I own nothing.

Even an exiled Prince and his self-exiled father the King needed to relay messages to the place they had been exiled from, from time to time. Tyelkormo would not, and the four youngest followed his example. Maitimo would have, gladly, but it wasn't fitting for the exiled Prince's eldest son to behave contrary to his father, and there were other reasons, reasons that Makalaurë suspected, but Maitimo would not confide in him. That left the second son, acting as messenger for his father and grandfather, for Fëanáro would trust few but his sons to relay messages and letters, and this left Finwë little choice either.

Himself, Makalaurë was always happy to make the journey from Formenos to Tirion, no matter in what capacity. The time away from home had taken its toll on them all, and any excuse to return to the city of his birth, he would take. It was only Fëanáro who had been exiled, not him, even if the presence of the High Prince's second son was not welcomed by all in the city.

There was a routine that Makalaurë would follow when he came to Tirion, acting as messenger on behalf of Fëanáro the High Prince and Finwë the King. First, he would visit his mother, to see her, to give her any letters his brothers, wife, or sister-in-law might have written for her (Fëanáro had little to nothing to say to his estranged wife these days).

Then, he would deliver whatever message his father or grandfather had sent him to Tirion to deliver. If it was from Finwë to Nerdanel, that at least meant that he would have one less thing to do while in the city. If the letter, or letters, was from Fëanáro, it was usually meant for one or more of the craftsmen in the city, and thus, Makalaurë would spend a great deal of his time wandering the streets of Tirion, trying to find homes and shops and people. Just as Fëanáro never wrote to his wife, neither did Finwë to his, and it made Makalaurë uncomfortable to see the way Indis's face would fall when Nerdanel received letters, but she did not. But at times, the letter or letters were from Finwë to his second son, dealing with the governing of the Noldor, or in response to letters Nolofinwë had sent to him.

After Makalaurë had delivered whatever letters he'd been sent here to relay, and after he'd paid the proper respects to his uncle the Regent, then, it would be time to make the rounds. First to Nolofinwë's home, then to Arafinwë's. Then to Aunt Lalwen's, then finally to Nerdanel, Indis and Findis. To those places, he would go, to see if any who lived there had messages they wished to convey to Formenos. Arafinwë never did. Neither did Lalwen, nor Indis or Findis. Nerdanel gave letters only to her sons, and Nolofinwë only to his father. But the children of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë, they often had more to say.

Sitting beneath a tree outside of Nolofinwë's house, that was where Makalaurë was now, sitting in the shade of the tree and the shade of the wall, waiting for Findekáno and Irissë to finish their letters. The sky was gray, and heavy, so heavy that it half-obscured Laurelin's light, obscured the stars. It would rain soon.

As though to give confirmation to Makalaurë's thoughts, a roll of thunder boomed in the sky over his head. He looked upwards, and sighed.

It was a strange, foreign thought, the idea that Tirion, his home, the place where he had been born, had become a place that he only visited, and did not live in. Makalaurë had followed his father into exile, willingly, without having to be asked (though he knew that it would have been expected of him, without having to ask), and thus, Tirion had become a place he visited, rather than home. And while most of the city consisted of Noldor loyal to his father, his own family looked at him as though they didn't know what to make of him, or his presence here. Whether they should welcome him, or wonder why the son of the exile was here.

That was how it seemed like, and Makalaurë did not see how he would endure seven more years of that. It was only five years into Fëanáro's twelve-year exile, and Makalaurë did not see how he would endure seven years more. The passage of years was not supposed to lie heavily upon the Quendi. It was supposed to flow like water, easy and unencumbered. But these past five years had been grueling, listening to his father rant, watching his family grow strained and quiet. Seven more years of that?

The faint words were out of Makalaurë's mouth, as was so often the case, before he really noticed that he was singing. He sat in the muggy heat of summer, beneath a tree, a wall and a gloomy sky, and sang in a faint, almost quavering voice, sang about nothing in particular, really. It was just a string of words that happened to make a song. Maybe a child's lullaby, even.

His eyes were half shut and he was halfway to sleep. Makalaurë didn't hear the tiny footfalls, the telltale sound of someone approaching him. He was unaware, until a small hand touched his own.

Makalaurë was brought back to himself abruptly, voice dying down. He tilted his head downwards, to the left, to see who had approached him. There stood a tiny girl-child, with pale yellow, nearly white hair, pale blue eyes and bare feet, dressed in blue and silver. She stared at him curiously, clearly thinking him a stranger, and Makalaurë smiled. He had a feeling he knew who this was. All the same…

"Why, hello little one. Who are you?"

