'Makalaurë!' Maitimo cried as he ran along the crystal streets of Tirion, nimbly dodging around older, more dignified elves. Several drew breath to upbraid the nearly grown boy for rudely interrupting their conversations with his shouting, but the red hair and the eight pointed star embroidered upon his tunic identified him as the son of Fëanaro. None of the elves wished to earn Finwë's disappointment for scolding his heir. They confined their expressions of displeasure to a disapproving shake of the head and inaudible mutterings of Fëanaro passing along his hot blood to his children.
'Makalaurë!' Maitimo skidded around a corner and halted a hair's breadth from a marble statue. The statue, a graceful representation of a dancing woman, examined him with a fixed smile and unseeing eyes.
'This is hopeless,' he muttered. His family had just returned to Tirion after years of exploring the land of Valinor. His father's restlessness would have driven his small family further than any save the Ainur had gone, to lands untrodden by any of the Children of Eru, but Nerdanel, now heavy with her third child, had insisted with all of her gentle firmness that the babe be born among the Noldor in Tirion. 'How else shall he know his people? And how else shall his people know him?' she had asked of her husband.
'They shall know him because he is my son,' Fëanaro had said, but he had relented all the same. The journey to Tirion had taken months of travel through thick forests and over mountains almost as high as the Pelori. The stars had faded as they moved eastwards and into the light of the Two Trees. They had remained at Aule's court for several weeks so Nerdanel could be with her mother and father. Maitimo had hoped they would remain longer in Valmar. His mother's father took great joy in his grandchildren. Mahtan would spend days teaching them his craft, patiently answering all of their questions and correcting their mistakes in a gentle way their impatient father could never manage.
But Finwë dwelt in Tirion and Fëanaro, anxious to see his own father, had insisted the family move on.
Tirion, Maitimo had to admit, had its advantages. There were a great many more people and there was usually some exciting event taking place. It had to have been the promise of some excitement that had lured Makalaurë away from the family home on a day they were expected at Grandfather Finwë's table.
Maitimo sagged against a wall. It had seemed a good idea to go in search of Makalaurë before either of his parents noticed him missing. His new baby brother was expected any day and he had not wanted to disturb his mother. His father had not been home and even if he had been Maitimo would have hesitated before telling Fëanaro of Makalaurë's disappearance. Fëanaro brooked no disobedience and leaving the family home without permission was certainl to earn his displeasure. While he was unlikely to be overly concerned with Makalaurë roaming the streets of Tirion, he would have been very irate with the thought of him being late for dinner. So Maitimo had taken it upon himself to locate his missing younger brother.
It had seemed simple enough. He remembered the streets of Tirion from the time he had spent there as a youngster. But the city seemed to have grown in the years he had been away and Makalaurë had not been where he had expected him; in the great square before the tower of Mindon.
Maitimo climbed into a tree to give the situation further thought. The light of Laurelin was waning and Telperion was waxing. He would have to be home soon or face dire consequences at the hands of his father. While passersby looked up in surprise at the strange, red crested bird perched above the street, Maitimo considered what to do next. He could return home and inform Nerdanel of the situation. His mother would send friends and associates to search for Makalaurë. They were certain to find him before Maitimo could. But if he told his mother, there was a good chance his father would discover the situation as well and Maitimo did not want his younger brother to suffer his father's displeasure.
While he was debating what to do, a clear, pure song reached his ears. The singer had an unmistakable voice.
'Makalaurë,' whispered Maitimo, grinning from ear to ear. The music came from down the hill. Without hesitation, he dropped to the street, startling a pair of women who were making their way home from the market. He paused to help steady their baskets and retrieve several pieces of fruit they had dropped. Flashing a winning smile, he rushed away before they could either scold or thank him.
He followed the song through the streets, the voice getting steadily louder, until he came to a large park in the midst of the city. His brother's voice was now joined by others as he sang the chorus of a tune that was old before the Elves had come to the Blessed Realm.
Following the winding paths, Maitimo made his way past nodding flowers and ornate sculptures. He found Makalaurë seated upon the grass, playing the harp Mahtan had made for him. A ring of children surrounded him. They were enthralled by his music, their faces reflecting pure delight.
They were taking such pleasure from the song that Maitimo was reluctant to disturb them, so he remained in the background, standing out of Makalaurë's line of sight and waited for the song to end.
