Laughing All the Way by polutropos

| | |

Chapter 1

Warning for recreational alcohol and cannabis use. 

*

Macalaurë, Canafinwë, Cáno = Maglor
Turukáno, Turno = Turgon
Maitimo = Maedhros
Findekáno, Finno = Fingon
Findaráto, Ingo = Finrod
Laurefindelë = Glorfindel

These had not been Macalaurë’s plans for Yule, not at all. He shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his cloak and kicked at the fresh-fallen snow. It dispersed unsatisfyingly like a puff of flour.

“Pleeeease,” Findekáno had whined, “my brother can’t be alone!”

Then he’d pushed a fruitcake into Macalaurë’s hands, saying it was Turukáno’s favourite. “But don’t tell him it’s from me, he’s not speaking to me.”

When Macalaurë asked what he’d done to upset his brother so, Findekáno had only made the same expression Huan did when he’d accidentally barrelled into one of the many half-finished, highly-breakable projects strewn about the Fëanárian country home.

As if Turukáno would want to speak to him! They’d never exchanged more than four or five sentences. Small wonder – what could Macalaurë possibly have to talk about with someone whose favourite dessert was fruitcake? And it wasn’t even iced, he thought, feeling for the circular lump weighing down his left pocket.

Yet, somehow, here he was, winding a path up Tirion’s streets to where his uncle’s palatial home rambled down the hillside.

The soft crush of snow under carriage wheels approached from behind. Macalaurë kept his eyes down, pulling his fur-lined hood further over his face.

“Is that Prince Canafinwë? What are you doing out all alone?”

Of course, it was difficult to go unnoticed with your family's crest embroidered across your back - and difficult to pass as any one of your brothers when you were noticeably shorter than even young Curufinwë. Macalaurë exhaled sharply, split his face into the widest grin he could muster, and whipped around to greet the voice.

“Ah! Master Rúmil! Happy Yule to you!”

With a gentle command, Rúmil brought his horses to a halt and slid out of the carriage. His sister, seated behind, lifted a hand from the babe cradled in her arms and waved.

“Oh, I’m just headed to a gathering at my uncle’s home,” Macalaurë replied.

“Prince Nolofinwë?” Rúmil drew his brows together and stroked his chin. “Isn’t he in Valmar with your grandfather and Queen Indis?”

How was it that Rúmil knew more about his family’s comings-and-goings than Macalaurë himself?

“Oh, uh, yes – he is. It's just a small gathering with my cousins.”

“How lovely!” Rúmil clasped his hands together and his eyes lit up. By the droop of his eyelids, Macalaurë suspected the ancient loremaster had been carousing since well before the Mingling. “Wonderful to see your families spending time together! Your generation gives me hope, you know that?” He set a gloved hand on Macalaurë’s shoulder and drew in a long breath as he gazed happily at him.

“Well,” Rúmil gave the shoulder a squeeze, “will you take a ride there with us?”

“Oh. No, I am fine to walk.”

“You must!” his sister called from the carriage. “Why trudge up that hill if you needn’t? Besides, Telperion is already approaching his zenith, the festivities must be well underway, you wouldn’t want to miss any of it!”

Macalaurë forced another smile, a little less enthusiastic this time. “Of course, yes, thank you.”

The ride up the hill came with a cup of warm spiced wine poured from a clay jar, and by the time they arrived at the lower wing of Nolofinwë’s palace (where Turukáno and Írissë had recently moved into their own quarters) Macalaurë found he was quite happily prattling on about the ballad he was composing for the occasion of grandfather Mahtan’s begetting day. Rúmil even had an excellent suggestion on how to solve some challenging metrical problems he was having with the second verse.

He hopped out of the carriage, waving and thanking them for the company and the conveyance.

Macalaurë hesitated before Turukáno's door. Why was he doing this? He could have gone anywhere; Findekáno wouldn't have known any better. But where? Tyelkormo and Curufinwë had gone climbing on Taniquetil with Irisse, Carnistir was visiting aunt Findis, his golden-haired cousins were in Alqualondë, his parents had gone south, his friends were all with their families. He didn't, he had to admit, have anywhere else to go. He lifted his hand to knock–

Maybe he could wander down to the valley, walk out to the inlet, enjoy a quiet evening with his thoughts – but there was the high likelihood of being recognised and having to explain again why he was alone. Everyone seemed to assume that being alone was the worst possible fate to befall another. Macalaurë didn't mind it so much–

The door swung open and Macalaurë staggered back to avoid being hit.

