Untitled Young Nolofinwe Fic

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Nolofinwe doesn’t actually know who he is. If he’s here, he’s a relative; he has very many adult relatives and almost all of them are very important. Some are Noldor, like his father, the King, and some are Vanyar, like his mother, the queen. The Noldor are dark and sharp, the Vanyar are gold and move slow. There are some exceptions, he had learned, and an exception stops his feet and his thoughts all at once every time.

So he stands still and silent as he stares up at the relative he does not know. He is neither dark nor gold. He is red, and he is red all over, hair and spots on his face and robes to his ankles and garnets in his ears.

The relative also looks down at him. “Well met,” he says, and pauses. “Child?”

Nolofinwe is astounded. The relative doesn’t know him either! That hardly ever happens. Everyone has always known him forever, since he doesn’t even remember, or else they’ve been told everything about him.

Nolofinwe smiles, cheered by the novelty. “Well met, adult!” he responds.

The relative does not say anything for a few seconds, and then he says, “In truth, that is a fair response.”

Nolofinwe says, “That’s a funny thing to say.”

“Is it?” he asks.

“How is it fair?” Nolofinwe asks. “Is it pretty? Or gold?”

The relative says, “I see we are using the word differently.”

“Using it?”

“Yes, you used it to mean ‘fair, lovely,’ and I used it to mean ‘fair, equal.’”

“I didn’t know it could mean two things,” Nolofinwe admitted.

“Indeed, it’s one meaning. But disguised. In both senses it means ‘agreeable,’ one to the eyes, one to the temperament. Though, equating ‘agreeable to the eyes’ with ‘golden…’”

“What?” Nolofinwe said, but suddenly his atya hurried into the entrance hall to greet this relative who had just arrived, so Nolofinwe smiled and turned around and hurried to him.

And his father said, “Nelyafinwe!” and he sounded very surprised. Nolofinwe hurried over to him, and his atya picked him up and held him.

Nelyafinwe sounded kind of scared when he said “Hello, Grandfather,” but he didn’t need to be scared. Nolofinwe’s atya hurried over to him and kissed his cheek. Nolofinwe got a little squished, but he didn’t mind. He actually liked being in tight spaces, which sometimes made his amme mad when she had to look all over for him and found him in a cabinet or under the porch.

“It’s good to see you,” said Nolofinwe’s atya, and now he sounded sad. Nolofinwe did not know why. “Did you come alone?”

“With an entourage, but yes,” Nelyafinwe responded. Now that Nolofinwe was eye-height with his collarbone, he could look curiously at Nelyafinwe’s jewelry, a three-layered golden necklace with stars spangled on its tiny, glittering chain, and a cloak-clasp with matching stars and pretty little ornaments that dangled from them.

“I see,” said Nolofinwe’s atya, still sounding sad. “It’s very good to have you—you must come in, people have been asking and asking after you. Oh, but—”

“I’ll be glad to sit through the interrogation, yes,” Nelyafinwe responded.

“Interrogation,” Nolofinwe repeated, stunned by this new word with odd pricks and points on it.

They both looked down at him with wide eyes. Nolofinwe’s father said, “Well, Nelyafinwe; meet my youngest, Nolofinwe. He does not have an amilesse yet. He’s his older sister’s favorite play-thing and dressing-doll and his mother’s dearest headache.”

Nolofinwe did not like all of that introduction, but he had been strictly taught to observe the rules of introduction, and he was going to. “How do you do.”

“Charmed,” said Nelyafinwe, his bronze eyebrows nearly in his hair.

“And Nolo, this is your—nephew—Nelyafinwe Maitimo. He’s your brother’s eldest son.”

“How do you do,” Nelyafinwe said, but Nolofinwe looked up at his atya’s face and said, “I don’t have a brother!”

Nolofinwe’s atya looked down at him, and he looked both sad and nervous now. “Do you remember how we talked about that, Nolofinwe?”

“No,” Nolofinwe admitted.

“I suppose it was some time ago,” Nolofinwe’s atya said. “Nelyafinwe, forgive me, he’s—”

“Less than two nine-years, isn’t he? It’s fine, I understand,” Nelyafinwe said. “Moryo isn’t that much older than him.”

“Yyyyes,” Nolofinwe’s atya said. “Yes because. They did take a break after Turcafinwe. Which we thought at the time was them deciding they had enough. But time has proven that was simply a break.”

“Yes,” Nelyafinwe agreed, in a similarly uncomfortable manner. “Mother did certainly tell Turcafinwe that he was quite enough a few times.”

There was a short silence. Nolofinwe noticed that Nelyafinwe also had stars in the piercings in his ears, on a barely-visible frame that organized them like winter constellations. He also noticed that there were gold pins in his red hair.

“Atya,” he asked, “What do we call a red elf?”

“What,” Nolofinwe’s atya said.

“Since dark elves are Noldor and golden elves are Vanyar, and silver elves are Teleri, what do we call a red elf?”

“In my case, Russandol, and it’s starting to look like I’m not getting out of that one,” Nelyafinwe said.

