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When we left Chapter Forty, Maitimo had just gone to put his cousin Findekano to bed when he decided to close his eyes for just and moment....
And that brings us to Chapter Forty-One.
Please be forewarned that Chapter Forty-One was one of those almost entirely eaten by RamBo before he died, taking pieces of stories with him forever. As a result, I had to rewrite most of this chapter, and so it is far newer than most work that I am interested in showing the public. Alas, it is either that or postpone posting AMC for another six months or so, so I decided to swallow my discomfort and forge ahead.
As such, I am very interested in people's opinions of this chapter, and please don't hesitate to point out problems with it. I haven't had time to do my usual twenty-or-so rereadings/editings, so this would be a huge help.
Or just read and enjoy! Either way, thank you. :)
Chapter Forty-One
Maitimo
A few minutes later, I open my eyes, and Laurelin is bright in the windows.
I jump up and nearly fall out of the bed. I am alone—Findekano’s sheets are rumpled, but he is absent—and someone thought to remove my boots, lift my feet onto the bed, and arrange an afghan over me. Nonetheless, I was supposed to be home last night, and it is deep in the afternoon: My robes, having been slept in, are in a state of horrid disarray, and I hastily smooth them while stepping into my boots, to little noticeable effect. My hair is matted on one side of my head and a bundle of tangles in the back. I will have to change my clothes and retrieve the rest of my items from my uncle’s house. Shame burns my face at the thought of falling asleep in the bed of my fourteen-year-old cousin, in my good robes, while attending a supper at my grandfather’s palace, and sleeping until afternoon. Am I not supposed to be the most dignified of Finwë’s grandchildren?
Findekano left a comb on the bureau, and I use it to straighten my hair as best as I can. Despite the wrinkles and tangles, the reflection in the mirror looks more like me than it has in days. The shadows beneath my eyes have faded and there is color in my cheeks, no doubt brought on mainly by shame in having fallen asleep in the manner that I did. It occurs to me that I must walk down the street in this state, in my wrinkled robes, and I feel momentary horror, then a new, sharper guilt, for Atar would be angered by my vanity.
Stepping from the room, I pause to listen. Somewhere inside the house, a harp is being played; the music is bright and effortless, like the rare rains that fall during Laurelin’s hours and appears as drops of gold falling from the heavens.
I walk quietly, torn between hoping to encounter my grandfather—and apologize for my behavior last night—and managing to escape undetected. I can then send a message from home, making the same apologies. Even as I think this, my shame deepens, and I decide that I must find him before I leave.
I follow the music to a courtyard where my step-grandmother sits, beside a fountain, playing a song that complements the laughing melody suggested by the water. I try to turn before she sees me, but a careless footfall alerts her to my presence, and her hands fall still on the harp strings and she turns.
“Russandol!” she says, smiling and rising from beside the fountain. I fumble for words and suffice with a lackluster “Lady Indis….”
“You look well this morning,” she says. Had the words come from anyone else, I would think it a clever way to chastise me for last night, but her voice is soft and genuine. I avoid meeting her eyes.
“I apologize, my Lady, for my behavior last night.”
She laughs. “There is no need for apologies! One who is tired should sleep.”
I cannot argue with that. I look up, into her bright blue eyes. She is not dressed as stiffly as usual, and her hair falls in natural waves around her shoulders. She is almost pretty.
“I am sorry too for disturbing your music,” I add. “I should like to find my grandfather and be home, if I may.”
“Finwë is holding council today, but he will be finished in time for supper. Might I beseech you to wait until then?”
“I should not. My family expected me yesterday, and the hour grows late.”
“No mind about that,” she says. “Finwë sent a messenger to your father last night, bearing word that you would be staying the night with him. Your father sent no reply but his consent.”
It is my stomach that decides for me: Having missed breakfast and the midday meal, it constricts suddenly, threatening to let forth an embarrassing grumble if I do not feed it soon. I try to inconspicuously clamp my arms about my waist, hoping to silence it.
“I will need to go to Nolofinwë’s for clean clothes,” I say, hoping that I do not look too odd in my wrinkled robes, hugging my belly.
“Perhaps you should wear something of your grandfather’s?” she asks. “Come, follow me. I will show you to our chamber and allow you to choose something that fits.”
As we walk, she finds a maidservant and asks that a bath be drawn in my chambers. My chambers. They are actually Findekano’s, I think, but surely, he will not mind my use of them.
At the thought of Findekano, my startled mind suddenly realizes that he is missing. “Where is Findekano?” I ask Indis as we walk.
“Ingoldo came for him early this morning. Findekano had his first lesson with the sword today.” She gives me a careful look. The Vanyar, I know, do not understand the Noldorin fixation with weaponry and our history in the Hither Lands. They feel that such things are better forgotten; that memories of dark times will dim the joy we feel here in Valinor. Yet, Indis married a Noldo, despite this. She married a Noldo who has swords from the Hither Lands in his study, who corresponds with his eldest son about martial strategies, survival, and orcs.
We arrive at the chambers she shares with my grandfather. I stand aside, not wishing to enter her private rooms, but she holds open the door for me. She raises an eyebrow in amusement: You are family, are you not? I can almost hear her thinking. I follow her, through the sitting room and into the bedroom, where I try hard not to look at the wide bed with its blue coverlet and piles of pillows. I try not to think of my grandfather lying with her here, when so many tiny details of the room—the ornate embroidery along the edges of the drapes, the small box on the bureau that is meant to hold needles and spools of thread and now, doubtlessly, hold Indis’ jewels—scream of memory of grandmother Miriel. I wonder how he does not close his eyes while Indis caresses him without feeling the touch of hands more callused but also more skilled; how he strokes the silky hair spilled beneath his cheek upon awakening and does not agonize that the hair is golden and not dark when at last he opens his eyes to behold her.
She draws out a set of robes from my grandfather’s armoire and holds them out for me to inspect. Without really seeing them, I nod and take them. My stomach is churning, and I wish to be gone from the room.
I am dismissed to the safety of my cousin’s chambers. As promised, a steaming bath awaits me, scented mildly with salts that remind me of the Telerin havens on the shore. I cast away my wrinkled clothes, and the thought occurs to me that I can linger and soak my body for as long as the water will hold its heat, for once, without being interrupted by Macalaurë wishing to query me about some silly detail needed for his lessons or Tyelkormo demanding attention for a new trick he has learned or Amil wishing me to calm Carnistir and leave her in peace to work. As my body sinks into the silky-warm water, I find myself wondering at my eagerness to leave at all.
I have never considered living inside the city walls. Not really. I have considered its negative aspects, taught to me by my father: the constant scrutiny of the lords, the heat that hovers about the streets even at night, the lack of privacy to go as one wants, in whatever state makes one the happiest. I have never considered the peace of solitude. It is not the way of my people to live outside of our families. I would be thought strange to live alone, but then, I am used to that.
My fiftieth begetting day draws near, only two springs away now. I remember my father’s fiftieth begetting day feast, for I had stood at his heels, already six years old. No one had known—or would have imagined!—that his second son was less than a year from being begotten, another of many impressive accomplishments in so short a life. Impetuous, people had called him, for why spend one’s talents in only a few years when they can be stretched and savored over the length of eternity? I had stood at his heels, his eldest son and heir, in the first of many official ceremonies as such, feeling proud with my copper circlet over my hair and my best robes pressed and worn in a perfect imitation of my father. I think now of my own accomplishments and how people will look upon me as I stand for my own fiftieth begetting day, to receive the blessings of my father and my leave for independence. How will they think of me? As a disappointment, perhaps, in the shadow of one who had done so much by the same landmark in his life.
I remember my father’s fiftieth begetting day. I had been too young to think of it then, of the irony of grandfather Finwë speaking the words that had given my father his leave, had granted him the rights of an adult. For what rights had my father not already received? He had married. He had begotten a son. He had devised a new alphabet and embarked upon the path of gemcraft. Grandfather Finwë’s words to him had been empty, I see now. Atar’s own words to me will not be so.
But what freedom will he really be willing to grant me? If I asked to move inside the walls of Tirion, would he allow it? There will be little he can do to stop me, after granting me my leave, but is that any consolation? Do I wish to seek something against the wishes of my father? Do I wish to bear his grudge forever in what is only a passing fancy to ease the momentary pain of losing the one I had wished to give my love?
Of course, if Annawendë returns to me, this decision will matter naught. We will be married after a betrothal considered appropriate for the heir of a high prince. We will live where we wish—probably outside of the city, so that Annawendë may pursue her trade in peace—and receive my father’s blessings. But I will not—cannot—think of Annawendë’s return. I cannot afford to hope, no matter its comfort to me, for the ache that it soothes now will be compounded if my hopes are destroyed.
~oOo~
I do not leave the bath until the water is tepid and my skin rises into cold-bumps. Shivering, I dress in my grandfather’s robes, selected by his wife, and find that they fit me perfectly.
Grandfather Finwë wears mostly white or light colors, whereas Atar dresses himself—and his sons—in darker shades: in deep blues or greens befitting a midsummer forest; in dark red or black even. I do not often see myself in white—only in work tunics long yellowed from my labors—and examining my reflection in the mirror, am startled to observe the similarities between my appearance and that of my grandfather, if not in features than in carriage. Atar seems to crackle with nervous energy while grandfather is content to wait, as patient as a rock, seeming as changeless and stoic as a statue, worn only by the gentle hands of time.
Is that me? The reflection in the mirror makes me believe that it could be.
I go to the dining room and am directed by a servant to the courtyard. Indis is already there, and I take the seat she offers me, and we wait—without speaking but silently appraising each other with sidelong glances—for my grandfather.
Her thin, pale hands are folded in her lap; her ankles are crossed primly. I resist the urge to align and realign the silverware or turn the plate so that my grandfather’s seal at its center is perfectly even. A servant comes and pours us each glasses of water with bits of ice in it; another comes and offers me both red and white wine. I nod at the white, thinking that—for all his love of wine—even my father does not often have it at the midday meal.
“Russandol.” My name in Indis’ voice plunks rudely into the silent space between us. Always, I wish to cringe to hear her use my epessë, the use of which I allow her only because it was grandfather Finwë who’d asked, pulling me aside in my youth, his breath warm in my ear as he whispered that Indis felt awkward being the only one still calling me Maitimo, and would I allow her to call me Russandol? It was not Indis who was made awkward by it—indeed, “Maitimo” never sounded strange in her voice but rather natural, like the ringing of bells, fittingly beautiful—but grandfather Finwë. Heart pounding and mouth dry, feeling nervous and treacherous, I had not then possessed the courage to refuse, and she has called me Russandol ever since.
