She Whom He Had Loved by polutropos

She Whom He Had Loved

Read She Whom He Had Loved

“You’re off-tempo.” Macalaurë stopped playing. No, he never simply stopped playing–he fluttered his fingers over the strings, gently putting each one to rest, before pulling his hands away like the mirror images of two white gulls in flight. With his bird-hands coming to rest atop the neck of his harp, he gave Findaráto an irritatingly inquisitive look: brows pinched over the bridge of his nose, lips pursed into a patronising hint of a smile. 

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked. “I usually have to tell you to stop trying to be so technical but you’re not even trying at all.”

“Perhaps you are off-tempo,” Findaráto replied with a petulant sigh that he immediately regretted. 

“I’m never off-tempo. And you are never as off as you are now.”

Findaráto set his harp down across his lap–a little more roughly than intended, he realised when the strings vibrated dissonantly and a tuning pin struck the sensitive flesh behind his knee cap. “Ow,” he muttered, rubbing it. He wanted to laugh at himself along with Macalaurë but lightheartedness was not coming easily to him since the incident with Amarië.

“All right, that’s enough,” Macalaurë said. “What is going on?”

Findaráto avoided his persistent stare and thought about how to answer before settling on the entirely unsatisfying response, “Amarië.”

“Oh? She hasn’t…?” Macalaurë had the discretion to leave off finishing with ‘...left you already?’

“No. No, not at all,” Findaráto replied, smoothing out the fabric of his tunic over his knees and venturing to look his cousin in the eyes. “She tried to kiss me.”

Macalaurë’s pinched eyebrows climbed up his forehead, transforming into an expression of glee. A loud burst of laughter–the way he laughed when he wasn’t merely feigning amusement–erupted from his throat.

“Well, that’s excellent!” he said between chuckles.”She certainly doesn’t waste any time–lucky you. Didn’t you like it?”

“I said she tried. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do!” Findaráto hated how childish he sounded. He straightened his back in preparation for his confession. “I have never kissed anyone before.”

“What!” Macalaurë drew back. “You? You’ll be fifty next year! It didn’t even take me that long and I’m just a regular dark-haired second-born Noldo prince.” Findaráto shot him a glance. Macalaurë knew quite well that he was far from regular. “With a face like yours and that cascade of golden hair, I can’t imagine how many hearts you have broken already. What have you been waiting for?”

“The right person,” Findaráto stated emphatically. 

Macalaurë swallowed another laugh. ”And is Amarië not the right person?”

“I don’t know. She’s very confident. And older than me,” Findaráto pictured the glow of her deep brown skin, the brilliant blue eyes that he wanted to swim in, and how the lines of her body curved and blended into each other perfectly. And beautiful, and talented, and funny , he thought. Or he meant to think it, but he realised too late that the words were coming out of his mouth. 

“Sounds like the right person to me,” Macalaurë said. “So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know how to kiss!” Findaráto said, exasperated. 

“It’s not that complicated, really, you would figure it out as you went.”

“I want it to be wonderful for her.”

“You really are a perfectionist. Well, you’ve seen other people do it, haven’t you? Your parents kiss all the time. Quite well, based on what I’ve observed.”

“I wouldn't know. I do not observe my parents kissing and I don’t intend to start.” It was in fact rather difficult to avoid observing Arafinwë and Eärwen’s affection for each other, but Findaráto had no interest in learning how to kiss like his own father.

Macalaurë leaned over his harp, considering something. 

“I could show you,” he announced, sitting up and setting the instrument down beside him as if Findaráto had already agreed to start their lessons right then and there. 

“How?” Findaráto tried to cover his shock with feigned ignorance.

“By kissing you, of course.” He flashed a grin. “Don’t worry, I won’t fall in love with you. I don’t really like kissing anyway. But I am good at it. Unlike you, I actually pay attention to what others are doing–I wouldn’t be much of a performer if I didn’t.” 

