Chapter Twenty-one: Márlindë
I would soon learn that weddings are infectious things, when the time is right.
In the winter of that year, Márlindë and Makalaurë did indeed come to us, seeking for our consent for them to marry. Nerdanel and I needed to take little counsel from each other to agree. Both of us savored the gratitude and enthusiastic thanks of the two, blended with our own fond memories and lasting love.
However, amid the happiness that seemed to fill our house, I grew uneasy that a son other than my firstborn should be first to marry.
One night, as I sat with Maitimo outside after dinner, trying to find constellations, I felt as if the time were right to voice my concern.
"Does it trouble you that your little brother is betrothed, when you are not?"
Maitimo was silent for a long time, so silent that I thought at first he had not heard my question--or was refusing to answer. The only sound was the delighted shrieks of Tyelkormo and Carnistir chasing after each other in the long grass, their silhouettes blotting out the waning golden light sporadically as they ran, laughing, through the shadows.
My youngest son, Curufinwë Atarinkë, born in the autumn of the year before, toddled shyly to his eldest brother, chubby arms outstretched. Maitimo quickly acceded to the little boy's babbled demands and lifted his brother into his lap, jostling the child with his knee until Curufinwë giggled and insistently jabbered for more. Unable to resist his amusement even as I waited for an answer, I ruffled Curufinwë's dark, curling hair with a soft laugh of affection.
"No--and yes, I suppose," Maitimo admitted at last, looking at me with his sad, thoughtful eyes over Curufinwë's head. "But maybe I am not meant for love."
"That may be," I agreed. "But what keeps you from marriage?"
"I cannot say. Something pulls me away from it--I love no woman. I do not think I ever will. I must sound like an idiot," he shrugged, looking away, "Marriage is a custom, an indispensable practicality. It is wrong for me to refuse it."
"You love no one at all?" I pressed on, surprised by this new facet of my eldest son.
"Well, I always will love you, and my brothers, and Mother. And, well--" He hesitated, brow furrowed, looking just as he had as a child, when he had been on the verge of divulging some important information.
"Russandol," Makalaurë called from the doorway. "I need you to help me with cleaning up the table. Mother said."
Maitimo looked at me, his expression wistful for a moment, then grinned weakly as he stood to follow his brother. "I had better go."
I said nothing, but my eyes followed my oldest son as he made his way to the door, his shadow tall and dark behind him.
That night, Carnistir stayed with me in the forge, merely watching me work or assisting me when he could. As we were fire-welding two billets of iron and steel together, Carnistir working the bellows, he suddenly remarked, "Love must be in the water or the air. It is getting to everyone in the house. Makalaurë, Tyelkormo. . ."
I was so startled that I almost overlooked the white sparks flying from the billets as they began to burn.
"Tyelkormo?" I repeated disbelievingly as I took the tongs and whisked the billets away from the fires onto the anvil. Carnistir's face was hard to see in the dimness of the forge, after I had gazed into the white heart of the flames for so long, but I saw his shadowy head nod. "Quickly, the hammer, Morifinwë , before they cool!" I instructed impatiently.
"Have you not noticed?" He asked as he put down the bellows and, as I had ordered, reached for a long-handled hammer to strike the pieces of metal, welding them together.
"No. . .Watch your hand!" I lifted the now-joined pieces with the tongs and put them back into the forge before they could cool. Carnistir stepped away from the glowing metal cautiously. "Tyelkormo is a hunter, not a lover," I remarked, stoking the fire once more.
Carnistir flashed a grin and shook his head. "That is only what you believe." He handed me a bag of the silver sand I used to act as a flux, and looked on as I sprinkled it over the weld.
"You honestly have not seen how different he is?" My son asked as I dragged the iron and steel out of the forge once more, hammering them together again, this time forever. I shook my head.
"He seems the same," I muttered, eyes on my work.
"Mark my words, he is in love. He told me so," Carnistir boasted proudly.
"He told you?" I was a little confused that Tyelkormo would choose a younger brother for this news, close as he was to Carnistir. Carnistir beamed, watching me reshape the iron and steel.
