He sat on the log, back resting against that of his eldest brother, and his hands strayed lazily upon the strings of a lute, his spirit far from the vagrant notes he coaxed from the cords.
He couldn't quite make out the notes of his music from the incessant singing of the birds, themselves not fully distinguishable against the clear babble that sprung from the shallow streams. The music rushed in his head, pouring from his heart in an avalanche of notes, but he had got used to its constant roar behind his ears; and when he tried to listen to the notes sprung from the strings they were lost among the sounds of the surrounding landscape. This was what made Aman what she was, maybe: different from the forsaken lands that were told of in hushed whispers, from the Cuivienen that some remembered in dreams; that she was always filled with sounds and noises that one could choose to hear, yet kept the world at all times one step away from silence.
Aman.
The name lingered in his mind, fought its way into his music, found itself on the tip of his tongue. A strange association of two syllables, not so much syllables as two letters connected by the same Tehtar, the very repetition of which annihilated all effect it could have had: Malta and Numen, the golden West. Blessed, Free from Evil. And it was true that when one looked about at the encircling scenery...
"Aman." The sequence of sounds found its way through his lips, barely a whisper, and it meant nothing.
Russandol's elbow dug into his back in a rhythmic manner, and he was not very sure what his brother was doing exactly; but the warmth of the other's back was far too comfortable for him to move or tell him to stop. In fact, it was the only thing that kept him from moving: both their braids hanging down their backs had begun to hurt him quite a while ago, and the bark of the dead wood felt rough and coarse through the fine layers of his leggings. Also, a strange kind of torpor had invaded his mind, and it felt like only shifting his position would be an effort far too demanding to be worth the try. Maybe he needed to sleep. But it was not weariness there, slowly infiltrating his body: bearing into his heart like the perpetual dripping of water on the surface of a rock, or rather a sponge that became heavier and heavier as its breast was filled with the cold liquid. The music seemed to be very far away, confusing and slurred like the distant roaring of an unseen waterfall, his hands upon the lute moved only by the mechanism of his brain commanding his fingers to pluck the cords. The bright colours of the clearing became merged together in a strange shifting tapestry, the green blades of grass an uniform carpet, shreads of white clouds tears in the sky's pastel fabric, each blooming flower a fluttering butterfly...
Just as he was about to settle his mind on the concept of standing up and shaking the torpor from his limbs, Russandol stood up, in the same movement depriving him of his backrest, and he nearly fell.
"Here, Cano, what do you think?" Maedhros asked, oblivious to his frustrated glare.
The elder youth ran a nervous hand through his unbound hair while Maglor looked critically at the piece of carved wood he had been handed. An eagle, wings outspread. Not very expert craftsmanship, as Russandol had never been the most skilled of hand out of Feanor's sons, and quite a common and cliched image of the emblem of Finwe's House; but somehow to the eye which knew to look, it had, maybe not the majesty inherent to the symbol, but an incredible tenderness and love meshed within the lines where the hard chisel had passed, an almost shy gentleness that had always clashed with the bold messages expresed, a thing scarce seen, which marked the piece of art as a product of Russandol's hands.
He smiled, and looked up to his brother.
"I am no judge in the matter, Russandol... but it looks good."
"Does it really?"
A worried face appeared beside his as the other peered over his shoulder.
It did.
"Yes. Of course."
Without ceremony, the red-haired elf almost snatched his statuette back from his brother's hands. He stared at it for a few moments, turning it around, seeming to examine all its facets as if they were not yet familiar to him who had shaped them; and finally sighed, chucking it into the nearby grass over his shoulder in a desinvolte gesture.
"Just a random draft."
A silence passed during which neither of them moved.
"Findekano's birthday coming up?"
Startled, Russandol parted his lips to answer, but seemed to find no suitable word to express himself, as he instead flashed his younger brother a strange look; after which his eyes immediately regained their normal mild cheerfullness.
He looked away into the distance, breathing in deeply; and the silver rays of Telperion slowly became mingled with the radiance of Laurelin.
"Let's go," he said, beginning to walk towards the path in the woods with his usual comfortable stride. "Mother will be worried."
And Maglor stood to follow, hastily brushing off remnants of dead bark that clung to his garments.
Mother was never worried.
He ran to catch up with his brother's retreating frame.