Findaráto felt the tips of his ears flush and he quickly flipped his hair forward to cover them. He considered the proposal. His cousin was not unattractive. Actually, he was very attractive. Not because of any particular feature of his face or the shape of his body, the way Maitimo was attractive, but because of the way he carried himself, the confidence of his movement, the smooth lines he drew through space with his gestures. Findaráto interrupted the thought–what did it matter if he thought Macalaurë was attractive or not? For the purposes of the exercise under consideration it was probably better if he didn’t. 

As he contemplated in silence, Macalaurë reached across the space between them and lifted Findaráto’s hand from his lap. Before he could react Macalaurë was pressing his lips to the sensitive skin on his palm. A ripple of excitement travelled up his arm and down–no, not down anywhere, because he gritted his teeth and pulled his hand away.

“What are you doing?! I did not agree to your lessons.”

“I thought you might need some encouragement,” Macalaurë said, tucking his hair behind one ear. Findaráto immediately pulled it back. He was still hot in the cheeks and knew his ear must be bright red.

“Fine,” Findaráto was surprised to hear himself agree. “But you will not humiliate me. And we will not talk of this to anyone.”

“You think I would do that? You forget I have a reputation to maintain too.”

“A reputation that would be confirmed by this rumour.” Findaráto set down his harp. “All right, let’s get on with it. Where do we start?”

Macalaurë rose from his chair and went out onto the balcony adjoining the room. He looked back through the door frame. “Pretend I am Amarië,” he shouted and leaned alluringly against the railing.

Findaráto stood and shouted back, “You just agreed not to tell anyone and now you want to do it out there where anyone walking past could see!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, no one will think to look up here. If you’re going to do this right, you need a romantic location, and the view from here is spectacular. The Lights are even beginning to mingle!”

Findaráto clenched his fists at his sides and huffed. He should have expected as much; Macalaurë had never been one to start a lesson with the basics. He walked out onto the balcony.

“Oh, Findaráto,” Macalaurë greeted him in a dulcet soprano, “you look wonderful! This emerald complements your skin so well.” He brushed his fingers over the necklace Findaráto wore, grazing his sternum as he withdrew.

“You’re supposed to be a good actor,” Findaráto said. “You sound nothing like her. She has a deeper voice.” Of course Macalaurë had probably heard her speak only once or twice so he couldn’t reasonably be faulted for that. The rest of the performance was disconcertingly effective, if somewhat comical. 

He adjusted his register and started again. “I am so glad to see you,” –this time the voice was a near-perfect imitation– “After the last time we were together I thought you might be too embarrassed to come see me so soon.” Macalaurë smiled coyly. Somehow he managed to produce a dimple on his cheek just like Amarië’s. 

Findaráto found this charade absurd but he committed himself to trying. It was better to humiliate himself here than with Amarië. “My dear,” he said, “please accept my apology for that–”

“No!” Macalaurë said, dropping into his natural register. “Don’t apologise! Do you think a woman like Amarië likes you for your politeness? Try again.”

Findaráto cleared his throat and concentrated on picturing Macalaurë as a golden-haired Vanya, meandering curves in place of his straight, lean shape. It was impossible. He didn’t want to imagine it. Though he was physically the opposite of Amarië in every way, he was just as pleasant to look at. ‘Pleasant’ was an understatement on both counts: she was maddeningly gorgeous and so, he had to admit, was Macalaurë. 

“Don’t pretend to be her,” Findaráto said, his voice catching in his throat.

“No?”

“No, it’s too distracting. Just be yourself.” Findaráto’s pulse was thumping against his neck and he lifted a hand to cover it. It’s just nerves , he reassured himself, though it felt like something else.

“I can do that.” Macalaurë adjusted against the railing, leaving behind the feminine posture he’d adopted and slipping back into his own enigmatic way of being that couldn’t really be described as anything but him . ”There’s really no need to rehearse any conversation, then. We already know you’re good at that part. So, kiss me.”

Macalaurë softened in a way Findaráto had never seen before, except perhaps in those moments when he became so lost in a song that he forgot anyone was watching. Findaráto straightened his shoulders and inhaled–then he dropped his shoulders, because it seemed far too rigid a stance for kissing. Meeting his cousin’s gaze, he drew nearer–and realised with some satisfaction that he was at least an inch taller, which he was only noticing now. At least I have that on him. It was a silly thing to cling to, but it gave him the push he needed to close his eyes and lean forward.