"He made me swear not to tell. But I had to tell you. You ought to know, Father."
"Indeed," I muttered, amused. I still could not bring myself to believe it. Tyelkormo, the only son of mine who had so fervently and openly shunned love, now found in the throes of the very emotion he had so eschewed? "Who is this maiden he loves so dearly, if you know so much?"
Carnistir shrugged, smile faltering. "He never said. He just came back into our room around midnight, and I asked him why he was awake at that hour. And he told me, 'Brother, I am in love.' Just like that. He sounded drunk, if you ask me." His laughing dark eyes waited to calculate my surprise--one of his many mischievous habits.
"Your brother would sooner beat his hounds and break his spears before he would let himself be drunk, Carnistir," I reprimanded sharply. "But really--he came back at midnight?"
Tyelkormo sneaking out? At night? It was something that I would think maybe Carnistir capable of, but never Tyelkormo. He was always telling us when he would be away, for what purpose, and when to expect him back. Of course, he was always late anyhow, but at least he tried his best to keep us informed.
"Around midnight. Telperion's light was at its fullest. Are you going to tell Mother? Will you be angry?" He hesitated, and the worry for his brother's sake was tangible in the stifling air.
"No. Not yet, anyway." I needed time to consider this. I set down the newly welded iron and steel, considered it for a moment, then picked it up with the tongs, tossed it into the corner with the other metals waiting to be melted down again, and removed my leather apron.
"Father, what are you doing? We still need to--"
"No. It is imperfect," I told him. "We were talking needlessly, and did not focus on the task at hand.
"Imperfect? Why should we leave it be when we could fix it? The metal has not cooled yet!" My son exclaimed in dismay, looking shocked by my fastidious eye.
"I do not want to work anymore," I replied simply. Though Carnistir's face plainly said he wanted to continue working, he did not protest.
I never really seemed to have time to speak with Tyelkormo about what his brother had told me, for Makalaurë's wedding was near and much had to be done.
When I myself had been one of the couple to be wed, I had never realized that there was so much the parents needed to do. I had almost no time for anything but writing invitations and making preparations with Nerdanel, who was far more patient with the work. The arrangements was dreary toiling in my eyes, but my happiness for my second son overcame most of my irritation with the tedious exertions.
The only time when there was much of an interlude in the monotony was when my wife and I came to the matter of whether to invite my half-kin. Nerdanel persisted that courtesy should overrule whatever differences we had, but I felt that the further away Indis' children were, the better we would be for it.
In the end, Nerdanel won, though she compromised that I did not have to be an ever-present host to my brothers and sisters, and that she would tend to their needs when she could.
Márlindë spent more and more time in our house, until she became an integral part of the family even before the wedding. She was always in high spirits, with a kind or affectionate word for every member of the family. Seeing Makalaurë with her assured me that even inviting Nolofinwë to their wedding would be a sacrifice I was willing to make. And so the day of Makalaurë's marriage neared, both a gift and an anxiety to us all.
"Hold still, Makalaurë, I told you not to fidget!" Maitimo commanded his younger brother, trying to adjust the circlet that ran about Makalaurë's brow. Makalaurë grimaced, but held still for his older brother, though his eyes were troubled.
"I am sorry, Russandol," he muttered, eyes darting everywhere but his brother's face, "I am trying to think of what I am going to play during the feast. And on what instrument? I have no idea what Márlindë was thinking, asking me to perform. I think the harp is best, because I will be short of breath on the flute--but what if my hands shake? Maybe the flute is better. No, my hands will shake on the keys anyhow. Maybe I had better--What about the songs? The song I wrote for Márlindë is too long--"
Tyelkormo hummed the tune of the song in question, its loveliness made comical by his shaky grasp of music and interspersions of laughter.
"Shut up, Turko!" Makalaurë snapped furiously, "I would like to see you write better!"
"He is afraid. . ." Carnistir lazily put in from the corner.
