A birthday fic for Fortune Zyne! I hope you've had a fantastic day. :D
A quick word: This is set before the birth of Ambarussa.
Rain. The familiar tapping of celestial tears resumed once more, and I glanced up from my sheet of parchment, smeared with half-legible tengwar, to watch the deluge gain momentum yet again. With a superficial sigh, I turned back to my poem (to-be), skimming the words with an air of lazy detachment.
"This is going nowhere fast, Makalaurë," I murmured, using one hand to tuck the stained quill behind my ear as the other rapped the mahogany of the desk in rhythm with the veritable monsoon outside my window.
My thoughts were a thousand miles away, weaving themselves around the mountains and waterfalls of Endórë and Aman alike in hopes of rhyming the concepts in an ode to the simple beauty of this world. But there was no spark.
My smudged fingers seemingly tapped themselves, crawling in hopeless circles like the legs of some trapped black-and-white insect. Insect...! I made to disentangle the quill from my hair-
"Ahem." The pronounced clearing of a throat resonated from behind me, a lamentably audible reminder of why I Don't Like Rain: It keeps rambunctious little brothers inside the house.
"What is it, Tyelko?" I made a point out of not looking up.
"It isn't Tyelko." The younger voice was tainted by something like haughty amusement.
"Carnistir, that doesn't make me care."
I counted the ebony blots of ink on the parchment, determined not to humour him. After a week of early-summer downpours, my three younger brothers, trapped indoors, had crept several steps over the "hyperactive" line with which they typically flirted. One thing I will never comprehend is how they always managed to involve me in their plans.
The past five days had seemed to drag on in a haze of wrestling matches, failed attempts by Amme at harnessing her five sons into a workforce for household chores, avoiding metalworking lessons from Ata, serving as a target for blunt play-arrows, and (yesterday) being victimized for a practical joke, to the tune of "Let's-take-apart-'Laure's-harp-and-set-him-on-a-scavenger-hunt-to-find-the-strings." Today, I doubted my fortunes had much improved.
"Fine. Then I won't invite you to Russandol's council."
My head had swiveled in Carnistir's direction before I could stop it. "Russandol's council?"
"He says that today's important." The boy gave an emphatic shrug, displacing loose black hair from where it spilled over his shoulders. "And that he wants all of us in his bedroom to 'develop a plan of action.'" He lowered his voice the slightest bit to imitate our elder brother.
The Valar only knew what Russandol had in mind, but an invitation into his bedroom ("lair," Ata had nicknamed it) was a rare thing to receive.
"Then I guess I'm curious." With that, I smiled, flipped over the poem-in-progress (in case of its being scanned in my absence by intrigued eyes), and followed Carnistir out of the room and down the windowed corridor without.
In less than a minute, we entered "Russandol's council."
"Close the door behind you, if you don't mind," said my elder brother from his position (cross-legged) on the floor.
"I don't." I was quick to comply, seating myself on the indigo rug to complete a circle of conspirators.
Russandol's eyes sparkled as he glanced around our little ring. Tyelkormo and Curvo sat on either side of him, Tyelkormo fiddling with a loose loop of the rug's yarn, Curvo with his eyes fixed intently on Russandol, as if hoping to stare him into speech. Moryo sat with his knees drawn to his chest, arms loosely around them. He scratched idly at his foot.
"Tomorrow, as you all know," began Russandol quietly, "is Amme's begetting day." His voice was low, quiet in the most intriguing way; it compelled us every one to lean in toward him with open ears. "And Ata needs our help."
"If he needs our help, why doesn't he ask us himself?" interrupted Tyelkormo.
"Because he doesn't know he needs our help," was Russandol's amiable answer. "He needs us to" (Here he began to list the items on his fingers.) "fix a cake and to paint a banner and to clean our bedrooms and to... Yes, I think that's all."
"Clean our bedrooms...?" whined Tyelkormo and Carnistir in unison. Myself, I internally sighed, glancing around Russandol's spotless chamber glumly. He just didn't understand how it would be a difficulty.
"Oh, it won't be so bad!" replied Russandol. "We'll finish them quickly during the day, then when Ata takes Amme out after dinner (I heard him say he will today), we'll start on the fun part." He grinned. "Amme's going to love it. Now, who's in?"