"What!" Turukáno shouted, and shock flashed across his features. He schooled himself quickly and crossed his arms over his chest. His dark hair fell loose over his shoulders and he wore only a rabbits’ wool robe and beaded slippers.

"Canafinwë. Good evening. What– what can I do for you?”

"I…" Macalaurë stared up at him while he fumbled in his pocket. He proffered the fruitcake. "I brought you this."

“Oh,” Turukáno said, accepting the cake. He looked down at it dubiously and back up at Macalaurë. “Well. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Macalaurë clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides.

Turukáno’s gaze strayed over Macalaurë’s shoulder, searching. “Did you see a cat?”

“Pardon?”

“My cat, I think she is outside. That’s why I was coming out just now.”

“What? Oh! Right. And I was– I was just about to knock!” Macalaurë giggled. Turukáno just stared. “No, I didn’t see a–”

With a loud mew, a sleek, bronze-coated cat jumped off the protruding lintel and scooted through the doorway. Macalaurë sucked a breath in and gripped his chest in alarm.

Turukáno watched her disappear down the corridor before turning back to Macalaurë.

“Well, thank you for the gift,” he said. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you, I didn’t think you would–” he knit his brows and weighed the cake in his hand, contemplating it. “Cousin,” he looked up, “forgive the bluntness of my question, but why are you here?”

“So you aren’t angry with Finno?”

Macalaurë settled onto the curved divan. The low table before him was covered with tiny, finely-cut pieces of wood. To one side, several had been assembled into what looked like piers and low walls.

“No.” Turukáno pushed aside some of the pieces and set a glass down in front of Macalaurë. “I wasn’t anyway. Now I am. For sending you here. Meaning no offence.” He sat and sipped from his own glass. “Findekáno simply cannot understand that a person might choose to be alone at yuletide – or at any time, for that matter. He thinks I am morose simply for enjoying the quiet of my own company. And he could not force me to go with him, so, to assuage his guilt for leaving me alone, he sent you. Which conveniently also got rid of you – so now he and your brother can have as much fun as they want without either of us in their way. I’m sorry–” he shifted and crossed one leg over the other. “It was really unfair of him to use you like that. You probably didn’t want to be here with me tonight any more than I wanted company.”

Macalaurë was about to be horribly offended, but then Turukáno did something rather unexpected. He tipped his neck back and gave a genuine, hearty laugh.

“I don’t know you very well, Canafinwë,” he slanted his eyes in Macalaurë’s direction, “but I always thought you seemed more kind-hearted than your brothers. You didn’t have to come tonight – you could have told Finno where to put his cake. Tyelkormo or Carnistir would have. But you went along with it, because you like to keep everyone happy.”

It was all very unsettling, being so astutely analysed by his cousin with whom he hadn’t exchanged more than the blandest niceties. “Yes, I… I suppose I do.”

“You can’t, you know.”

“What?”

“Keep everyone happy.”

Macalaurë took a long sip of his drink. “No. Well, I won’t bother you any longer, then.” He stood to leave.

“If you want.” Turukáno shrugged. “Though it does amuse me to imagine what a terrible time they must think we are having.”

“Aren’t we?” Macalaurë blurted.

Turukáno laughed, louder and more heartily this time. He clicked his tongue and shook his head, staring absently at the opposite wall.

“Cousin,” he said, not looking at him, “it’s funny. Just a little before you turned up here, I was…” he gestured to a tall, ornate glass vessel on a credenza behind them and chuckled. Macalaurë looked and gaped.

Turukáno laughed again. “Have you ever breathed in the leaves of lalië laima?”

“Finno,” Maitimo said, “I feel badly about sending my brother off.”

“Then you need more wine!” Findekáno stretched across the couch, precariously pouring from the bottle in his hand. “They will have a great time.” He smiled crookedly.

“They won’t.” Maitimo frowned into his cup. He took a gulp. “Turno hates us.”

“He doesn’t hate you–”

“–And you know how Cáno will be. He’ll pretend it was all well, he’ll be all smiles and cheerful humming, and then he’ll bring it up, tauntingly, when he next wants something from us.”

“Yes, yes, and Turno will brood and glare at me for days. But!” Findekáno slapped his thigh. “It will be worth it for the amount of fun we are going to have without them. Unless you plan on indulging your worry all evening.”

“Hellooooo!” A call from below. “Russandol? Finnooooo?”

Maitimo huffed and set his cup down on the side table. He stood, brushing aside the curtains and stepping out onto the balcony.