“He is also a Noldo, Nolofinwe,” Nolofinwe’s stay sighed. “Not all of us are dark. And not all Vanyar are gold, either, just the ones you know.”

“Oh,” Nolofinwe said. “But why is he red, then?”

“Let’s go find your sister,” Nolofinwe’s atya said, and Nolofinwe was smart enough to be annoyed at that but not nearly big enough to do anything about it.

--

The next time Nolofinwe saw his nephew Nelyafinwe was the first time he remembered meeting his brother Feanaro. He was now old enough to grasp what ‘nephew’ meant and why, factually, the situation was odd, but apparently young enough that his brother felt free to look down at him, curl up his lip in disdain, and then completely ignore him.

Finwe and Feanaro spoke over his head for a minute, about distant enough events that Nolofinwe could not totally understand the words, but he did hear the strain. He saw Nelyafinwe in the corner, and Nelyafinwe waved at him, and since Nolofinwe suddenly remembered him, he waved back.

Nelyafinwe was standing by a large and very strong woman with his red hair. Nolofinwe had not been introduced to her yet, or, anyone…

Except his brother, who had sniffed at him and looked away.

Nolofinwe looked up at Feanaro. Was he really his brother? Maybe everyone had been tricked, or there was something that hadn’t been explained to him.

After another minute, the red-haired woman said, “Well, Feanaro, I’ll take him to play with the children, if you will bother to introduce me.”

Feanaro looked much less unapproachable for a moment as he squeezed his eyes shut, and then looked at the red-haired woman. She crossed her arms. “I’m sorry, Nerdanel. Nolofinwe, son of Indis,” he said, looking again down at Nolofinwe, with something in his eyes that Nolofinwe had never seen in his life, “You are in the presence of my honorable wife, Nerdanel the daughter of Mahtan, and Nelyafinwe Maitimo, my eldest son.”

Nerdanel said, “How do you do,” and Nelyafinwe said, “Hello.”

Nolofinwe repeated both with his best polite bow. Nerdanel moved toward him, but then Nelyafinwe stopped her.

“I’ll take him over, mother,” he said politely, “You can stay here with father.”

“Perhaps I should,” Nerdanel said.

Nelyafinwe smiled a very adult little smile and walked over to Nolofinwe. He held out his hand to Nolofinwe, and said, “let’s go outside!”

Nolofinwe looked up at his father, and Finwe nodded. Feanaro glanced also at Finwe, and frowned, but said nothing.

Nolofinwe took Nelyafinwe’s hand. He was surprised by how warm it was. Nelyafinwe smiled at him, and began to lead him down a hall.

The house was very nice and very different, so Nolofinwe was looking all around him and overhead instead of watching where he was going, but Nelyafinwe led him by the hand and didn’t correct him. The house was stone, big arches of curving stone with stone beams and rafters that crenelated and curved. Sone statues came out of the walls like they were being born, or like some Eldar had frozen there and were being pulled in. Nolofinwe had never seen anything quite like it.

Nelyafinwe didn’t walk too fast, and he held Nolofinwe’s hand so that he didn’t trip over gaps in the stone. As he was looking at Nelyafinwe’s much bigger hand in his, Nolofinwe saw he had many gold rings, and one of them, a thick band, was studded with carvings of stars, eight-pointed stars.

“I remember you,” Nolofinwe exclaimed.

Nelyafinwe sounded amused. “You do?”

“Yes,” Nolofinwe said. They had met at a party a few years ago. His atya had been surprised to see Nelyafinwe there. Everyone who met him talked about him being gone for a long time. Even though people were happy to see him, they were also sad; not about him but about something that came into every room with him, invisible. “You’re my uncle,” he said.

Nelyafinwe hesitated a moment. “No,” he correctly kindly. “I’m your nephew. You are my father’s brother.”

“Oh,” Nolofinwe muttered. He felt his face heat up. He tried hard to get things right and didn’t like messing up. “I’m sorry.”

“I know why you’re confused,” Nelyafinwe said, which made Nolofinwe a little nervous, because ti wasn’t a normal response. Nor did he say it normally. “Normally, such close kin would have spent much more time with each other.”

“…yes,” Nolofinwe said, suddenly confused and anxious, because that was true, but he hadn’t really thought about it. He spent lots of time around his other family. He and Findis and little Irime were always together, and their cousins too, and his mother’s sisters and brother.

Nelyafinwe walked him out of the building and into a nice courtyard with lots of moss and ferns and fruit-trees, with lace-flowers and bell-flowers and snowdrops in clumps around smooth stone paths. In the courtyard, playing some game of chase, were three Eldar that were all different ages. The oldest was an adult with very long black hair, which was tied in a knot but still spilled out of it, and he was probably also Feanaro’s son, because he looked a lot like him, though softer, and had his eyes. The second was almost grown, a rough-shaped and red-cheeked age that Nolofinwe had already started avoiding; he had white-silver hair that was braided tightly and a loud voice. The last was a boy, probably a little older than Nolofinwe was, who had black hair too and a large patch of red on his face, like someone had smashed raspberries on him. He was somewhat sullenly chasing the white-haired youth around, and the oldest one was laughing at both of them.