~oOo~
By mid-afternoon the next day (a sunny one, for a change), our parents were gone, our bedrooms were clean, and our spirits were soaring as Curvo and I laid a plate of red and blue paint, two thick brushes, and several broad sheets of drawing paper across the dining room table.
"Ready to make this banner?" I asked my youngest brother, pulling out a chair for him to kneel on in order to reach the tabletop. (At his height, he could scarcely rest his chin on it without outside assistance.)
"I am!" he answered, and clambered up onto the chair's crimson cushion, eyes drinking in the table's contents. He looked up at me imploringly. "Will it just say 'Happy Begetting Day'?"
"If you want it to," I answered, quirking my lips upward. "Any better ideas?"
He studied the table once more and pursed his thin mouth. "How about... 'We Love You'? There'll be lots of 'Happy Begetting Day' today already."
"Sounds excellent." Almost involuntarily, I brushed a hand over his hair; he ducked away. "Let's get started!" And making my way over to our makeshift palette, I began mixing the red and blue paints into a lively violet.
In the kitchen, adjacent us, I could hear Russandol beginning to give orders: "Tyelko, flour! Carnistir, sugar and a spoon!" Things were off to an auspicious start for him, too, it seemed.
Curvo proved to have a steady hand, and if his tengwar were somewhat droopy or elongated, they were at both clear and legible. He took the central "love," and I did the pronouns. We finished the task in less than half an hour. The large, purple characters looked splendid against the white faces of the paper; we had only for them to dry.
"Well done," I said to Curvo.
"I know."
'Little Father', indeed. I only rolled my eyes, scooping up the paint-plate and pair of brushes. "Shall we see how goes the cake?"
The kitchen connected directly to the dining room, and when Curvo and I wandered in, the spacious room was a hub of activity. Russandol was meticulously measuring what looked like a tablespoon of oil. Tyelkormo was furiously stirring something beige in colour that was splattered up and down his forearms. Carnistir, holding an egg in each hand, crept gingerly from one counter toward Russandol.
"All right," the egg-bearer was saying, "I have them- no spills this time!"
"Very good," murmured Russandol. He didn't take his eyes off the oil.
"Was there a spill?" I inquired.
At that, Russandol did look up (though he had also apparently finished pouring by that point). "Just one broken egg... and we've since learned our lesson." He dumped the tablespoon's contents into Tyelkormo's mixing bowl.
I set the brushes and paint on the counter. "Is there anything left for Curvo and I to do while our banner dries?"
"Hmmm..." Russandol took the eggs from Carnistir, who breathed an immense sigh of relief at the act. He cracked them both over the bowl; Tyelkormo continued stirring; I said nothing about how Amme always added the eggs early on. "Why don't you clean your art supplies for the moment? We're almost ready to put it in the oven."
Curvo and I did as instructed, and Russandol kept to his word: the cake was soon baking. We had soon washed the dishes, wiped the counters, and swept the floor; the dessert's sweet aroma was beginning to fill the air when I began to wonder about the banner.
"Should I see if our sign is dry yet?" I asked, and to my elder brother's affirmative reply, I headed into the dining room and placed a finger on the final vowel stroke of 'you.' Dry enough. I called the others in.
"I suppose we'll nail it up?" Tyelkormo surveyed the three sheets.
Russandol nodded. "Across the entrance to the parlor, I'm imagining. On a chair, I should be able to reach it... A hammer and nails should be in Ata's workshop..." He appeared to be thinking aloud.
"I know where he keeps them," said Curvo, and he and Russandol were soon off to retrieve the tools.
To me, it only seemed logical to move the sheets out to where they would be hung. "Careful!" I warned Tyelko and Carnistir as we each gently took up a poster and headed out into the foyer. I brought in a chair for Russandol to stand on when he returned; we waited.
"The cake's starting to smell good," piped up Tyelkormo, tapping his fingers on the doorframe of the dining room and looking wistfully toward the kitchen.
"Is it vanilla?" I asked.
