Kanafinwë Makalaurë hated the cold. With a deep passion. Which was why, when he was awoken that one frigid morning when frost clung to the windows of his room, he cursed the winter months of Valinor and rolled over on his side.

Or, at least, he tried to.

He found that he could not move his head. He didn't know why. But whenever Makalaurë tried to shift, his scalp stung and burned. So, he reached up and gently felt around the top of his bed. He groaned when he found it.

His hair was knotted to his bedposts. In very purposeful knots.

"I hate the Ambarussa…" He muttered. Quickly, Fëanor's second son realized that he had no chance of freeing himself without being able to see.

"Nanna!" he called and then laid back down with a sigh. There was no answer. He tried again. "Nanna!" The door creaked open, but, as was his luck, it was not Nerdanel at the entrance. It was Maitimo. (Of course, it was Maitimo.)

"What's wro—" his question was cut off with a laugh.

"Don't mock me," Makalaurë growled.

"Of course not." His brother replied, "What happened to you?" He asked after a pause with another laugh.

"Someone tied my hair to my bedposts."

"And to your harp." Maitimo corrected.

"…What…" Makalaurë went to look, but his brother held out a hand to stop him,

"Wait, don't try to look. Here, let me help." Makalaurë buried his face in his pillow with a groan.

"Why do the Ambarussa always choose me as the target of their pranks? Why not anyone else?"

"Well," his brother's voice sounded muffled to Makalaurë's ears as he picked at the black locks of hair tangled around the wood. "Curufinwë scares them, Carnistir can plan an act of brilliant revenge, and Tyelkormo is close enough to Curufinwë that their fear of him transfers over to the third eldest."

"And what about you?"

"Me?" Maitimo laughed. "Makalaurë, they know better than to mess with me."

"Why don't they know better than to mess with me?" His brother threw back his head with a guffaw.

"You, sonda-hanno, are far too forgiving. You always acknowledge their antics with just a laugh."

"Sometimes they're funny."

"Most times they're annoying," Maitimo argued. Only a moment later, he tossed his hands in the air. "I give up. I'm going to get nanna."


Nerdanel was terrified of her sons at the moment. The Ambarussa, her nine-hundred-year olds, had the worst maniacal grins on their faces. Everyone was sitting as far away from them as physically as possible. Even so, she was making a large breakfast—well, for them, average size, as they were a family of nine—on the stove when her eldest came down. Of her sons, only Maitimo and Makalaurë weren't downstairs and she checked his name over her mental list. But it was the frown on his face that drew her attention.

"What is it, Yón?"

"Perhaps it's just better if I show you, nanna." She nodded slowly, hoping that whatever her firstborn wished to show her did not have to do with the way the Ambarussa giggled conspiring laughs behind their hands, or the way their eyes followed the two up the stairs.

To Nerdanel's surprise, Maitimo led her to Makalaurë's room, which was cracked open. And when she saw what was inside, she didn't know whether to laugh or scream. Her second eldest was in bed, with his hair tied to either his bedposts or to his harp strings, the instrument of which had been dragged across the room next to the mattress. He had his face burrowed in his pillow and made a low, groaning noise as soon as they entered the room.

"What in Eru's name happened?" she asked.

"I don't know." Makalaurë muttered, "I woke up like this." Her feet slid over the floor and she looked over the various knots, feeling a slight notion of pride. They were varied and strange ones, with difficult ones strewn into the mix. "Don't bother," Makalaurë told her, "Just cut it off." Nerdanel and Maitimo froze, looking at each other in surprise.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."


When Nerdanel and her first two sons creaked down the stairs, all conversation fell silent, all eyes were drawn to them. Makalaurë's hair, that once fallen to his ankles, was now cut to the top of his neck. And he looked thunderous.

"I need to speak to both of you, privately," he hissed into the Ambarussa's ears. They went white and stood trembling, following him out the door.

"Nanna," Tyelkormo began, "are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Oh, go look at his room," she told him offhandedly, "Your brother deserves his revenge."


The next time they saw the Ambarussa, their hair was cut to their ears. And, for reasons few understood, they keep it that length. All through the ages, the horrors they saw, even one last time for Amrod after the First Kinslaying, they would approach their second-eldest brother and have them cut their hair. It was a little memory of the past, the easier, simpler past, in which they didn't have to fight for the lives or have the Oath consume them.


"Makalaurë." Amrod called from the Healing Wing. When his brother came, the Ambarussa was sitting up in his bed. There was a knife in front of him. Maglor paused. "Would you cut my hair for me?" It was so quiet, as though he was unsure to ask. The second born picked up the blade with a smile.

"I would be honored to do so, brother."

Niquësúru, from the other room, smiled. Amrod never let anyone touch his hair. He was opening up. He was freer. Trusting.

Neither noticed the tears that slipped down the youngest of Fëanor's-still-alive-son's cheeks each time his brother hands graced his neck.