Cautiously, I look up from my plate and meet her gaze. She is scrutinizing me, but it is not painful scrutiny like that of Atar or grandfather Finwë: I feel like a page being scanned and read only to learn the knowledge written up it, not with the intention of finding mistakes and painfully erasing that which is declared undesirable. I clear my throat lightly and reply, “Yes, Lady Indis?”
“I have heard of your—” she begins, then suddenly halts and ducks her head, as though embarrassed by those still-unspoken words. Smiling, she begins again: “Should you ever need repose, take this,” and I feel her small hand in mine, pressing something crackly and dry against my palm. I turn open my hand and see a small netted bag filled with dried leaves. “Boil them for five minutes and drink the water,” she tells me, “and sleep will heal you.”
Sleep will heal you. Am I so obviously in need of healing?
I have heard of your—
Of course she has. It has probably spread over the entire city by now, the story of my loss, of the second disappointment of my hopes for marriage. My hand clenches on the bag of leaves, and they crackle as though in admonishment, and Indis does a surprising thing then and folds her hand over my fist.
“Russandol,” she says, “time will wash away your pain if you are willing to let yourself heal.”
It takes me many moments to realize that she has called me Russandol, and yet I had not flinched at the sound of it any more than I would flinch at a trill of birdsong on the breeze. I glance down at her pale, slim hand on my larger, callused one; I feel the intimate warmth of her skin on mine; I think of Atar’s horror at knowing where my freedom has taken me, but the guilt is distant, outside this room even, in a place far away from me.
The door to the courtyard bangs open, and in the next second, I am caught in the tight, bearish hug of my grandfather, giggling like a small child—as I stand taller than he—at the loud kiss that lands inside of my ear. Indis’ hand has been torn from mine, and the bag she had given me is clenched inside of my fist once more. “Russandol!” says grandfather Finwë. “It is indeed an unexpected joy to dine with you today!”
I let my arms rise to return the embrace and wish to be small enough to be lifted into his arms and nuzzle into his shoulder, letting loose tears that I would dare not admit in Atar’s company. I used to do this as a child, weep against him as though my heart was broken, and Atar would say in a hurt, puzzled voice, “Why, Nelyo!” a false laugh in his throat, bright with the guilty hope that he had not been the cause of my capricious outburst.
Always, grandfather Finwë would pass me back to him, and it would be Atar’s hands on my back and Atar’s voice in my ear, soothing my tears, his electric scent contrary to the notion of comfort filling my nose and my lungs—filling me—until even now, the scent of his discarded tunics still warm from his body soothe even an angry heart into submission.
Anger likely inspired by Atar and soothed by him; it is a contradiction—but then, that is Atar.
I release grandfather Finwë first and am eager to take my seat and begin the meal, dissatisfaction momentarily quelled, suddenly aching for home.
On the way back to my chambers, I draw the bag Indis gave me from my pocket and open it. The leaves have mostly crumbled to dust by now. A faint, almost soapy scent rises from the bag—the smell of clean, warm sheets on a chilly night—but I am not comforted much less healed, and before I can think better of it, I overturn the bag into one of the potted plants and spread the contents thinly among the soil.
~oOo~
I have traveled Aman enough with Atar to know the importance of being a good guest: I erase all signs of my existence from the chamber that I have shared with Findekano, removing even the few strands of coppery hair I’d left in his comb. Indis must have had my things brought from Nolofinwë’s because my satchel awaits me, and I am glad that I will not have to face my uncle before leaving. I put on my ordinary tunic and riding breeches and carefully fold the robes borrowed from grandfather Finwë, leaving them on the bed to be taken to the wash, and I wipe my riding boots in the basin so as not to leave even a trace of dust in grandfather’s palace.
The hour is growing late when I go to the stable to saddle my horse and swing astride him, giving a last glance to the palace—grateful for the peace and rest I have found there—eager to return to my home and my family.
Hope has flowered within me, unfolding from the contentment I have found here the way a tiny plant pushes from fertile soil in the spring, and although I long to tear it out by its roots before it becomes large enough to strangle me, I lack the heart. Why? It is such an innocent thing, hope, curling tender and warm inside of me, awakening a delicate fluttering sensation in the space around my heart and sending a weightless energy coursing through my limbs. Visions come upon me and I do not scatter them with dark thoughts or rote recitations: a small house outside the city, four rooms, with stones mortared tightly to forestall any drafts. And there I am, turning my parchment to fit the patch of light from the small window above my desk, my hair unfettered, a strand curling upon the page, at home among the letters. Strong, soft arms slip around me from behind and I am caught in a warm embrace, between hands pressing my chest and the swell of her belly against my back.
There are tears on my cheeks, and I convince myself that the wind has put them there. I even ride harder to heighten the illusion.
In other imaginings, I ride through the gates to my father’s property, and she waits for me there: waits with a pulse of lamplight in the window of her cottage, her forge tunics fluttering on the line, her horse nickering to my stallion from the pasture. And I will run to her, and she will pronounce her foolishness for leaving—and mine, for doubting her return.
Hope: such a tiny, innocent thing, growing more profound as the rains fall harder and the wind carries the barest chill, a memory of the winter that has fallen upon other lands, as time marches onward, hand in hand with hope, dragging it—and me—to the new year and the gratification or death of both of us.
For if the new year arrives amid the leaping flames and screaming music of the New Year Festival and I am alone, then so shall I be for the life of Arda.
I ride to the north, to my father’s house, with time hard on my heels and overtaking me even as I urge my stallion faster, leaning low over his neck, hating suddenly the hope that now will not die within me.
~oOo~
Nighttime lies gauzy and silver across the land when I arrive home, slowing my horse to a walk as we come through the gates. It has begun to rain lightly, and mist rises from the earth and rubs the landscape clean of all distinguishing features. The dark shadows of trees march out of the gloom at me as I ride up the path, and my father’s house sits, dark and misshapen, a sprawl of twisted logic. In the front room, lamps make the windows glow as fuzzy squares of blue light, but the rest of the house is dark, and no sound betrays the potential for life behind that light.
The apprentices’ cottages alongside the house: also dark.
As I ride up to the stable to untack and groom my mount, though, I note that the forge pulses with the faint, primitive glow of firelight. I hasten to the stable and, admittedly, am shoddy in organizing my tack and hasty in wiping and currying my horse before turning him loose into the pasture. I pause and try to count the shadows of horses at the bottom of the hill, but the mist swirls thickly around them, obscuring one horse even as it reveals another, and all are scattered in a pounding of hoofbeats seemingly muffled by the mist as my stallion plunges into their midst, the mist rushing to fill the empty spaces where they once stood.
Sighing, I realize that the gentle rain is slowly drenching me—droplets racing each other from my sodden hair and down my face—and I turn for the humid glow of firelight from the forge.
Hammerfalls suddenly ring clearly through the night, and I half-expect the gloom to be shattered and fall in water-bloated, fuzzy pieces around my feet, but the fog persists—does it deepen even? Wrapping the sharp sounds as with the safety of a blanket? As I trudge to the forge, hands shoved into the pockets of my breeches, seeking the primitive comfort of my father, I match my footsteps to the rhythm of the hammerfalls and, beneath that, the double-time patter of my heart and rattle of the rain, all of it clattering in the rhythm that has become my life—heart, forge, Arda—all pushing time forward in their own noisy way.
I reach the forge and tug the heavy door open. The place is lit by the glow of hot coals and, above that, a primitive lamp with a candle stuck inside of it. A figure bends over the table, hammering more quickly now, and I call softly so as not to startle him, “Atar?”
But the figure that straightens is not my father, it is Vorondil.
“Maitimo!” I hear the hammer tumble from his hand and to the table. We both ponder each other from across the room, and the silence chokes the words from my mouth for many moments before I finally manage to fumble, “I—I thought you were my father.”
“Yes…but no, I am not. Your family is listening to your brother play, but I thought to come and do some work alone.”
“Oh, well, I am sorry to interrupt—”
“No, Maitimo, that is not what I meant.”
Vorondil is tall and narrow, dark hair secured neatly in a braid down his back, and yet he strives to fill my father’s image: Vorondil, whose colors—were he a painting—would neatly fill the lines drawn by his creator, never spilling into the white spaces forbidden him. His forge gloves match, I notice, biting my lip to keep from laughing, because my father’s forge gloves never match unless random chance would have him grab both a glove and its mate from the disordered pile by the door; sometimes, he even puts his gloves on the wrong hands and seems not to notice how his fingers don’t properly fill them, tugging at them and cursing as he works, oblivious in his genius. I went once and removed the misfit glove and slipped a proper one in its place, as though I was the father and he was the absentminded child, and we both laughed and he surprised me with a kiss on the cheek for gratitude. And, logic restored, I was the child again.
Vorondil waits for me to speak, but what is there to say? And I realize how I must look: my wind-torn hair dripping and stuck to my face and neck; my tunic soaked and outlining a frame that has lost some of its shapeliness for skipping too many meals. I lift minutely trembling fingers to push my hair behind my ears and restore some measure of a dignified image, clear my throat, and say, “I will leave you, Vorondil, to your work.”
But as I turn to leave, he says quickly, “It is really no bother, Maitimo. I am finished, actually.”
In the flickering lamplight, I can see the piece on which he was working—the beginnings of an ornate handle for a hairbrush, by the looks of it—hammered only partly into shape. Following my gaze, he quickly adds, “This was not my reason for coming here but merely a distraction to keep me busy while my ‘reason’ cools.” His lips twitch into a smile. Vorondil never smiles for long, as though he hasn’t the effort to spare for prolonged hilarity. But I wait while he bustles about, putting things away (as Atar has a tendency not to do—or to do only partway before becoming distracted by something more exciting), and even wiping the table clean of dust. I note the supplies that he returns to their proper hooks and drawers, and a cold finger of memory tickles me as I realize that Vorondil’s secret task will emerge from a mold in the shape of a ring.
So I am not the only one who harbors secret hopes. But he is sensitive enough to keep his back between me and the ring, slipping it immediately into his pocket, as though understanding that betrothal rings awaken painful thoughts for me. But of course, I realize after a moment—during which Vorondil removes his apron and hangs it neatly on the peg beside my father’s—he was here for both Lossirë and now this.
We walk together, slogging along the muddy path through a rain that falls brisker now, Vorondil with the prescience to have brought a light cloak to keep his hair and clothing mostly dry. Passing closer to the house now, I can hear the sound of Macalaurë’s harp, the notes falling in rhythm with the rain. I should stop in to announce my return at least, I realize, and Atar would no doubt be irritated to know that I am home and possess no intentions of making my greetings, but then I would be coaxed into coming into the sitting room, into the blue halo of lamplight, then urged to sit on the chaise with my mother to hear the end of Macalaurë’s song, and before long, Tyelkormo would be curled in my lap, sleeping, and Vorondil would walk forth in the rain without me. And suddenly, I don’t want that.
