Disclaimer: I do not own this lovely world nor do I make money off of it...


Ch 2: Of brave faces and masks

A few weeks later...

Makalaurë triumphantly looked himself over in the mirror. He had completely dressed himself today and was feeling quiet proud of that fact. Given his cloak was askew, his tunic was laced up completely wrong and he couldn't do anything with his hair even with it chopped so short. He had also struggled putting the brace on his shoulder and manipulating his right arm into his sling. Despite the difficulties, he still felt immensely proud of his achievement. Unaware that he looked like he had been dressed by a drunk toddler, Makalaurë limped off to breakfast.

The mess hall was mostly empty. It was late enough in the morning that most everyone had already eaten the first meal of the day. Makalaurë made his way over to where Nelyo and Pityo were seated. Nelyo was pouring over a large pile of papers, his breakfast all but forgotten next to him. Makalaurë gingerly settled onto the bench beside Nelyo and lightly tugged on his brother's sleeve.

"Not now Laurë," Nelyo spared him a quick glance before waiving him off distractedly, "Pityo, can you finish getting him dressed? Tyelko must have forgotten."

Pityo, who had slept far from well the night before, shot both of them a glare before grumbling in annoyance as he complied with Nelyo's command. He stomped around the table to Makalaurë. He tugged the cloak to the correct angle and re-laced the tunic. Without giving his brother a chance to prepare, Pityo tightened the brace and adjusted the sling. Makalaurë bit his lip as fiery pain burned in his right arm at the rough motions. Pityo then unceremoniously raked his hands through Makalaurë's short hair so that the bigger tangles were out and it more or less laid flat. Mission complete, he marched back to he half-eaten meal to continue eating in grumpy silence.

Makalaurë felt crushed as no one acknowledged the fact that he was gaining back some semblance of independence and disappointed that he had once again inconvenienced his brothers. He picked at the food in front of him, his appetite suddenly gone. Nelyo saw this and gave him a disapproving look. Makalaurë hated that look. It told him that he had once more done something wrong.

After the meal was finished, Nelyo gathered his brothers in his office to make an announcement.

"As most of you already know, I intend to give the Crown to Nolofinwë," Nelyo said, purposely looking everywhere but at Makalaurë.

"I will officially had it over next week during the feast for the End of the Autumn Harvest. There is quiet a bit of work to be done before then, so I'll delegate tasks to each of you. Tyelko, you and Pityo will organize the food and drink. Make it nice, but not too extravagant. Moryo, I need you to organize the seating. Work with Curvo to track down enough cutlery, tables and what not. If you can't find enough, talk to me and well get it sorted out. Makalaurë…." Nelyo paused to chewed on his lip and consider the former musician, "You can keep an eye on Tyelpe."

Makalaurë stared in shock at his older brother as he felt frustration bubble up inside of him. He wasn't useless! Tyelpe was young, yes, but he was hardly an elfling. Their precocious, brilliant nephew was ninety-five years old. He didn't need watching. Makalaurë's hand was halfway to his notebook when the frustration turned to cold dismay as a thought dawned on him. His brothers still though he was too fragile to do anything of importance. They were probably right he thought as his throat tightened. Despite decades of being held poisoner, he felt that he should still be able to contribute something. His hand dropped limply to his side. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he completely missed Nelyo dismissing the rest of their brothers.

The redhead knelt in front of Makalaurë, looking deep into Makalaurë's eyes.

"You don't have to if you're not feeling up to it," he said softly, mistaking the apathetic motionlessness as exhaustion. Makalaurë flinched at the implication of Nelyo's words.

'I'M FINE.' Makalaurë was pressing so hard as he wrote that he broke the end of his hardened stick of charcoal. Nelyo gave him a skeptical look before he insisted on escorting Makalaurë to the forge where Tyelpe was. Makalaurë spent the whole of the trip scowling at the ground. It wasn't that he didn't love his nephew. Far from it, they all loved Tyelpe dearly, the poor boy had been through so much.

Curvo had married a Terleri, much to Fëanor's distain. Despite the initially rough introduction to the family, Lindóme quickly settled in, winning most of their hearts with her quick smile and laughter. Fëanor had finally softened towards her when she bore their first child. It soon became obvious that their son was an odd mix of them both, looking neither Noldor nor Telerin. Tyelpe had inherited his father's dark hair, grey eyes, sharp intellect and pale skin, but he also had his mother's unruly curls, rounded features, overly-abundant freckles and easy-going temperament. He strange looks had earned him endless teasing from his peers back in Aman, but it made his uncles all the more protective and supportive of the young Elf. Tyelpe had flourished under their affection and, much to Curvo's delight, showed to be talented at smith work.

