Consonance: A combination of notes which are in harmony with each other due to the relationship between their frequencies. From Latin consonant- 'sounding together'. (Oxford Dictionaries Online)

A/N: The first chapter takes place when Makalaurë is very young, just a pre-teen, while Tinweriel is almost of age, so the romance comes in later chapters. The Falmari = those Teleri who came to Aman.

Chosen keywords: years of the trees, romance, falling in love, music, first meeting, courtship, pining, some light humour

Characters: Maglor/Makalaurë, Tinweriel (semi-canonical character/OFC), members of their families

Warning (spoilery, unfortunately): In this fic Makalaurë is a rather persistent suitor to a woman who initially would rather just be friends. He stays within the boundaries of their mutually agreed terms, but readers who are very sensitive to situations where one person is less enthusiastic about the prospect of a romantic relationship should possibly skip this story. That being said, there is absolutely no unwanted physical contact of any kind (very little anything physical overall; the rating is accurate).


Chapter I: Dal niente – 'from nothing'

The first emotion Makalaurë ever feels towards Tinweriel is intense irritation.

He has been looking forward to this day for weeks, for today he finally gets to begin studying music under the tutelage of master Curulír, the most famous of Noldorin music tutors, renowned for his unparalleled mastery of singing as well as the new techniques of harping he has developed. He chooses his pupils carefully and never takes on anyone as young as Makalaurë, since he prefers not to have to teach any basics, but Makalaurë's precocious talent and his father's influence have won him a place in Curulír's lessons.

But the renowned master only teaches Makalaurë for a moment, checking how well he moves his fingers on the strings of his little lyre, before he moves on to another pupil and passes Makalaurë on to his assistant.

'This is Tinweriel, Canafinwë', he introduces her to him. 'She has been my student for many years and I trust her skill enough that I let her help with my younger students. She will be teaching you singing and the flute in particular, since they are her truest talents.'

Makalaurë thinks that Tinweriel looks far too young to be a proper teacher. She also looks a little familiar. He asks if she participates in court events.

'Yes I do', she replies, her voice lower than most women's but pleasing enough in Makalaurë's ears. 'My father has the honour of serving in your grandfather's court.'

'What kind of a servant is he?' Makalaurë asks.

Tinweriel's smile hardens. 'He serves king Finwë as one of his councillors, as does my grandfather who has been the king's friend ever since the Great March.'

Makalaurë notes that she doesn't address him as 'my lord' or any other appropriate title. That is acceptable from master Curulír since his great skill and fame earn him respect as much as Makalaurë's princely birth does, but he rather thinks Curulír's assistant should be more respectful. He says nothing about it though, for his mother has taught him to be more polite than he needs to be, but he makes a point of being very formal himself. He thinks he does rather well at it but Tinweriel doesn't take the hint, continuing to address him as an equal or even as a subordinate.

'Focus, Canafinwë', she admonishes him when his attention wanders to the other young people singing or playing in the large hall with high windows and empty walls that is master Curulír's teaching space. 'Close your eyes if you need to.'

'I don't need to', he snaps back. 'You're making me sing scales. I could do it in my sleep.'

'Then do it well awake', she retorts. 'Or are you not used to practising while there are others in the same space playing different music? Is that the problem?'

'I'm used to it', he says and squares his shoulders and sings perfectly everything Tinweriel tells him to. He spots a half-hidden look of admiration in her eyes and tries not to preen too much. This is more like what he's used to.

The admiration doesn't stay long in Tinweriel's eyes, nor does it stop her from driving him hard for hours, testing his skills with different instruments as well as his voice. He knows he does well – well enough that he'd have received praise from his previous music tutor, but when he lays down the flute or stills his fingers on the strings of a lyre or harp, Tinweriel purses her lips and lists all the things he could improve.

'I don't believe I'm that bad', Makalaurë says finally, frustrated, after his performance on five different instruments has been ripped to pieces by Tinweriel's sharp tongue. 'I know I'm not.'

'You're right', Tinweriel replies calmly. 'But because you know already that you're good, I'm not praising you separately for everything. I'd planned to save that for the end of the day. But if you need to hear it now, I will tell you: I have never seen such skill in one of your age and I believe there is much more talent in you just waiting to be unleashed, real power that you can learn to harness and use in song. I think you know all of this already, though, so I don't know why you need to hear it from my lips.'

Makalaurë turns the lyre in his hands, his own small lyre that he takes everywhere with him and protects vigilantly from his younger brothers' literally and metaphorically sticky fingers. He does know that he is gifted and skilful: he hears it constantly from adults around him and sees it in the jealous gazes of his peers. Yet for some reason, it is important that the girl with piercing grey eyes and little silver flowers in her artfully styled hair thinks well of him.

'I heard I'm master Curulír's youngest ever student', he says after a moment. He has been proud of the fact for weeks, and he wore his second-best robes today for this first lesson. He would have dressed in his finest but his mother forbade him, telling him to save those clothes for some important celebration.

Tinweriel smiles at him, just a little bit. 'Yes, he took you on despite your young age but that is the only special treatment you're going to get, no matter that you are a prince.'

Makalaurë raises his chin. 'I don't expect special treatment because I'm a prince.'

'Just because you're so talented, then? Canafinwë, your skills are what brought you here, but now that you are here, you are expected to learn more – to sharpen your talent like a knife's edge. You are good already, better than most will ever be, but I know you can be even better. And you know it too, but that mustn't keep you from doing everything you can to be the best you can. Wasting talent is a greater weakness than having none.'

