to be admonished yet again. It was not a very big lie at any rate.

"Are you even listening to me?" says Caliën, her eyebrows contracting threateningly, and I realise that I got lost in thought and haven't heard what she last said.
"Yes, sorry, Mistress Caliën," I hastily say, and her brows grow smooth again.
"Well, then," she says in a somewhat less angry voice. "Again. One, two..."
I try to keep up with her, but even though she is playing slowly for my sake I don't stand a chance. The tune is beyond my capacities, not just 'somewhat' as she so politely said but far, far beyond. This will go on for weeks if not months. My fingers will look like Macalaurë's do, with hard, callused fingertips, by the time I finally master this tune. I know that Macalaurë's fingers hurt a great deal when he began to take up the harp, and though I try to picture Russandol's surprised delight (he has a smile much like his father's when he is delighted, but it is sweeter) when he hears me play this tune, even that cannot overcome my momentary despair. Something in me tells me that even if I play my fingers raw, I will not manage to play this song even half as well as Macalaurë did. So it would be pointless pain, and this is pointless frustration.

I am no longer playing. I botched it before we even reached the end of the first stave. Caliën's lips are pressed very thin again to keep all her words safely inside, and her breath is pointedly even. Russandol taught me how to breathe very slowly when I am on the verge of exploding, so I know what Caliën is trying to do. She is trying not to snap at me. I feel sorry for her and also sorry for myself, although I know that this is my fault.
I wonder what Russandol would do if he had maneuvered himself into a situation like this. He probably wouldn't have because he is much smarter than I am. But if, if... he'd try to find what he calls 'a compromise'. He'd find the honourable way out. I try to find the honourable way out.

The honourable way out, I suppose, is to admit that I overreached myself, to apologise to Caliën for wasting her time and wearing her out, and to forget this stupid idea until I am older and can play the harp well enough to consider tackling this song again. That may be never. I have no talent for the harp. Caliën is a very good harpist and she does her best to teach me, but it doesn't do much good. Father always says that I will learn it in time, but he looks a little disappointed whenever I have to demonstrate my skill. Now that probably is Macalaurë's fault; he has given Father expectations that I cannot fulfil. I don't have that sort of talent. I am not Macalaurë.
I am not Russandol either, but I nonetheless try to do what he would do, even though I hate admitting that I am wrong. "I am sorry, Mistress Caliën," I say, and she frowns. "I don't think I'll manage to learn it properly at the moment. Perhaps it is better if I waited a few years, and then maybe you're still willing to teach me?"
A surprised smile creeps onto her face. She puts her harp aside, and brushes her very fair hair back behind her ears, and says, "That is a very good idea, Prince Findekáno." She doesn't even try to mask her relief. She is happy, I think, because I gave in and she did not have to offend me or Father by saying that I'm no good. I try to smile in return to show that I am not angry (or peevish or rebellious).

"I am sure that you will find it a lot easier in a few years' time," Caliën says, and she makes it sound as though she believes it.

Tirion, 1490

Yesterday's dinner was a dismal affair. In fact, our family dinners have been dismal this whole week, which is why I am leafing through my old collection of music. It has been years since I last played, but someone has to try and bring some cheer to the table. I'd rather have Father and the others laugh at my poor playing than bear another dinner spent in grim silence.

Although nobody is speaking, I know what they are thinking. Grandfather, at the head of the table, is sad that his firstborn is gone, and sore because the Valar did not allow him to settle the dispute between his sons. I love Grandfather dearly, but I cannot help but agree with the Valar on this count. He quite misses the point when he thinks of Uncle Fëanáro's attack on Father as a simple brotherly dispute. There was a weapon involved (which is not allowed in the first place) and Father was actually injured, however lightly. This would have been horrid enough in any family; in the King's family, which is meant to set an example for all our people, it is intolerable.
Besides, for all that he claims to love all his children equally, everybody knows that Uncle Fëanáro is his favourite. Grandfather would never have judged the case without bias. The decision had to be taken away from him.
But Grandfather is hurt by what he perceives as a lack of trust.