The apprentices’ cottages are alongside the house, and I realize that I have never been inside of them, despite the fact that Vorondil has been my father’s apprentice for almost twenty years now. If asked, I wonder what I would call him: Would I name him a friend? Vorondil is only slightly older than me and was likewise proclaimed a prodigy at a young age—hence his appointment here—and the convergence of our studies has caused us to work closely at times over the last two decades. But is he a friend if I know not the interior of the place he calls home and could not name his two younger brothers if pressed, much less recognize them among the throngs of Tirion? I realize that, although I know he is courting a woman because Annawendë told me as much, I do not know her name or how they met; in fact, I cannot imagine him meeting a woman at all. Most of his spare time is devoted to study, and when he manages to accompany Macalaurë and me to a picnic, he is drawn to the tight, conspiring circles of other craftsmen—mostly male—more so than the dance.
He lets me into his cottage, and with a bit of fumbling and the sound of metal scraping metal, a lamp is opened and meager light brings the room into dim focus. There is a desk against one wall and a stove against the other; old blankets strung along a line partition the single room into living and sleeping areas. Against the remaining walls, shelves stretch from floor to ceiling and are filled with books and crafts.
As Vorondil opens the second lamp, the greater light reveals a room surprisingly cluttered—for Vorondil anyway. At his desk is a bowl with a spoon stuck to the bottom and a chipped mug; the cozy rag rug in the middle of the floor sits askance and three pairs of identical boots are tossed alongside it in a tangled heap. Vorondil is blushing and already hastening to the desk to sweep away the dirty dishes. “Ai,” he says, “I am sorry for the mess, but I was not expecting company.” He ducks through the curtain to where presumably the lavatory is off of his sleeping area, a suitable place for abandoning mess in the basin.
On his desk is humble charcoal sketch of a girl encased in an ornate gold frame. She looks very familiar to me, and as I struggle to retrieve her name from the mire of female-sounding syllables suddenly sloshing through my brain, I am struck with an image of a forest clearing lit by lamps strung overhead and Macalaurë playing a bright song and a girl in my arms too shy to say much and I, too distracted to coax her: “Nimerionë,” I whisper, and when Vorondil reemerges from the back of the cottage, empty-handed, I realize that the portrait is in my hands, and I am touching her face, careless of the smudges I might leave. I set it hastily back on the desk.
“I had that made the day after our return, when your father was kind enough to give me a day off to meet Nimerionë in Tirion. An artist in the lowest district did it for a lampstone.” He bustles around the small cottage, putting a teapot onto the stove and gathering various bottles from the shelves around the room. “She is lovely,” I say in a voice that sounds flat even as I try to rouse it to enthusiasm but Vorondil—so often flat himself—casts me one of his flickering smiles and doesn’t appear to notice. “Thank you. I happen to agree. Blessed was I on the day of that last picnic before we left for Formenos, although I did not then know it. I was so miffed over Annawendë—”
He stops and bobbles and nearly drops a bottle of clear liquor. “I am sorry.”
“Do not be.”
“I suppose you knew I fancied her.” He has turned away from me to retrieve two cups from the shelf over the stove, but I can tell he’s blushing by the pink tips of his ears.
“Yes,” I say hesitatingly.
“But she saw only you. And I cannot fault you for that, so do not worry. In fact, I am now grateful, for when I awoke the next morning, it was not with thoughts of Annawendë but Nimerionë.”
And had I not, I would be in your painful predicament.
He does not say this, but we both sense it, unspoken, between us, and he blushes darker, and I quickly change the subject. “Nimerionë…what does she do?”
“She is a silk dyer. Oh, her work is beautiful!” Relieved by the change of subject, he darts back through the curtain and returns a moment later with a tunic done in a delicate pattern of drifting shades of green. I cannot imagine Vorondil—who seems to live in gray and brown tunics of coarse cloth and plain design—wearing something so splendid, and as though sensing my thoughts, he laughs and says, “Not that I imagine ever wearing it. It would look wonderful on someone like you, but me….” He looks at it and shrugs. “She remains convinced, though.” He carefully folds the tunic and places it on his desk amid the books and clutter, returning to the stove and the teapot that is beginning to steam.
“I will help you?” I offer.
“No, please, sit. In the chair! I should have offered.” The only chair in the room is at his desk. I reply, “Nay, you—the host—should have it.”
And so we both end up on the floor, mugs of tea clasped in our hands. I idly blow on mine—knowing that such an insignificant action will do naught to cool it—watching the ripples my breath makes on the surface. The scent of it stings my nose, and I know that he has poured more than tea and cream into it. I sip it—risking the tip of my tongue—and find that it is so good that the blistery feeling on my tongue and lips is easily ignored to delve in for a second sip.
“This is delicious!”
“It is an old recipe common in our town. It warms and soothes, or so is said.”
Neither of us look at the other, but the word is there—soothes—between us. I realize how I must still look: dripping hair and sodden clothes, trembling slightly with the cold, certainly not the beautiful and collected prince of rumor. But Vorondil also recalls to me a device slipped from its track, his usual stoic manner betrayed by the way he hugs his knees with one arm and stares into the mug clasped in the opposite hand as though looking for answers in the Tengwar-swirls of cream upon the surface, his brow actually furrowing in an image of concentration. If I look intent, perhaps he will not speak to me. Then why did he invite me here, if not to speak?
“I would like to see your ring?” I ask, and he flinches, sloshing hot tea on himself. “If you would show it?”
And then grins wryly. So he has learned something from my father. “Is there nothing that you do not see? Even that which would harm you?”
“It will not harm me. And your ‘secret project’ was fairly obvious.” I have experience in these matters, or do you forget?
He sets his cup carefully on the rug and pokes his fingers into the pockets of his trousers, coming out with a ring pinched between them that he drops into my palm, saying, “I can’t help wondering if it is too soon—”
“Do you love her?”
“Of course.”
“Then it is not too soon.”
The ring is two bands twined together, the banal symbol of interlocked spirits, but I cannot deny that it is beautifully made. “I shall engrave it,” Vorondil says, “one band with her favorite line of love poetry and the other with mine.” I nod; so he is capable of original thought after all. The thought startles me. Do I begrudge him? Of course I do. I hand the ring back to him.
“It is beautiful. And if she accepts? What of your ring?”
“I shall make it then and let her choose the design.” The ring is slipped back into his pocket, close against his body and away from my jealous eyes, and with it gone, we each lift our eyes to the other like shy maidens contemplating the object of our desire in front of us—belonging to us—for the first time.
We speak long this night, on topics ranging from metallurgy to my father, our words coming faster as our bellies—and brains—fill with the intoxicating tea. Annawendë slips into the conversation with all of the aplomb of a leaf falling upon our heads, and I speak for the first time outside the family of what happened—or perhaps, what didn’t happen—between us and am surprised to feel Vorondil’s hand suddenly clasp my wrist, his fingers bony and slightly cold but the touch so obviously meant to be comforting that I put my hand atop his and feel his growing warmer beneath it.
It is only when our inebriation drags us toward sleep that I reluctantly rise to leave, and he walks me to the door. “Maitimo,” he says, as I fumble the doorknob, “I have heard no word from her.”
Indeed, I know this. I nod and manage to thank him through lips and tongue thickened by drink, and words slip out after this: “I’m sorry. For the loss of your friend.”
I step into the night. The rain has stopped and the land is sodden, the air heavy with the earthy odor of rain-soaked soil, the sweet-pungent scent of wet grass beneath it. Behind me, Vorondil says something, the meaning of which refuses to seep into my brain, instead bumping against it with the futility of a moth against a lamp, barred from the flame.
“She may yet return.”
And that brings us to Chapter Forty-One.
Please be forewarned that Chapter Forty-One was one of those almost entirely eaten by RamBo before he died, taking pieces of stories with him forever. As a result, I had to rewrite most of this chapter, and so it is far newer than most work that I am interested in showing the public. Alas, it is either that or postpone posting AMC for another six months or so, so I decided to swallow my discomfort and forge ahead.
As such, I am very interested in people's opinions of this chapter, and please don't hesitate to point out problems with it. I haven't had time to do my usual twenty-or-so rereadings/editings, so this would be a huge help.
Or just read and enjoy! Either way, thank you. :)
Maitimo
A few minutes later, I open my eyes, and Laurelin is bright in the windows.
I jump up and nearly fall out of the bed. I am alone—Findekano’s sheets are rumpled, but he is absent—and someone thought to remove my boots, lift my feet onto the bed, and arrange an afghan over me. Nonetheless, I was supposed to be home last night, and it is deep in the afternoon: My robes, having been slept in, are in a state of horrid disarray, and I hastily smooth them while stepping into my boots, to little noticeable effect. My hair is matted on one side of my head and a bundle of tangles in the back. I will have to change my clothes and retrieve the rest of my items from my uncle’s house. Shame burns my face at the thought of falling asleep in the bed of my fourteen-year-old cousin, in my good robes, while attending a supper at my grandfather’s palace, and sleeping until afternoon. Am I not supposed to be the most dignified of Finwë’s grandchildren?
Findekano left a comb on the bureau, and I use it to straighten my hair as best as I can. Despite the wrinkles and tangles, the reflection in the mirror looks more like me than it has in days. The shadows beneath my eyes have faded and there is color in my cheeks, no doubt brought on mainly by shame in having fallen asleep in the manner that I did. It occurs to me that I must walk down the street in this state, in my wrinkled robes, and I feel momentary horror, then a new, sharper guilt, for Atar would be angered by my vanity.
Stepping from the room, I pause to listen. Somewhere inside the house, a harp is being played; the music is bright and effortless, like the rare rains that fall during Laurelin’s hours and appears as drops of gold falling from the heavens.
I walk quietly, torn between hoping to encounter my grandfather—and apologize for my behavior last night—and managing to escape undetected. I can then send a message from home, making the same apologies. Even as I think this, my shame deepens, and I decide that I must find him before I leave.
I follow the music to a courtyard where my step-grandmother sits, beside a fountain, playing a song that complements the laughing melody suggested by the water. I try to turn before she sees me, but a careless footfall alerts her to my presence, and her hands fall still on the harp strings and she turns.
“Russandol!” she says, smiling and rising from beside the fountain. I fumble for words and suffice with a lackluster “Lady Indis….”