He marveled at the way his brother's fingers danced over the harp strings. Makalaurë played the harp as though it was an extension of his own body rather than a thing separate from him. His effortless skill, Maitimo knew, came from endless practice, for his brother was always playing and when he could not play he would sing. He understood this, but the way Makalaurë could focus so much of his attention upon one thing for such great lengths of time confounded him. He supposed Makalaurë was compelled to play in the same manner their father was compelled to create. It seemed that everyone except Maitimo was capable of such concentration. He liked to say this lack of focus was a lucky thing for his family for it often left him to remind the others of unimportant details such as food and rest. Secretly, this inability to concentrate troubled him to no end, but he would not think to burden his younger brother with his fear.
Then there was the reaction of the people who listened to his music. Makalaurë, Maitimo knew, enjoyed an audience.
He examined the faces of the children in the crowd, wondering if he would recognize any of them. There were several who seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not put a name to them. They were plainly enjoying his brother's music. When the chorus came, they all joined in, raising their voices in song. It was interesting to watch them, their expressions unguarded as they sang for the sheer joy of it. One girl in particular caught his attention. She was on the brink of womanhood and while not the prettiest girl he had ever seen, or even the prettiest in the small group, her voice was sweet and true. Her face, framed by dark hair, beamed with pleasure as she sang and clapped her hands in time to the music.
Then she noticed his scrutiny and her voice faltered. She gave him a questioning look, at though she could not imagine why he was not singing along with the rest. Maitimo suddenly realized he was staring. Mindful he had made her uncomfortable, he forced a pleasant smile to his lips. The girl must have decided he was friendly, for she returned his smile, the expression lighting her face.
Heat rose in Maitimo's cheeks and he quickly turned his attention elsewhere. There were no girls his own age in his father's retinue. It was rather pleasantly disconcerting to find so many of them in Tirion. It was even more unsettling to discover his reaction to them.
Confused and embarrassed, he examined the other people. Several of the girls took note of his attention. He gave each of them a quick smile then quickly looked away, but it was too late. One by one the voices dropped out of the chorus as the children stared at Maitimo and whispered to each other.
The music stopped.
'Hello, Maitimo, would you care to join us?' said Makalaurë. If he was annoyed by his brother's interruption, he gave no sign of it.
An air of expectation hung over the little park. Maitimo felt rather awkward to find everyone's attention focused upon him.
'Maybe tomorrow, brother,' he said, ignoring the forest of whispering voices. 'We are expected at home.'
'I have to go now,' Makalaurë announced as he leapt to his feet. A chorus of protests erupted from the assembled children.
'He can return tomorrow!' Maitimo cried over the jeers and catcalls as he picked up Makalaurë's harp. His words were met with the grudging, unhappy expressions of children who recognize an adult's lies. It was a very strange sensation to suddenly be granted that level of authority, but as he walked through the park, his younger brother as his side, Maitimo decided he enjoyed it.
'Who were those people?' he asked, wondering if his brother could tell him the names of the children.
'I know not,' shrugged Makalaurë. 'They were all there playing when I arrived. May I go back tomorrow, Maitimo, please?'
'We shall see,' said Maitimo noncommittally as he shifted his grip upon the harp. He had been hoping Makalaurë could have put names to some of the girls and was surprised at his disappointment when his younger brother could not.
'What is it?' he asked, for Makalaurë was frowning.
'You sound just like Arassë,' said Makalaurë accusingly. Arassë, a woman in Fëanoro's retinue, had often minded the two boys when their parents had been otherwise busy. She had always made casual promises to return to a favourite place or to conduct a much loved activity, but she had followed through so seldom that her promises rung hollow with the brothers.
'Well, I am nearly of age,' said Maitimo grandly, hiding his dismay at being compared to Arassë.
Makalaurë shot him a look so full of hurt and betrayal that he instantly repented his words.
'We are expected at Grandfather Finwë's table soon,' he added.
'Oh,' said Makalaurë uncomfortably. 'I forgot.'
Maitimo shook his head but said nothing. It was hardly surprising. Makalaurë would lose track of everything when he played.
'It is of no consequence,' he said, shifting the harp again. He wondered why Mahtan had made the instrument so large. It was far too heavy for a child of Makalaurë's age to carry for any length of time. 'Perhaps you can sing and play for Grandfather Finwë this evening.'
Makalaurë's eyes widened with excitement. 'Do you think father will allow it?' he whispered.
Maitimo thought of the rapt faces of the children in the park. Fëanaro may not understand his younger son's all encompassing love of music and poetry, but he was more than content to bask in the reflected glory of Makalaurë's talent. 'I am certain he will insist upon it,' he said.