Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Prologue: Yet In The Beginning, It Was Not So

Tirion, 1300 Y.T. 

Summary: Finwë’s family grows as Maedhros/Maitimo struggles with his sexuality. 

There were hands tangled in his hair, a mouth moving on his mouth, and a strong body pressed against his body, and for a moment, Maitimo did not have to think of anything else. He kissed Anarcalin with all the bottled up frustrations of the past weeks. His tongue flicked against the other nér’s lips, which opened immediately for him. He knew that this should not feel so much better, so much more natural than kissing the níssi who hoped to draw his interest—It’s not what Manwë decreed or Varda advised–but when Anarcalin broke away from their kiss to breathe, only to tangle his fingers in the hair at the base of his scalp, beneath the braided bun that he wore when riding, that thought ceased to matter. The slight spark of pain and the possessive hold drove him wild. Even better, Anarcalin’s lips were hot on his neck, kissing vigorously yet lightly enough to avoid bruising. Maitimo’s hands ran down his back, fingers digging into the hard muscles as they moved, and he grasped his companion’s hips hard, drawing them to his. He bit his lip to stifle a moan as he pressed his erection against Anarcalin’s.

Valar, how good this would feel unclothed! He’d hardly dared to think of this before, but it had been two months since Anarcalin had dared to kiss him after they had returned from a hunt. The other nér had Maitimo’s protests with claims that nerí often did such things when they had not yet found a nís to wed, but these meetings only made him want to see more, touch more, do more. 

“You want me,” he growled, his voice low. Not a nís. Me, you want me. You’re hard for me. You’re beautiful to find some nís to do this for you, but you want me. 

“Yes, aráninyo, yes. Touch me, please. You’re so good at it.” 

Maitimo placed a finger over his companion’s lips and murmured, “Only if you don’t call me that.” That was a lie. He would gladly jerk the other nér’s cock until that other nér spilled and spend himself with a well-muscled thigh pressed between his legs, whatever Anarcalin saw fit to call him. 

“Yes, yes, whatever you want. Just do it.” Anarcalin had already been quiet, but he was so breathless already that he was barely audible. He brought those lips back to Maitimo’s neck and trailed them over his collarbone, and Maitimo began working on Anarcalin’s laces, eager to get to his cock.

Maybe I’ll even look at it this time, he thought boldly. He could tell that his companion’s cock was about the same length and thickness as his, but he could determine so much more by sight. Then, very loudly, the voice of his father’s herald interrupted them: “Anarcalin, Anarcalin! Come! Araniel Írimë has arrived.” 

“Horro,” Maitimo muttered to himself, barely audible even to his Quendi companion, and leapt from the stall, his features already composed and his clothes already smoothed. Two months, and he was already used to this. He’d even manage to keep himself from blushing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anarcalin emerge from their corner with leads for the visiting horses. Makalaurë had come to take Tyelkormo to his music lesson–a fruitless endeavor, if truth be told, but Tyelko was yet too young to be firmly assigned a single craft–and Maitimo, relieved of his duty to instruct his younger brother in the art of the hunt, had the perfect excuse to snatch a few moments alone with Anarcalin. Yet they had hardly had time to snatch more than a kiss in the hidden corner of the stable–Maitmo had checked to be sure that it was not visible from any entrance–when Pelendur had alerted him of his next duty. With nary a sigh, he strode out into the sunlight. Anarcalin would not get to come, and neither would he. At least the fabric of his riding leathers was thick enough to conceal his fading state of arousal. 

“For what purpose?” he asked his father’s herald. Behind him, Anarcalin emerged, and the knowledge of the other nér moving so near to him set the fine hairs on his arms and at the back of his neck on end. Though he knew that he was unmarked, he thought that could still feel the other nér’s lips on his neck.

This is madness, this yére. You know it is madness. A stabbing, prickling voice in the back of his head retorted, Be grateful that it is only yére. He could not let it get worse than that, and fortunately, he did not believe that they would, not with Anarcalin, who was a perfectly pleasant—and well-made, with golden skin and light brown hair and strong arms–but rather boring nér. Except for when he…

“Ai! Aráninyo Nelywafinwë! I had hoped that you would still be with the horses. She says that she has a message from Finwë Ñoldóran, for your father’s ears,” Pelendur replied, and that reply brought the boil in Maitmo’s blood down to a mild simmer, for it pricked his curiosity. 

Why would Haru send yelderya to act as a mere messenger? He must have wanted to please Fëanáro and make him more receptive to the news, Maimto decided. Otherwise, he would have written or sent one of his own heralds. Still, Maitmo knew that his father had little love for the children of Indis, least of all her maiden second daughter, and he wondered at the wisdom of this choice. 

He, Pelendur, and Anarcalin rounded the corner and made their way towards the courtyard, and he caught sight of his half-aunt and two wendië, one dark and one with hair of silver-gold, still ahorse. At least, Lalwen was ahorse, seemingly having borrowed her brother’s own mount, who stood still and regal in the courtyard. Lalwen herself looked almost as regal and as composed, even though she wore her raven-black hair tightly bound and twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck and she was clothed in undyed riding leathers, with only a slashed bodice and overskirt as extra cover. The style only enhanced her already sharp, almost hawkish features. In contrast, the fair wendë, who had barely come into maturity, rode a small, docile-looking mare, while the dark-haired one, still a child by any reckoning, had a pony who walked in circles about the courtyard. Both wendië wore their hair loose, as was the custom for ones so young, and were dressed in the long, flowing robes in which Indis clothed her attendants, a choice which required them to ride side-saddle rather than astride. At least my atarnésa will not see me as underdressed, Maitmo thought, for his garb was as humble and practical as Lalwen’s, and it mattered little what her wendië wore.

As the tallest and swiftest of the three néri, he reached the three níssi first and went immediately to Lalwen. As he reached up to help her down, her dark gray eyes met his green-brown ones and then flickered behind him momentarily. His breath caught in his chest as he realized that she had looked to Anarcalin, but before he could curse his ill-fortune, he saw his half-aunt’s lips quirk into a smile. 

Perhaps she only means to indicate that she thinks him handsome. She cannot be so perceptive. Surely she would not have smiled so if she guessed, he thought as he lifted Lalwen from her saddle and lowered her to the ground. He is, after all, and well-named too. Those thoughts were dangerous though, so near to Finwë Ñoldóran’s chief scribe, and he brushed them aside as he focused on his task. It was surprisingly easy to move his aunt as if she were a child. Although she was nearly as tall as his father, with the top of her head reaching Fëanáro’s nose, she was slender as a spear, in contrast to her stockier and stronger brother.