At this greeting, the little girl smiled. "I'm Itarillë!" she chirped, cocking her head to the left a bit.

So I am right. "Itarillë… And are your parents Turukáno and Elenwë?"

She giggled. "Yes. Who are you?"

"Why, I am your cousin, little one!"

At this, Itarillë's open, happy expression turned uncertain. "But… I've never seen you before," she said doubtfully, looking at him as though she thought he might turn dangerous. Like he might pull a sword on her, the way his father had pulled a sword on her grandfather.

Makalaurë opened his mouth to protest, But yes, you have seen me before, but nothing came out. He remembered the day of Itarillë's birth, Nolofinwë's first grandchild and Finwë's first great-grandchild. Makalaurë had gone to see her with some of his brothers; she had been such a pretty baby, so bright and alert. Then, he remembered. Itarillë had been naught but four months old when Fëanáro was exiled to Formenos, and his father, sons and daughter-in-law all went with him. Itarillë did not remember him.

It should not be this way.

"We have seen each other before, Itarillë," he told her gently. "You were very small when we met, and I moved away not long afterwards; I suppose you would not remember me. My name is Makalaurë. I am the son of your grandfather's brother, Fëanáro."

Makalaurë watched as, one by one, the pieces fell into place in her mind—it was all an open show on Itarillë's round face. Her eyes lit up. "I remember! Uncle Finno talks about you sometimes. You have lots of brothers, don't you?"

Back in safer waters, Makalaurë was able to summon a smile to his face. "Yes, little cousin. I have six brothers." More than any Quendë in Aman, he thought, but did not say.

Without prompting or asking, Itarillë clambered up into his lap with the implicit trust of a small child, among kin, or even among kin whom she did not know. She chattered brightly about things she was sure he must not know, since he lived so far away. Engagements and marriages and oh, did you know, Great-Grandmother is teaching me how to dance? Makalaurë wrapped his arm about her middle so she wouldn't fall off, and listened. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips, steadily evening out. It should not be this way.

Itarillë lapsed into silence, having run out of words, and Makalaurë lifted his head and sang again. Songs with less strength than the nearly nonexistent breeze they were, lullabies, children's songs, old love ballads, but Itarillë hummed along when he touched on a tune she knew. She drifted off to sleep after a few minutes, done in by the stifling heat and humidity, her pale-haired head lolling back on his chest. Makalaurë sung nonetheless, hoping that he would at least be able to ensure that she met with peaceful dreams.

Now, if only he—

"Itarillë? Itarillë, where have you gone?" came a frantic cry from within the house. Then… "Oh, Itarillë, there you are!" Suddenly, Elenwë was standing across the lawn, pressing her hands into her blue skirt.

Makalaurë found himself drawn out of his near-stupor yet again, and for the first time it occurred to him to think, really think about this situation. Turukáno had little love for Fëanáro or his sons, especially not now that his own father had found his life threatened. Makalaurë wasn't here looking to spark tensions, but he knew that they could be sparked unintentionally. The best thing to do is just hand her back to Elenwë, get Findekáno and Irissë's letters and leave.

Makalaurë hoisted his small cousin into his arms as he stood, and quickly crossed the lawn to where Elenwë was standing. Amazingly, Itarillë did not wake when he stood, nor when she was transferred from his arms to her mother's. "Forgive me, Elenwë," he said quickly, "I did not mean to cause you any distress."

To his relief, she only smiled gratefully at having her daughter back where she could see her. "No, not at all. Thank you for looking after Itarillë, Makalaurë. I was afraid she had run off somewhere." She must have been drawn outside by the sound of his singing, Makalaurë realized, and he resisted the urge to grimace. Elenwë looked up at him, brow furrowed. "I hope she wasn't bothering you."

"She wasn't any trouble. Itarillë's a sweet child."

"Yes, she is."

They stood in silence. Makalaurë lifted a hand, to do what, he didn't know—maybe stroke the sleeping child's hair—but it fell back to his side limply.

