Envy by polutropos

Chapter 1

Melyanna = Melian
Lambengolmor = a school of loremasters, founded by Fëanor.

Read Chapter 1

“Aaaaaghhh!” Macalaurë groaned and rolled onto his back, one arm flung across his face. He struck the floor with his other hand, the emphatic gesture unsatisfyingly muted by the sheepskin rug he was sprawled upon. “I don’t understand it!”

Maitimo exhaled as quietly and steadily as he could, glancing up at the open door and hoping his brother’s dramatic cries would not summon their mother or father. Though nearly grown to maturity, at this moment Macalaurë had regressed to infancy and the last thing he needed (despite it being what he most wanted) was more attention. Maitimo sat on the edge of the bed and gripped his knees.

His voice now muffled under the draping fabric of his sleeve, Macalaurë elaborated, “She is not that good.”

Maitimo said nothing, and after a pause the arm slowly lifted from Macalaurë’s face and round grey eyes peered up expectantly.

“Well, Nelyo?” he said. “Did you think that performance was ‘a triumph in choral innovation by a peerless minstrel, a jewel of the Eldar indeed – one might say Melyanna herself has returned to Valinórë!’”

“Elemmírë–” Maitimo had barely said the Vanya bard’s name before Macalaurë drowned him out with a long whine, remarkably tuneful for all its misery.

“Pleeeease, do not say that name!” In one abrupt motion, he jolted himself upright and crossed his legs, facing Maitimo and pointing a finger. “I am sick of hearing it!”

The dark, wavy locks of his hair dangled messily around his flushed cheeks and Maitimo almost felt sorry for him, forgetting for a moment that he was looking at an Elda well into his thirties.

“All right,” Maitimo said, gripping his knees tighter, “she is an established poet and minstrel, she has a particular style that people enjoy, and a following. You cannot compare yourself–”

“Me? This is not about me!” Macalaurë raised his brows and held a hand to his chest. Maitimo bit down on a chuckle.

“Of course not, little brother,” Maitimo said, meeting the swirling emotion in his eyes with as much calm as he could muster. “I simply wanted to make it perfectly clear that I think your talent for music is–”

He was interrupted by the thunk of the sliding door being pushed all the way open and their father standing in the doorway with his fists planted on his hips, his whole face flickering with impatience. Fëanáro’s eyes dropped down to where his second eldest sat pouting on the floor.

“Canafinwë!” he shouted. “Get up off the floor! And stop shouting. I’m trying to write and you can be heard four rooms away.”

Macalaurë scrambled to his feet. “I am sorry, Atto.” He paused, scanning their father and considering… “But have you heard what they are saying about Elemmírë’s performance? Melyanna come again! They are deluded!”

Fëanáro’s expression underwent a rapid transformation from hard-set exasperation to pinched disbelief. “What.” he snapped. “That trite, sycophantic warbling we sat through at the feast in Valimar?”

“Yes!” Macalaurë said. “That!” He turned to Maitimo, still seated stoically on the bed, seeking some acknowledgement. Maitimo tried to smile but probably only managed a grimace.

“Who is saying this?” Fëanáro was glowering now, bracing himself for the worst. “None of the Lambengolmor, I hope?”

“None of them,” Maitimo cut in before Macalaurë could make his reply. In truth, he did not know the source of the accolades, but it would be best to keep both of them from finding anyone to blame – another log to toss on the fire of their mutual outrage.

“Well, that is preposterous.” Their father showed himself into Maitimo’s bedchamber and strode across the floor.

“Yonya,” he shook a finger at Macalaurë as he passed by, “we are going to have your lay performed at the next festival. I don’t care what Ingwë says about it, the attendance of the House of Finwë will depend upon it–”

“No!” Macalaurë cried. “No, please. The lay is not complete and in any case this is not about me. The point is Elemmírë is not worthy of–”

“Of course it is about you!” Fëanáro puffed. “You are far more innovative than that insipid Vanya. Your work has emotion, it has life! The technical skill will come, no doubt.”

Maitimo caught his brother’s posture shrink at the implicit criticism.

“Perhaps proving Cáno’s superiority is not what is needed,” Maitimo offered.

They both turned to him, Macalaurë with hope and Fëanáro with surprise. He was still not used to his eldest son regularly expressing differing opinions.

“Perhaps,” he continued, “we should ask Elemmírë if she would allow him to accompany her next time she performs.”

“What!” they both said in unison.

“Well,” Maitimo said, “Macalaurë says he does not understand what others see in Elemmírë’s compositions. I have already said much of it is simply related to her reputation and seniority among the minstrels of Valinórë, and not necessarily to superior talent.”

His father and brother stared at him with nearly identical flat expressions. He often forgot how alike they looked, for all their differences of character.

“If he sings with her, not only will more people take notice of his talent, but it will also be an opportunity to study more closely what it is about her music that is so appealing to others and incorporate that into his own approach. Assuming popularity is of importance to my brother.”

They both continued to stare, contemplating the idea: Fëanáro with increasing confidence, Macalaurë with increasing unease.

“It is not a bad suggestion,” Fëanáro said, his temper cooling. “Canafinwë, why don’t you write to Elemmírë about it? I will have Rúmil commend you to her as well, I believe they are friendly.”