But he had misjudged the distance, opening his eyes a second later to the sound of Macalaurë’s snickering.

“How are you going to find my mouth with your eyes closed! Certainly not the first time, at any rate. You need to know where you are going.” He dramatically slapped his thigh and drew in a long breath. “Come on, try again.”

Findaráto groaned. Why was this so difficult? It was just Macalaurë, it didn’t matter. Macalaurë had washed his sheets when he peed the bed. Macalaurë had held his hair back as he retched because he hadn’t learned yet that Vanyarin rice wine was significantly stronger than the light Telerin whites he was used to. Of course each of those things occurred at the appropriate stages of his life and could be excused. Not knowing how to kiss at forty-nine seemed less excusable.

He needed a different approach. Grabbing Macalaurë’s waist in both hands and pulling the length of his torso flush against him, he pressed his mouth hard against his. A second passed while he waited for his cousin to break into peals of laughter, but he only felt the slight twitch of a smile against his mouth and then lips opening to receive him. He parted his own lips and the warmth of Macalaurë’s breath filled his lungs. Macalaurë drew away slightly for a breath, still grazing his lips, and returned, brushing his cheek with the tip of his nose on his way back to his open mouth. His tongue darted between Findaráto’s teeth.

Findaráto had failed to take the opportunity to breathe and as their mouths closed around each other again he was becoming increasingly faint. Feeling as if he might fall forwards and push them both over the railing, he clutched at the sides of Macalaurë’s belt to hold himself up. When his cousin pulled away, his expression was not one of mockery, as Findaráto expected, but of bemused amazement. His lips were bright red and his ears flushed a deep pink.

“That’s one way to do it,” he said, wrapping his arms around Findaráto’s waist and looking into his eyes. “Surprisingly, it suits you.”

Findaráto realised he was still hanging onto Macalaurë's belt as if reining in a horse and he let go, his hands left hovering awkwardly at his sides. Without needing to look, Macalaurë sensed his distress and slid away to clasp them in his own hands. He lifted one and lightly kissed the knuckles.

“So it wasn’t terrible?” Findaráto asked.

“Not at all,” Macalaurë replied. “We will have to refine your technique, but you have much more style than I would have expected. Amarië won’t know what hit her.”

Right, Amarië – that was who this was about. 

“Well, good, that’s good,” Findaráto said, untangling his hands and turning away. “Maybe we should do the technique another time, though.”

“Whatever you like,” Macalaurë said to his back, and Findaráto turned to observe him from a safer distance: he leaned against the railing right where he’d left him and looked as calm and still as Findaráto was shaky and distracted. “You just tell me when you are ready for your next lesson.”

He was all too ready for it right then, but he thought he had better come prepared before trying that again–whatever prepared meant in this context. It meant remembering to breathe, at a minimum.

“All right,” Findaráto said. “Thank you.”

“Thank you? You don’t need to thank me. You might still have an unrefined approach but I enjoyed that a lot more than I thought I would.”

Using the motion of his arms against the railing like a spring, he carried himself effortlessly into the room and paused in front of Findaráto to give his forearm a squeeze. “I don’t think this will be such a bad arrangement.”

Dropping his arm, Macalaurë brushed past him to collect his harp and cloak. “Sleep well, Findaráto–and don’t think you’re ready to take that to Amarië just yet. It’d be a shame not to give her your best.” He smiled and slipped out the door. 

 

Amarië drew away from their embrace, and her pupils had dilated into irresistibly beautiful dark circles as she scanned her lover's face. Telperion's light brought out the silvery glitter of her skin. Findaráto stretched his neck towards her and parted his lips for another kiss.

"Wait, my dear!" she laughed brightly. "If you don't stop, I'm not going to be able to resist tearing into these layers and layers of fine fabrics you are wearing, and I know you'd be upset about that–tomorrow if not now." 