Father, on the other hand, is hurt because Grandfather's favouritism is now more obvious than ever. He feels that his own father does not love him enough. Because he in his turn loves Grandfather, he does not dare to acknowledge that he is grateful for the Valar's interference. He also does not dare to acknowledge that the cut on his chest, shallow though it is, pains him. It pains him, firstly because it is an injury and it is in an awkward place where it hurts when he breathes (which he can hardly avoid) and secondly because of what it stands for, which will remain even when the injury is fully healed. He has apparently told Grandfather and the Valar that he forgives Uncle Fëanáro. I have no idea whether he feels forgiveness or whether he is merely doing the decent thing.

Mother and Grandmother are angry with Grandfather because he is pining after Uncle Fëanáro so obviously, moreover in the presence of his second son – the victim, after all! By now they are also angry with Father, who in their opinion (which I share) should finally speak up to remind Grandfather of what truly happened, and where his loyalties should be placed. Meanwhile they have to manage the household and check the servants lest their gossip has all the streets in Tirion in uproar. Only yesterday I heard Mother say that if the respective heads of our houses were not going to get their act together soon, she would move to Uncle Arafinwë's house. I cannot blame her. Surely their dinners cannot be this drab.

Aunt Nerdanel, the only sane person in Uncle Fëanáro's household, blames herself because she could not prevent this from happening. It is hardly her fault, but she doesn't believe either Grandmother or Mother or anyone else who tries to tell her that. And naturally she mourns the loss of her children, my idiot cousins, who although only Uncle Fëanáro was banished had nothing better to do than run along with him. Having given birth to seven children, one should expect that she would have at least one loyal son who chooses to stay with his poor lonely mother, but no. Even Russandol – even the Ambarussar – have left Tirion, and appear to show no intention of returning until the twelve years are over. Russandol actually had the cheek to ask me to visit him often in Formenos, which is where they went. He asked me to write many letters. I do not think I will answer even his first letter, which is now lying crumpled underneath my desk. I tell myself that it is natural for him to follow his father and that I should have expected nothing else. I just feel so very betrayed.

Among my siblings, I believe anger is the predominant emotion. Irissë, perhaps, will miss the scuffles and the hunting trips with cousin Tyelkormo. Other than that, none of them have formed such lasting ties to Uncle Fëanáro's house as I have. For them, the loss of our cousins is of little consequence; they are only angry because Father was hurt and slighted, and refuses to complain as we think he should.
Yes, we make for a cheerful company these days at the dinner table. It's going to be a long twelve years at this rate.

But as twelve years are a bit of a stretch, I am determined not to let this brooding go on. Someone has to take the first step, and if none of the others dare to be that someone, I suppose the task falls to me.
The trouble is that I haven't played the harp in years. Caliën, my childhood tutor, returned to her own people to marry a talented Vanyarin singer and give birth to talented Vanyarin children. That was before Irissë's birth, at a point when Father had accepted that I was never going to be another Macalaurë, that I had only some minor talent at best. I was not forced to continue my music lessons when Caliën left. I only played on a few occasions when Macalaurë asked me to accompany him, and then I used his sheet notes (if we didn't improvise freely anyway). Thus all the notes that I have are simple things for young and inexperienced players. Even though it's been a while that my fingers touched harp strings, I can hardly perform my childhood repertoire. I am, after all, no longer Arakáno's age.

I am saved by a copy of Rúmil's Song of the Trees. I recall that I tried to learn it when I was much too young and unskilled for it. Caliën made me copy it myself (hoping, no doubt, that the effort would put me off), which shows – in order to save myself from repeatedly having to draw staves, I rather squished the notes, making them even harder to read. During one of my sessions with Macalaurë, we played this tune and variations on it, and while it was still rather beyond my range, I did manage it after much repetition. I am confident that with some practice, I may manage it again. It is certainly more appropriate than Manwë's Joy: Twelve Etudes For Young Harpists and the like.

