This story is set before the release of Melkor, before lies were spread among the Noldor completely dividing the House of Finwë.

Maitimo

The road stretches out before us, cramped with rumbling cars that flash in the sunlight and make the ground beneath us tremble. Smoke billows up behind them and rests heavily on the cold air, making us cough through the scratchy scarves we wear high over our faces. The air is bitingly cold, and the strong wind cuts at my eyes as I hurry along the cracked sidewalk, Findekáno pressed tightly against me for warmth. His thin body feels lost in the great blue coat that I wrapped securely about him before we set out. He turns to look up at me, his large grey-blue eyes brimming with tears drawn out by the cold and the dirt. 'Maitimo,' he says, his voice muffled by his scarf and the infernal din of the traffic. 'I'm freezing.'

'I know,' I whisper through the ridiculous fuzzy purple hat he wears low over his ears, 'but that is just the way it is here.'

I hold him closer now, letting him lean his head against my shoulder, and circle my arms around him and shove my bare hands deep into his pockets, a luxury my own coat lacks. Our hands meet in the semi-warmth of the woollen folds and clasp tightly in defiance of the winter.

The buildings about us are slowly changing from the scattered colours of painted wooden and vinyl sidings to a solid block of dusty brick. Old, dead vines cling to their sides and the wind whips at them frantically, howling at their eaves. The sinking sun shines on the bricks, turning them a warm gold, and bare trees cast twisted, dancing shadows with their searching branches.

'What store are we looking for?' Findekáno mumbles against my shoulder when we stop at a corner under an unlit streetlamp, leaning for a moment against its green metal post.

'The health food store,' I say, 'we need yeast.'

)()()()()()()()()(

The store is a warm refuge after the December evening. I close my eyes for a moment and breathe in the warmth along with the scents of spices and baked goods. Pulling my scarf off my face and rubbing my cheek where it still itches, I look around for the yeast. I have not been here before, and the neat rows of goods and large, abstract paintings hanging on the white walls seem very daunting.

'It should be with the refrigerated items,' says Findekáno briskly, taking my hand. He has adjusted to this world better than I have, but perhaps that is because he is younger.

I follow him to the refrigerated isle and shiver, half with cold, half with disappointment after the lovely warmth.

'Should we get the small bag or the large one?' my cousin asks me, holding the door cruelly open.

'The large one,' I say, 'our families eat a lot of bread.'

He picks up the one-pound bag and closes the door gently. 'Is there anything else that we need?'

'Father said that he needed cinnamon,' I answer, ducking under a low hanging sign on my way to the bulk spices. Findekáno trails easily after me, tossing the bag of yeast up and down casually. I have long enjoyed teasing him about his height (he doesn't even reach my nose) but here he has the advantage. He stands by my side as I ask the wrinkled woman behind the counter for the cinnamon, searching the names of the spices with curiosity. The woman hands me a small plastic bag of the fragrant spice, and I thank her quickly. She gives a curt nod and turns away.

'Is that all that we need?' asks Findekáno, heading towards the checkout.

'I think so.'

We stand in line behind a woman in a green coat who is talking to the cashier about a particular cheese she is purchasing. I pass the time reading the labels on the chocolates placed carefully so that hungry, tired customers will have to stare at them and wonder about the rich, sweet or bitter bars that lie underneath the coloured wrappers. Findekáno's gaze meets mine, and he frowns sadly. I sigh and give him a small smile as the woman in green collects her bags and heads out to the harsh winter day.

'Chilly day, isn't it?' says the cashier cheerfully, picking up the two bags my cousin sets down on the counter.

'It be freezing,' Findekáno informs her, and she chuckles as she glances out the front window to where the wind is buffeting the pedestrians and trying to rip the clothes off their bodies.

She continues to chuckle as she checks the bags and punches the prices onto the cash register.

Findekáno fumbles with his wallet when she tells him the price, and she looks up towards the ceiling, almost as if she is embarrassed to watch him handle money. He hands her a bill, smoothing it briefly between his fingers before she takes it and begins to count out his change. He tucks the wallet back into his front pocket and rubs the denim over it as she places the plastic bags into a paper bag.

She hands him the bag with an amiable smile, and he takes it with a nod.

'Have a good day!' she calls to us before turning her attention to her next customer as we step out into the biting evening.