“You look well this morning,” she says. Had the words come from anyone else, I would think it a clever way to chastise me for last night, but her voice is soft and genuine. I avoid meeting her eyes.
“I apologize, my Lady, for my behavior last night.”
She laughs. “There is no need for apologies! One who is tired should sleep.”
I cannot argue with that. I look up, into her bright blue eyes. She is not dressed as stiffly as usual, and her hair falls in natural waves around her shoulders. She is almost pretty.
“I am sorry too for disturbing your music,” I add. “I should like to find my grandfather and be home, if I may.”
“Finwë is holding council today, but he will be finished in time for supper. Might I beseech you to wait until then?”
“I should not. My family expected me yesterday, and the hour grows late.”
“No mind about that,” she says. “Finwë sent a messenger to your father last night, bearing word that you would be staying the night with him. Your father sent no reply but his consent.”
It is my stomach that decides for me: Having missed breakfast and the midday meal, it constricts suddenly, threatening to let forth an embarrassing grumble if I do not feed it soon. I try to inconspicuously clamp my arms about my waist, hoping to silence it.
“I will need to go to Nolofinwë’s for clean clothes,” I say, hoping that I do not look too odd in my wrinkled robes, hugging my belly.
“Perhaps you should wear something of your grandfather’s?” she asks. “Come, follow me. I will show you to our chamber and allow you to choose something that fits.”
As we walk, she finds a maidservant and asks that a bath be drawn in my chambers. My chambers. They are actually Findekano’s, I think, but surely, he will not mind my use of them.
At the thought of Findekano, my startled mind suddenly realizes that he is missing. “Where is Findekano?” I ask Indis as we walk.
“Ingoldo came for him early this morning. Findekano had his first lesson with the sword today.” She gives me a careful look. The Vanyar, I know, do not understand the Noldorin fixation with weaponry and our history in the Hither Lands. They feel that such things are better forgotten; that memories of dark times will dim the joy we feel here in Valinor. Yet, Indis married a Noldo, despite this. She married a Noldo who has swords from the Hither Lands in his study, who corresponds with his eldest son about martial strategies, survival, and orcs.
We arrive at the chambers she shares with my grandfather. I stand aside, not wishing to enter her private rooms, but she holds open the door for me. She raises an eyebrow in amusement: You are family, are you not? I can almost hear her thinking. I follow her, through the sitting room and into the bedroom, where I try hard not to look at the wide bed with its blue coverlet and piles of pillows. I try not to think of my grandfather lying with her here, when so many tiny details of the room—the ornate embroidery along the edges of the drapes, the small box on the bureau that is meant to hold needles and spools of thread and now, doubtlessly, hold Indis’ jewels—scream of memory of grandmother Miriel. I wonder how he does not close his eyes while Indis caresses him without feeling the touch of hands more callused but also more skilled; how he strokes the silky hair spilled beneath his cheek upon awakening and does not agonize that the hair is golden and not dark when at last he opens his eyes to behold her.
She draws out a set of robes from my grandfather’s armoire and holds them out for me to inspect. Without really seeing them, I nod and take them. My stomach is churning, and I wish to be gone from the room.
I am dismissed to the safety of my cousin’s chambers. As promised, a steaming bath awaits me, scented mildly with salts that remind me of the Telerin havens on the shore. I cast away my wrinkled clothes, and the thought occurs to me that I can linger and soak my body for as long as the water will hold its heat, for once, without being interrupted by Macalaurë wishing to query me about some silly detail needed for his lessons or Tyelkormo demanding attention for a new trick he has learned or Amil wishing me to calm Carnistir and leave her in peace to work. As my body sinks into the silky-warm water, I find myself wondering at my eagerness to leave at all.
I have never considered living inside the city walls. Not really. I have considered its negative aspects, taught to me by my father: the constant scrutiny of the lords, the heat that hovers about the streets even at night, the lack of privacy to go as one wants, in whatever state makes one the happiest. I have never considered the peace of solitude. It is not the way of my people to live outside of our families. I would be thought strange to live alone, but then, I am used to that.
My fiftieth begetting day draws near, only two springs away now. I remember my father’s fiftieth begetting day feast, for I had stood at his heels, already six years old. No one had known—or would have imagined!—that his second son was less than a year from being begotten, another of many impressive accomplishments in so short a life. Impetuous, people had called him, for why spend one’s talents in only a few years when they can be stretched and savored over the length of eternity? I had stood at his heels, his eldest son and heir, in the first of many official ceremonies as such, feeling proud with my copper circlet over my hair and my best robes pressed and worn in a perfect imitation of my father. I think now of my own accomplishments and how people will look upon me as I stand for my own fiftieth begetting day, to receive the blessings of my father and my leave for independence. How will they think of me? As a disappointment, perhaps, in the shadow of one who had done so much by the same landmark in his life.
I remember my father’s fiftieth begetting day. I had been too young to think of it then, of the irony of grandfather Finwë speaking the words that had given my father his leave, had granted him the rights of an adult. For what rights had my father not already received? He had married. He had begotten a son. He had devised a new alphabet and embarked upon the path of gemcraft. Grandfather Finwë’s words to him had been empty, I see now. Atar’s own words to me will not be so.
But what freedom will he really be willing to grant me? If I asked to move inside the walls of Tirion, would he allow it? There will be little he can do to stop me, after granting me my leave, but is that any consolation? Do I wish to seek something against the wishes of my father? Do I wish to bear his grudge forever in what is only a passing fancy to ease the momentary pain of losing the one I had wished to give my love?
Of course, if Annawendë returns to me, this decision will matter naught. We will be married after a betrothal considered appropriate for the heir of a high prince. We will live where we wish—probably outside of the city, so that Annawendë may pursue her trade in peace—and receive my father’s blessings. But I will not—cannot—think of Annawendë’s return. I cannot afford to hope, no matter its comfort to me, for the ache that it soothes now will be compounded if my hopes are destroyed.
I do not leave the bath until the water is tepid and my skin rises into cold-bumps. Shivering, I dress in my grandfather’s robes, selected by his wife, and find that they fit me perfectly.
Grandfather Finwë wears mostly white or light colors, whereas Atar dresses himself—and his sons—in darker shades: in deep blues or greens befitting a midsummer forest; in dark red or black even. I do not often see myself in white—only in work tunics long yellowed from my labors—and examining my reflection in the mirror, am startled to observe the similarities between my appearance and that of my grandfather, if not in features than in carriage. Atar seems to crackle with nervous energy while grandfather is content to wait, as patient as a rock, seeming as changeless and stoic as a statue, worn only by the gentle hands of time.
Is that me? The reflection in the mirror makes me believe that it could be.
I go to the dining room and am directed by a servant to the courtyard. Indis is already there, and I take the seat she offers me, and we wait—without speaking but silently appraising each other with sidelong glances—for my grandfather.
Her thin, pale hands are folded in her lap; her ankles are crossed primly. I resist the urge to align and realign the silverware or turn the plate so that my grandfather’s seal at its center is perfectly even. A servant comes and pours us each glasses of water with bits of ice in it; another comes and offers me both red and white wine. I nod at the white, thinking that—for all his love of wine—even my father does not often have it at the midday meal.
“Russandol.” My name in Indis’ voice plunks rudely into the silent space between us. Always, I wish to cringe to hear her use my epessë, the use of which I allow her only because it was grandfather Finwë who’d asked, pulling me aside in my youth, his breath warm in my ear as he whispered that Indis felt awkward being the only one still calling me Maitimo, and would I allow her to call me Russandol? It was not Indis who was made awkward by it—indeed, “Maitimo” never sounded strange in her voice but rather natural, like the ringing of bells, fittingly beautiful—but grandfather Finwë. Heart pounding and mouth dry, feeling nervous and treacherous, I had not then possessed the courage to refuse, and she has called me Russandol ever since.
Cautiously, I look up from my plate and meet her gaze. She is scrutinizing me, but it is not painful scrutiny like that of Atar or grandfather Finwë: I feel like a page being scanned and read only to learn the knowledge written up it, not with the intention of finding mistakes and painfully erasing that which is declared undesirable. I clear my throat lightly and reply, “Yes, Lady Indis?”
“I have heard of your—” she begins, then suddenly halts and ducks her head, as though embarrassed by those still-unspoken words. Smiling, she begins again: “Should you ever need repose, take this,” and I feel her small hand in mine, pressing something crackly and dry against my palm. I turn open my hand and see a small netted bag filled with dried leaves. “Boil them for five minutes and drink the water,” she tells me, “and sleep will heal you.”
Sleep will heal you. Am I so obviously in need of healing?
I have heard of your—
Of course she has. It has probably spread over the entire city by now, the story of my loss, of the second disappointment of my hopes for marriage. My hand clenches on the bag of leaves, and they crackle as though in admonishment, and Indis does a surprising thing then and folds her hand over my fist.
“Russandol,” she says, “time will wash away your pain if you are willing to let yourself heal.”
It takes me many moments to realize that she has called me Russandol, and yet I had not flinched at the sound of it any more than I would flinch at a trill of birdsong on the breeze. I glance down at her pale, slim hand on my larger, callused one; I feel the intimate warmth of her skin on mine; I think of Atar’s horror at knowing where my freedom has taken me, but the guilt is distant, outside this room even, in a place far away from me.
The door to the courtyard bangs open, and in the next second, I am caught in the tight, bearish hug of my grandfather, giggling like a small child—as I stand taller than he—at the loud kiss that lands inside of my ear. Indis’ hand has been torn from mine, and the bag she had given me is clenched inside of my fist once more. “Russandol!” says grandfather Finwë. “It is indeed an unexpected joy to dine with you today!”
I let my arms rise to return the embrace and wish to be small enough to be lifted into his arms and nuzzle into his shoulder, letting loose tears that I would dare not admit in Atar’s company. I used to do this as a child, weep against him as though my heart was broken, and Atar would say in a hurt, puzzled voice, “Why, Nelyo!” a false laugh in his throat, bright with the guilty hope that he had not been the cause of my capricious outburst.
Always, grandfather Finwë would pass me back to him, and it would be Atar’s hands on my back and Atar’s voice in my ear, soothing my tears, his electric scent contrary to the notion of comfort filling my nose and my lungs—filling me—until even now, the scent of his discarded tunics still warm from his body soothe even an angry heart into submission.
Anger likely inspired by Atar and soothed by him; it is a contradiction—but then, that is Atar.
I release grandfather Finwë first and am eager to take my seat and begin the meal, dissatisfaction momentarily quelled, suddenly aching for home.