“Anarcalin, take the stallion,” he ordered, and the nér hustled forward to do as his prince’s son ordered. Outside of their corner, they had no trouble remembering their roles. “Then help Araniel Írimë’s wendië.” 

“I shall take my own horse, thank you, hánoyonyo,” Lalwen replied briskly. “Anarcalin and Pelendur can better use their skills tending to Tindalaurëa and Laitanis.” 

Maitimo shrugged and took the reins anyway, and Lalwen followed him. To his amusement, she had to take almost two steps to keep up with his longer strides. Once his uncle’s loaned stallion was safely stabled and once Anarcalin and the other horsemen whom Pelendur had summoned had cared for the other mounts, he led his aunt and her two little wendië into the inner court. There, the fountains of his father’s devising and the statues of her mother’s workshop could best be admired. To her credit, Lalwen eyed them appreciatively before she took her seat beside the largest of the fountains, a creation that spewed forth water in the shape of a five-pointed star. Originally, it had had only four points, but with the birth of Morifinwë earlier this year, Fëanáro had reengineered it. 

“Tindalaurëa, Laitanis!!” she called out. “Go and ask that herald if he might bring us some refreshments.” Maitimo understood that she meant for them to talk alone. He supposed that she had only brought the girls because their mothers had left them to Indis’ service and Indis had in turn entrusted them to her maiden daughter. Still, he wondered at the wisdom of Lalwen’s choice to bring Tindalaurëa–for that had to be the name of the silver-golden-haired níssi–who was so clearly the daughter of one of Indis’ Vanya companions. Perhaps Lalwen’s mother had insisted, or perhaps she hoped to vex Fëanáro just a little in a manner to which their own father could not object. Once again, Lalwen interrupted his musings, this time by pulling him into an embrace. 

“You have grown far too tall,” she said. “You are what? Sixty years, and now I barely reach your shoulder? You must have surpassed your father!” In truth, her head barely came above his chest, but Maitimo chose not to press that point. 

He shrugged again. “I must have, for he often tells Amillë that she must stop feeding me so well, or else I will no longer fit through the doors.” Fëanáro spoke in jest and reached up to rumple his hair whenever he said it, and he quickly clarified that point for aunt.. All of Indis’ children, save perhaps Ñolofinwë, were disinclined to be charitable to Fëanáro, and Lalwen was the worst offender. 

Still, is Fëanáro any better? The nagging voice in his head was back, and he brushed it off once again. He knew that his judgment was unjust. His father had every reason to be cool towards Indis and her children, though they offered him no direct insult and occasionally still offered warmth. He had seen Miriel’s abandoned hroa only once before, when he was barely five years old, and he could still remember the cold, sickening feeling of dread that had crept over him as the empty vessel took on Nerdanel’s shape in his mind. 

Amya, amya, you will leave us too? Have you put too much into me? he had asked, and both of his parents had run immediately to him, his mother gathering him into her arms, and his father embracing both of them tightly. No, yonya, Fëanáro had assured him. The Ñoldor were not as wise in the way of the hroa then, and your mother is the greatest sculptress who ever lived. She has made you very well indeed, but she has kept enough for herself. His father could be kind and considerate and loving, and if Maitimo could not bear the thought of his mother departing from him like that, how must it have wounded his father to experience such a reality? 

True to her amilessë, Lalwen responded to his comments about his father by letting out a laugh so loud that it would have startled a less calm horse. Maitimo did startle as the laugh pierced the darkness in his mind, and he let out a breath. 

Thank you, atarnésa, he thought. The House of Fëanáro was now a house of light and life and the creative fire, and he did not need to dwell on the past, especially not the past that had happened so long before his youth. 

Lalwen grinned at him and said, “I did not know that Nerdanel was also an accomplished cook. When Fëanáro first began to journey with her, he once confessed to me and Findis that her excuse for lembas nearly made them ill–though I do not believe that it bothered him. He was so happy in those days that for a time, he remembered that he had two sisters to advise him. But as for you amillë, by then, it seemed, all of her crafting spirit had gone into sculpting, though she seems to have spared a good deal for making children. Four sons! Praise Manwë’s sack and Varda’s oven!”

“Lalwen!” he cried out, unable to stop the laugh that broke out of him at her casual blasphemy. He reached out and tweaked one of her coiled locks, and she made to slap his hand away. “Too short!” he teased as he drew back his arm. In spite of his father’s warnings about doors, being so tall had endless advantages, especially in mock-fights when his reach allowed him to strike his opponents without fear of retaliation.

“Let them hear me! Those who place such great stock in the procreative powers of marriage should count it as praise,” she retorted. “And speaking of the procreative powers of the Quendi…that is why I am here. Harutya is pleased that during this year, all four of his espoused children have seen fit to provide him with a new inyo. As such, he wishes me to invite your father to a celebration in six-days time. He intends to have them formally present each child to him and the court.” 

Maitimo raised a copper eyebrow. “And he sent you to tell him this rather than one of his regular arandur?” 

“He sent me only to Fëanáro. My háni received a summons by letter,” Lalwen replied. He observed that her tone was still light and teasing but with a new hollowness. He knew from his father that Lalwen loved Ñolofinwë best of all of her siblings, but he also knew that she loved her father before all else. It must have hurt her to have this coolness between his father and the rest of her family. 

And in spite of all of this, Atar worries that Haru loves her best. Never mind that he would chafe at being loved in the manner that Finwë loves his younger daughter. Truly, Maitimo could not have imagined his father forswearing marriage, children, and all of his other ambitions to live in Finwë’s household as long as the Ñoldóran lived. 

Instead of voicing his thoughts, Maitimo replied, “I think that that will please Atar well.”

“Ah, Maitimo, you have the makings of a diplomat in you after all,” she replied. “The Falmari will love you when you go to treat with them.”

“You are too kind, Atarnésa. But as it stands, my father is in his forge, and I do not expect that he shall emerge in a timely fashion.”

Lalwen’s shoulders dropped, and Maimto wondered how he had missed the tension in her body until then. Does she really fear him so greatly? He knew that his father was imposing, but he could not imagine truly fearing him. Unless…but again, it was better not to dwell on that when Lalwen’s deep gray eyes were still searching his face. 

“And where is Nerdanel? With the new babe? Morifinwë, yes? Atarinya said that his hair was as dark as his and mine.” 

Maitimo nodded but did not bother to comment on how pleased Fëanáro had been to have a son who so closely resembled Finwë, at least in coloring. “Amilinya has recently returned to her workshop for a few hours of the day. Atarinya convinced her that it was safe to leave Morifinwë with his nurses.” 

“How kind of him,” Lalwen said, and Maitimo nearly believed that she meant it. “When will they emerge?”

“It could be the rest of the day. Amilinya has not had much time in her studio, and Atarinya has a new project.” 