Findaráto relented, drawing away from her and threading his fingers through hers. "I'm sorry," he said, "I will be less eager. You are just so beautiful."

"Oh no," she said, "do not change anything. You are wondrously good at this. I'll admit I'm surprised, though. I thought you might vomit when I tried to kiss you only a few weeks ago. And then when you had so many excuses not to see me again..."

"I'm sorry about that, my love, really, I am." His heart, which was already pounding from the passion of their very prolonged first kiss, started to flutter nervously. Clearly he had impressed her, but how was he going to explain the sudden change in his confidence and skills as a lover? He was terrible at inventing reasons, as he'd learned over the past few weeks of avoiding her, having convinced himself that his 'lessons' with Macalaurë were appropriate so long as they did not overlap with his courting of Amarië. He was now guiltily questioning that line of logic.

"Amarië," he began, "I owe it to you to explain something." He sat down on the stone border of his father's gardens, gesturing for her to sit down next to him. 

'We will not talk of this to anyone,' he'd made Macalaurë promise. At the time he hadn't even considered Amarië among those he might want to tell. He'd also had no idea how much he would enjoy "this": namely, kissing his cousin. And–he recalled with a rush of equal parts shame and pleasure swirling around the general area of his gut–a few other related things, which was the point at which Findaráto decided he was probably more than ready to take what he had learned back to his beautiful Vanya. Macalaurë had been infuriatingly nonchalant about it, as he was about a lot of things. He almost seemed glad to graduate his pupil, pressing a last kiss to his lips and sending him out of the room with a pat on the bottom like he was some fling he met on a holiday. 

Recalling the incident (which had only been that morning–so much for his noble aspirations of avoiding overlap) Findaráto wondered if the whole performance had only been to strengthen his resolve to meet with Amarië while she was in Tirion visiting her brother’s wife. If so, it had worked exactly as intended because he had left in a huff and immediately sent a message to invite her to dinner followed by a walk in the gardens.

She elbowed him gently in the side. “You were going to explain something?”

"Yes, sorry,” he said, wondering how long he’d fallen silent. “The reason I didn't accept any of your invitations to meet over the last few weeks is because I was… learning."

She arched her eyebrows and started to curl her full lips into that mischievous, dimpled grin of hers. 

"Not with another woman, don't worry!" Her eyes widened even more. "I suppose that doesn't make it sound any better. I do like women. I mean a woman, you. I like you. I think I might love you."

She snorted out a laugh, which she somehow made charming. "Yes, likewise! But please tell me what you are getting at, this suspense is unbearable."

"My cousin–"

"Your cousin? Do tell me which one." 

“My half-cousin–”

“Oh, it gets better!”

“Better? What do you mean? What do you care about the Fëanárions? You don’t even know what I am going to tell you.”

“Goodness, Findaráto. I didn’t mean to make you jealous! Anyway, isn’t it me who should be jealous?” She spread her mouth into a wide grin that revealed the pearl-white of her teeth.

“I don’t understand how you think you know what I am going to say when all I have told you is ‘my cousin’.”

“Love, do you think you are the only young prince who has ever ‘learned’ from their cousin?” 

Findaráto recoiled with a pang of embarrassment. Was this just what cousins did? Did Macalaurë know that? Had he done so with other cousins? 

“Oh dear,” Amarië ran her fingers over his knit brow, trying to smooth out its lines, “you liked learning from him rather a lot, didn’t you? Now you must tell me who it was so I may decide if I can live with it.”

Findaráto exhaled unsteadily. “Macalaurë.”

He nearly jumped at the sudden sound of Amarië’s squeal. “Oh, thank Eru! I was hoping you would say that. Well, you will have to pass my compliments on to him.” She lifted his hands and drew him towards her for a kiss. Amid the tension and confusion of what had just transpired, he forgot all about his technique and awkwardly fumbled for a place to put his hands, looking down at them and causing her to kiss the tip of his nose instead of his mouth. 

She laughed against his cheek. “Of course, if you need to go back to him for a refresher at any point, I don’t mind. In fact,” she shifted to whisper in his ear, “I wouldn’t mind being there, if you’d have me.”