They all, though at different speeds, stopped what they were doing when Nelyafinwe approached them.

“Oh, so you don’t want me to know about it?” Nelyafinwe asked reproachfully.

The others started arguing about whatever it was they didn’t want Nelyafinwe to know about. They spoke with such rapidity and familiarity, and so completely over each other, that Nolofinwe quickly could not follow it. He gathered a few things: these were Nelyafinwe’s brothers, which he had heard were real but hadn’t thought much about, making them all also his nephews, Feanaro’s sons, and that they played hard in the manner Nolofinwe usually found unpleasant because he was too sensitive.

As the others kept arguing, the one that looked like Feanaro broke off speaking to look down at Nolofinwe, and stared at him. Nolofinwe was not sure how to respond, because everyone was talking too loud for him to introduce himself.

“Nelyo,” he said, and though his voice was quiet it cut through all the others talking like the sheer high whistle of the split reed. “What have you got behind you?”

Nolofinwe wished to be more behind Nelyafinwe as the rest of them also turned to stare at him. He breathed in to speak, but Nelyafinwe, fortunately, did the introduction for him. (It was always easier when an adult did it.) “This would be Nolofinwe Arakano, Finwe’s son, making him—”

“Nolofinwe what?” said the black-haired man, his thin eyebrows raising sharply and suddenly.

Nelyafinwe gave him a similar, but stronger, look.

Nolofinwe had just gotten his mother-name. A lot of times people were surprised to hear it, largely because it meant they had missed the naming ceremony. This, despite being similar in form, did not feel like those other times.

“Is this your first day in Tirion, Kano? Should I start by telling you how introductions work?” Nelyafinwe asked his brother.

“Yes, set me up with a remedial politeness class; it seems I’ll have royal company,” he responded.

Nelyafinwe ignored him. “This is your uncle, Nolofinwe Arakano, son of Finwe and Indis. Anyone who wants to say ‘half-uncle’ can insert it now.”

“Half-uncle,” said the next oldest two in chorus.

“There. Nolofinwe,” Nelyafinwe said, looking back down at Nolofinwe, his face thawing out from the iciness he had just directed at his brothers but not yet fully unfrozen, “These are my brothers, your nephews. This is Kanafinwe Makalaure, Second son of Feanaro and Nerdanel.” The black-haired man who looked like his father observed Nolofinwe in what he felt was again a similar manner. “This is Turcafinwe Tyelkormo, third son of the same,” Nelyafinwe said of the white-haired Elda. He wrinkled his nose at Nolofinwe like a fox, but did not seem to consider him seriously enough to feel any sharp emotion about him at all. “And this,” Nelyafinwe concluded, “is Morifinwe Carnistir, fourth and currently last son of the same.”

Morifinwe and Nolofinwe looked at each other. Morifinwe didn’t do anything. Neither did Nolofinwe. Despite this Nolofinwe felt he disliked him, and he got the impression that Morifinwe felt similarly, though how was a mystery.

“So she is pregnant?” asked Kanafinwe.

Nelyafinwe looked hat his brother, a look of exhaustion on his face. “What,” he said.

“You said ‘currently,’ that Moryo is ‘currently’ Nerdanel’s last son, therefore, she is pregnant again.”

“I don’t know if she is or she isn’t,” Nelyafinwe said.

“But she might be,” Turcafinwe prompted.

“We can’t prove she isn’t,” Kanafinwe said, “especially since it seems like mother is always in an alarming state of maybe being pregnant again.”

Nelyafinwe looked at Kanafinwe in the way that the smiths Nolofinwe had watched craft looked at a particularly disobedient project, one they had nearly given up on fixing. “How about you. How about you bring up your concerns with her,” he said.

Nolofinwe thought about it. Four children didn’t seem like too many to him. His mother had four, now that he thought about it. Maybe five was too many? He hesitated to ask, though, because all of his nephews spoke very sharply, except for Morifinwe, who hadn’t spoken yet, and Nolofinwe was afraid of what he would say if he did.

He had hoped there would be a sister, he realized. He tended to get along better with girls. Sometimes adults joked about it, but he liked playing with his sisters and his girl-cousins and their friends. Boys could be fine, but it seemed like when you had too many of them, it always went wrong.

Finally, in the course, of bickering, someone, this time Turcafinwe, asked the next obvious question: “But why’s he here?” with the flat of his palm and five gold-tipped fingers indicating Nolofinwe.

“Why do you think? Because the adults are talking,” Nelyafinwe told him impatiently.

Turcafinwe looked at Nelyafinwe first with annoyance, and then with incredible smugness. “And what does that make you?” he asked, arms crossed over his chest.

“The only responsible adult here, apparently,” he responded with vexation. “You are all going to play now. I’m going to get some of your cousins and I don’t want to see tears when I come back.”

