Harp and Liar by AdmirableMonster

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Harp and Liar

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The Sun was setting, golden rays kissing the softly-rippling water.  Makalaurë stared morosely out across it.  He ought, he supposed, to be composing, or possibly practicing.  He was still stinging over his defeat in the music competition.  Findarato had tried to make him feel better afterwards—Nelyo had taken one look at his face and absconded with Finno.  

It was hardly the worst thing that had ever happened to him, on balance.  It was certainly not the worst thing that had happened to the people close to him.  But he couldn’t help but hear his father’s voice echoing, I expected better of you.

He reached for a smooth stone at his side and flung it irritably out across the pool.  It skipped once, then sank.  

There was a sudden, stifled giggle and a second stone copied the first, but it only sank.  Makalaurë glanced over in surprise to see a tiny Elfling squatting at the water, looking up at him curiously.  They wore a simple dark blue tunic over black leggings, and although their hair was already growing, they were too young for it to be covered.  The sheen of silver-on-black was not a color Makalaurë associated with the Noldor, in any case.  A pair of too-large spectacles perched on their miniature nose.

Well, he wasn’t Nelyo, but he could be personable to a child, at least, and he would certainly prefer it to being personable to an adult.  He scooped up another stone and skipped it expertly.  This time, it bounced four times before sinking, and the child stared, then stuck two fingers in their mouth in obvious awe.

Makalaurë was quite aware that it would do no good to soothe his ruffled feathers with this sort of admiration.  This did not stop him from enjoying it.  He put out a hand and said to the child, “Come here, little one, where are your parents?”

The child clambered carefully over the rocks.  They were slim and small, but they moved with more facility and grace than he had expected, and he reminded himself that many of the Elves on these shores were much smaller than those who had traveled here from Aman.  Perhaps they were not quite as young as he had first taken them for.

A solemn little face regarded him.  “I liked your song,” the child said, removing their fingers from their mouth to form the words with their hands.

A child’s opinion, raw and uninformed.  Makalaurë tossed his head.  A discerning child, clearly.  “Did you like it more than the others?” he asked slyly.

The little head went to one side, and the child peered at him.  After a minute, they responded haltingly, again with their hands, “More slowly, please?”

It made sense, in a moment, and then it made no sense.  “Do you not hear?” Makalaurë asked, using gestures this time.  A little shake of the head.  “Then why did you like my song?”

The child wrinkled their nose and rocked on the balls of their feet.  “I can’t hear, but I could hear that one.”

That was passing strange, but then Makalaurë had never known another deaf Elf to attend one of his concerts, for obvious reasons, so he had no comparison to make.  Am I really going to feel grateful that a deaf child preferred my composition to Daeron’s?  Apparently he was.

With a sigh, he gestured the child to his side.  “Let me show you how to skip stones properly.  What is your name?”

He had some trouble with the resulting gestures—though his spoken Sindarin was of course more than serviceable, he had had less reason to become accustomed to the gestures, and those that made up names were some of the most complex, but the second name was in Quenya.  Órontelós.  “Your parents were glad to see the Sun rise?  Not Fëanorian, I take it.” Makalaurë asked wryly, but the child only blinked owlishly, probably not understanding.  “Come here.”  He held up one of those stones again.

They gave a gap-toothed grin and clambered up to squat beside him.  “Make the stone jump again,” they begged.

Half an hour later, Órontelós was consistently managing a single skip and had gotten two skips from one lucky throw, Makalaurë was laughing and enjoying himself in a way he had very much not expected to, and the beach around them was almost entirely denuded of smooth, round stones.

The Sun was well and truly down, now, and the fireflies were starting to come out.  The first stars were rising, and the lake was growing dim and hard to see.  “I think that’s enough,” Makalaurë said regretfully.  “Let’s go get something to eat, shall we?”

A wriggle and a shrug.  The child pushed their too-large glasses up their nose.  “Can I have honey-cakes?”

“Do your parents allow you to have honey-cakes?”

“Sometimes.”  They pushed at the sand shyly with a toe.

“Well, it’s a special occasion.”  Their parents were probably looking for them, Makalaurë thought regretfully, but he was enjoying himself, and they were quite safe—what was the harm?  He  stood up and stretched, then offered them a hand.  They took it quite seriously—they seemed a funny mix of solemnity and mischief, but then it had been quite some time since Makalaurë had taken care of a child.

As they headed back, a cheerful orange glow appeared ahead of them—the fires were being lit.  Above those larger blazes, a wavering line of pink-orange lights began to rise like flowers blooming on a vine.  Paper lanterns were being released.  

Órontelós tugged at his sleeve, and he looked down.  “What are those?” they asked.  “How do they rise?  What are they for?”

“Candles fixed beneath paper,” Makalaurë replied.  He had answered similar questions before, most recently from Curvo’s boy.  “Hot air is faster than cold, and the paper catches it before it can escape, so it carries the paper and the candle along with it.  As for what they’re for—many folk believe they if you send a message high enough it will find its way to its recipient.”  Whether that recipient was a Vala or a loved one left behind in Aman—or even further gone.