“And I should not interrupt them?” 

“I can deliver your message and inform them of the visit.” 

Lalwen breathed a sigh of relief and reached into the pocket of her overskirt. She pulled out a scroll and handed it to him. “This contains all of the necessary details. Harutya wrote it himself, using Tengwar.” 

“That will please Atarinya greatly,” Maitimo told her as he examined the scroll. It was made from the finest vellum that his grandfather’s flocks could produce, yet another detail that his father would appreciate. 

“Then I shall not linger long,” Lalwen said, but just as she made to rise, her wendië returned, with Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, Lauro’s harp, and two of their kitchen arandur carrying trays. 

“Nay, I think that hánonyar mean for you to stay awhile,” Maitimo said. 

“So it seems,” Lalwen said, but she did not immediately retake her seat. Instead, she took advantage of the conversation between his brothers and her wendië and leaned in towards her nephew’s ear. “I would speak with you after the presentation in six days. Do not be alarmed. No one is wroth with you, but it is a matter best left private.” 

Maitimo’s breath caught in his chest, and a knot curled in his stomach. She knows.

Then Lauro began to play, and the silver-golden-haired wendë–Tindalaurëa?--began to sing with a high but strong and clear voice. His aunt retook her seat on the couch and waved the dark-haired one, whom he believed to be Laitanis, to sit beside her. 

And Maitimo let them all converse, knowing full well that he had best prepare himself well for the ceremony and the upcoming conversation with his half-aunt. 

***

He had just finished seeing Lalwen off and sending Lauro and Tyelko back to their lessons when he heard words that he had at once desired, dreaded, and expected. 

“Nelyafinwë, would you accompany me to the stables? I need your insight on a matter with your horse,” Anarcalin said. The idea that Maitimo could tell Anarcalin something about horses that he did not already know was ridiculous on its face, and Maitimo counted himself blessed that no one else was paying attention. 

He is not discreet enough. That is another reason to end this, he thought. He looks at me too much. That must be what Lalwen saw. 

Nonetheless, Maitimo acquiesced. It would not be what Anarcalin anticipated, but it was necessary. The stables were empty, and as soon as they were out of sight of the doorway, Anarcalin grabbed him by the shoulders and pressed him against the wall. 

Focus, Maitimo thought to himself. He could feel his cock already filling at being manhandled by one so strong, who could throw down a wild horse if need be….No, stop that line of thinking. You’re not some feral stallion in need of taming–the word taming should really not sound so exciting–You’re Quendi. You’re Finwë’s eldest inyo. 

Instead, he pushed Anarcalin back with more strength than he had intended, and the nér stumbled back. 

“What…I…?” Anarcalin asked. He looked so shocked and confused that Maitimo had to shove down the wave of guilt just as violently. At least it killed any lingering yére that he might have felt. 

“Forgive me, Anarcalin,” he said in a tone that was both soothing and distant. “I am not wroth with you. You have been very kind to me as of late, but I fear that we must cease this. It is too indiscreet, and you have rather sated my curiosity.” It was not entirely a lie. This madness was too indiscreet, and his curiosity was mostly sated. 

Anarcalin still looked confused, and he cast his eyes downward, biting his lip. He was not much shorter than Maitimo, but the gesture made him look smaller and weaker, especially as he drew his shoulders up towards his earlobes. “I…I apologize. I offended you, Aroninyo. I thought…I thought that you…”

Before the horseman could say anything that might humiliate him, Maitimo interrupted him. “I need no apologies from you. As I said, you have not offended me in the slightest. And please, remember that you are highborn enough to call me by my ataressë. I am not your master, and I need no title. Let us be friends, and in time, you will find your nís.” 

Anarcalin did not look up to meet his eyes, but he stopped chewing his lips and relaxed his shoulders. “That is well with me, Nelyafinwë.” 

***

As Maitimo predicted, Fëanáro accepted the invitation with great pleasure, and he delighted in the Tengwar and laughed at the idea of his younger half-sister being sent out with two of her mother’s youngest wendië to do errands and deliver messages. 

“Did Írimë dress appropriately, or did she come looking like an oversized bat again?” he had asked. 

Tyelko had been the first to reply. WIth a bark-like laugh, he had said, “No! For once, she bound her hair properly, so she was wingless. Instead, she looked like an emaciated nér.” Then Nerdanel had silenced them both with a disapproving gaze and a reminder to her husband that he had never been so selective about her garb or appearance before. 

Then again, perhaps she should not have said that, for, as Nerdanel and her son learned upon Laurelin’s rising the day before the ceremony at the Ñoldóran’s palace, Fëanáro had seemingly remembered that fashion and hairdressing too were crafts. 

“He woke me up just as the merging was ending, already washed and free of smells after days in his forge, and I saw him rifling through my wardrobe,” Nerdanel had complained to her eldest son over breakfast. Her hair was undone and drying from its wash, and Maitmo could tell from the scent that his father had provided the soap and perfume. The latter of those was a luxury in which his mother rarely indulged and his father rarely requested of her, but as their sons soon discovered, this was only the beginning of their preparations. 

Fëanáro burst into the family dining room before his wife even finished speaking. “And it is fortunate that I did so, for then I would not have found that green robe that Anairë sent you. The color suits your hair and eyes, and I cannot fault Ñolofinwë’s veri’s talent for weaving and dyeing. And you said that you liked it when you received it last Yule.” 

“Ah, you are right, but I did not expect to wake up to find Anairë’s gift smothering me,” Nerdanel retorted, but her tone was once again light. 

“Yes, yes, as I said. And now we must deal with your hair. I’ve devised the most flattering style for you. Then everyone will see your face as I do” Fëanáro said. Then he turned to Maitimo and added, “Speaking of hair…Nelyo, go get yours washed immediately. It will take all day to dry, and you all must look well. Do not worry about your brothers. Káno washed his last night, and I have sent Anarcalin to find Turko and make him prepare. Morifinwë will be the easiest to manage, for once.” 

Maitimo’s stomach plummeted upon hearing Anarcalin’s name, and he hurried off before his father could begin to guess at the reason for his flustered state. 

“There’s no shame in it, Nelyo! You’ve merely let it grow so long,” Fëanáro called out behind him. 

Maitimo barely heard him, so quickly did he move to his room and to his bath. As he and one of his mother’s nurí, perhaps the only one whom Fëanáro had not enlisted in his quest to make Nerdanel look as lovely as he knew her to be, tended to his hair, he thought over how he had resolved the matter with Anarcalin. His tactics still did not sit well with him, but he knew that he acted rightly. He could not continue to…examine…or explore…his…passions with those in his father’s household. The ones from family’s as highborn as Anarcalin’s were too lofty to compromise, and he could not take advantage of those less exalted houses. If Anarcalin had not come to him, he would not have approached, truly would not have even considered approaching another nér for such a thing, but…the temptation and desire to understand had been too strong. Now he had quashed it. 