“Ah! You are at home!” Findaráto shouted up at him. “Is Finno there?”

“Ingo? I thought you were in Alqualondë,” Maitimo called back.

“No, I didn’t go – s’posed to – Amarië visiting – anyway! I’ve been turned out of my own apartments for es’essive intosicashe– intoxication!” He gave a whoop of joy and laughed. “Can I come up?”

“Is that Ingo?” Findekáno bumped Maitimo’s shoulder as he hurried out onto the balcony. “Ingo!? Come up! We are escaping our brothers!”

And with that, Findekáno dashed off down the stairs to open the door.

The súyalaima was one of the most beautiful such vessels Macalaurë had seen. Perfectly spherical at the bottom, it was supported by an intricate stand of silver, cut to resemble twining vines and inlaid with green and white gems. The neck of the glass was elegantly long, curving at the top. And all around, it had been embellished with coloured glass ornamentation resembling a diverse array of Yavanna’s olvar.

“Where did you get that?” Macalaurë asked.

“I made it.” Turukáno lifted it from its stand and checked the water level at the bottom. He began carefully prying apart a bud of the lalië laima, loosely packing the bowl. He brought it to his mouth, sucking gently as he lit the plant with a bit of burning twine. The vessel filled with steam and then, with a deft flourish, he pulled the bowl away and let it all disappear into his lungs.

He didn’t even cough. Macalaurë had never seen the process done so artfully.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Macalaurë. “Your turn.”

Macalaurë had only inhaled the laughing leaf a handful of times and each had ended with undignified sputtering and tears seeping from his eyes – an embarrassment which was, if he was being honest, the chief reason that he avoided the activity. That, and the potential damage to one’s lungs and therefore voice, though the experienced bards were divided on that matter.

He took the glass and carefully imitated Turukáno’s preparation.

“You have impressive technique” he said, trying to distract from the difficulty he was having breaking up the bud. “You must have learned from the best.”

“Mm,” Turukáno said, “yes, I suppose. Laurefindelë introduced me to it.”

“Ah, of course.” Macalaurë smiled to himself and felt a flush of heat in his cheeks at the mention of his cousin’s unlikely friend. The most gorgeous elf in Valinor.

Turukáno gave a breathy little chuckle. “You’re blushing,” he said.

“What?” Macalaurë stayed fixed on his task. “No, no! I just go rosy in the cold, that’s all.”

“No, you are. And I’ve seen the way you stare at him across a room. I don’t blame you, I would feel the same if I cared for men in that way. He’s an ideal muse.”

Macalaurë flushed hotter, but laughed lightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s very ordinary.”

“Hah!” Turukáno barked, then giggled. The leaf was definitely beginning to affect him. “Ordinary! The light of Laurelin is dimmed behind his smile, and you know it.”

Macalaurë swallowed and did not respond. Being so transparently perceived by his cousin was terribly awkward and he needed to inhale some of this leaf as quickly as possible.

“He’s quite open to relationships with both genders, you know.”

“Turno,” Macalaurë sighed and straightened, “please stop. I am trying to concentrate.”

“Sorry,” Turukáno laughed, “of course. I did not mean to distract you with thoughts of lovely Laurëfin.”

Macalaurë lit his bowl and sucked sharply, having forgotten entirely to follow Turukáno’s lead and immediately choking on the sudden and sharp rush of steam.

“Dark oblivion!” he wheezed and bent over himself.

“No!” Turukáno said. “Don’t bend, stand and put your hands on your head.”

Macalaurë followed the directive, his lungs clenching painfully and his eyes watering. But soon his breath was coming easily and he blinked away the tears.

“Ugh,” he slumped back onto the divan. “You distracted me!”

Turukáno was lying on his back shaking with silent laughter.

“No doubt!” he spat.

Then Macalaurë’s head started to cloud and the room brightened and he forgot what had been so embarrassing. He, too, was overcome with amusement and fell onto his side with a loud sigh.

Findaráto had disappeared into the bathroom. Findekáno strummed aggressively at his lute and belted a traditional song of Yule.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Maitimo asked.

Findekáno just grinned and kept singing, so Maitimo rose to assess the situation with his other cousin himself. It turned out he didn’t need to, for as soon as he was up, Findaráto came running out singing along to the chorus.

He had removed every last one of his vestments and replaced them with an ostentatious carcanet that Maitimo forgot he even owned. The thing had been collecting dust in the back of a cupboard since a doting apprentice of his father had bestowed it upon him.

