They met first in Valinor. A harper, son of Fëanor, played bright music in the house of Arafinwë , while in the corner a young golden-haired elfling listened, his face a picture of childlike joy. When Macalaurë was done, he went into the garden to escape the press of people, and the uncomfortable stares of his cousins.
The child followed. When Macalaurë sat on a stone bench beneath a floral bower, the child scrambled up beside him and looked at him, with expectation in his blue eyes. The child did not speak, but only waited.
Macalaurë looked down and smiled. "Hello, little Laurëalótë." He ruffled the child's golden hair. "Little elflings should be in their beds at this hour."
The elfling shook his head. "Want a song,"
"No, pityahina. Not tonight. Maybe next time." He plucked a yellow flower from the bower above him and tucked it behind the elfling's ear. "There. A golden flower for little Laurëalótë. Now shoo, your naneth will be worrying."
The child nodded, jumped down off the bench and scurried off, leaving Macalaurë alone in his thoughts.
It was but few years later their paths crossed again though very distantly. The golden-haired elf, now a youth, stood amongst the crowds that had gathered in the town square of Tirion. He watched Fëanor who was standing on a makeshift stage addressing the people. Something he did not quite understand, about how the Valar had abandoned them and let the light of the Trees be extinguished, and how they had been powerless to prevent Morgoth's crime of the theft of the Silmarils. His words were rousing, full of fire and anger.
The young golden-haired elf did not really understand, but he felt his soul touched by Fëanor's words, so he accepted them. And when Fëanor and his seven sons swore their oath and rose their swords together, the golden-haired elf looked up at the seven sons of Fëanor and for a moment his eyes met the stern gaze of Macalaurë and he felt a chill in his heart, but he too lifted his fist in the air and vowed to follow.