On the way back to my chambers, I draw the bag Indis gave me from my pocket and open it. The leaves have mostly crumbled to dust by now. A faint, almost soapy scent rises from the bag—the smell of clean, warm sheets on a chilly night—but I am not comforted much less healed, and before I can think better of it, I overturn the bag into one of the potted plants and spread the contents thinly among the soil.
I have traveled Aman enough with Atar to know the importance of being a good guest: I erase all signs of my existence from the chamber that I have shared with Findekano, removing even the few strands of coppery hair I’d left in his comb. Indis must have had my things brought from Nolofinwë’s because my satchel awaits me, and I am glad that I will not have to face my uncle before leaving. I put on my ordinary tunic and riding breeches and carefully fold the robes borrowed from grandfather Finwë, leaving them on the bed to be taken to the wash, and I wipe my riding boots in the basin so as not to leave even a trace of dust in grandfather’s palace.
The hour is growing late when I go to the stable to saddle my horse and swing astride him, giving a last glance to the palace—grateful for the peace and rest I have found there—eager to return to my home and my family.
Hope has flowered within me, unfolding from the contentment I have found here the way a tiny plant pushes from fertile soil in the spring, and although I long to tear it out by its roots before it becomes large enough to strangle me, I lack the heart. Why? It is such an innocent thing, hope, curling tender and warm inside of me, awakening a delicate fluttering sensation in the space around my heart and sending a weightless energy coursing through my limbs. Visions come upon me and I do not scatter them with dark thoughts or rote recitations: a small house outside the city, four rooms, with stones mortared tightly to forestall any drafts. And there I am, turning my parchment to fit the patch of light from the small window above my desk, my hair unfettered, a strand curling upon the page, at home among the letters. Strong, soft arms slip around me from behind and I am caught in a warm embrace, between hands pressing my chest and the swell of her belly against my back.
There are tears on my cheeks, and I convince myself that the wind has put them there. I even ride harder to heighten the illusion.
In other imaginings, I ride through the gates to my father’s property, and she waits for me there: waits with a pulse of lamplight in the window of her cottage, her forge tunics fluttering on the line, her horse nickering to my stallion from the pasture. And I will run to her, and she will pronounce her foolishness for leaving—and mine, for doubting her return.
Hope: such a tiny, innocent thing, growing more profound as the rains fall harder and the wind carries the barest chill, a memory of the winter that has fallen upon other lands, as time marches onward, hand in hand with hope, dragging it—and me—to the new year and the gratification or death of both of us.
For if the new year arrives amid the leaping flames and screaming music of the New Year Festival and I am alone, then so shall I be for the life of Arda.
I ride to the north, to my father’s house, with time hard on my heels and overtaking me even as I urge my stallion faster, leaning low over his neck, hating suddenly the hope that now will not die within me.
Nighttime lies gauzy and silver across the land when I arrive home, slowing my horse to a walk as we come through the gates. It has begun to rain lightly, and mist rises from the earth and rubs the landscape clean of all distinguishing features. The dark shadows of trees march out of the gloom at me as I ride up the path, and my father’s house sits, dark and misshapen, a sprawl of twisted logic. In the front room, lamps make the windows glow as fuzzy squares of blue light, but the rest of the house is dark, and no sound betrays the potential for life behind that light.
The apprentices’ cottages alongside the house: also dark.
As I ride up to the stable to untack and groom my mount, though, I note that the forge pulses with the faint, primitive glow of firelight. I hasten to the stable and, admittedly, am shoddy in organizing my tack and hasty in wiping and currying my horse before turning him loose into the pasture. I pause and try to count the shadows of horses at the bottom of the hill, but the mist swirls thickly around them, obscuring one horse even as it reveals another, and all are scattered in a pounding of hoofbeats seemingly muffled by the mist as my stallion plunges into their midst, the mist rushing to fill the empty spaces where they once stood.
Sighing, I realize that the gentle rain is slowly drenching me—droplets racing each other from my sodden hair and down my face—and I turn for the humid glow of firelight from the forge.
Hammerfalls suddenly ring clearly through the night, and I half-expect the gloom to be shattered and fall in water-bloated, fuzzy pieces around my feet, but the fog persists—does it deepen even? Wrapping the sharp sounds as with the safety of a blanket? As I trudge to the forge, hands shoved into the pockets of my breeches, seeking the primitive comfort of my father, I match my footsteps to the rhythm of the hammerfalls and, beneath that, the double-time patter of my heart and rattle of the rain, all of it clattering in the rhythm that has become my life—heart, forge, Arda—all pushing time forward in their own noisy way.
I reach the forge and tug the heavy door open. The place is lit by the glow of hot coals and, above that, a primitive lamp with a candle stuck inside of it. A figure bends over the table, hammering more quickly now, and I call softly so as not to startle him, “Atar?”
But the figure that straightens is not my father, it is Vorondil.
“Maitimo!” I hear the hammer tumble from his hand and to the table. We both ponder each other from across the room, and the silence chokes the words from my mouth for many moments before I finally manage to fumble, “I—I thought you were my father.”
“Yes…but no, I am not. Your family is listening to your brother play, but I thought to come and do some work alone.”
“Oh, well, I am sorry to interrupt—”
“No, Maitimo, that is not what I meant.”
Vorondil is tall and narrow, dark hair secured neatly in a braid down his back, and yet he strives to fill my father’s image: Vorondil, whose colors—were he a painting—would neatly fill the lines drawn by his creator, never spilling into the white spaces forbidden him. His forge gloves match, I notice, biting my lip to keep from laughing, because my father’s forge gloves never match unless random chance would have him grab both a glove and its mate from the disordered pile by the door; sometimes, he even puts his gloves on the wrong hands and seems not to notice how his fingers don’t properly fill them, tugging at them and cursing as he works, oblivious in his genius. I went once and removed the misfit glove and slipped a proper one in its place, as though I was the father and he was the absentminded child, and we both laughed and he surprised me with a kiss on the cheek for gratitude. And, logic restored, I was the child again.
Vorondil waits for me to speak, but what is there to say? And I realize how I must look: my wind-torn hair dripping and stuck to my face and neck; my tunic soaked and outlining a frame that has lost some of its shapeliness for skipping too many meals. I lift minutely trembling fingers to push my hair behind my ears and restore some measure of a dignified image, clear my throat, and say, “I will leave you, Vorondil, to your work.”
But as I turn to leave, he says quickly, “It is really no bother, Maitimo. I am finished, actually.”
In the flickering lamplight, I can see the piece on which he was working—the beginnings of an ornate handle for a hairbrush, by the looks of it—hammered only partly into shape. Following my gaze, he quickly adds, “This was not my reason for coming here but merely a distraction to keep me busy while my ‘reason’ cools.” His lips twitch into a smile. Vorondil never smiles for long, as though he hasn’t the effort to spare for prolonged hilarity. But I wait while he bustles about, putting things away (as Atar has a tendency not to do—or to do only partway before becoming distracted by something more exciting), and even wiping the table clean of dust. I note the supplies that he returns to their proper hooks and drawers, and a cold finger of memory tickles me as I realize that Vorondil’s secret task will emerge from a mold in the shape of a ring.
So I am not the only one who harbors secret hopes. But he is sensitive enough to keep his back between me and the ring, slipping it immediately into his pocket, as though understanding that betrothal rings awaken painful thoughts for me. But of course, I realize after a moment—during which Vorondil removes his apron and hangs it neatly on the peg beside my father’s—he was here for both Lossirë and now this.
We walk together, slogging along the muddy path through a rain that falls brisker now, Vorondil with the prescience to have brought a light cloak to keep his hair and clothing mostly dry. Passing closer to the house now, I can hear the sound of Macalaurë’s harp, the notes falling in rhythm with the rain. I should stop in to announce my return at least, I realize, and Atar would no doubt be irritated to know that I am home and possess no intentions of making my greetings, but then I would be coaxed into coming into the sitting room, into the blue halo of lamplight, then urged to sit on the chaise with my mother to hear the end of Macalaurë’s song, and before long, Tyelkormo would be curled in my lap, sleeping, and Vorondil would walk forth in the rain without me. And suddenly, I don’t want that.
The apprentices’ cottages are alongside the house, and I realize that I have never been inside of them, despite the fact that Vorondil has been my father’s apprentice for almost twenty years now. If asked, I wonder what I would call him: Would I name him a friend? Vorondil is only slightly older than me and was likewise proclaimed a prodigy at a young age—hence his appointment here—and the convergence of our studies has caused us to work closely at times over the last two decades. But is he a friend if I know not the interior of the place he calls home and could not name his two younger brothers if pressed, much less recognize them among the throngs of Tirion? I realize that, although I know he is courting a woman because Annawendë told me as much, I do not know her name or how they met; in fact, I cannot imagine him meeting a woman at all. Most of his spare time is devoted to study, and when he manages to accompany Macalaurë and me to a picnic, he is drawn to the tight, conspiring circles of other craftsmen—mostly male—more so than the dance.
He lets me into his cottage, and with a bit of fumbling and the sound of metal scraping metal, a lamp is opened and meager light brings the room into dim focus. There is a desk against one wall and a stove against the other; old blankets strung along a line partition the single room into living and sleeping areas. Against the remaining walls, shelves stretch from floor to ceiling and are filled with books and crafts.
As Vorondil opens the second lamp, the greater light reveals a room surprisingly cluttered—for Vorondil anyway. At his desk is a bowl with a spoon stuck to the bottom and a chipped mug; the cozy rag rug in the middle of the floor sits askance and three pairs of identical boots are tossed alongside it in a tangled heap. Vorondil is blushing and already hastening to the desk to sweep away the dirty dishes. “Ai,” he says, “I am sorry for the mess, but I was not expecting company.” He ducks through the curtain to where presumably the lavatory is off of his sleeping area, a suitable place for abandoning mess in the basin.
On his desk is humble charcoal sketch of a girl encased in an ornate gold frame. She looks very familiar to me, and as I struggle to retrieve her name from the mire of female-sounding syllables suddenly sloshing through my brain, I am struck with an image of a forest clearing lit by lamps strung overhead and Macalaurë playing a bright song and a girl in my arms too shy to say much and I, too distracted to coax her: “Nimerionë,” I whisper, and when Vorondil reemerges from the back of the cottage, empty-handed, I realize that the portrait is in my hands, and I am touching her face, careless of the smudges I might leave. I set it hastily back on the desk.
“I had that made the day after our return, when your father was kind enough to give me a day off to meet Nimerionë in Tirion. An artist in the lowest district did it for a lampstone.” He bustles around the small cottage, putting a teapot onto the stove and gathering various bottles from the shelves around the room. “She is lovely,” I say in a voice that sounds flat even as I try to rouse it to enthusiasm but Vorondil—so often flat himself—casts me one of his flickering smiles and doesn’t appear to notice. “Thank you. I happen to agree. Blessed was I on the day of that last picnic before we left for Formenos, although I did not then know it. I was so miffed over Annawendë—”
He stops and bobbles and nearly drops a bottle of clear liquor. “I am sorry.”
