But Not Always Sweet by Grundy

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Perchance to Scheme

For the Poetry prompt O4: Sonnet

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Nerdanel managed to intervene before anything (or anyone) was broken, but it was a near thing.

Atarinkë was glaring fiercely at Makalaurë, and it was only her older son’s excellent reflexes that were to thank for the marble sphere his younger brother had hurled not doing him an injury. The grin on his face only served to inflame Atarinkë all the more.

“Boys, what is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “You’re both of you old enough to be setting Ambarussa a better example!”

At only ten, the twins found trouble enough without their older brothers giving them the impression physical altercations were acceptable. Particularly when their parents were trying so hard to train them to use their words, whether verbal or mental, rather than their hands or feet when upset…

“Just because he can churn out soppy love songs at the drop of a hat,” Atarinkë growled, “he thinks he can mock other people’s efforts!”

“I wasn’t mocking, I was suggesting improvements,” Makalaurë chuckled. “Though I doubt fair Tyelpesilmë will be bothered even if you do stick with that beastly wording. It is the thought that counts after all, is it not?”

Nerdanel’s glare made her younger son reconsider his impulse to reach for what the babies had recently dubbed the “tired frog” sculpture.

“You ought to know better than to needle your brother about courting,” she told Makalaurë firmly. “As I recall, you didn’t take kindly to any fraternal commentary when you returned from Alqualondë smitten.”

Atarinkë punctuated her mild reproof with an absolutely filthy glare, and opened his mouth to no doubt add something sharper, but she turned to him.

“All the same, my Atarinkë,” she continued. “You oughtn’t respond to provocation with physical violence. Your younger brothers look up to you. How will you feel if they throw something heavy at Artë or Irissë the next time they quarrel, having learned from you?”

“Curious to see what Artanis does to even the score,” her son snorted. “And worried for the little brats, because she’s cleverer than they are by far. She’d likely construct a device to hurl things with more force than her arms or legs alone would manage.”

Nerdanel pursed her lips.

The problem with having so many highly intelligent sons was that when they said such things, they were oftener than not right. And it didn’t help at all that she had an unholy urge to laugh at the thought of what her youngest niece so far would come up with.

“In that case, for the sake of the twins’ continued good health, stop throwing things at your brother! And Makalaurë, take yourself elsewhere if your brother didn’t ask for constructive criticism.”

“Yes, Ammë,” they chorused before doing as asked. (Though not without one more foul look from Atarinkë.)

“He didn’t say it very tactfully, darling, but he is right that your Silmë will care far more for the effort you put into your verse than how polished it is. She knows you aren’t a wordsmith, and loves you as you are.”

Her son sighed.

“Yes, but it would be easier to remember that if I wasn’t going to be compared to him.”

“Silmë hasn’t the least interest in your brother, silly. As well, for I suspect Lindë would object rather strongly.”

That at least got a small smile.

“She would,” Atarinkë nodded, considering his soon to be law sister’s likely reaction. “Though I think she’d object to some of what he said about my sonnet even more…”

Nerdanel sighed. It would do no good to ask that he let it go entirely. Thankfully, Lindelotë was too sensible to egg her intended and his younger brother on. Perhaps she might be able to broker a peace.

At least Atarinkë was using his words now…