Carnistir and Tyelkormo nodded in unison. "We're going to give it blue icing once it's done baking," said Carnistir. "Russandol told me I could put it on."
"That's a frightening thought," muttered Tyelko.
I suppressed a knowing chuckle at the remark. "Nonsense!" I admonished him cheerily. "I'm sure it will turn out very nicely." (It seemed the big-brotherly response, at any rate.)
At that moment, Russandol and Curvo emerged into the foyer, Curvo hefting a hammer proudly from one hand to the other. "Just toss it slowly, just toss it slowly," Russandol was repeating. It sounded more like a prayer than an order.
It didn't take terribly long for him to hang the banner's pieces, us younger brothers passing him up each sheet in an unnecessarily long line from hand to hand. A few banging hammer strokes that seemed to shake the house's very foundations (and made me fear for the survival of the plaster of the walls) mounted Curvo's and my handiwork high.
All the while, the sweet smell of cake had been wafting in from the kitchen, ever stronger and more enticing. Our noses had become somewhat accustomed to the pervasive aroma, but they were called once more to vigilance by the pungent odour of Something Burning. Something being, by default, the cake.
"Russandol...?" I began. The brother in question practically leaped down from the chair, all but flinging aside the hammer to sprint through the dining room, the other four of us in hot pursuit.
He tossed open the oven, reached in a hand- I threw him a potholder just in time. When he removed the round pan, smoke emanated rapidly from its crisp, brown top. Tyelko and I coughed; Carnistir and Curvo grabbed their noses. Maitimo just stared at the metal pan morosely; his elbow rested on the counter, and his chin sank into his hand.
"Wehl?" Pinching fingers made Carnistir's voice comically nasal.
"I'm sure we have time to make a second one, don't we? They said not to expect them home until the mingling of the Lights, and it can't be later than the tenth* hour..." I attempted optimism.
"But if that gives us long enough to prepare another cake, will it give us long enough to clean up the kitchen again? Make the icing and ice the cake?" answered Russandol mournfully.
"Amd we used the lay-st of the ehgs on... thayt." Still holding his nose, Carnistir uncomfortably indicated the pan. It had finally stopped smoking.
Russandol sighed. "And if we went out to buy some more-"
"There really woulbn't me enough dime to cook amd cleam up." Curvo's fingers, too, were pinched resolutely around his nostrils.
"Yes, Curvo. Very helpful." Maitimo was applying his rarely-used "Tread-Carefully-You're-Pushing-Me-To-The-Brink" tone.
I pursed my lips and stood silent. There was no use asking what we were going to do; if Russandol had any idea, he would have been saying so.
"I guess we'll just have to throw it out and-" Two knocks on the door interrupted Tyelkormo, and his expression turned aghast. "They're home early!"
"Oh, no..." moaned Russandol, but nonetheless he began the trudge to our front-door. As ever, the other four of us were all but stepping on his heels in pursuit. There were two more knocks before we arrived. Why weren't Ata and Amme just coming on in?
I placed a hand on the doorknob when we arrived at the entrance to the house. Russandol winced and nodded to me to open it. I pulled it back, completely expecting to see the tall figures of our parents- but instead a lone figure, about my own height, stood under the portico. A lidded, circular platter was in his arms.
"My mother just wanted me to bring this cake over-" began Findekano; he didn't finish, however. Russandol rushed out the door and all but lifted him off the ground in a relieved embrace.
Grinning from ear to ear, he released our cousin. "I don't think I've ever been happier to see someone. Come in! Please!"
With that, I began to laugh.
~oOo~
When Amme returned, the first thing she saw was our banner. "'We love you,'" she read quietly, a radiant smile creeping across her face. Extending her arms, we all piled into an embrace. "I love you all more," she said.
Ata wrapped around us from beside her; that I felt more than saw. There, pressed tightly between Russandol and Tyelkormo, with Curvo and Carnistir in front of me, and with Ata and Amme's arms on my back, I finally found the needed line for my poem.
The beauty of Eru's world? This had to be its crowning jewel.
*If each day of the Trees ended at the twelfth hour, when Telperion began to wax and Laurelin to wane, the tenth hour would be sometime in the late afternoon-early evening... I believe. ;)