Noldolantë by Dawn Felagund

II. Tyelkormo

II. Tyelkormo

Music swirls behind me, the only thing loud enough to overwhelm the roar of one thousand voices. I sit at the long table on the dais at the front of the room, my chair turned backward, facing the wall. Every inch of Grandfather Finwë's hall is splendid, an example of the skill of the best craftspeople among the Noldor, but I have found that the bare wall behind the royal's table is quite plain, nonetheless, and dull to stare at.

It is my begetting day. I am twenty-five years old today; halfway to my majority. The party is being held in my honor. Supposedly.

But it is not my name coursing with the force of flames around the assembled crowd. Tyelkormo. Tyelkormo. All eyes, words, and thoughts--indeed hearts--are turned to the squirming, squalling bundle currently ensconced firmly in my father's arms. Tyelkormo. My grandfathers--who are jointly hosting the party in my honor, supposedly--stand at either side, their faces tipped down and, judging by their writhing smiles, babbling and cooing in that insufferable way of even the most stalwart adults when encountering a baby. Tyelkormo. Amil is beaming. Tyelkormo, Tyelkormo! A line winds around the room: people waiting to greet the baby, being distracted during their wait by Grandmother Istarnië and Nelyo. I clap both hands over my ears--

Tyelkormo!

--but it does nothing; that name--Tyelkormo--ricochets around the inside of my head endlessly, endlessly, endlessly.

With a chirp and a rumble, the flute and the drum end the song, and everyone is applauding. Rather would I have been with the musicians tonight, and Atar was on the verge of granting it, but Grandfather Finwë had insisted: "Nay, it is his begetting day, he should not be among the laborers!" and laughing at that. So I stare at the wall. Better than staring at my baby brother Tyelkormo. He has enough people staring at him not to need my eyes too.

The musicmaster is introducing the next song, the Circle. The Circle is always played at begetting day feasts; it is supposed to symbolize the connection we each have to the other through conception, birth, and life. It hadn't made much sense when Nelyo had explained it the first time. Now it just seems stupid.

I don't turn to look at everyone assembling into a circle for dancing. A few sharp discords bite at the mild noise of everyone shuffling into place as the harpist tunes her instrument. The musicmaster is stalling for time, I know, waiting for everyone to join the circle, though I doubt he'll notice that I am not present. Tyelkormo is there; that will be enough.

A warm hand envelopes my shoulder, and I startle. "Macalaurë," whispers Grandfather Finwë's voice into my ear, "your Grandfather Mahtan and I should like to have you in the circle between us, where we can acknowledge that you connect our families."

I shake my head. "No, that is Nelyo, as the eldest, or Tyelkormo"--my voice breaks on his name--"as the newest. Not me."

Wisely, Grandfather Finwë does not attempt to dispute this but, with a smile, takes my hand and leads me to my feet and onto the floor, where all of the Noldor are standing, hands clasped, in a ring save my family, which is clumped into a chaotic knot.

Grandfather Finwë leads me into their midst, and they smooth as though by magic into a line, hands linked like the others, with me at the center, bracketed on either side by my grandfathers. Their large hands--that I should grow near so big in the next twenty-five years!--clasp my shoulders.

And somehow, Tyelkormo gets dumped into my arms.

I open my mouth to protest, but Atar and Amil are already being shuffled into place beside their fathers, and the musicmaster is starting the count, and the first bright chords of the Circle are exploding into the room. Hundreds of feet begin to step in unison. "The only time that all of the Noldor move in step!" Grandfather Finwë laughs over my head to Grandfather Mahtan.

And Tyelkormo sleeps. Perhaps he is wearied by so many eyes on him, so many hands wanting to hold him and voices wanting to sing to him. How does he sleep through the music? I am not sure, but he does, one little hand having escaped his wrappings and sticking straight up in the air toward my face, fingers clenched into a little fist. "I understand both those things, little brother," I whisper to him, "the sleeping and the fist." The music roars around us. I hold him close; I let him sleep.