Truly, Maitimo knew that it was useless to dwell on the matter further, but as he went through the task of making himself worthy of presentation in court after a month of smithing, riding, hunting, and spending late nights drafting missives for his father to send to their house’s friends, he found that he could not help but dwell on what he had done and on how he would respond to Lalwen's suspicions. 

How can I even plan when I do not even know what she suspects? Perhaps she only worries about Anarcalin and how he may have looked at me? That will be easy to handle. She is not one to make trouble for those who have not made her wrathful, and she cares not for the propriety of marriage. She will do him no harm, even if I cannot convince her that he does not have…yére that he should not. And if she does sense something about me…then I must see what she suspects and divert her.

And so for the rest of the day, he dedicated his time to plotting and primping to live up to his mother-name and please his father, and for once, he had time to do it. His father asked him to do nothing for his brothers. Even when Anarcalin had been unable to persuade Tyelko to begin grooming a whole cycle before the presentation, Maitimo had not had to do anything. He had covered his drying hair with a scarf and gone down to the stables to persuade his brother, but before he could say more than a few words, Fëanáro had appeared. He looked Tyelko in the eye, and that look on its own made the young nér halt his quest to push Anarcalin to the side and get back on his horse.
            “Atar?” Tyelko asked quietly. 

Fëanáro replied using a cadence that none could refuse. “Turcafinwë, you will do all that I tell you to do to honor our branch. You are a Fëanararion, and you will wash and primp and perfume and dress yourself to my satisfaction so that everyone will know that we are the strongest, most skilled, and most beautiful of Finwë’s line. And you will apologize to Anarcalin for making it so difficult for him to carry out my orders.” 

Immediately, the wildness fled Tyelko, and he did as he was bid, even managing to make his apology properly contrite yet imperious. 

Then Fëanáro had nodded approvingly and clapped his eldest son on the shoulder. 

“You will look well, Nelyo. Tell Finvain to braid your hair in three large plaits. And wear that copper circlet that you made under Mahtan’s guidance. It was good workmanship for one of so few years. Let them see your skill,” his father said. 

At least that is one less thing to think about, Maitimo thought as he went to do as his father bade him. At least he trusts me to choose my own robes. 

As it turned out, Fëanáro had opinions on that point too, and upon Laurelin’s next rising, Maitimo had found himself rushed upstairs to change from a green robe that matched his mother’s to a scarlet one trimmed with sapphire blue and encrusted with pearls along the collar that Fëanáro insisted better set off his hair. Maitimo was not sure that he agreed, but it was one in their branch’s colors, and he cursed himself for being too preoccupied to remember it. 

At least he did not spend an hour lecturing me on color theory as he did to Tyelko, Maitimo thought as he climbed into the second family carriage with his two brothers and their attendants. Their parents would follow behind with Morifinwë. 

“Ah, Nelyo,” Tyelko said, mockingly using his ataressë, “you are so skilled! You only needed to be corrected concerning your clothing once.” 

At least you do not have to face our atarnésa and her suspicions, Maitimo thought bitterly, but he hid that thought behind a grin. “Do not be too harsh on yourself, Turko. He told me how to style my hair after he sent you from the stables.” 

“Neither of you should complain,” Lauro interjected. “Queindë told me that he kept rebraiding Amillë’s hair and that once he was done, he pronounced her the fairest creature of all. Then he tried send all of her níssi from the room, but she reminded them of the hour and that they did not have time for him to refashion her before we have to leave.” 

“Horro, why are they like this? Four sons, and they cannot stop! I hear the nurór gossiping about them every other six-days and how dangerous so much fire is,” Tyelko said with a groan. 

Maitimo stayed silent and thought, Is that why I am like this? Did they make me with too much fire? Is this why I burn as much as I do? They say that néri who are…as I may be–for he would not yet say that he was–burdened by too much yére and that they must release beyond what Manwë and Varda have decreed. Their fëar burn too hot for the creation of life, as Atya says, and so they must spend their mílt uselessly in…no, do not think on it.  

Yet as he approached his grandfather’s palace and his confrontation with his aunt, he noted that his fëa had never felt so weak and damp. 

***

I should not be surprised that Haru took this opportunity to sit us amongst our cousins and make us share cups and plates with them, Maitimo thought, as he glanced towards the Ñoldóran, who sat enthroned upon a dais at the head of the banqueting table. Atarelmar have yet come in with the babes, so they could raise no objection. And so Maitimo found himself seated on his grandfather’s right side next to Ñolofinwë’s eldest son, a youth of merely thirty-five years, while Makalaurë and Tyelkormo were seated across from them next to Findis’ son, Ektelion, who was Makalaurë’s age. As he waited to decide if he should speak first or give his seat-mate the opportunity to engage, he took a moment to study the assembled crowd. All of the highborn, lesser descendants of Tata and Tatië, including Anairë’s father and grandfather, had come to see their three new princes, as had the descendants the second and third to awake. He felt all of their eyes on him and his half-cousin Findekáno, for they were the oldest sons of Finwë’s eldest sons from each of his queens. Mahtan was there too, one of the few of the awakened ones who ever bothered with the court, and although Olwë had not come, Maitimo saw a few silver-haired, blue-eyed, and blue-robed representatives who could only be of the Falmari. 

I should attempt to speak with them at some point, he thought. Then he glanced again at his grandfather. Finwë’s black hair was unbound, and he was crowned with a silver diadem whose twisting branches and leaves were set with sapphires. His robes were the same dark gray color as his eyes, which surveyed the crowd. At his left hand, on a throne lower than his, sat Indis, golden-haired and blue-eyed. She wore a simpler, golden diadem, and her robes were sapphire and silver, to match her husband’s crown. Instead of looking at the crowd, she looked at him as she sipped the mirovur that had been offered to them. On the lower steps of the dais, on a simple stool, sat Lalwen. Maitimo’s stomach clenched as he looked at her, but her eyes were turned towards her father and her mother, with whom she was speaking in low tones, and she did not seem to notice his gaze. Her black hair was unbound like her father’s, and she wore an unadorned silver circlet and gray robes like her father’s, only simpler. 

“Atarnésa Lalwen looks unusually stern today. Do you not think so?” 

