I own nothing.
He knew her first simply as the girl who sat next to him in music lessons, when Lindano taught his students to play the harp. Naturally, it didn't end there, and did not take long to become more than simply two children who sat next to each other during music lessons.
"So you've no desire to learn to play any instrument besides the harp."
It's nearly time for the Mingling of the Lights. Laurelin's light is waning, and if Makalaurë strains his eyes, he can see a silver tint in the sky, just beginning to take form. The waning of the year is cold, cold enough that the Noldor, typically shy of winter and disliking the cold and the frost, have mostly gone inside. The streets are thin of people, and the two of them can walk home from lessons in peace.
"No, no I don't," Makalaurë affirms, staring up at the sky. He traces the constellations visible behind the dimming light, and wonders if it will snow. He's not seen snow since he was very small, and even then, there wasn't a lot of it. All he saw, when he was a little boy, was a thin coating of snow that fell one day. It didn't even fully obscure the brown grass beneath it, and as Laurelin's light grew stronger, it melted away into slush and puddles on the garden path. If it snows again this year, will the snow be just the same as that? "I really don't see why I would ever want to play anything else."
Walking beside him, Ilmanis shakes her head, lip twitching. She has her cherry wood harp tucked under her arm, wrapped in cloth as it is. "You're so stubborn," she murmurs, the uneven cadence of amusement in her quiet voice. "You're a wonderful harpist, Makalaurë, but have you no curiosity?"
"No curiosity?"
"Yes. Haven't you ever wanted to know what it would feel like to play other instruments?"
Elemmírë recently accused him of being too close-minded as regards to instruments other than the harp. Makalaurë can't remember exactly what it is she wrote, but he remembers her accusing him of shutting his mind to the possibilities. Ilmanis is doing the same, though a tad bit more gently than the Vanya did. "No, not really."
He's content with his harp. He always has been. There are plenty who say to Makalaurë—Elemmírë included—that he's not yet fully grown and he may change his mind in the future. Preferences are fickle things, after all. Makalaurë knows, though, that the only music he will ever love making is the song of his words, and the song of his harp. There will never be anything else for him. It's not something he can produce material proof for. It's a truth buried deep in his heart. It will not come out, no matter how hard anyone tries to remove it.
Ilmanis looks him over speculatively. "Would you consent to learn if I were to learn with you?"
A grin unfurls across Makalaurë's face. "That… Well… Yes, I think I would."
That sounds nice. Nice enough for him to "open his mind to the possibilities", as Elemmírë would probably put it. She probably didn't mean what he has in mind, though.
Makalaurë—Maglor