Makalaurë nods. His father has said the same to him many times, every time he has felt like idling. 'I will work hard, I promise. I just – I've been looking forward to being taught by master Curulír.'

'I understand. I promise you, he will teach you soon. He makes beginning students begin their lessons with me, but he'll give you his attention soon.' Tinweriel's voice is softer now, a breeze rather than a gale. Makalaurë thinks she must be a very good singer, based on how many nuances her speaking voice has. He wishes she would sing so that he'd find out what her singing voice sounds like, whether it is as low and lovely.

'Why haven't I heard you sing before?' he asks her, brows furrowed in puzzlement. 'Or seen you play at the palace. You must do that, if many in your family are members of the court.'

'I usually play the flute when performing as a part of a group', she replies. 'And I have done that at many events at the court. You just haven't noticed me, I think.'

Makalaurë doesn't see how that could be possible.

'And anyway', Tinweriel continues, 'I only recently returned from the coast. I spent several years among the Falmari, learning their music and visiting relatives.'

'You have relatives among the Falmari?' It is surprising, for she looks as Noldorin as anyone in Tirion.

'Rather distant relatives; my mother's mother is one of the Falmari. She met my grandfather when the Noldor helped build Alqualondë. She returned to Tirion with him and brought her children up as Noldor, and I have inherited little from her apart from my love of songs that echo the sea.'

'The sea has an endless number of songs, doesn't it?' Makalaurë has only visited the seashore a few times with his family yet every time he has been loath to leave the sea and the music of the waves and wind.

Tinweriel agrees with him, and he asks her to teach some of the things she learned among the wave-folk.

'One day', she promises. 'Though I think it might do you good to spend some time among them yourself, when you are a little older. They have much to teach.'

'I would like that.' Makalaurë's father thinks little of the Falmari and the skills in which they excel, but Makalaurë knows they surpass the Noldor in mastery of music.

'Can I show you what I like doing best?' he asks Tinweriel. 'I wrote a song – well, not quite a song, more like a series of impressions, when we last visited Alqualondë, me and my family I mean. I have written some words as well, and wrought colours.'

'Colours.' Tinweriel looks intrigued. 'Very well, show me your colours, gold-cleaver.'

Makalaurë ignores the teasing about his mother-name and gathers himself so that he may play with more elegance than he just spoke. He lays down his lyre and moves back to the big harp.

He takes a breath and shuts out Tinweriel with her silver-speckled hair and all the other students and their singing and playing and master Curulír's guiding words and finds the silence within himself that is the place where his music is born.

He fills the silence with waves. Waves of sound, of his voice and the golden sound of the harp that he turns into reflections of Laurelin's distant light on water, then into the water itself, blue and green and black-grey and all the colours in the world, into the turquoise that exists in the world beneath the waves. He makes the waves of sound flow from calm to raging tempest to back to calm, small ripples washing on to the shore, seabirds returning to their nests at the end of the day.

He lets himself rest in that inner silence for a moment after the last echoes of the harp die away. When he emerges, it is into another silence. Everyone else in the room has stopped practising and is staring at him.

Tinweriel breaks the silence. 'You must seek out the guidance of musicians of the Falmari at some point. You have already made sea-music with this song, and they will teach you more, so that you can drown Tirion under waves one day.'

Makalaurë is reminded that though he doesn't redden as riotously as his brother Carnistir, he still blushes on occasion. He can feel heat rising to his cheeks now, at Tinweriel's words and at the gazes of everyone in the room – every single person here older than he is – but there is also a part of him that triumphs at having won everyone's attention.

Tinweriel doesn't allow him to bask in his success for long: soon she is showing him how to improve his harping technique. He doesn't mind her critique so much, though, now that he knows she doesn't find only faults in him.

He doesn't receive proof of the skills of his young teacher until the end of the day, when he finally hears her sing. Master Curulír wants all his students to finish the day's practice by singing the same song but with different interpretations for everyone. He tells Tinweriel to demonstrate, to perform the song with joy.

(Makalaurë is assigned despair. He thinks it is a test, giving such a difficult emotion to the youngest student. He starts planning his performance right away, thinking of things that have caused him to despair during his short life. There aren't many, but he's determined to conquer the challenge.)

His planning is cut short when Tinweriel begins to sing, for it is impossible to imagine despair to even exist when her voice summons so much joy into the room. It makes Makalaurë think of golden, cloudless mornings when he finishes breakfast early to practise in the next room and his family listens and claps and requests songs, and of those days spent on the beach and in the water, running and swimming next to Maitimo…

Tinweriel's singing voice is lovelier even than her speaking voice; it is the silver undersides of the leaves of Telperion, less bright than those of Laurelin but no less beautiful, softer, darker. It is the waves of the sea lapping gently against Makalaurë's skin, holding him afloat and pulling him farther away from the shore at the same time, powerful and fluid. It is well practised yet it is real, reflecting who Tinweriel is rather than hiding it. It makes Makalaurë want to sit still and listen, and it makes him want to raise his voice and join her in song.

He decides he would be happy to listen to it until the breaking of the world.

That night at dinner he bemuses and amuses his family by speaking very little of Curulír whose tutelage he had been looking forward to so much, and instead telling them very much about Curulír's young assistant who kept telling him what he did wrong and then showed him how to do it right.