At that, he was out of the room, the vibration of his energy swirling out the door after him.

“What kind of suggestion was that?” Macalaurë hissed as their father’s footsteps retreated. “She won’t want to play with me. She probably has no idea who I am! Write to her…” He sighed loudly and shook his head.

Maitimo patted the bed, inviting his brother to sit. “Of course she knows who you are. Everyone knows who we are.”

“Then why don’t they notice me?” he blurted and then flushed pink with embarrassment. He plopped himself onto the bed beside Maitimo and fell back onto it.

“I’m sorry for being such a child,” he muttered. “It is just so frustrating when I do not hear what others do in her music! Am I stupid?” He sat up. “Am I a bad person?”

“Come here,” Maitimo said, wrapping an arm around his brother and pulling him to his chest. “You are not–” he began, but trailed off. Denying the sentiment was not helpful.

“I love you,” he said.

* * *

An exasperated huff preceded Nicamírë’s sister’s exit from the bedroom, silk underskirts trailing behind her.

“Look at this!” Elemmírë flicked a parchment in her hand and scrunched her face in disgust. “Now I know why Rúmil was going on about him. Fëanáro’s precocious little singer wants me to accompany him!”

Nicamírë clamped her needle between her lips as she rearranged the threads on her sister’s gown, which she had been dutifully repairing all morning so that it would be ready for the evening’s performance.

“Have you accompany him?” she mumbled around the needle. “Is that what he says?”

“‘Dear Elemmírë’,” her sister read. “‘Let me begin by expressing my greatest admiration for your work,’ et cetera, et cetera, then… here, he says: ‘It would be an honour to join you on stage at the festival this evening for a few’ – a few! – ‘a few songs of your choosing.’”

She tossed the letter onto a table with indignant flourish, only for it to slide off and drift gracefully from side to side as it fell to the ground.

“And he suggests tonight!” she continued, ignoring the letter and pacing around the table. “Of course he would. He needs no rehearsal. Easy enough for a vocalist.”

“Does he not also play the harp?” Nicamírë asked, pushing her needle through the thick green velvet.

Elemmírë’s head snapped in her direction. “What does that matter? Everyone plays the harp. He’s explicitly asking to sing.”

“Everyone sings,” Nicamírë said. “Though not as well as he does.”

There were blazing blue eyes boring into her, but Nicamírë just smirked.

“I think you are jealous of him,” she said, shaking out the sleeve she was sewing and smoothing it over her thigh.

“Absolutely not!” Elemmírë protested.

“You are still the better harper,” Nicamírë said. “And lyricist. Though he is still young.”

Elemmírë gaped. “You are no help.” She threw her hands up and then crossed them in front of her, pouting. “As my sister, you should take my side, you know.”

Nicamírë glanced up from her work to look pointedly into her older sister’s eyes. “Really? Sides?”

“Nevermind,” Elemmírë muttered. “No, no. That is just what all those proud Noldor would want: a rivalry.”

“Most certainly,” Nicamírë agreed. “A rivalry that everyone, Vanyar included, would find far more entertaining than either of your actual artistic outputs.”

Elemmírë pursed her lips and propped herself up against the back of a chair. Her half-coiffed heap of golden locks fell over one side of her face, the other side already pinned up with emerald-studded combs and silver threads. She looked quite dishevelled, Nicamírë thought, and resisted laughing at the sight.

“Very well,” her sister said. “I’ll have him sing with me. But I won’t let him know until we see him there. Let him wonder.” She swept out of the room and returned to her bedchamber.

“I really think you should tell him beforehand!” Nicamírë shouted after her.

* * *

Macalaurë was buzzing with satisfaction. It had been his best performance by far, he was certain of it. He had no idea how rewarding it could be to sing with such a gifted musician – to not have to worry about his own fingers fumbling, or to have his concentration broken when another musician missed a note. No – after a single verse, Macalaurë had been entirely confident in Elemmírë’s skill, trusting her to carry his voice through the music just as he attuned to the vibrations of her harp strings.

As the audience roared their applause, he turned to Elemmírë and she, too, had an enormous grin on her face. They beamed, sharing the intensity of the moment and silently confirming with each other that yes, each had felt it: that intangible magic of creating something that had never been done quite that way before.

Afterwards, as they cleared the stage, Elemmírë tossed a glance his way and smiled.

“You know,” she said. “I have envied you for your voice ever since I heard you sing as a child. It is a gift I never received.”

“What!” Macalaurë instinctively protested.

“No, no, it’s true. I can sing tunefully enough, but you will be one of the greatest. Are one the greatest.”

Macalaurë grinned, and then, recalling suddenly how pettily he had whined about Elemmírë before this, looked down at the floor sheepishly. He scuffed it with his toe. “I should confess…” He glanced up. “I must confess I didn’t understand before tonight what made your music so… well-liked.”

He grimaced, realising how poorly he had phrased that, but Elemmírë laughed.

“Oh, I don’t often understand it either!” She clasped his hand and squeezed. “Come, Macalaurë, let’s go greet our admirers.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for Tolkien Gen Week 2022, Day 1: Family - Mentorships - Community.