The child asked several more questions as they went, some of which he did not have answers to, like how they could hear his song.  He would very much have liked to know the answer to that himself.  Back at the fires, he conducted them to Hammarillë, whose wife had an impressive sweet tooth.  Sure enough, Lanyariel was lying with her head in Hammarillë’s lap, while Makalaurë’s best friend fed her little bits of honey-cake.

He leaned down on the table and gave her a winning smile.  “How would you like to donate some of those to a good cause?”

“Finally decided to stop sulking and get yourself something sweet?” Hammarillë asked.

“I’m hurt.”  Makalaurë swept Órontelós up—they gave a startled giggling shriek—and set them down on the table.  “It’s for my newest friend.”

“This better not be my replacement, Káno.”

“Never, you are always first in my heart.”

Hammarillë gave him a very wry look.  “Well, you are in a much better mood.”

“Less talking, more honey cakes for Órontelós.”  They had hidden their face behind their fingers and were peeking out between them. 

“You didn’t kidnap this child, did you, Káno?” Lanyariel spoke up from her wife’s lap.

“Would I do such a thing?”

Shaking her head, Hammarillë offered one of the cakes to Órontelós, who took it.  “The child has a Quenya name, Lanyë.  They can’t be related to Daeron.”

“You see,” Makalaurë proclaimed, reaching over to snag Hammarillë’s wine-cup.  “I am innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“Káno, I have been looking all over for—is that the child who has been missing for an hour?” 

Makalaurë half-choked and turned round to see his elder brother wearing his most aghast expression.  Wine, cold and wet, dribbled down his chin, and he wiped it off with the back of his hand.  “Nelyo,” he said brightly.  “What a fine time for you to appear.”

“Kanafinwë.”

“You’ll have to give me a little more information than that, brother dear.”

Apparently giving up on him, Maitimo turned to the child.  “Are you Lendalwed?”  

The child blinked, then raised their hands. 

“Slower,” Makalaurë said.  “They’re deaf.”  To the child, with his hands, he added, “He wants to know if you’re—” Well, that might have been the Sindarin name, he supposed.

“Lendalwed Órontélos,” Maitimo signed carefully.  “Is that you, little one?” A nod. “Your nurse is looking for you.”

Not best pleased at the prospect of losing his new favorite person, Makalaurë turned.  “Not much of a nurse, to lose track of a deaf child.”

“And I suppose you didn’t hear anyone calling for them?”  

Maitimo’s face had only been made more serious by the scars cutting through his beauty. Sickness roiled in Makalaurë’s stomach, and he took a long draw from the cup he was still holding, then set it down with a too-heavy clang in front of Hammarillë.  “Why would I be listening for someone calling for a child who can’t hear?”

His brother just looked at him.  Makalaurë felt like a butterfly pinned to an observation board.  “I’ll take them back,” he said, after another moment.  “I did find them, and you have kindly told me that their nurse is looking for them, Nelyo.  Where shall I find her?”

“Him,” Maitimo said grimly.  “I’ll show you.”

“Such distrust.”  Makalaurë favored him with another slightly brittle smile and turned back to Órontelós.  “Your nurse is looking for you, little one.  Shall we return to him?”

A little nod.  “Can I have another honey-cake?”

“Of course.”  Two honey-cakes wouldn’t give the child a stomachache, and it was supposed to be a celebration, after all.  He stole another one from Hammarillë, who gave him a very pointed look, and handed it to them.

Once Órontelós had finished the cake, Makalaurë took their hand to lead them across the encampment, Maitimo striding in front and every so often glancing back, as if to ensure that his troublesome little brother hadn’t made a break for it.  This grew quickly tiresome, and Makalaurë felt his face freezing into a light and careless expression.

I was king while you were gone, Nelyo.  How do you think I did that if I am so irresponsible?

To Makalaurë’s discomfort, they were heading for the Nolofinwean part of the encampment.  It couldn’t even be Findaráto’s people, of course.  No, it had to be Nolofinwë’s—worse, based on the folk he was seeing looking up at them as they went past—Turukáno’s.  Turno would probably believe he’d deliberately swooped in and snatched up the child.

Sinking further into morose thoughts, he almost missed it when someone stood up and called for the child with voice and hands.  He noticed instantly, however, when Órontelós pulled away and began to run.  

He recognized the nurse: a fat Elf in simple white robes and a black kerchief, who had almost faded into the background during his turn at the music competition.  The composition had been excellent, but his performance no more than lackluster.  Makalaurë could not understand why he had been entered.  He did not recall the name.

Órontelós flung his arms around their nurse’s knees, and the nurse stumbled and had to steady himself on a cane he held in one hand.  He winced, but seemed to disregard any pain.

“Did you find them?  Thank you—ah.”  His mouth hung open stupidly for an instant, eyes sliding from Maitimo to Makalaurë, then a shutter came down—one that Makalaurë felt he recognized—and a very smooth, blank expression took the place of surprise.  “My lord Fëanorions.”  The Elf gave a shallow bow.