“Do not be.”
“I suppose you knew I fancied her.” He has turned away from me to retrieve two cups from the shelf over the stove, but I can tell he’s blushing by the pink tips of his ears.
“Yes,” I say hesitatingly.
“But she saw only you. And I cannot fault you for that, so do not worry. In fact, I am now grateful, for when I awoke the next morning, it was not with thoughts of Annawendë but Nimerionë.”
And had I not, I would be in your painful predicament.
He does not say this, but we both sense it, unspoken, between us, and he blushes darker, and I quickly change the subject. “Nimerionë…what does she do?”
“She is a silk dyer. Oh, her work is beautiful!” Relieved by the change of subject, he darts back through the curtain and returns a moment later with a tunic done in a delicate pattern of drifting shades of green. I cannot imagine Vorondil—who seems to live in gray and brown tunics of coarse cloth and plain design—wearing something so splendid, and as though sensing my thoughts, he laughs and says, “Not that I imagine ever wearing it. It would look wonderful on someone like you, but me….” He looks at it and shrugs. “She remains convinced, though.” He carefully folds the tunic and places it on his desk amid the books and clutter, returning to the stove and the teapot that is beginning to steam.
“I will help you?” I offer.
“No, please, sit. In the chair! I should have offered.” The only chair in the room is at his desk. I reply, “Nay, you—the host—should have it.”
And so we both end up on the floor, mugs of tea clasped in our hands. I idly blow on mine—knowing that such an insignificant action will do naught to cool it—watching the ripples my breath makes on the surface. The scent of it stings my nose, and I know that he has poured more than tea and cream into it. I sip it—risking the tip of my tongue—and find that it is so good that the blistery feeling on my tongue and lips is easily ignored to delve in for a second sip.
“This is delicious!”
“It is an old recipe common in our town. It warms and soothes, or so is said.”
Neither of us look at the other, but the word is there—soothes—between us. I realize how I must still look: dripping hair and sodden clothes, trembling slightly with the cold, certainly not the beautiful and collected prince of rumor. But Vorondil also recalls to me a device slipped from its track, his usual stoic manner betrayed by the way he hugs his knees with one arm and stares into the mug clasped in the opposite hand as though looking for answers in the Tengwar-swirls of cream upon the surface, his brow actually furrowing in an image of concentration. If I look intent, perhaps he will not speak to me. Then why did he invite me here, if not to speak?
“I would like to see your ring?” I ask, and he flinches, sloshing hot tea on himself. “If you would show it?”
And then grins wryly. So he has learned something from my father. “Is there nothing that you do not see? Even that which would harm you?”
“It will not harm me. And your ‘secret project’ was fairly obvious.” I have experience in these matters, or do you forget?
He sets his cup carefully on the rug and pokes his fingers into the pockets of his trousers, coming out with a ring pinched between them that he drops into my palm, saying, “I can’t help wondering if it is too soon—”
“Do you love her?”
“Of course.”
“Then it is not too soon.”
The ring is two bands twined together, the banal symbol of interlocked spirits, but I cannot deny that it is beautifully made. “I shall engrave it,” Vorondil says, “one band with her favorite line of love poetry and the other with mine.” I nod; so he is capable of original thought after all. The thought startles me. Do I begrudge him? Of course I do. I hand the ring back to him.
“It is beautiful. And if she accepts? What of your ring?”
“I shall make it then and let her choose the design.” The ring is slipped back into his pocket, close against his body and away from my jealous eyes, and with it gone, we each lift our eyes to the other like shy maidens contemplating the object of our desire in front of us—belonging to us—for the first time.
We speak long this night, on topics ranging from metallurgy to my father, our words coming faster as our bellies—and brains—fill with the intoxicating tea. Annawendë slips into the conversation with all of the aplomb of a leaf falling upon our heads, and I speak for the first time outside the family of what happened—or perhaps, what didn’t happen—between us and am surprised to feel Vorondil’s hand suddenly clasp my wrist, his fingers bony and slightly cold but the touch so obviously meant to be comforting that I put my hand atop his and feel his growing warmer beneath it.
It is only when our inebriation drags us toward sleep that I reluctantly rise to leave, and he walks me to the door. “Maitimo,” he says, as I fumble the doorknob, “I have heard no word from her.”
Indeed, I know this. I nod and manage to thank him through lips and tongue thickened by drink, and words slip out after this: “I’m sorry. For the loss of your friend.”
I step into the night. The rain has stopped and the land is sodden, the air heavy with the earthy odor of rain-soaked soil, the sweet-pungent scent of wet grass beneath it. Behind me, Vorondil says something, the meaning of which refuses to seep into my brain, instead bumping against it with the futility of a moth against a lamp, barred from the flame.
“She may yet return.”
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 05:04 pm (UTC)Maitimo seems different in this chapter, though. More mature. I don't know, maybe it's just a feeling, but, for example, when he speaks about his father's fiftieth begetting day and thinks of his own upcoming one, he appears to be looking back on it, not forward to it. When you said that AMC also intends to illustrate Maitimo's downfall, form a confident, cheerful prince to a reclusive, insecure and often depressed young Elf, you really meant it.
I love the way Maitimo describes the interactions between him and his grandfather. I maintain the idea that Finwe is a wonderful character and it's so heart-warming to read any scene that has him in it. And kudos for the sweet little episode with Feany and his never-matching gloves. It was cute, touching and, disturbing, at the same time, to see Maitimo's almost cold reasoning whenever he thinks of his father.
Anger likely inspired by Atar and soothed by him; it is a contradiction—but then, that is Atar.
Yes, indeed. ;)
For if the new year arrives amid the leaping flames and screaming music of the New Year Festival and I am alone, then so shall I be for the life of Arda.
*whipes tears* I don't know how you do it, but this is the kind of line that you will most likely never see in any of my fics. Unless it's spoken with obstinate determination and not like a sentence.
I am also pleased to learn more about Vorondil, knowing that he will be an important character in the future of this epic. And it's good to see Maitimo getting some of the load off his back, talking to someone who might actually understand him better than Makalaure and even Feanaro.
It was a great chapter. More on the spot writing, please. *nudges Carnistir*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 06:37 pm (UTC)Thank you. :) In reality, the changes I make are rarely drastic; I think the rereadings and long times between writing and posting are more to convince myself that I want to share it.
But short of stopping AMC for six months, I have to go ahead and share it, right? ;)
Maitimo seems different in this chapter, though. More mature.
The beginning of the chapter had already been written, so I was trying to go along with the same line of thought that I had at the first writing. Do you think that this difference is bad? Like he's OOC for part of this chapter? Because I do want to show his gradual acceptance that things might not go his way, that another might be chosen over him, but I don't want this to be sudden.
I maintain the idea that Finwe is a wonderful character
Me too! :) I would like to do more with him in stories, but his firstborn and his eldest grandson insist on usurping my time. ;)
And kudos for the sweet little episode with Feany and his never-matching gloves.
Thanks! I was rather fond of this myself and it is one of those things that I'm not sure how I thought of it...but I'm glad I did! ;)
*whipes tears* I don't know how you do it, but this is the kind of line that you will most likely never see in any of my fics.
Well, we have very different styles. I can't see that sort of line in one of your stories either, no offense to your stories. Nor would I want to. Overdone melodramatic epics are not embarked upon lightly! :^P
But seriously, Maitimo will be surprised, I think, at how resilient he is in later years. I'm sure you know what I mean. *weeps softly* But now, he's young and his world is able to be shattered by a woman who rejects his affections. One day, he will look back at this innocence and laugh.
I am also pleased to learn more about Vorondil, knowing that he will be an important character in the future of this epic.
I love Vorondil, even though the Feanorian boys tend not to speak nicely of him. But unknown to them, Vorondil has his own life and backstory. I've even considered writing a story about him, but that would be weird. Original fic spawned from fanfic!
It was a great chapter. More on the spot writing, please. *nudges Carnistir*
Please do nudge him! I haven't gotten much out of him so far. Maybe if we're snowed in tomorrow, he will have no choice but to talk to me.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 07:00 pm (UTC)I'd still consider that fanfic, as it's still in Tolkien's universe (unless you plan on transposing him to an original 'verse). It'd just be OC-only fanfic. And that's certainly been done before. :)
Also, *tickles and pokes Carnistir*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 07:40 pm (UTC)I doubt that would happen, though. Too much of his history ties in with the Feanorians, so it wouldn't really be Vorondil. Anyway.
Please tickle and poke Carnistir! And hope for snow in Maryland! He's being very uncooperative but maybe if we're snowed in together, he'll have no choice. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 07:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 07:15 pm (UTC)*gasp* Stopping AMC for six moths? *shakes head vigorously*
Like he's OOC for part of this chapter? Because I do want to show his gradual acceptance that things might not go his way, that another might be chosen over him, but I don't want this to be sudden.
No, I do not think that Maitimo is out of character at all. He simply reaches another level of understanding, and, perhaps, another stage in his life. He would love to have a wife and a home of his own, but, at the same time, he realizes that he is so closely bound to Feanaro and all of his family that he will always feel the need to return to his initial home. He is simply growing up and starting to accept that his life may not turn out as he wishes or as he plans it.
Well, we have very different styles. I can't see that sort of line in one of your stories either, no offense to your stories. Nor would I want to. Overdone melodramatic epics are not embarked upon lightly!
We have different styles, indeed, but it's important (and nice) that we both understand and enjoy each other's work. I'm not offended at all and I think I know why my stories are mostly light hearted and smutty. It's this childish urge to make at least one of my characters think like me ans react like me. My fics focus on the fun more than on the emotional, because I could not properly describe love and the angst that goes with it, not having lived it in real life. *is not sorry, though*
Lol, and overdone melodramatic is not the expression to characterize your writing. Nope, it sure is not.
Original fic spawned from fanfic!
And why not? Why, I've got a melodramatic OFC in my hair now, created by Jenni. (the melodramatic part is all mine, though)
Maybe if we're snowed in tomorrow, he will have no choice but to talk to me.
Is it snowing that bad over there? The weather here is not so bad, not terribly cold anymore and snowing every now and then.