Findekáno heralded his cousin’s entrance with a flourish of notes and they both broke into merry laughter before resuming the tune even more loudly. Maitimo poured himself a glass of water and gripped his temples. He considered going to look for Macalaurë, whose continued absence was beginning to concern him.

Turukáno sat up abruptly. “The fruitcake!”

“I can’t believe you like that!” said Macalaurë, sprawled on the divan.

“Ah!” Turukáno wagged a finger. “Finno doesn’t know it, but it’s only when my taste is heightened by the leaf. Then it’s the most delicious thing in Arda. You can taste the flavour of every morsel of fruit, the sweetness melting on your tongue.” He was already peeling away the wax paper wrapping. “Mmm, and the smell.”

“Let me try.” Macalaurë, suddenly ravenously hungry, sat up and grabbed at the cake.

“Ah ah! I have to cut it.”

The serving process was painfully slow. Not only did Turukáno wander the perimeter of the room three times before finding the knife he wanted, he then insisted on cutting the entire cake into perfect slices before eating it.

They devoured the entire thing in moments.

“Telperion!” Turukáno proclaimed out of nowhere. He leapt up, swaying a little before crossing the room to throw on his coat and replace his slippers with boots. “Telperion’s zenith! We are going to miss it!”

“What?” Macalaurë asked. “So?”

“No! You must see the city under his light! The marble, the rooftops!”

“I’ve seen it hundreds of times.”

“But have you seen it like this? With Yavanna’s gift to heighten your senses?”

Macalaurë considered. He probably had, and he didn’t remember it being particularly remarkable.

“Get up, we’re going!”

Macalaurë was suddenly struck and smothered by his cloak.

Finally, some quiet. Maitimo arranged a blanket over Findaráto. After a round of lively dancing, he’d collapsed on the floor to catch his breath and dozed off there.

Findekáno, who had removed everything but his underclothes in solidarity with his cousin, had managed to get himself onto the couch. Maitimo smiled at how sweet he looked, curled up with his hands tucked under his cheek.

He settled down beside him, absently stroking his hair.

“See?” Findekáno murmured. “Wasn’t that fun?”

“Shh, sleep.” He squeezed his cousin’s arm and leaned back, letting his own eyes fall closed. He really ought to go looking for Macalaurë…

“Happy Yuuuuule!” Macalaurë howled at the rooftops before falling into another fit of giggles.

A little ways ahead, Turukáno was kicking himself down the snowy street on a child’s sled that was far too small for him. They’d found it somewhere along the road – Macalaurë honestly could not remember where.

“Woohoooo!” he shouted again, and launched himself toward the sled, falling to his stomach with a thunk and grabbing the back of it. It came to a complete halt. “Come on! Pull me down with you!” he entreated Turukáno.

“You’re too heavy!” his cousin objected. “Let go!”

Laughing, Macalaurë rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. Telperion’s silver was impossibly bright and seemed to swirl through the darkness. Following its stream of light, he could see where it mingled with the stars, far off in the eastern sky.

“Amazing,” he said.

A boot nudged his side. “Get up, we’re almost there.”

“Where?” Macalaurë uttered in a tone of wonderment. “Turno. I never want to be anywhere but here.”

Turukáno groaned. “Your apartments!”

“What?” Macalaurë lifted his head. “I don’t want to go home! Show me more of Tirion, Turno! The city is a marvel through your eyes.”

“Cáno?”

A familiar voice travelled to his ears. Macalaurë spun onto all fours and searched for its source behind him.

“Did you hear that?” he asked Turukáno.

“What? I heard nothing.”

“I heard my name!”

“You’re imagining it.”

Macalaurë froze with fear. Who could be in his thoughts, uninvited?

“Cáno!” There it was again, followed by the soft beat of running feet.

“Someone is coming!” he shouted, grappling to get himself up onto the sled.

Turukáno burst into laughter. “It’s Maitimo!”

Macalaurë rolled over and, indeed, there was his brother running out of the shadow of a narrow lane.

“Cáno,” he kneeled down and pulled him up on his knees, “what are you doing?”

“Did you know–” he tried to look his brother squarely in the eyes and sputtered with amusement at his concerned expression. “Did you know that Turno is our most fun cousin!?”

He leaned back, arms outstretched, while Maitimo clung to his waist to keep him from falling. He whooped and grinned stupidly up at the sky. This was the best Yule he’d had yet.

Chapter End Notes

olvar = 'things that grow' (canon)
lalië laima = something like 'laughing plant' (bad Quenya). Marijuana.
súyalaima = breathe + plant (bad Quenya). A bong.

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment