A Gift by polutropos

Chapter 1

Macalaurë carefully runs his hands over the harp’s frame - a begetting day gift from Grandfather Finwë - and Maitimo watches the movement behind his half-lidded eyes as his brother creates a picture of it in his mind.

How worried they had been when little Canafinwë came into the world sightless. There were rumours of Elves being born without sight in the darkness of Cuiviénen, and there were those who returned blinded from the torments of the Shadow, but never had one been born thus into the bliss of Aman. And how Cáno screamed in fear and cried in pain and shouted in anger! Surely, it was his marring that caused him such distress.

Marring. That is what they called it. Of course Fëanáro’s secondborn was celebrated, loved, accepted – but ever did others watch him nervously and speak to him with pity, as if to a wounded creature and not to a prince of the House of Finwë. Grandfather himself more than any of them. Maitimo wondered if Finwë thought of Míriel when he looked upon his grandson. Feared that from her griefs some thread of Arda Marred had passed into his eldest son’s line. But Maitimo knows Macalaurë is not marred.

A bright scale on the harp returns Maitimo’s attention to his little brother. Macalaurë smiles, plucks out a lilting melody. His child’s fingers dance over the strings with the deftness of a master.

He raises his voice in song, and Maitimo is transported. He is carried from Finwë’s gardens, carried beyond the golden edges of Valinor; he soars above the dark Sea specked with foaming wave caps. Sight subsides, and he hears, all around him, Music. A symphony of viols and organs and pipes gathering around the gentle notes of his brother’s harp, voices raised in harmony with his singing.

So must the World have seemed when the Ainur sang it into being: a blur of light and colour, sight that melts into sound. Sound like water, sound with substance that threatens to overflow the spirit.

When Maitimo finds himself back on the firm ground again, he sways as if he might topple over under the weight of so much sensation.

But Macalaurë’s face has fallen, his brows furrowed. His small hands rest, palms open, at his sides.

“Cáno?” Maitimo says softly, not wanting to frighten him.

Macalaurë doesn’t startle, but he does sniff and wipe his nose on his sleeve.

“Cáno, why are you crying?” Maitimo sits down beside him on the bench and instinctively wraps his arms around his shoulders.

“You saw,” Macalaurë says. “There was nothing! I try to sing a story and it is just sounds. No pictures. I cannot see them, Nelyo!” He balls his hands into fists and strikes his thighs in frustration. “I don’t know how to show you mountains and rivers and birds because I have never seen them. I will never be able to tell stories like Elemmírë or Hyamindë or Elvion.”

“Shh, shh,” Maitimo cradles his brother’s head against his chest. He wants to protest, exclaim in disbelief, tell him he must be mad not to think his unique skill for music a gift – but he has seen how this makes Macalaurë cry even more. Maitimo cannot understand, not really, but remembers being a child and how frightening it was to be marked as extraordinary when all you wanted was to belong. So he holds little Macalaurë and waits for his breaths to settle.

“Cáno,” Maitimo says after a while, when his brother has stilled. “I know it is difficult to believe now, but the stories that you tell with the power of your voice and music will be greater than any bard with ordinary sight could ever imagine. You will be one of the greatest singers to live.”

Macalaurë inhales deeply and stretches an arm around Maitimo’s torso. “Do you think?” he asks.

“I am certain,” says Maitimo.

Standing opposite him, Maglor’s hands make their way down the length of Maedhros’ right arm, feeling out the new shape of him. When he comes to the blunted end of his wrist, finally grown over with a thick layer of scarred flesh, his eyes dart furiously behind his lids. He winces.

“Awful, isn’t it?” Maedhros asks.

“No,” Maglor says. “I was just thinking how it must hurt.”

“Not anymore. In fact, I can scarcely feel your hands on it.”

“I don’t mean physical pain, Nelyo,” Maglor scolds. Still holding the end of his arm, he sets his other hand on Maedhros’ chest and tilts his chin up. “It must hurt to be missing something that meant so much to who you were.”

Maedhros swallows the knot in his throat. No matter how many walls he erects around himself, he will always be transparent to Maglor. Well before they left Valinor, Maedhros had perfected the art of swordsmanship. He had set aside all other pursuits to become the warrior his father wanted him to be. Now Fëanor is gone, and Maedhros may as well be gone. What vengeance can a maimed and defenceless son possibly exact for his father’s death?

“Yes,” Maedhros admits. “It hurts.”

Maglor embraces him, presses the side of his face against Maedhros’ heart. “You will wield a sword with your left hand more skillfully than any warrior has ever fought with his right.”

Maedhros huffs, dulling the edges of his grief with wry amusement. “You think so?”

“I am sure of it,” says Maglor.