"I am not!" Makalaurë anxiously seethed at Carnistir in a way that said otherwise.
"Hush, all of you!" Nerdanel's voice could have frozen the liveliest of waters; all her sons ceased to move or talk. "This is Makalaurë's special day. You would do well not to ruin it."
It was suddenly very quiet as all the brothers colored in shame and looked at anything but their mother's face. Nerdanel seemed to have a flair for gentle scolding, and it did her a world of good as a mother of five unruly sons.
"Is all ready?" I asked her. Nerdanel had been left in charge of arranging everything on the actual day of Makalaurë's wedding, and because of the lack of problems occurring from outside the family I knew she was doing her task as best she could. She nodded as she smoothed Makalaurë's gray tunic, then stood on tiptoe to kiss her son.
"All will be well," she assured him, suddenly kind. "Márlindë loves you, and that is all that matters."
Tyelkormo, suddenly quiet and solemn, did not have the boldness to contradict his mother, as he was so wont to do on the matter of love, but only watched the scene with impatient eyes, restless in the fine raiment he reluctantly wore.
The silence lasted until Nerdanel left the room, when Carnistir looked ducked his head out the window and declared in a resigned but nonetheless loud voice, "The guests are coming!"
An onslaught of words from four mouths was quick to follow--five, if the gleeful shrieks of a gaily-dressed Curufinwë were included.
"Who?"
"So early?"
"You dull-witted fool, they came in good time!"
"Be quiet, Tyelkormo! How would you know what promptness is anyhow? You would be late for your own nameday!"
I sighed and let the din carry on. Despite his differences, each brother was quick to know and sympathize with the emotions of his siblings. Even Makalaurë and Carnistir, perhaps the most dissimilar of the brothers, would be able to react similarly if one of them was provoked to strong emotion. So somehow, all five of my sons were tied together, for good or ill, for sorrow or joy. I could let them carry on for as long as they would, for all of us knew that in the end their arguments would finish off well and without sore feelings.
When Márlindë appeared among us, magnificent in her white gown hemmed in gold, her presence was like a balm. Most of the unease that the other brothers had detected in Makalaurë, and had reacted so strongly to, was soothed. She curtsied politely to me, and then went straight for Makalaurë.
"Are you well, Kana?" She asked him.
Makalaurë, suddenly unruffled and resilient before his bride, nodded. The way Márlindë's face glowed reminded me of Nerdanel's. With a silent, almost embarrassed smile, the girl took Makalaurë's hand in hers, and glided--that was the only word for it--from the room. Slowly and just as silently, my other sons followed behind.
Maitimo, last to leave, let out a long breath, giving me the impression he had been holding it for a while. As I moved to go as well, trying to remember the words I had to say at the wedding ceremony, I heard my eldest son whisper to himself, in a voice as soft as snow falling, "Goodbye, Kana."
The rest of the day went nearly perfectly, though I was hard-pressed to keep myself from shedding tears as I said the last few words of the ceremony: "Let it be so."
Even though I knew Makalaurë was not leaving me forever, I felt as though he were.
I found myself already missing his rich, sweet bard's voice, and wondering how empty our house would seem with no Makalaurë to play his flute or his harp for hours on end, until all the rest of us were mad from the beautiful but nonetheless incessant noise. My mingled sorrow and joy for my second son was enough to keep me from feeling anything else. I did not care when I saw Nolofinwë enter the feast hall, with his equally perfect three children and wife, nor when I saw Maitimo at once go to Findekáno's side as if drawn there by a thread. His treachery was only a pinprick in my oblivious heart.
I found solace in speaking with Finwë throughout the night, though my mind was elsewhere as I spoke, for I wondered if, when Finwë had married me to Nerdanel, he too had felt the excruciating yet magnificent rending of his heart that I now both suffered and enjoyed.
Author's Note:
Sorry, no responses to reviews this week--I'm hosting family for the next three days and this window of time I've managed to snatch is passing quickly. So thanks in advance and I promise I'll get back to you next week!
Love always,
Blodeuedd