Those cousins turned out to be the red-headed son and daughter of Nerdanel’s brother, and they were quite easy to get along with, so in the end a pleasant afternoon passed, with Nolofinwe cheerfully following them around on river-walking and tadpole-watching, bracelet-weaving and bragging. Nelyafinwe came and went, checking in on the children, and then the adults, and then back again. Kanafinwe watched the younger ones, but with a look on his face Nolofinwe couldn’t quite place. He tried not to look at him. Turcafinwe disappeared and was still unaccounted for by the time Nolofinwe left; a minor spat was had about it, but it seemed that wasn’t unusual, as the most common word spat was ‘again.’ Morifinwe did eventually speak: he said “no” and “I don’t want to” often and confidently.

At one point, Nolofinwe thought to himself that he really didn’t like any of his nephews. Then he thought that that wasn’t true at all; he liked Nelyafinwe. He just couldn’t think of Nelyafinwe as a nephew, pretending he thought about any of them that way. Nelyafinwe really felt like an uncle or older cousin, pleasant and cool-tempered, but quick to speech, occasionally funny, and easily able to control the other children and stop conflicts, which meant no one could try to get Nolofinwe to do things he didn’t want to do when he was around.

The worst part of the evening was when the adults had talked things over and everyone else was brought back inside for dinner.

Sometimes Nolofinwe really struggled to understand what people meant when they said something, or what emotions their expressions conveyed. He couldn’t tell how people felt about him until he was told, and then it could be an unpleasant surprise.

No one had to tell him that Feanaro hated him. Feanaro didn’t have to say anything, and in fact, he didn’t, not one word. But Nolofinwe knew.

--

He sometimes saw Nelyafinwe at court, or in the Palace, glancing moments. If Nelyafinwe marked him—and he didn’t, always, as Nelyafinwe was a flashing torch of a Prince and Nolofinwe tended to be a slowly-lengthening shadow of a pillar in his father’s great court—he would smile and wave, and stop to speak if he were close enough. But the next time he really saw Nelyafinwe was Arafinwe’s naming ceremony.

“Oh, you are much taller,” Nelyafinwe said to him.

This was a comment Nolofinwe had been receiving often recently. That was understandable; height had waited, and then had pounced on him. He was now significantly longer than last Nelyafinwe had really seen him and his voice had begun to change as well. “I am,” Nolofinwe admitted.

“How old are you?” Nelyafinwe asked, typical finesse forgotten.

Nolofinwe told him, and then he could see Nelyafinwe calculating backwards dates and years in what he had heard in court was a quite brilliant brain.

“Well,” Nelyafinwe said, “I have missed much,” and then his stricken look was banished by his usual self-assurance. “I will be glad to not miss this, at least,” he said.

Nolofinwe had missed much, as well. With each day he realized how much he had missed, a double loss on top of the things he still didn’t have with each new day. He had had absolutely no thought of attending little Curufinwe’s quite recent naming ceremony, for example, pretending he had even tried. “My bother won’t remember either way,” Nolofinwe replied.

Nelyafinwe’s look wavered somewhat. “But you will be able to tell him I was there,” he said, and, seemingly without hesitation, reached an arm out to Nolofinwe to escort him.

Nolofinwe did hesitate before taking it. He was still young enough to be escorted, yes, but he now felt the awkwardness of the gap between their ages and their supposed relationship. Nolofinwe should be taking him around—in theory, he would be some day. How was the switch made? Would he just become more confident and more charming than Nelyafinwe some day, causing the older man to simply fall in line? He couldn’t picture it. He took his arm, awkwardly.

“I shall have to find more time to come around,” Nelyafinwe said.

Nolofinwe had no idea how to respond. When people talked about Feanaro and his family, they talked like they were planning expeditions to the benighted southerly tip of Aman, like there was a mountain higher than Tanaquentil in the way. Nolofinwe certainly did not know the way himself.

Nelyafinwe asked him about his progress with learning, and Nolofinwe dutifully discussed his lessons and his progress. He was being taught word-crafts and thought-crafts mostly by his grandmother, that is, his mother’s mother((should be Vanyar royalty, double-check)), and his hand-crafts, such that he was allowed to do them so far, by his father when he was available and by various Noldor smiths and artists in his father’s favor when he wasn’t. The somewhat scattered education, he had already noticed, was actually beneficial; he often learned ahead of others his age because he was taught by disparate and often quite set teachers. Their lessons, though insistent, often varied, and Nolofinwe was left to weight their opinions against each other and pick the best on his own—or else fit each into situations to which they applied, which he enjoyed doing. Navigating interpersonal situations were a chore unless they were a puzzle; measuring people and their convictions against each other and then sorting them could make most anything into a puzzle.

He did not explain that particular habit of his to Nelyafinwe; as they spoke he was applying it to him, with little success. He finally realized, as they were approaching the courtyard in which the ceremony set up, that the difficulty he was facing in judging Nelyafinwe was that unlike many adults he did not speak to much, and when he did it often did not give Nolofinwe much purchase for footing. He did not have the time to do anything with that information before they approached the crowd gathered around Nolofinwe’s atya and his new little brother, bundled in his arms, awaiting his first name.