Elenwë was someone he had known since early childhood. Granted, he had not known her well. Makalaurë had known Elenwë first as his step-grandmother's lady in waiting, and then as his cousin's wife. But he had always known her; she had always been a part of his life, even if not at the forefront of it. Thanks to his correspondence with Elemmírë, Makalaurë probably had more contact with the Vanyar than any of his brothers, and had not soaked up their father's opinions of the Quendi of Oiolossë as some of his brothers had done. He knew Elenwë to be kind and friendly. He had always liked her.

But she was giving him that look, that narrow-eyed, uncertain look, that so many of his other kin had given him this day in the city. Was she the same as them, then, wondering if Makalaurë was still the same as they remembered, or if he had grown like his father, if he had grown bitter in exile?

"How is Ilmanis?"

Makalaurë stared at her unsteadily, not answering Elenwë right away; of all the questions she could have asked, that was not the one he was expecting.

Elenwë must have assumed that he wasn't listening, for she repeated herself, a bit more loudly this time, "Your wife, Makalaurë. How is she?"

Still a little thrown, Makalaurë could give no answer beyond, "She… she's well." Wanting to come home as badly as he was. Last month, when it had been five years to the day that Fëanáro was exiled, he and Ilmanis had actually had the conversation, five years to the day. Seven years to go. It feels as though it will never end.

"And Curufinwë's wife, what was her name, Telpalma?"

Makalaurë nodded. "Yes, Telpalma is her name. She is doing well. Expecting, actually."

Elenwë's eyes lit with interest to be given this piece of information. "Oh? How far along is she, do you know?"

"The midwife said she would have her baby some time next spring."

"And she is well? She's not having any trouble?"

"Not that I know of."

A thoughtful look came over Elenwë's face. "If you will tarry here a little, Makalaurë, I could write down some advice for you to give her."

"Thank you, Elenwë. I'm sure she'll appreciate it." Makalaurë did not mention that Nerdanel and Indis had both already done the same thing, and that he was in fact carrying the letters that they had written for Telpalma's benefit. Perhaps Elenwë would be able to provide some fresh insight that his mother and step-grandmother had missed, and Makalaurë did not wish for the easy atmosphere that had risen around them to dissipate.

Something of a smile rose on Elenwë's lips. "And I don't suppose that you and Ilmanis have managed to have a child and keep it a secret from the rest of us, have you?"

"No." He swallowed. "No, we have not."

Perhaps his face had fallen. Perhaps his voice had quavered. Perhaps he had done something else, and that was what Elenwë had picked up on. Any smile was driven away by the apologetic expression that stretched and strained around her jaw. She shifted Itarillë in her arms and reached out to touch Makalaurë's shoulder. "I meant nothing by it, Makalaurë," she said softly. "You understand?"

"Yes, Elenwë, I do."

They kept putting it off, the both of them, telling themselves and each other that this wasn't the time. Tirion is in turmoil, Father is unhappy. Father is rabble-rousing; he and Uncle are pitting the Noldor against one another. Father has been exiled to Formenos, and we must follow him. We do not wish to raise a child in such an environment. We want our child to grow up in a happy, untroubled home. But being around Itarillë, even if only for a short time, it reminded Makalaurë of how much he still wanted children. It should not be this way.

Elenwë's expression, half-shadowed by the gloom, was one that seemed caught halfway between hopefulness and uncertainty. "The next time…" Her voice gave away none of that, though; her voice was a study in evenness. "The next time you come to Tirion, you should stay with us. If only for a while."

Makalaurë did not mention that he was unlikely to be welcomed in this house by its master, nor by Elenwë's own husband. He did not mention what he was to every Quendë in Tirion who was loyal to Nolofinwë. He did not mention that, no matter how much he longed to go home, his wife still needed him, and that even Makalaurë could not see a way to shirk his duty to stand by his father's side. Not even one of the lesser sons could escape this fate.

He smiled, and thanked her for the offer, and was surprised to find that he was truly thankful.

Tyelkormo—Celegorm
Maitimo—Maedhros
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Makalaurë—Maglor
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin
Arafinwë—Finarfin
Findekáno—Fingon
Irissë—Aredhel
Itarillë—Idril
Turukáno—Turgon
Curufinwë—Curufin

Quendi—Elves (singular: Quendë) (Quenya)
Oiolossë—'Ever-snow-white'; the most common name amongst the Eldar for the mountain (and city of the same name, in my canon) of Taniquetil; I have, however, made it a name more commonly used by the Teleri and especially the Noldor, to explain how the Elves of Middle-Earth came to call the city by the Sindarin translation of this name, 'Amon Uilos'