So I tune my harp, poor neglected thing, and take it along to dinner. And after the second course I declare my intention to raise spirits "even if they only rise in laughter", by performing a little. My fingers (which are already hurting from practice – there you can see how determined I am!) fall upon the strings, and I sing as though I had been there, "Out of dark forests, where the waters sang..."
I do not botch the song too badly – in fact, I am quite pleased with my performance, and although I didn't expect great applause from a family spoiled by my cousin Macalaurë, I do think I deserve more than they actually give me. Father clasps my hand after I have taken my seat again. So at least, I suppose, he appreciates the effort.

"I will go to Formenos," Grandfather suddenly says, earning blank stares. He goes on, "I think Fëanáro needs me more than you do. I will share in his exile."
What are we supposed to reply? Father automatically says, "Father, we need you here."
Grandfather gives him a wistful smile. "My dear, I am only putting a damper on your moods here. You will be better off without me mourning."
I see Father's lips go thin as he tries to keep his retort back. Then it bursts out anyway. "Do you think that we are happy about the situation? Our moods are dark with or without you present." His voice takes on a pleading note, "Please, Father, you cannot leave your people."
"I hold myself unkinged while Fëanáro's exile lasts," Grandfather says, and takes Father's right hand. "Nolofinwë, I entrust you with my office. I know you will fill it well. But I must go."
Father lowers his head, and I try to figure out whether he is pleased or terrified by this turn of events. I do not have much time for thinking, however, because Grandfather now looks at me.
"I could use an assistant who accompanies me," he says. "Perhaps one of my nephews would like to come along?"

'One of my nephews' indeed. Neither of my brothers can have any interest in going to Formenos, so it is obvious that he is talking about me. I do realise what Grandfather is trying to do. He is trying to enable me to spend the next twelve years not with the unhappy bunch here, but with Uncle Fëanáro's household. Where Russandol is.

I think of all the times that I visited Uncle Fëanáro's house and was sullen and miserable when I had to return to my parents. I think of all the times that I have argued with my father about a dozen trifles, and the one time I was so angry with him that I yelled, "I wish Uncle Fëanáro was my father instead of you." I did not mean it, of course, and apologised for it later; but the words, once uttered, could not be recalled. The thought remained.
I suspect Father is remembering it too. He has let go of my hand as if to signal that he will not try to influence my decision, that I am free to do as I wish: His left hand is lying flat on the table. He, too, knows what Grandfather is doing. And for a moment, I admit, I am tempted.

But only for a moment. "I am sorry, Grandfather, but I'm afraid that you will have to go without my assistance, if you are set on going," I say. My voice is colder than intended. "My place is with my father," I say by way of reconciliation, clasping Father's hand in my turn. The look he gives me is thoroughly gratified.
Grandfather's gaze is surprised and, I believe, a little hurt. Well, I cannot help it. He may favour Uncle Fëanáro above anyone else, but I don't intend to indulge his favouritism. Nor am I going to run after Russandol, who after all didn't think it necessary to stay here with me – with his mother, who also declines Grandfather's offer to come along to Formenos. Our place is here.

We move into Grandfather's house, and Father sits on Grandfather's throne.
Grandmother and Aunt Nerdanel often attend when I practice my harp, for I have decided to take it up again, to fight the silence that still descends upon us all too often. They appear to take solace from the music. Rúmil's Song, it turns out, is my aunt Nerdanel's favourite song also. Playing it becomes a habit.
We get used to the new arrangement.

Heceldamar*, Year 5

I really don't know why I took my harp along. It was one of those spur-of-the-moments things that I am still prone to do, except that it's even more stupid than usual.
Actually this entire quest is stupid, and I couldn't tell you why I am doing it. Sometimes I mutter under my breath as I march, 'Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid' in the rhythm of my footsteps. I don't remember how often I have told myself to turn around and wander back.
I cannot say why I am not listening to my own advice.
That is, actually I can. I just don't want to. I don't want to admit that even now, after all these years, after everything, I am still running after Russandol. The thought infuriates me. Russandol never cared enough to come running after me. Of course, that kind of thing seems to run in the family. Míriel abandoned her son and husband. Fëanáro abandoned us in Araman (Russandol abandoned me). Fëanáro's sons abandoned their brother. It was to be expected, really.