)()()()()()()()()(

'Do you have the yeast?' Anairë asks the moment we step through the battered front door of the two-story house our three families share.

'I have it right here,' Findekáno says, pulling the bag out and handing it to her before even taking his coat off.

'Thank-you, dear,' she says, taking it from him. Her face clouds with a frown. 'Findekáno, your hands are freezing!' she exclaims, shoving the bag under her arm and taking his hands between her slim fingers.

'It's cold out, Mum,' he says, kissing her cheek.

'You should wear gloves when it gets this cold,' she scolds gently; 'that is what they are for.'

'I forgot,' he says with an embarrassed smile.

'Ah, you forgot.' She rolls her eyes, and her gaze falls on me. 'I suppose you forgot too?'

'I gave my gloves to Pityo,' I tell her whilst I hang up my coat amidst the sea of coats dominating the entranceway. 'He lost his at school.'

She takes my hands in hers and rubs them tenderly. 'We will have to buy another pair. It is much too cold to run about without proper clothing.'

I nod my agreement, and she shakes her head in concern before gliding away towards the kitchen.

Findekáno turns from hanging his outer clothes up and shoves the bag at me. 'Your cinnamon, my friend,' he says, and I take it from him and follow Anairë into the kitchen.

My uncle, Ñolofinwë, is bending over the open oven where a large roast is cooking. The pungent scent encircles the room, and I stop for a moment to close my eyes and take a deep breath of it. The kitchen is bustling with activity, and Arafinwë nearly slams into me with an armload of plates.

'Pardon me,' he says, somehow managing to peck my cheek as he slides around me and out into the dining room.

'It is entirely my…' I begin, but do not bother to finish since he has already disappeared.

With care I cross the wide, light boards of the wooden floor and put the cinnamon away into the spice cabinet fastened securely to one of the pale orange walls.

'Gracious, Kano, be careful with that!' Ñolo calls, and I turn to see my brother balancing an exceptionally large teakettle on the edge of the counter.

He shoves it onto a potholder and wipes the dark strands of hair falling over his face back with a swift hand. Ñolo touches his shoulders from behind, and Makalaurë turns to him with a grateful smile.

'Maitimo, come here a moment.' It is my mother, and I walk quickly over to her where she stands beside the kitchen table with my aunts, preparing the bread. Ambarto is pressed tightly against her side, his red hair tied back in a loose braid. She strokes his head as she speaks to me. 'Would you go check on Arakáno? He is upstairs in his room; Anairë left him sleeping, but he has probably woken up by now, and we don't want him coming down those steep stairs all by himself.'

'Yes, Mother, of course,' I answer with a quick bow.

She smiles at me and briefly strokes my shoulder.

'Thank-you, Maitimo,' Anairë says almost guiltily, and Eärwen beams at me, her sea green eyes shining. Her silver hair is pinned up messily on the top of her head, and a long streak of flour runs down her right cheek.

'Ah, but he loves to care for Arakáno,' she says knowingly.

'That I do,' I answer.

Quenya name translations (nicknames are in quotation marks) and relative ages translated to human years (also known as the years they are pretending to be in order to disguise):

Fëanáro – Fëanor (40)

Nerdanel – Nerdanel (42)

Maitimo /'Russandol', 'Nelyo', 'Timo' – Maedhros (21)

Makalaurë / 'Kano' – Maglor (20)

Tyelkormo / 'Turko' – Celegorm (19)

Carnistir / 'Moryo' – Caranthir (17)

Curufinwë / 'Curvo' – Curufin (13)

Ambarussa / 'Pityo' – Amrod (8)

Ambarto, Ambarussa/ 'Telvo' – Amras (8)

Ñolofinwë / 'Ñolo' – Fingolfin (38)

Anairë – Anairë (38)

Findekáno / 'Finde' – Fingon (16)

Turukáno / 'Turu' – Turgon (14)

Irissë – Aredhel (3)

Arakáno – Argon (1)

Arafinwë / 'Aro' – Finarfin (35)

Eärwen – Eärwen (36)

Findaráto – Finrod (14)

Artaher – Orodreth (12)

Angaráto – Angrod (6)

Aikanáro – Aegnor (5)

Artanis / Nerwen – Galadriel (3)

Amarië – Amarië (14)