*hopes Dawn won't be snowed it*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 07:50 pm (UTC)Don't worry! I would do my best not to let that happen. I'm trying to not even miss a week, although Carnistir is making that difficult. *glowers at Carnistir*
Would you believe I've even given Bobby my passwords so that if something drastic were to happen to me, he could continue posting my work? o.O Morbid, perhaps, but one could never say I don't look out for my readers! ;)
He is simply growing up and starting to accept that his life may not turn out as he wishes or as he plans it.
Good. That is what I was trying to do. My fear was that by not having written Maitimo in a long while, I'd lost his voice in this story. So that was something with which I would tinker, if he was OOC.
We have different styles, indeed, but it's important (and nice) that we both understand and enjoy each other's work.
Oh, absolutely! I love reading lighter styles and go back to mine and feel so dragged down and heavy...alas, that's me. And most original stuff I read has a style a lot like mine, so it's not unbearable, I know, but I love fun, entertaining stories too.
I've had love and angst and angst over love...luckily not too much of the last two. ;) So I'm no expert either, but one tiny dose of the latter will do me for a lifetime, thank you very much! ;^D
And why not? Why, I've got a melodramatic OFC in my hair now, created by Jenni. (the melodramatic part is all mine, though)
Maybe someday! After this epic is finished and the NaNoWriMo novel(s) and....
Hey, I could cheat and call this part of the epic, though!
Are you doing something too with Jenni's feverish OFC?? Spreading it to more Elves, maybe? *hopes* 8^)
Is it snowing that bad over there? The weather here is not so bad, not terribly cold anymore and snowing every now and then.
*hopes Dawn won't be snowed it*
Nah, not at all yet! It's not supposed to start until tomorrow morning, but as Baltimorons panic in even a dusting of snow, I don't leave the house unless I absolutely must. I have no problem driving in the snow, but I trust the other drivers about as much as I trust Maeglin.
*Maeglin glowers* >:^[
And I'm kinda hoping to be snowed in! I've been neglecting my work in order to get a huge D&D game written for Bobby and me, and this will give me a chance to catch up. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 08:18 pm (UTC)Er... yes, a little morbid, but very kind of you. As opposed to my "Burn everything of mine with me, if I turn the corner." routine... :P But let's not think unhappy thoughts, OK?
And most original stuff I read has a style a lot like mine, so it's not unbearable, I know, but I love fun, entertaining stories too.
Of course it's not unbearable. And I enjoy it a lot. See, that's why I'm glad there are writers like you, and writers like me. ;)
Hey, I could cheat and call this part of the epic, though!
I was thinking the exact same thing. :D
Are you doing something too with Jenni's feverish OFC?? Spreading it to more Elves, maybe?
He, he... Yes, my
self insertOFC, originally created by Jenni, demanded that I not leave her hanging like that, after one episode of hotness and the potential to spread fever all over the place. Nah, she's not giving it to someone else, because Feany is enough and he's got it bad. But the story is all angst and drama... o_O! Grrr, crazy muses.Baltimorons panic in even a dusting of snow, I don't leave the house unless I absolutely must. I have no problem driving in the snow, but I trust the other drivers about as much as I trust Maeglin.
Baltimorons... Lol! And Maeglin... I'm starting to hate on him a little less, due to my "don't judge them just because they seem evol" theory. But I still would not trust him with anything if I didn't have GPS and surveillance cameras on him. ;p
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 06:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 07:38 pm (UTC)And I have space for 100 icons courtesy of Teh Husband and have uploaded exactly 17. So I feel your pain regarding icons-that-should-be-but-somehow-just-never-are-created. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 08:12 pm (UTC)*Ingwe; ours isn't all that likeable. I think it was Feanor and Fingolfin who came up with the nickname.
**Arguable, but works neatly for my concept.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 10:16 pm (UTC)Being of the Feanatic persuasion, Indis was a conveniently evol character. Of course, if I'm willing to argue for the Feanorians that one has to look at the character's motivations and shouldn't assume absolute evil, then that meant I had to do it for Indis too...and came up with the same conclusions as you!
I imagine it must have taken a lot of strength to become the stepmother to a child like Feanor, especially in a world without remarriage and hence no Step-parenting for Dummies, not to mention the odd looks she must have gotten on the streets.
So... *raises glass to Indis* If I can get rid of Feanor long enough, I might even do a story about her someday. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 10:24 pm (UTC)*sporfle* Uncle Spooge-bucket?? :^))
Well, Great-Uncle Spooge-bucket to
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-11 07:53 pm (UTC)Yeah, I'm pretty sure that the idea of keeping it in one's pants is a foreign concept to Feanor.
Personally, I always like to play Ingwe as the dumb blond himbo, at least in comedy pieces.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-11 08:25 pm (UTC)Seriously. Though all of Finwe's sons seem to have inherited that little quirk of daddy's; even Fingolfin surpassed the usual number of children for an elf by a bit.
Personally, I always like to play Ingwe as the dumb blond himbo, at least in comedy pieces.
That'd be because it's funny.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 09:17 pm (UTC)hasty in wiping and currying my horse before turning him loose into the pasture
Well, he'll roll without fail anyway! :P
So, since making myself wait to read AMC is a punishment (sort of), that should tell you how much I like reading it!
Sorry Carni is being evol. Tell him that he won't get any cookies unless he behaves.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 10:11 pm (UTC)*covers Mae and Feany's precious little leaf-shaped ears with her hands*
I won't tell them. ;)
(Was my liking for ears at all revealed by that first line? Ahem.)
Well, he'll roll without fail anyway! :P
But of course! :^D
So, since making myself wait to read AMC is a punishment (sort of), that should tell you how much I like reading it!
Well, it's certainly better than reading it as punishment!
Reading it, for example, to whet your appetite for the excitement that is your chemistry text. ;))
Seriously, that's really funny. I never thought that anything of mine would be withheld as punishment before! Well, it seems that new honors are bestowed upon me each day!
Sorry Carni is being evol. Tell him that he won't get any cookies unless he behaves.
I'm not letting him play in the snow tomorrow until he gives me five good pages. *gives Carni a hard look*
Damn, now I've made him cry.... :^/
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-11 12:17 am (UTC)Phew!! Good.
Was my liking for ears at all revealed by that first line? Ahem.
Erm, no. Not at all...;P
Well, it's certainly better than reading it as punishment!
Lol!! Yes, that's true!
Luckily today, I was worried enough about my anatomy exam to only briefly think "but AMC and Ann_arien's stories are posted!". I didn't get to read them til after the exam.
I'm not letting him play in the snow tomorrow until he gives me five good pages. *gives Carni a hard look*
Ouch! That's harsh.
*doesn't tell Carni about the snow here, lest he run away from Dawn*
Damn, now I've made him cry.... :^/
*sigh* Tsk, Dawn...probably not the best way to get him to work for you...:P
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 10:27 pm (UTC)PRINTING ANYWAY.
I think I'll write a review on notebook paper and then send it to you when I have TylerDurden(computer) back!
:D
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-11 07:55 pm (UTC)There is something to be said for getting old, as the only person who punishes me these days is...well...me.
And I like the name for your computer. Mine answers to Pengolodh. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-10 11:44 pm (UTC)I liked seeing him get a little, unexpected chance for some alone time with Indis. It seems to me that he's never really had a chance to get to know her, that what he knows is the image of her that Fëanor has in his mind and that he superimposes on his memories of her all dressed up at family events. Today, Maitimo got to see Indis as a person, a woman married to the man she loves, with children and grandchildren who love her and come to visit her. That seems to have discomfited him, which is a good thing.
When you wrote about Maitimo borrowing his grandfather's clothes, it made me think of how very differently Elves might perceive such a thing as a grandparent. Since they don't age, their grandparents are just as thriving and vital as their parents and themselves. Since time moves so slowly in Valinor, it seems that styles don't change much from generation to generation, and thus it would make perfect sense for a grandson to borrow his grandfather's clothes if they fit him. I contrast that with the idea of my grandmother's clothing, which is clearly little-old-lady clothes that I could not wear even if we were the same size, because for humans, there is too much of a difference between eighty-five and twenty-nine.
On the other hand, Elves will never (at least, at this point) have the bittersweet feeling that comes with wearing something willed to you by a parent or grandparent, with the memories and the feeling of passing the torch that comes with it. My grandmother has already decreed that I am to have a particular cloak/coat of hers after she dies, and the thought of actually wearing it (though it's a nice piece of clothing in and of itself) is a little funny. I think I'd rather not have it yet.
It's good that Maitimo seems to have found, if not exactly a friend, then at least a companion in Voronwë. Fëanor probably forgets that a houseful of brothers doesn't mean quite the same thing as friends, and that Maitimo doesn't have any. Fëanor himself doesn't seem to need friends -- probably can't stand the idea -- but I think Maitimo does. But because Fëanor doesn't, and he still dominates Maitimo so completely, Maitimo doesn't grow up with friends or playmates other than his siblings, until Findekano comes along. I wonder if that's part of the reason for Maitimo's overactive sex drive. Perhaps it's not so much orgasms that he seeks as it is companionship. Of course, he wouldn't know that, since he's never been taught to expect friendship, but his hurt over Annawendë seems to be less the hurt of knowing that he's lost a lover and more the hurt of knowing that his best friend just moved away.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-11 08:13 pm (UTC)Oh good. :) I'm glad that Maitimo's ceaseless angsting is calming to someone!
And I hope Le Thesis is coming along well too.
It seems to me that he's never really had a chance to get to know her
This is exactly what I was going for, a bit of contrast between the first time we see them together and the last time (in AMC anyway). I was a bit perturbed (in a writerly way) about how so many people--after the chapter when we first met Indis and Fingolfin--immediately began railing against them for being such uptight, vacuous sticks-in-the-mud because that chapter was written from Maitimo's PoV, and that was Maitimo's opinion then. Not mine. But it felt like I was being cheered on for writing them that way when I see them as much more complicated than that.
When you wrote about Maitimo borrowing his grandfather's clothes, it made me think of how very differently Elves might perceive such a thing as a grandparent.
It is a bit bizarre to think of it. By the time Maitimo reaches 8,000 years of age, he and Feanor will nearly be peers. After all, Feanor is only 45 years older than him in Felak!verse, and that's just a drop in the bucket of time.
I've wondered, then, how their culture deals with this: Are they loyal to their ancestors simply because they're ancestors? (Because I'd imagine it wholly possible in an average--a.k.a. non-Finwian--family for a child to eclipse his/her parents in terms of skill.) Or do they become more of peers, over time? And do they always call them "father" and "mother" or do they get to be on a first-name basis after a while?
It has always been hard for me to reconcile "Feanor" and "grandparent" because I always see him as so youthful and vital...not that grandparents can't be this, but more like a 20-year-old in terms of energy. I guess this means that Elves don't dread the term "grandparent" the way some humans do.