“I learned how to jump stones!” Órontelós signed eagerly.  “I had honey-cakes!”

“I’m glad you had a good time,” said the Elf.  “Next time, though, please tell me where you’re going.  I was concerned.”  He spoke verbally and signed at the same time.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to make you worry,” Órontelós said contritely.  “Come meet my new friend!”  They tugged at their nurse’s hand until he let himself be dragged over to Makalaurë.  “He told me about the floating lanterns!  And lots of other things as well, I think he knows almost as much as you do.”

“Quite the little Quengoldo you have there,” Makalaurë said, with his own fakest and brightest smile.  “You should take better care of them.”  

“Kanafinwë,” Maitimo said sharply, by his side.

A slight dull flush rose to the other Elf’s cheeks.  “I should,” he agreed, in a flat tone of voice.  “Their parents would prefer them to keep polite company.”

Maitimo’s warning hand descended onto his shoulder.  “We were just going,” he said.

“Please, Nelyo, I really must speak with my competitor,” Makalaurë objected, ignoring Maitimo’s elbow between his ribs.  “I don’t even know your name, I’m afraid,” he said.

The dark eyes went even more dull and hooded.  Makalaurë was certain, now, there was something sharp hiding behind that blank face, which was—interesting, he had to confess, and the nurse was surprisingly good at hiding himself.  Makalaurë wasn’t used to anyone having a more impenetrable persona than he did, even if this one was far duller than the one he tended to use.

“I’m called Talagando.”  Stars, even his name gave nothing away.  “I’d hardly consider myself a competitor.  I’m not on your level or Lord Daeron’s.”

“Well.”  Makalaurë smiled very winningly.  “And yet you entered the competition.”

“Lord Turukáno was most insistent that I perform my composition myself.”  Was that a gleam of anger in the depths of his eyes? 

Even more interestingly—“That was your own composition?”  It had been better than Daeron’s.  It might, Makalaurë admitted, hidden away in the secret recesses of his heart, have been better than his own.

Órontelós gave a great start and then flung up their hands in an excited exclamation.  “Oh!  Can you perform it?  So I can hear it!”

“Lendalwed, it’s past your bedtime,” Talagando chided gently.  “Don’t you want a bedtime story?”

The child shook their head stubbornly.  “I want to hear your song, please, Talagando.”  They caught at Makalaurë’s sleeve.  “Won’t you play it, please?”

Makalaurë’s eyes went from Órontelós to Talagando, and he raised his eyebrows.  He wondered if Talagando would be too proud.  His face still betrayed nothing, and he just gave a long, slow blink, before saying, “Your performance was masterful.  Órontelós told me afterwards they could perceive it.”  A slight sigh, and a rueful smile.  “I’d appreciate it if you’d perform for them again.  I know it’s a bold request to make of the finest musician here.”  A little sly look.  He was wondering, Makalaurë thought, if he had laid it on too thick.

But Makalaurë was still stinging from his defeat at Daeron’s hand, earlier.  It might be humiliating, but he found he wasn’t going to say no to the praise.  And he equally didn’t want to disappoint the child, who hadn’t done anything to deserve that.  Besides, if Talagando was willing to grovel a little, despite the look that had flashed into his eyes when he realized just who was returning his charge—well, Makalaurë could be magnanimous.

“All right,” he conceded.  He couldn’t help tossing his head and adding, “Turno’s an ass, isn’t he?”

A slow smile spread across Talagando’s face.  “Lord Turukáno can be—difficult,” he agreed mildly.

“Nelyo, tell Hammarillë I’ll be back after I’ve given a private performance for a very special Quengoldo, won’t you?”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble,” Maitimo said grimly, but he nodded and departed.

Makalaurë turned back to Órontelós and Talagando.  “I am at your disposal,” he said grandly, and got a huge gap-toothed grin from Órontelós, and a smaller, shyer smile from Talagando.  Maybe this evening wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

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Chapter End Notes

This fic contains a lot of my own pet headcanons, to whit: Salgant as Pengolodh's childhood babysitter, Deaf Pengolodh, non-binary/genderfluid Pengolodh, "Pengolodh" being in fact an epessë. The name "Lendalwed Órontelós" comes from Chestnut_pod's fantastic name list: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/15eu60V2L9W514jL17btANyCxqY8CMBjtNLHIhwZqv3k/edit?gid=151141473#gid=151141473. "Lendalwed" means "prosperous journey" and "Órontelós" means "sunrise flower," because I am going all in on Pengolodh's birth as being very much seen as a good omens by his parents.

"Talagando" is a possible Quenya gloss of the more well-known Gnomish "Salgant." "Makalaurë Kanafinwë" is Maglor's Quenya name, while "Maitimo Nelyafinwë" is Maedhros'. Hammarillë and her wife Lanyariel are my own invention. "Quengoldo" is the Quenya version of "Pengolodh," which just means loremaster.