Nolofinwe watched, again, the strange relief and nervousness with which everyone greeted Nelyafinwe. They were happy to see him, as usual. Nolofinwe’s atya, as usual, was the most glad to see him. They kissed his cheeks and clasped his hands delicately, without the warmth and familiarity they greeted each other with. It was if, though Nelyafinwe was welcome, there was something with him that was yet unwelcome, handled with more cautious fingers than the beloved grandson’s cheekbone and right wrist.

It occurred to Nolofinwe, like something falling on his head, that Nelyafinwe was not just here instead of his father, which he had already figured out. He was here despite his father and, though the possibility was alarming, potentially against his father’s wishes.

Nelyafinwe was an adult and could in theory do such things. But the thought of doing the same to his own atya made Nolofinwe’s stomach twist. Nolofinwe watched as, just as he had done for all the other close relatives, his atya handed the child to Nelyafinwe, who accepted the golden-haired infant with a bit of a smile that turned into a bit of a laugh.

The little one, once he felt both of Nelyafinwe’s arms around him, suddenly stirred and began to fuss. Nelyafinwe secured him, holding up his head, but despite that the fuss became a high, sharp cry. Nelyafinwe, unfazed, laughed as he handed him back to Nolofinwe’s atya. “I can’t complain,” he chuckled, “That is not an unfair judgement, and many would agree.”

“I, for one, disagree,” said Nolofinwe’s atya, and fondly, once again, put his hand on Nelyafinwe’s cheek, like he couldn’t do so often enough.

“I do too,” Nolofinwe blurted out, and immediately blushed.

Both his atya and Nelyafinwe looked down on him with tempered surprise. His atya, after a moment, smiled coddlingly, enough so that Nolofinwe invisibly bristled. But Nelyafinwe, cooling his smile, did as Nolofinwe’s atya had done to him; he reached down and, with only his fingertips, touched the curve of Nolofinwe’s cheek.

Nolofinwe would not have guessed how warm they were. They were abnormally hot, and as such seemed to leave a mark when they retreated. His candle-bright hair and the spots of soot on his cheeks were recontextualized; like the shining of silver and gold that marked purity and beauty, or like the pale green that denoted new growth in plants, Nelyafinwe’s redness had meaning, and had been put onto him by the Creator with purpose, just as He put that redness on leaping fire and glowing, molten metal to warn delicate hands to stay away.

Blood, too.

--

Nelyafinwe’s promise to come around more often was not idle. He did, and the invisible, uncomfortable sense of consequence remained around him as he did, usually carried into court with him, but eventually shed as a robe or a cloak at the door. Nolofinwe became more sure as time went on, and he heard more and more adult conversations, no longer spoken in a room away from his little ears, that Nelyafinwe visited against his father’s wishes, but did so anyway, and with increasing disregard for those wishes. Nolofinwe would not have doubted that Nelyafinwe would defy his father in court or in the public square, even.

Nolofinwe found that concept as impressive as he found it disquieting. He still could not imagine doing the same. But what command could his father give him that he would find impossible to obey? For what reason would his father demand he stay away from family or court?

Why would any father do that?

Nolofinwe learned that some of the other brothers—and indeed Feanaro—were often seen at court, just not by him. Indeed upon arrival Feanaro would ask if Indis or her sons were present, and if they were, he would leave and demand his sons leave with him. Nelyafinwe explained—not to Nolofinwe, but Nolofinwe heard—that he came often alone, which was what he had to do to circumvent his father’s rules.

When he did find Nolofinwe, Nelyafinwe usually asked him about his lessons, and listened to what he had learned. As time went on Nelyafinwe made points, or disagreed with some detail Nolofinwe had been taught, or even, once or twice, gave an unplanned lesson. One was about rhetoric; Nelyafinwe was known as an inspired and convincing speaker, so Nolofinwe took his advice to heart.

The other was horse-riding. Nolofinwe didn’t like it, and wasn’t any good at it. Nelyafinwe was very good at it, remarkably so, and seemed to take offense to Nolofinwe’s claim that he didn’t like horses.

“What’s not to like?” he argued, and, not heeding Nolofinwe’s resistance and balking, set Nolofinwe on his own horse, and then sat behind. Nolofinwe was not yet of his adult height, though he was closing in on it; Nelyafinwe was of both a height and a size that dwarfed him. Working with his mother’s folk made him a thickened and toughened person, and his natural heat, much pronounced when his entire body was behind him, seemed to sear at Nolofinwe’s back, a curled brand.

Nelyafinwe gave him quick instructions that Nolofinwe heeded much more seriously when it was clear this was going to happen. Nolofinwe did everything he was told and still almost flew off the horse when Nelyafinwe spurred it on. He did not let him fall; both his arms were around him, on either side, guiding the horse, and he firmly jostled and shoved Nolofinwe back into place until he had a solid enough stature to stay on.