Maitimo jumped in his seat and looked around to see who had spoken. Oh, only Findekáno, he realized. He had not actually heard his cousin speak since Findekáno was presented to their grandfather, and then his voice had been high-pitched, babyish, and stumbling. Now, it was deep, sure and clear. His features, once very round, had become sharper and more defined with age and fitness, and though he appeared no taller than Lalwen, he must have begun training at arms, for the lean muscles of his chest and shoulders were visible, even in his deep blue robes. His hair was dark, about the same color as Makalaurë’s, though not black, and gathered into many thick plaits, but his eyes were deep gray, like Finwë’s. 

Blessed be that Atar did not command me to wear so many braids, Maitimo thought, and he decided that he should respond. 

“Hm? I suppose. But then she always looks stern and severe until you speak with her,” Maitimo replied casually. He knew that Lalwen spent more time with Ñolofinwë and his family than she did with Fëanáro, Nerdanel, and their brood, but Maitimo and his brothers still saw her often when they visited their grandfather’s palace and his various retreats. Still, Fëanáro rarely visited when the sons of Indis were present, and Maitimo had only paid attention to his half-uncles before. 

Findekáno laughed. “I suppose that that is so. But it is so strange to see her when she is not riding, walking, writing, or dancing.” 

“Yes, she says that you are her constant companion when she visits atartya, and then she tells me that I take care or you will replace me as her favorite,” Maitimo replied. 

“I am afraid that I have the advantage over you there, Araninyo Maitimo. Everyone knows that she loves my father best,” Findekáno replied, and then he put his hand over his mouth. “I mean…Nelyafinwë. Oh, I should not have said that. I know that I should not be so familiar, but she always uses your amilessë when she speaks of you. Most people do now, including the nerí in the training hall–-they speak of your prowess with the blunted sword…But anyway…They seem to think that you prefer it, your amilessë, that is. She does the same with your brothers. And…about atartya…of course, she loves all of hanóryar…” 

Maitimo laughed aloud, so loudly that it drew the attention of onlookers, but he ignored their gazes. This would please his grandfather at least. Quietly, he said, “You have given no offense, Findekáno. You only spoke the truth. Lalwen does love atartya best of all of hanóryar. And you may call me by my amilessë. That is what most of onóronyar and málonyar, and you are onóronya.” 

Findekáno relaxed, and he murmured his thanks. Before Maitimo could reply, he caught sight of Lalwen arising from her stool on the dais. “Quendi!” she cried out, her voice high and clear. “Atarinya Finwe Ñoldóran welcomes you here to present the newest members of his family. He bids me to inform you that, in this past year, into his house have been born four yondor.” 

Then Finwë’s chief herald cried, “Aranion Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion and Nerdanel Mahtaniel Aulefindil, come into court and present your son!” His parents strode in, with Morifinwë walking between them. He had begun to walk only two months prior, and he had used what speech he had to demand that he walk and introduce himself rather than be carried once he had finally understood what was expected of him on this day. That meant that Nerdanel and Maitimo had spent much of the past six-days occupied with coaching his steps and speech so that he would acquit himself well. It had been no easy task with a babe as quick to anger and to offended tears as Moryo was, but at least he seemed ready to acquit himself. Around him, Maitimo heard murmurs of approval. 

“Their sons all grow strong and fast.”

“Such sure steps for one so young.” 

"Fëanáro dazzles as always!” 

“Nerdanel looks uncommonly beautiful.” 

(Maitimo chafed at that last one, for he had thought his mother the most beautiful nís in all of Eä since he understood what beauty was, but he had to acknowledge that his father’s efforts had shown her features and figure to its best advantage. The way that her forelocks framed her face both softened and enhanced her sculpted, slightly square features, and her apple-green and russet-colored robes fit her closely and beautifully.) 

Fëanáro and Nerdanel knelt before the dais, as did Lalwen, and Fëanáro nudged his youngest forward. Moryo’s steps slowed, but he continued his walk without stumbling. Finwë tapped Lalwen on the shoulder, and she walked down to take her nephew’s hand and guide him up. Moryo showed her hand away, and she laughed loudly, encouraging the crowd to laugh with her. 

Finwë laughed loudest of all and ask, “What are you called, inyo-inya?” 

Maitimo had blessedly been able to explain the formalities of the ceremony to Moryo, who did not understand why he had to introduce himself to Haru, who already knew what his ataressë, and his brother replied, clearly and without stumbling, “I am Morifinwë, Noldóran-inya,” and he sunk to one knee with all the childlike grace that a tiny nér who had been born near the beginning of this year could muster.  

“And well-named you are!” cried Finwë. “Now, allow yeldinya Írimë to bring you to your seat with atartya and amiltya. Curufinwë, Nerdanel, you have done well. Come, sit at my right hand.” 

Maitimo felt Findekáno tense up beside him. He must have realized that this would mean that he would be sitting close to his fearsome half-uncle. Taking pity on his cousin, he leaned in and whispered, “Be calm. He will not burn you in Finwë’s hall.” 

Findekáno’s full lips quirked into a smile, and he finally reached for their shared cup of mirovur. 

***

The feast passed in peace. Fëanáro barely acknowledged his eldest son or his eldest brother’s eldest son, as he had become engrossed in a conversation with Finwë about his latest project in the forge. Nerdanel too was preoccupied, although her focus was on Moryo and the Ñoldor who came up to praise his performance. His brother slunk lower and lower into his seat and his brows furrowed more and more as every visitor came to command his attention, and Maitimo suspected that Nerdanel would soon have to retire to their chambers in the palace to allow herself and her youngest son some rest. 

Meanwhile, Findekáno had begun to talk to him again. 

“Tell me, Nelya…I mean, Maitimo…is it true that your father intends for you and your brothers to compete in the melée rather than the joust?” Findekáno asked him in between mouthfuls of food, which he ate quite eagerly. 

“It depends on what we find ourselves most skilled in and take the most satisfaction in,” he replied. “But yes, I believe that I will prefer something that feels more like a real battle.” Of course, it was not a true battle, for they fought with blunted weapons, but the illusion and the pageantry satisfied the Ñoldor immensely, most of all Maitimo himself.

Findekáno’s thick brows furrowed, and he asked, “Do you not appreciate the horsemanship of the joust? There will be no need for battle here, and my tutors say that the joust requires more skill.” 

Maitimo disagreed with that last point, but he replied tactfully. “You know how our people enjoy reenacting the glorious battle of Tulkas and his Mair against Melkor and his fell followers. That is what intrigues me. Besides, the melée requires more strategy, and I have three younger brothers now. If I am to manage them all, I have to maintain my skills at fighting many foes.” 

And it will be awkward practicing at the joust with our chief roquen, he thought, and he glanced nervously around for Lalwen, who had moved from her stool on the dais to sit beside Findis and Vorondil. Because of Vorondil’s position as a guard in his good-father’s house, they were seated further than Finwë’s three sons and their wives. Maitimo cursed his fell fortune when he saw that Lalwen was thoroughly preoccupied with her youngest nephew, a golden-haired babe-in-arms named Laurefindelë. I just want to be done with this matter.