Shortly after their move to Formenos, Lótariel had been born. The whole family was overjoyed to finally have a girl. The joy was not to last. The small family had been hit especially hard in the exodus from Aman when both Lindóme and little Lótariel died at Alqualondë at the hands of the Teleri, Lindóme's own people. Their deaths had discouraged both Curvo and young Tyelpe. Even though he too was grieving, Tyelpe had been the one to stop Curvo's descent into madness after Fëanor's death and Makalaurë's capture.

No, Makalaurë's frustration had nothing to do with his nephew. It stemmed from his inability to do anything helpful. Nelyo noticed the scowl, but he didn't comment on it, choosing instead to ignore it.

The trip to the forge was uneventfully short. Nelyo knocked on the door post, alerting Tyelpe to their presence. Tyelpe soon appeared, heavy leather smock, hands and face smeared liberally with grime, curly hair pulled back into what Makalaurë presumed at once been a braid though it now resembled a bird's nest as more and more loose curls escaped to frizz about his face. Nelyo squeezed Makalaurë lightly on the shoulder before leaving the forge. Tyelpe watched him leave before turning to Makalaurë with a confused look on his face.

"Uncle Makalaurë? Can I help you with something?" The youth asked hesitantly, wiping his hand on his apron in an useless attempt to clean them. Makalaurë shook his head, the morose scowl slowly melting off his face. It was impossible to remain frustrated with Tyelpe around, especially when he had done nothing wrong. Tyelpe looked at him for a moment before turning back around with a shrug to continue with his work.

Makalaurë settled on the bench by the door to watch his nephew continue the process of straightening the twisted limp of metal he had been working on. Makalaurë always detested metal working, it was too hot and noisy in his opinion, but now he would give anything to be able to participate once more. As he watched Tyeple's rhythmic pounding, he couldn't help but feel sympathy for the twisted piece of metal. He knew what it felt like to be beaten again and again and again; though unlike the metal, Makalaurë grew more useless with every strike.

The pounding of the hammer soon marched up with the pounding of his heartbeat and the dull throbbing never left his right arm. The pain always was there in his ruined shoulder, but sometimes, like today, it also traveled down his arm and settled in his missing wrist as well. The wooden brace and sling did nothing to ease his discomfort. He slouched against the wall in the hopes of finding a more comfortable position. The heat in the building slowly made him drowsy. He would drift off only to jerk awake with every hammer strike.

He closed his eyes for a few moments, a sign to all that he wasn't feeling nearly as good as he claimed he felt. As he sat there, he was suddenly very aware that the forge had gone quiet. His eyes flew open as he tried to identify what was the cause for silence was. He quickly spotted Tyeple sprawled out on the floor, sketching on some of the oversized pieces of paper the Curvo kept for drafting. Makalaurë struggled to pull himself upright from the position he had slumped into. Tyelpe noticed the movement and gave him an apologetic look.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I just figured you want to sleep in quiet," Tyelpe apologized with a rueful grin.

'I should be apologizing to you. You shouldn't have to babysit me.' Makalaurë wrote sadly.

"It's okay, Uncle Makalaurë. I don't mind it when you come to the forge. At least you don't try to correct me like Uncle Tyelko does and he doesn't know anything about smith work," Tyelpe shrugged.

'I just feel so useless. They don't let me do anything.' Makalaurë didn't know why he was telling Tyelpe his frustrations.

"I feel the same way," Tyelpe sighed, looking far more mature than his scant ninety-five years, "Atto knows I want to help more, but I think he's afraid to let me do so. He doesn't want anything to happen to me. He was so lost and angry when Amë and Lótariel… and then Uncle Telvo, Grandfather and you… they're scared, is what I'm trying to say. They think they're protecting you, but they're really just protecting themselves because they know what it feels like to loose someone and they don't want to feel it again."


Quenyan names/words:

Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo = Maedhros

Makalaurë/Laurë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor

Tyelko/Tyelkormo/Turkafinwë = Celegorm

Carnister/Moryo/Morifinwë = Caranthir

Curvo = Curufin

Pityo/Pitafinwë = Amras

Telvo/Telufinwë = Amrod

Tyelpe/Telperinquar = Celebrimbor

Lindóme = Sweet voice

Lótariel = maiden garlanded with flowers

Amë = mother