Nelyafinwe urged the horse faster and faster, beyond what Nolofinwe had thought he could take. It joled and jumped terribly, and Nolofinwe could not predict how it would move next, and he hated it for almost the whole ride.

But then, for a moment, he saw it. Nelyafinwe turned the horse sharply, and his stomach swooped, and he was not yet quite recovered when Nelyafinwe urged it to jump.

In the moment that they were both off of the ground, and there was no jostling or pounding, no noise, and only the feeling of a lovely cool wind that kissed his face, Nolofinwe’s stomach jumped back up and hit his heart and made it start. He felt a moment of joy and excitement that hurt because it had burst through his fear like a pin through fabric, so sudden and sharp. It was bright and disorienting, for a moment like the bird, swift and unthinking, and sweet like a candy snatched despite warning, too hot to eat, about to burn his tongue after the moment of delight.

Indeed, the horse hit the ground and Nolofinwe hated it again, very much, but that moment of joy and understanding stuck to him like a burr. He heard Nelyafinwe’s laughter as they finally slowed down, and Nolofinwe thought it was a bit unkind. Yet he started laughing too, in nervous bursts from his pulsating stomach, and he knew it didn’t sound much different. He couldn’t imagine it was possible that Nelyafinwe laughed that way because he was also nervous, that he urged the horse to greater speed with fear in his heart; but what did he feel?

Nelyafinwe helped him down, and then back onto his feet when he stumbled accidentally into his arms. He did not seem bothered by it, he laughingly told Nolofinwe to practice.

“I think I’ll just not ride horses, instead,” Nolofinwe said dizzily.

“Nonsense; how would you visit other cities, or go on the hunt? In a carriage all the time? What if you meet a bride who loves to ride?”

Nolofinwe grumbled and hunched in on himself, because he did not like bride-talk, and it seemed to increase every day despite him not liking it. It was uncomfortable to think about largely because he did not understand it whatsoever. Nelyafinwe was much older than him and had no bride of his own; what did it gain him to make fun of him?

Had his own father not done this incessant bride-talk and marriage-talk that Nolofinwe’s father did all his youth? That seemed unlikely.

((later: a scene where Nolofinwe recounts how he had always felt that, when the time became, russo would defy his father, and he bitter revelation that that is not so. Formenos, probably, and recalled with even more bitterness later.))

--

It seemed more unlikely when Nelyafinwe gave him an invitation to Kanafinwe’s wedding.

Nolofinwe took it, looked it over, though about how to respond, checked that it still was only him and Nelyafinwe in the room, and said, “Are you serious?”

Nelyafinwe grinned. “I am giving it to you in all seriousness,” he responded. “Though I think your deliberation about whether or not to go should be done in all seriousness as well.”

Nolofinwe looked down at the invitation again, at his own ring-decked hand. He used to hate wearing jewelry as a child, but he found that he had more and more of a tolerance for unpleasant textures as time went on. He asked, “Can I go to any event organized by my brother?”

“Hm. I have a couple of points to make to that,” Nelyafinwe responded. His one little grin, mischievous and aesthetic, oft-depicted in his mother’s carvings, tapped at his right cheek. “First, it is not being organized by my father, but by Kano himself. You do not know him very well, but I trust his reputation to demand that things be just so precedes him. It is, as such, Kanafinwe’s event. Second, and related, as the bridegroom’s elder brother, it’s well within my rights to do such things as issue invitations.”

“Does permission for attendance not come from him?” Nolofinwe asked.

“It does; he told me to ‘pack the damn place, I want everyone who’s anyone there.’ You are certainly someone, by any definition of the word, Prince Nolofinwe.”

“I see.”

“Third—am I on third? I presume I am—Kano also had this event planned in stages like a seven-act opera. One might show up to certain acts and not the others, as the door must be left open for those living further away to only attend the ceremony itself and the dinner after, and not the several days of lead-up performances, soirees, and events. It may not be noticed, in fact, if someone decided to attend the previous day’s masked dance—there, on the fourth line from bottom, under the full list of dinners—and not many, or any, other events.”

“This is a full week of scheduled entertainments,” Nolofinwe said numbly, his eyes scanning up and down the intimidating invitation.

“Threats to make it a fortnight were made.”

“I cannot imagine wanting a week of entertainments,” Nolofinwe admitted.

“Nor I, but Kano has been imagining it for years.”

“What even is a masked dance?”

“Exactly what it sounds like—a new thing, it seems, Kano brought the idea back from the theater in Tanaquentil, it seems. Initially it was meant to imitate the dances of Vana’s retinue, he explained, who cover their faces so their light does not enchant or injure the viewers, but the Vanyar there made it an art form of its own. Upon hearing that my father aggressively started making masks like you have ever seen, in a typical attempt at personally bettering people who had not challenged him, and now it’s something we do as well. I’m not surprised you missed I, it’s not considered a particularly noble style of dance.”

“But you are literally wearing a mask that hides your face,” Nolofinwe said, catching the thread of Nelyafinwe’s suggestion.