Findekáno laughed again. “You will have to tell me what it is like.” 

“What ‘what’ is like?” Maitimo asked. Findekáno’s laugh was pleasant and had calmed his nerves, but he had forgotten what he said. 

“What having so many brothers is like. Turukáno can barely walk and speak, and I think that I should be prepared,” Findekáno explained. He frowned and asked, “Are you well? You seem preoccupied. Did I offend?”

“No, no,” Maitimo said quickly, and his smile came more easily. “Do not be so tense. I will not burn you either.”

“Will you talk with me more though? We are onóror, and I think that we could be málor too. Atarinya speaks highly of you, and I would like to know you, now that you are grown and I am so near to it.” 

Maitimo’s eyes darted to Fëanáro, who had still not ceased speaking to his own father, and he decided to answer. Findekáno was right. He was a grown nér. His father trusted him to go to the Falmari by the end of this year, and his grandfather saw him as an adequate substitute for Arawfinwë and Eärwen, who were now preoccupied with parenthood.  He could make his own decisions about who his friends would be. He was surprised to hear that Ñolofinwë, with whom he rarely interacted, thought well of him, but if that was so–and Findekáno seemed incapable of lying or even being tactful and discreet, so it must be–then there was nothing to stop him from learning to know his cousins better. Perhaps they did not speak correctly, but it could do no harm. It would be good for him to have friends, particularly ones who would not be a danger to him and to whom he would not be a danger.

“I would like that,” he said, but before their conversation could continue further, Finwë arose and ordered the tables cleared for dancing. Nerdanel took that opportunity to make her excuses and absent herself to the Fëanarion quarters with Moryo. Fëanáro too excused himself to follow her. (Maitimo suspected that he had noticed Moryo growing surly with Nerdanel.) Ainarë, Eärwen, and Findis left with their babes as well, and Lalwen made her way around the tables and over to him. 

Maitimo gulped, wondering if this was to be it, but Lalwen merely declared, “I shall dance with you first, Maitimo. You are the only nér here tall enough to not make me look ridiculous.” That was not true, but Maitimo was still grateful. He enjoyed dancing, but at the moment, he was too preoccupied to feign interest in his partners beyond the dance. With his aunt, he would not have to appear romantically inclined. 

“You flatter me, Lalwen,” he replied, “but I will partner with you.” 

Alas, he did not enjoy the dance for long. When he had come back to her a second time, she had evidently decided that it was time for her to make her excuses. 

“I am sorry to have made you suffer in anticipation for so long,” she whispered in his ear. “Follow my lead on the next leap, and we will be able to retreat to my rooms without arousing suspicion.” 

Maitimo had no idea what she was planning, but he lifted her up and brought her down. Then Lalwen, normally so graceful, artfully turned her ankle and collapsed the floor. 

***

“Did you really need to make me carry you all the way back to your chambers?” Maitimo asked after he had set her down at last in her drawing room and she had locked the door. He waited for her answer as she set in place the enchantments that kept sound from traveling outside of the walls. 

“Well, we had to make it convincing,” she said with a shrug. “Findekáno wanted to care for me himself, dear boy–I think that he may be cross with you for dropping me–and Atya wanted to send a healer. You had to do it to convince them that you could handle me without dropping me a second time.” 

“I did not drop you! You clearly missed your footing!” he protested. “First you make me wait this entire six-days, not knowing what it is you want to say and fearing what it may be, and now you let me take the blame for your performance.” 

Lalwen’s face turned serious, and she took her seat on the couch. 

“Sit across me, hánoyonya,” she said. Maitimo obeyed. Before he could open his mouth, she spoke again. “I want to promise you some things before we begin. Firstly, I will take the blame for my feigned fall, and atartya will doubtless ensure that I do if my own efforts are insufficient. But more importantly…I swear to you, by Ilúvatar Himself, that I will never speak a word to anyone, save you, of what we discuss here.” 

“Not even your father?” Maitimo asked. She had sworn by Ilúvatar, but still, he could not be too cautious. 

“By Ilúvatar, not even my father.” 

“Even if he asks? Or commands you? Or tries to guess?’

“By Ilúvatar, I will lie and deceive and evade as need be, and he will believe me, for he always does.” 

So, it is what I suspected, he thought. Lalwen’s oaths should have reassured him, but the weight had not lifted from his chest. The feasting and talks with Findekáno and Moryo’s good performance had relaxed him, but the anxiety that had built within him over the past six-days was back in full force. 

“Now, swear to me that you will not interrupt me until I have finished my opening,” Lalwen said. “It is important that you hear it all. I do not want to scold you, judge you, or hurt you. I want to help you.” 

“I swear it,” he said, for he knew that it was better to hear what she knew and what she suspected so that he did not reveal more than he needed to. Besides, she did not require him to invoke the name of the All-Father, so it was a minor oath to make and keep. 

Lalwen sighed, and she reached forward and took his hands in hers. Her gaze was on him, but he did not meet her eyes.

“I have loved you your whole life. You are as dear to me as my own child would be, and I want to protect you from the scorn of others as I would protect my own child.” She breathed in deeply and released his hands. She stood, forcing Maitimo to look up at her, and she began to pace, wringing her hands as she spoke. 

“Atarinya was born beside Cuiviénen, and when he led his people to Aman, he ensured that many of their earliest writings traveled with them. As his scribe, I have had the task of organizing those, and as an unwed, childless nís with an eternity to serve, I have had time to read much and learn much.” She paused again in front of him. 

“Your tutors have doubtless told you that Manwë and Varda revealed to the Eldar the truth of marriage and the truth of Ilúvatar’s will for his firstborn. You have heard it said that nér shall wed nís and that to make that union, they need only to will and join together in puhta, and that this form of union alone is a true marriage that pleases Ilúvatar, for only this form of union can bring forth children and that this creative power is the highest form of expression for Ilúvatar’s love for his firstborn.” Maitimo would have interrupted her then had he not sworn otherwise, for he knew this well and he heard it often enough and it pained him more every time. 

“Yet in the beginning, it was not so,” Lalwen pronounced. “I know that few amongst the Vanyar or the Ñoldor speak of what occurred beside lake Cuivienén before the coming of Oromë or the instruction of Manwë and Varda. But from what I have read, many of the Quendi coupled without a will to marry and that some parted and found new lovers and that were even children who came forth to parents who parted from one another. This behavior on its own quickly fell out of fashion, at least the parting of parents after the birth of a child, for the creation of a new hröa for a new fëa creates bonds that are not easily broken. Some néri and níssi continued to couple with many before they chose the one to whom they would bind themselves. And even after the coming of Oromë, some néri continued to couple with each other and wed, and some níssi did the same, even those who made the journey with him.”