On the other hand, Elves will never (at least, at this point) have the bittersweet feeling that comes with wearing something willed to you by a parent or grandparent
Right now, I'm wearing one of my grandmother's necklaces: a little blue bee that my mom told me I could have when we were going through her jewelry. It's just a costume piece and not worth anything monetarily, but I haven't had it off since the week after she died and it's not coming off any time soon.
I hope that it's a long, long time before you get the chance to wear that cloak/coat of your grandmother's. As nice as it is to be wearing something that was last worn by my grandmother, I liked it much better on her than on me.
I wonder if that's part of the reason for Maitimo's overactive sex drive. Perhaps it's not so much orgasms that he seeks as it is companionship.
I had one of those *squee* writer's moments when I read this because this is exactly what I was trying to do with Maitimo's character. I'm sure that many people think that Mae is conveniently an Elven manwhore because he's my favorite character, and I have nefarious intentions, but really (really!) he has always wanted sex less than companionship. It was just hard for one as naturally charismatic as Maitimo to understand that people may value him for more than his looks or his ability to recite facts from books verbatim.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-11 08:50 pm (UTC)I forget -- does Maitimo ever get to be 8,000 years old?
I would imagine that, even for Elves, parents are parents forever. Even twenty years of childhood leaves an impression on humans, and Elves have fifty years. Plus, their parents never grow old and have second childhoods, so that role reversal never comes to a middle-aged Elf. No matter how full of himself Fëanor gets, Finwë will always be able to look him in the eye and say, "I changed your diapers, bucko." (Of course, Finwë's problem is that he'd never say that, no matter how much Fëanor needed to hear it.)
It's probably a good thing that Maitimo is an Elf and male. He's going through the kind of childhood that leads to quite a bit of teen pregnancy in the real world. He's out looking for someone who values him as himself, even though he doesn't know it. I can see how, if he had been a girl, the temptation to marry the first strapping young buck who came along just to produce a baby would have been a powerful one. His little brothers are one thing, but even Macalaurë can't really be the kind of friend he needs. (Not that having an oops would have solved AU!Girl!Maitimo's problems, either.)
I wonder what Fëanor thinks of Maitimo's manwhore tendencies. It must, first of all, be somewhat foreign to him, since he has apparently only ever loved Nerdanel. Maitimo's activites don't really seem to bother Fëanor, but I can't imagine that he's real comfortable with it, either. As the mother of a friend of a friend once said, "I'm fine with knowing that my daughter is sleeping with her boyfriend. But one just does not want to hear one's child having an orgasm."
Nerdanel, if she were less distracted by the other children, might realize that something is up with Maitimo, for she was said to be wise and good at reading people. But as it stands, she's running on the same false assumptions that schools make about children: if their grades are good, it's a safe bet that nothing's really wrong with them. Maitimo is The Responsible One whose role is to help take care of people, to the point where even his mother has forgotten that he needs taking care of, too.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-11 03:24 am (UTC)Was there some elvish foresight here or is this just the bleakness of depression talking?
I keep wanting Nelyo to snap out of it, but it got me thinking as to what depression would be like for an elf and how it would differ from our own. Since their memories can be replayed with perfect clarity, it would be like re-living it over, and over, and over whenever you chose to reopen the wound.
I expect Aman itself is probably a better drug than Prozac, so how long would it take till the other elves start worrying? And would a society that is genetically perfect have doctors that treat anything other than injuries to the body? Elvish psychiatry? Hypnotists to remove unwanted memories?
Anger management therapists? *eyeing Feanaro*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-11 08:23 pm (UTC)Just depression. :) I have lots more in store for the rollercoaster that is Maitimo's romantic life.
Since their memories can be replayed with perfect clarity, it would be like re-living it over, and over, and over whenever you chose to reopen the wound.
I'd never looked at it this way before, but this is an interesting (and good!) point. I've always seen Elves as being prone to psychological conditions because such things aren't solely physical manifestations so much as they are a combination of biological and environmental. I see Elves as being less prone to those things that are carried genetically or conferred by biological imbalances (such as bipolar disorder or schizophrenia) but possible to experience conditions such as depression that may be triggered or exacerbated (at least in part) by the environment. And Maitimo's environmental conditions aren't so hot right now.
I suppose that the Gardens of Lorien might be equipped to treat such conditions. After all, Irmo attempted to treat Miriel, and her weariness seemed to be more spiritual/psychological than physical.
But in a noisy, perpetually distracted family like Maitimo's, I would think it'd be a long time before anyone would notice how serious it is. And would they even see depression as serious more so than a mood that will pass in time? It's not like they have to worry about suicide (or so they think) or inability to complete responsibilities, since Maitimo isn't yet an essential contributor to their society. It's not even like he has to worry about losing the best years of his life to depression.
Wow. I just rambled a lot! Anyway, I'll shut up now and conclude by saying that it's good to see you around again, and I hope the New Year has been treating you well! :)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-12 12:58 am (UTC)My New Year has been
a stressful messmemorable. I've been keeping up with AMC and enjoying it, I just haven't had the energy to respond.Are the Gardens of Lorien taking reservations? I'm thinking Nelyo and I should check in for a few weeks. ;-)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-12 01:03 am (UTC)If the Gardens were taking reservations, I'd already be there....
Hope the latter half of your February is better!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-11 08:50 pm (UTC)Okay - Jenni *hearts* Maitimo and even though Jenni *hearts* Findekáno more, she would like to comfort and soothe Maitimo and maybe even give him a pity shag.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-11 09:41 pm (UTC)Okay - Jenni *hearts* Maitimo and even though Jenni *hearts* Findekáno more, she would like to comfort and soothe Maitimo and maybe even give him a pity shag.
Maitimo just perked up and gave me this hopeful look...but then the Feanster smacked him in the head and said, "We don't take pity, boy!"
(But if I can sneak him away from overbearing!Feanor later, he's all yours! ;^D)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-12 11:10 am (UTC)Maitimo just perked up and gave me this hopeful look...but then the Feanster smacked him in the head and said, "We don't take pity, boy!"
So this is why Maitimo came to me ticked off and muttering "I'm gonna make you pay for this, Atar!" just before we started working on the third part of my steamy fic together. I have to say, though... Maitimo sure knows how to extract his revenge! >;)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-12 02:10 am (UTC)Was going to say this earlier, but I guess it fits here, too: I like the way you write about Indis and the characters' feelings about and around her--it's really not hard for me to believe that Finwë could fall in love with her (while The Silmarillion just left me with the impression that Finwë was just... I don't know, desperate for more children or something), and I love the extra element of Maitimo's feelings about her, too...
I liked the interaction between Maitimo and Vorondil, too. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-12 02:40 am (UTC)Oh good! *relieved sigh* I read the whole chapter twice beforehand to get back into the voice I was using, but fresh writing still feels so rough to me.
I like the way you write about Indis and the characters' feelings about and around her
I find myself increasingly fascinated by Indis. When I first "met" her, Feanor had me convinced that she was Teh Evol, but as
I like how in HoMe (I forget which one) it is said that Finwe met her on the slopes of Taniquetil and she comforted him, and he fell in love with her (or something like that! It's been a while since I read it.) It makes her more than just a means for him to have more children.
I liked the interaction between Maitimo and Vorondil, too. :)
Thanks. :) I have a soft spot for Vorondil and he's even begun quietly suggesting that he needs his own story.... o.O
Too many stories, too little time! ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-15 01:44 am (UTC)But that's the problem-- she does nothing, says nothing, makes nothing. When all the uproar's in Tirion, and Finwe was killed, we don't see her on the scene. She's sort of... absent, which is strange, all things considered. I imagine she must have had some impact on Nerdanel (who moved in with her) and her choice to stay, but apart from that...
Actually, seen in that light, Indis really isn't much of a diplomat. Having Nerdanel move in was probably the last thing she could have done to improve matters between her and Feanor. I imagine that the dislike was mutual.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-15 02:51 pm (UTC)Either way, I think that Finwe made his thoughts on his second family abundantly clear when he chose exile from Tirion, to follow Feanor. Even if I agree that it was appropriate given the meddling Valar, it must have hurt his second family to be so easily forsaken as that.
I seem to remember reading somewhere that Indis saw her marriage with Finwe cooled after he chose exile. I will have to look that up...if I have time. *sigh*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-16 05:00 pm (UTC)Can you point me to the text where Tolkien wrote that? Canon wise? I have a bunny hopping around for such a long time and this would be so incredibly helpful if I knew where Tolkien said that.
Thanks in advance :c)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-14 11:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-15 02:42 pm (UTC)*hiding...and kidding!*
If you're teaching children in any way, then you are excused from brilliance for the duration. ;) I'm glad that you enjoyed that chapter and ecstatic that what I tried to do with Indis seems to have worked. And that
my preciousVorondil is appreciated also makes me a happy girl indeed.(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-15 04:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-15 04:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-15 10:18 am (UTC)*likes chapter*
And like some others before, I have to add I almost like your Indis. She may be a more passive character, but you make her appear as if there was a quiet strength hidden in her. Which she certainly need, since there always seem to be Miriel's shoes to fill and her shadow hovering above.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-15 02:48 pm (UTC)Anyway....
In a world that didn't have death or divorce, to take on the role as a "second wife" (doubtlessly under the scorn of those who thought that Finwe's marriage was Teh Wrong and didn't want to put the blame on their king) and--even worse--a stepmother to Feanor took courage indeed. I think of the strife that occurs in step-families in the Edain world, where divorce and remarriage are becoming the norm, and think how much harder it must have been to face those troubles on top of violating cultural mores.
And that Miriel never left Finwe's thoughts...yes, that had to be hard. She never had her husband's heart entirely, and that seems to be important to love among the Elves, judging by their relentless monogamy.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-16 07:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-15 09:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-16 03:31 pm (UTC)Still, there's something about fresh writing that just feels so...uncertain. To me anyway.
Maitimo is getting weary of his family, and I like your notion of "outgrowing" them. This isn't something that will be resolved, though, in this story but will form the crux of a later story to come. (And I'm not saying any more lest I spoil something! :^D)
Thanks, as always, for reading and for the review. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-16 04:56 pm (UTC)re-writing does that to you, especially when you have to write complete new chapters because all of sudden... the re-writes demands it.
Maitimo is getting weary of his family, and I like your notion of "outgrowing" them.
Well I think that wole bathscene, that pretty much says it all, it feels like he is raising his brothers together with his parents. Is it justified? Will this be the reason why he always feels too tied to his home? Will it be Maglor who will be the first to leave? I somehow can see this happening... *muses a bit on*