“Yes; the entire time. Taking it off is a faux pas, you’re supposed to be able to keep it on the whole night. Faces are covered from crown to nose; the mouth is obviously left uncovered for eating. Distinctive hair or clothing will make one, but if you have ever tried to identify people by their mouths, it’s harder than you think. If you know their voice, it’s one thing, but if many there have never heard your voice since it changed…”

It still sounded risky to Nolofinwe, and yet, the more he thought about it, the more it sounded possible, which was intriguing. Indeed, most of Nelyafinwe’s family had not heard him since before his voice changed; Turcafinwe had run into him, but sparingly, and he seemed to be someone who did not necessarily remember facts about people anyway. He could have a mask made, and new clothes, which no one had seen before and which had no heraldry on them. Nolofinwe was not actually that distinctive visually, a fact that he both liked and disliked; he looked like his royal father in his features, everyone said so, btu that was the only thing that distinguished him. His black hair was fine but normal, his height normal, his build normal if not a bit thin and underwhelming. His eyes were just a ouch Vanya, but that wasn’t too unusual, and may not even me remarked on with he right mask.

((In this verse, Feanaro softens, but until enmity forms between him and Nolo. That way Nolo can feel like it truly was him that fucked it up.))

He might be able to do it. He became caught up enough in the question of whether he could accomplish it that the question of whether he wanted to was sidelined; he was one-half a Noldo, after all.

“What if someone recognizes me, and gives me away?”

“Well,” Nelyafinwe considered, “I shan’t, and you can bet on your father being quite distracted. Mine as well, but—would he recognize you, I wonder?”

Nolofinwe’s heart was somewhat in his throat, and he felt uncharacteristically bold as he softly echoed, “I wonder.”

--

((Mae covers for him, ‘here’s one of the replacements I got you since half the crew is too hungover from yesterday,’ nolo is worried that his disguise wasn’t good enough but no most people do not recognize him. Mae is canny. On the fence yet if Fea does or doesn’t.))

Nolofinwe’s mask was made of wood, because he was not handy in smithing yet, but handy enough in carving. He painted it (a skill which he was better at) black and with white and light blue embellished it with stars and clouds. Beneath he wore black, an outfit he and his mother pieced together quickly from plain cloth; he described what he wanted and she helped him make it without asking questions, but with a little, knowing smile on her face.

Nolofinwe was quite fond of his mother, and, he had to admit, often felt closer to her than his father. She had moods, and everyone knew it, but she was also affectionate and honest and, important in this case, very good at keeping a secret, and from anyone.

Upon it he wore only very simple jewelry, silver and without ornamentation, not risking anything that could be tied to him. He left home in a different outfit, and walked several streets closer to the wedding festivities that could be heard from far away (and had been being heard for days) and changed in a quiet garden, leaving the bag with his usual clothes hidden.

He had checked himself in the outfit in his mirror; he hardly recognized himself. The mask covered most of his face; with his hair down and only braided back from his forehead, he looked like he could be anyone. He had even dyed previously white shoes and clipped his nails and done other things to ensure he just didn’t look like himself to himself.

Oddly, that was pleasant. As Nolofinwe tested his long, dark, plan robe, turned around and checked the heels of his shoes, the plan silver bands on his wrists, the unmarked lobes of his ears, he felt light, like he had just walked inside from the cold and shed a heavy coat.

In that manner he walked to Kanafinwe’s wedding mask, his robes flitting quickly around his ankles and his hair whisking behind him. When he was close enough to hear the notes of the harp, smell the cloves and anise on the air, he finally paused.

Could he really do this? Could he truly disguise himself, even to family? And if he failed, and was exposed…

But he was right on the threshold, and the murmur of people inside, bird-like laughter and scuffling cat claws, forbidden voices he was commanded to never hear in song and cheer, compelled him forward, urged him stumbling through the last steps inside.

--

Since I’ll probably never polish this one anyway and because I keep thinking about this part. Some stupid spat makes Fea angry and so not long after Findekano is born (I would need a section or two of Nolo just loving his baby boy) there is a rift between the families again, and as consequence Mae is absent through Fin’s entire childhood. Only way I can make their obsession with each other not horrifying. Mae regrets not watching Fin grow up hard because he wants to be a whole family so and bad because he had to do the same thig to Nolo. Mae and Fin finally meet accidentally in a contest. The are immediate sparks which Mae repressed and Fin uh. Hides but badly. He’s not fully cognizant of how his new obsession comes off so he doesn’t mask as well as he could have.

--

Nolofinwe is in love. More in love even that he was with Anaire, and he had even told her so. Fortunately she was not insulted, in fact she seemed quite relieved; as she rested she watched Nolofinwe hold their son and cosset him and rocked him back and forth with a mile of calm contentment on her face that slipped slowly into peaceful sleep.