Maitimo finally met her eyes. His anxiety gave way to curiosity, for his tutors had never specified what acts took place in Cuivienén before Oromë met them. He had suspected much of what Lalwend had revealed, knowing what he did about what some néri still did, even amongst the Ñoldor, but he did not know that such things had continued to happen openly on the journey. 

“I see that you are surprised to hear of that.”

“Did Oromë not object?” Maitimo asked. 

“From what I have read and from what some of Oromë’s Maiar have told me, he did not, for Oromë is a hunter, familiar with all of the wild creatures, and he knew that the beasts might mate male and male or female and female. He saw no harm in allowing the Eldar to do the same, for if it were forbidden, why would Eru allow such doings amongst any of his blessed creation? For what purpose would he allow love to flourish there if it were against his will?” 

“But Manwë and Varda…” Maitimo began, and Lalwen interrupted. 

“Manwë and Varda know more of Ilúvatar’s will than any of the other Valar, but they do not know all. This has led to disagreements amongst the Valar, from what some of the Maiar  have said. Yavanna, Vanna, Nessa, and Ulmo saw no harm in such weddings, for they were more concerned with nature than with the heavens, and they were glad to see Ilúvatar’s firstborn be gladdened by all forms of love. But Manwë and Varda were so amazed at the power of the Quendi to bring forth life that they would only recognize the marriages of néri and níssi. They thought that the yére between two néri or two níssi was a product of Melkor’s marring of the world. Not all Valar agreed, but the Ñoldor and the Vanyar, who harken to their words, have gone farther than even Manwë and Varda.” 

Maitimo shuddered, and Lalwen quickly assured him, “But the Falmari, who are closest to Ulmo and worship Eru alone do not see things that way. There is more freedom in Alqualondë. Not all save their yére for marriage or reserve it for only one, and some néri or níssi might even wed in open secret, swearing vows to Ulmo instead of Manwë and Varda, and the Falmari believe that Ulmo hears and accepts them. They know that the marriages that they make will last until the end of all things, unless both of them forswear it, and they believe that it is better to let their youths understand themselves in every way before they wed. They say that nothing natural is shameful.” 

Maitimo stayed silent for a long time, staring at his hands and trying to formulate a response. He had not expected this. He had not planned for this. Did Lalwen mean to give him hope or comfort? Did she mean to encourage him to seek a veru in secret amongst the Falmari? Did she think that he would forsake his house and his mother and his father and his brothers for this? Why should it matter to him what the lesser Valar thought when Manwë and Varda condemned him, when the people of both Finwë and Ingwë would condemn him even more harshly if he did such a thing? His fingers curled into fists before his eyes, and he realized that his breathing had become shallow. 

“You may speak,” Lalwen said softly.

“Why did you tell me this?” he demanded. Those were all he could muster, and he found that he was on his feet, towering over his half-aunt yet feeling smaller than Moryo. He was shaking uncontrollably, and he did not know why. 

“Be at peace,” Lalwen murmured, in a tone that he had never heard her take before. Something in her cadence reminded him of the voice that his father used with him and his brothers when they would not obey him, but her tone was soft and warm rather than firm and cold. Normally, he could partially resist the temptation to obey that tugged at him when he heard that kind of voice, but he felt too weak and wrung out in that moment. He relaxed and sat back down, slumping low into his chair. He still felt numb, but he knew that the shaking had stopped and his fists had unclenched. 

Lalwen sat across from him and murmured in the same cadence, “Look at me, and remember what I swore to you at the beginning of this. I love you, and I am here to offer comfort and guidance.”

Maitimo did as she bade, but he brought his right hand to his forehead, partially shielding his gaze. Her deep gray eyes had become uncommonly bright, as though they had somehow caught Telperion’s light, and it hurt to look too long. 

“What do you know?” he asked hoarsely. 

“About you? I only suspect things, but I do not believe that I am wrong. When Anarcalin followed you out the stable six days past, I saw how he looked at you. I may be an unwed and childless nís, but I know what a nér’s yére looks like. You were much more discreet, but I saw the panic in your eyes when you saw what I saw. And having seen that, I looked at you more closely, and I saw how ill at ease you were. I knew enough to guess at what that meant…”

“How?” Maitimo asked. 

Lalwen shrugged, and for the first time since she had begun this conversation, she smiled. “I am unwed and childless, but that does not mean that I am a true wendë. Atarinya will shut his eyes to many things as long as I do not form the will to wed a nér powerful and highborn enough to challenge yondoryar for the position of Noldóran, if that day ever comes. I will have no yondor to challenge the yondor of hánonyar, so it matters little what I do.” 

“With any níssi?” he asked. She was sharing so much that he felt bold enough to take the chance. 

“A few times when I visited the Falmari with Arafinwë when he courted Eärwen. It was sweet but not satisfying,” she said with yet another shrug. “And so I find a nér here and there who can satisfy me, and that is all that I allow it to be. I am wed only to the house of Finwë.” 

“And what do you want me to do?” he asked. Lalwen’s voice had returned to his usual cadence, and some of his anger and frustration was coming back. He knew that he was not wroth with her, but that did not change his general feelings. 

“I cannot tell you that. That is for you to decide. I only wish to give you a path forward. You must know that it is too great a risk to continue your explorations in Fëanáro’s house. I know that some of the younger Ñoldor see it as meaningless exploration, a substitute or practice for a proper marriage. They think it something shameful and secret but view it as a minor offense that need not harm them later. But Fëanáro does not see it that way, nor do most of his followers. And whichever of those two views your companions in Fëanáro’s house take, it may hurt you.”

“I broke it off with Anarcalin. And besides….what if that is all that it is for me?” Maitimo asked, and Lalwen raised an eyebrow at him. She clearly did not believe him, but she answered with surprising tact. 

“Then your way forward will be much easier,” she said. “But still, if you wish to explore and understand, do so amongst the Falmari. It will be more secret there, and you can even try fumbling with a more experienced and more open nís if you like.” 

“How can it be secret with my hair and height?” Maitimo asked. Am I really considering following her counsel? he asked himself. 

Lalwen stood up and walked across the drawing room to her bedchamber. “Give me a moment, please,” she said, and she disappeared through the doors. A minute later, she reemerged, carrying two necklaces–rough cut emeralds, so flawed that Maitimo could spot the inclusions from his seat, attached to undyed leather strings. Lalwen handed him one and kept the other for herself. 