Still, when first I heard the news, I laughed because I could not believe what I was told. The childish part in me that insists on idolising Russandol (for of course Father was right; that was what I was doing) thought that he would never, ever get himself into such trouble, that he was much too smart for that. The part of me that is thoroughly my father's son thought that no one would ever leave their brother in Moringotto's clutches, not without a fight. But then, that seems to be what runs in my family. We are prone to do the decent thing, no matter where it gets us. We may not be brilliant. We do not create works of staggering genius. We do not have talents that amaze all around us. But we take our place. We do what is needed. We honour our promises.

And we do not abandon our kin. We ran headlong into Alqualondë because we saw our cousins in danger. We braved the Ice because Father had pledged his allegiance to Uncle Fëanáro, even after Uncle Fëanáro had made unmistakeably clear that he did not care for Father's allegiance. For all the good it did, we might as well have allowed the Teleri to slaughter Uncle Fëanáro (as they were on the verge of doing). For all the good it did, I could simply have allowed that one fisher to stick his harpoon into Russandol, ungrateful bastard, and saved us all a lot of hassle.
Instead, I am yet again trying to do the decent thing. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid.

They have probably begun to bring the harvest in, back at our new home. They will be missing my help. Heck, they will be missing me, I hope. They'll probably worry. They don't need that, on top of everything. And all because some childish part of me wanted to play the hero.
I won't get to play the hero, I'm afraid. I have searched everything and there is no entrance into Angamando. Well, there is one, but since I am looking for an entrance that also allows me to get out again, the great gate isn't helping me at all. Getting in is not in truth the problem. Getting in and out again, there's the rub. But I could have figured that out without going on this stupid journey, if I had stopped and thought for long enough. I have searched everything, and by now I must accept that it's hopeless.

And still that childish part of me insists that I should at the very least say goodbye. I never said goodbye when Russandol left for Formenos with his father; never said goodbye after Alqualondë (hardly my fault, since I did not know he was leaving). Might as well say goodbye now, since it appears to be goodbye for good, and maybe then I can finally stop running after him. Maybe I can stop missing him. Maybe I can stop blaming myself.
And because I am not only prone to do the decent thing, but also prone to do stupid things – and because I have dragged my harp along all this way anyway, and I may as well put it to some use – I sit down, and play the first tune that comes to mind.

I no longer have the least difficulty with Rúmil's Song of the Trees, having played it so often. I recall how I first tried to learn it, because it was Russandol's favourite song. I never played it for any of his begetting day parties – first I lacked the skill and later the will, so to say. Besides, there was always Macalaurë; there was no need for me.

But Macalaurë is not here, so my minor talent will have to do. And damn it all, I am doing well. The mountain walls pick it up in echo, and the howling wind quietens as if to listen. I sing of the dark waters of Cuiviénen to the soot and dust, I sing of the dark forests of the primeval world to the gasping rocks, I sing of stars. I am aware of the danger to me, am aware that Orcs on patrol might overhear, or that they might in fact hear me within the walls of Angamando. I should shut up and run away, but all I can think is, Let them hear me.
Let them know what they are missing.

I sing more softly now, but only for effect, not out of fear: Now I have reached the part where our forebears walked through the Calacirya, darkness behind them, stars over them, and a glimmer of promise ahead. I sing softly, as though the walls of the Pelóri were muffling my voice, and the echoes around me falter. And then the song has taken me through the Calacirya and I see, painted in Rúmil's words, for the first time the splendour of Aman and the mingled light of the Trees, and my harp and my voice rise up in exultation:
"Spoke we of light who walked beneath the stars?
We knew no light, nor yet did we know joy..."

And a second voice joins me.

Chapter End Notes

*One of the Quenya terms for Beleriand, literally meaning "Home of the Forsaken". Unintentionally fitting for the exiled Noldor, I'd say!