Never for long. The boy was not a quiet baby. He didn’t cry often, but when he did, it ws shrieking, tempestuous. No, the boy was joyful. He was always laughing, always delighted by every new thing. He would reach out his little fresh-copper fingers to grasp at earrings and wristlets, locks of hair and hands and fans and goblets and grapes and the tails of dogs or the wings of birds. He thought the boy was the happiest baby he had ever seen, thrilled to be alive in the world and at all moments ready to shriek about it.

If he got so happy and loud that others were annoyed, Nolofinwe would put him inside his own cloak so he couldn’t see anything to get excited about, and the boy would hug into him and laugh and sometimes fall asleep right there.

--

Father loved him too; Feanor and Nerdanel had, apparently, insisted that the twins were it and they wouldn’t be having any more, so the fact that there were still babies to be admired was a great excitement to him. He and mama were practically living in the guest room for a few years as Anaire recovered and Nolofinwe adjusted to not having his own time.

Not that he minded his time being taken up by his boy or even really needed the help, but it also was a treasure in his heart when he watched his father cradle the boy and smile and saw how the boy relaxed in his arms, or how he lit up and became exuberant around his grandmother, reaching for her golden hair and painted nails and the sparkling opals on her rings. It was Nolofinwe’s mother that first said, with a mixture of affection and shrewdness in her eye, that “This boy will be one with great affection for shining things, Nolo; mind you keep an eye on his tastes as you grow!”

“Do you think he’ll be a smith, then?” Nolofinwe asked, gently coaxing a ring that the boy had nearly swallowed back out of his mouth. (The boy considered being unhappy for a moment, but saw the ring again and began to play with it instead).

“No,” said Nolofinwe’s mother, a hint of insight coming with its bright vagueness into her eyes, “No, not a maker of goodly things; a great admirer of them. You will be always need to keep a close eye on where his hands go, Aracano.”

That was not… especially high praise. Nolofinwe felt surprisingly wounded, when such a comment about himself he would barely blink at. “He will be a maker of something, of course. He is a Noldo,” he said; more a Noldo even than himself.

“…Of,” Nolofinwe’s mother said, and suddenly her brow crinkled. The insight caught her, and she did not move for a few seconds.

“Mother?” Nolofinwe asked.

“I see him as a great dealer of… something, but I do not understand what it is,” she said, and then the insight left her.

--

Later, as he was relaying the conversation to Anaire, she said, “Vana and Nessa; I love my law-mother, Nolofinwe, but the things she says sometimes.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, holding the boy on his knee, who was again engrossed in turning around an earring he had grabbed off his mother’s dressing-table.

“To call her infant grandson a future womanizer.”

“A what?”

“A ‘great admirer of beauty?’ We’ll ‘have to watch where his hands go?’”

Nolofinwe was horrified. “That’s—I’m sure that’s not what she meant.”

“Oh, she married your father. She knows what she’s talking about, I’m sure.”

“Anaire!”

She laughed, low and gentle. “I shouldn’t say that sort of thing to you, love. You just can’t take it.”

“It’s just—not a very forgiving way of seeing it.”

“No, it isn’t. Even if someone is—flirtatious, it doesn’t have to be a bad thing to be. True, I don’t understand it—”

“You wonderful man; you truly do not.”

Nolofinwe smiled at himself. “But charm is appreciated by everyone if it isn’t forceful. No, you, my diamond,” he said, extracting the jewelry (again) from his mouth, “I think are going to be quite vain, and with your little face I don’t blame you, which is surely what your grandmother was warning us about.”

“Vain! Maybe you’re right. He’ll be a great beauty, if he looks like his father. And he—”

“—Cannot keep his hands off of anything gold, come on, precious, let me have that,” Nolofinwe sighed as he made sure, once again, that his son did not actually eat his mother’s jewelry.

--

((skip))

--

((end of a scene where Anaire and Nolo discuss Fin’s actually and obvious sexuality))

“I think we have been hiding the truth from ourselves,” Nolo said delicately, “and only out of love, but it has still been a lie. I do not think Findekano is going to change, love. I don’t think, in our hearts, we want him to. I think this is what and who he is going to be, and the note he will always play. I think we must be prepared to not see the day he proposes to a wife, because I do not think he will want to, and that pushing him to do it would be an act of pure discord without any love in it. I think instead we must prepared for the day that he comes home with a ner he loves and who loves him, and indeed if we ever want to see the day we must prepared for it now and show willingness to him so that he may trust us with it. If that day comes I want to be a father he can call by that title and no causes of kin-strife and torment.”

Anaire wiped her eyes and shook her head. “But how? How could we…”

“I don’t know how it can be done,” he said, “But I know how he can be loved, and that I am determined to accomplish even in the face of such impossibilies.”

But as he said it Nolofinwe was imagining perhaps a blushing squire, absorbed with the love of his lord and humble to overcoming his station. Perhaps a Vanyar lord of Indis’ kin, a shining ner who could match Findekano wit for wit and whet his strengths of charm and virtue. Perhaps a hard-working smith, who loved primarily the work of gold and complimented lovely Findekano as well as his cuffs and his earrings, a love of symbiotic making and gift-giving and thanks.

He was imagining someone he could call a law-son.