“I have recently befriended one of Mahtan’s onóror,” she began, as though that explained anything. “These are ugly, but their enchantment is powerful, woven deep into every flaw. If you visualize another person in your mind and put this on, you will take on the guise of that individual, with a few minor changes to features and coloring so that you will not be able to impersonate them. Like so.” Lalwen's brow furrowed, and her lips pursed as though she were concentrating hard. Then she slipped the string over her head, and as the emerald settled around her neck, she began to change. His anxiety forgotten, Maitimo stared at her. This seemed like marvelous spellcraft woven into such a flawed piece, and he marveled at it. His father had never devised something like this, and he wondered if the flaws of the gems were necessary to the success of such an enchantment. 

Within half a minute, another nís stood before Maitimo. She was still as tall and slender as Lalwen was, but her body and her features seemed softer, less lean and sharp, and her hair was now the same golden-blonde shade as Findis’ and Indis’. However, she did not look exactly like either nís, merely like one of Indis’ many cousins. 

Marvelous, indeed. I wish that I could tell Atar, but that would defeat the purpose of this. Maitimo winced as he realized that he was so close to taking Lalwen’s counsel, as mad as it was. Yet this is less mad that what you have already done, he reasoned. 

“You see?” Lawlen asked. Her voice was different too, higher and quicker. Maitimo nodded, and she took the necklace off, shattering the glamor immediately. 

“You can work on your new form as much as you want to,” she added. 

Maitimo stared down at the ugly necklace in his lap, and he asked again, “What is the point of this?”

“To help you decide what life you want for yourself,” Lalwen said. His lips curled downward into a frown, and his frustration at her naivety returned. Lalwen must have noticed, for she began to speak quickly again. “I mean…to decide if you want to or if you even can marry according to the way of Manwë and Varda.” 

“And what if I cannot?” Maitimo asked, and he chided himself for how angry his voice was. He knew that Lalwen meant him well, and she had been far kinder than he had expected. “What if I find that I can only want…what I cannot have, being who I am?” His tone was gentler now, but his thoughts were racing again. He had come here expecting to convince her that she was wrong, but she had disarmed him so thoroughly that he had confessed everything and was now accepting her help in lying with other néri. 

“Perhaps my fëa does burn too hotly, perhaps Atya is right when he says that the fire between two néri can only bring destruction, not creation, and the two níssi will not make a fire hot to forge anything, for I am mad to consider this, yet…” He spoke aloud but so quietly that he was not sure that his half-aunt could hear him. His voice was quavering now, and his eyes were blinking too quickly, and he could see droplets of water landing on his fingers. Now I am weeping like Moryo, he chided himself. The reminder that his father believed that his inner nature would lead only destruction stung his heart, even though his father had never been cruel to him. But he would be cruel if he knew. That was what stung and what fueled his darkest fears and nightmares. 

He heard Lalwen’s sigh, and she reached forward to place her hand on his shoulder. The touch burned him, and he realized glumly how cold and clammy he had become. “I have never seen a Ñoldo, Vanya, or Falmar whose fëa burns as hot as the fëa of atartya, yet he has four sons and will likely have more, and I do not believe that he has ever desired any but Nerdanel. And what he says is ridiculous. Just because a love cannot bring forth children does not mean that it is wrong. There are many néri and níssi here who wed but do not choose to create new life.”  

He let out a bitter laugh that shook his shoulders, and he shuddered as the movement of it dislodged more tears. His voice shook as he said, “Of course. I should remember that Atya surpasses us all, even in burning.” 

Lalwen laughed, the sound as bitter as his own, but she did not speak for a while. He then felt a cloth dabbing at his face and around his eyes, and he realized that she had fetched a handkerchief to dry his tears. He opened his eyes and saw her kneeling before him. He caught her wrist and took the cloth from her. 

“I have not become so pathetic that you need to soothe me like a babe,” he said, but he knew that was a lie and that she did too. Still, she continued with her uncharacteristic tact. 

“Of course,” she said softly. “But I want to. You are not the first nér or nís whom I have had to soothe over heartbreak.” 

“But I am not heartbroken. I felt no love for him. I think that I was even a bit cruel to him, using him…” Maitimo protested, and he found himself weeping more over guilt. I should have never accepted. It was folly, and now… 

“You can be heartbroken over your situation,” she replied. “Besides, I do not believe that he loved you either. So, do not judge yourself harshly for that either.” 

Maitimo shook his head, but he agreed with her. “You are right. But I know so little. We only…”

“You don’t need to tell me,” Lalwen said quickly, and Maitimo caught himself. 

“It was so little that it will not offend you,” he said just as hastily. “But…how will I even know what to do if I follow your mad plan?” 

“I have some old texts from Cuiviénen that can help you,” she said. 

“Blessed Ulmo, you are mad…” he muttered, and he set the handkerchief aside. “I cannot live as you suggest for forever.” 

Lalwen sighed. “Perhaps, perhaps not. But I am not proposing a plan for forever. Use your post to understand your feelings more clearly. It is doubtful that you will fall in love, and if you do, I will help do all in my power to help you. And if you never fall in love and never want to wed, then that will not be too terrible. Our kind can take many ages to find a veru or veri, and Fëanáro will only have the best for his eldest. You can put him off as long as you need to, and it does not matter if you never have a child. You have hánor aplenty, and they do not seem unmoved by the pretty níssi. Lauro seemed rather enchanted by Tindalaurëa when he saw her…”

“You should not encourage that!” Maitimo said, cutting her off. “A Vanya nís!” He recognized the irony of his objections as soon as he heard them, and they both laughed. 

“Atar-rya is a Ñoldo. Amil-rya is one of Indis’ many cousins,” Lalwen said. “And besides, I only mention it to prove my point true. Fëanáro and Nerdanel can rely on Makalaurë and Tyelkormo and the new babe for inyor in time. And doubtless, they will have more babes in the year to come.” 

Maitimo sighed, and in spite of himself, he felt relieved. He did not know if Lalwen could really help him if he ever fell in love with one unsuitable, but Finwë did love her and take her counsel, and Indis might even lend him her aid, if only to take some small revenge against Fëanáro for his insults to her and her brood. And even if this plan would not help him for eternity, it was still a better plan than whatever he had been doing before. 

“Thank you, Lalwen,” he said, and he meant it sincerely. “Now..about that text…” He flushed involuntarily, and Lalwen laughed. That made him flush more, but before she could go to fetch it, a knock interrupted them.

“Lalwen? Lalwen? Are you well? Do you need anything for your ankle? Haru is worried.”
            “Ai, Findekáno! He clucks over me too much,” she said with a sigh. “You look properly composed. If he notices that you had been weeping, we can tell him that you felt misplaced guilt over my clumsiness and that I had to comfort you. Now, let us pretend that you have been tending to my hurts. I’ll give you the texts before you and your family depart.”