Nolofinwe is concerned about his nephew.
On second thought, perhaps Nolofinwe ought to call him High King—though Makalaure tightens his lips and curls his fists whenever anyone refers to him as such. And considering his recent instability, Nolofinwe really doesn’t want to push it any further.
Ever since a delirious and sleep deprived Findekano stumbled into the camp with a horribly disfigured Nelyafinwe, blood dripping onto the ground, Makalaure has been teetering on the edge of breaking point.
Well. Makalaure is probably far past the edge of breaking point by now.
Nolofinwe manages to pick up enough from Makalaure’s other brothers to figure out that Makalaure has not been well for a while now.
None of them are well, of course; their elder brother taken by Moringotto for three—thirty, Nolofinwe corrects, there’s a new timekeeping system now—years would shatter anyone into pieces.
Yet Kanafinwe, who was fourth in line for the throne in Valinor and spent his childhood looking up to Feanaro and Nelyafinwe, the heirs, the leaders—suddenly had both snatched away in an instant. The crown he never expected to have was placed upon his very head. And though Feanaro named Kanafinwe a commander, Makalaure has never wanted the role.
The fact that Nolofinwe can piece all of this together by simply looking implies how messed up the situation is.
The guards and subjects refer to Makalaure as Lord Kanafinwe, but Nolofinwe realizes his nephew probably prefers his mother name more. Especially in this situation.
“Makalaure, you must eat.” Nolofinwe is cool and firm, because he’s the mature one right now, though his obvious concern fills his voice.
Makalaure is sitting on a chair in his personal quarters. When Nolofinwe’s company first arrived, Makalaure had sat in the makeshift-throne in the royal pavillion, silver circlet resting awkwardly on his head.
When Findekano arrived, Makalaure does not sit on the throne anymore.
It is evening and no lights are lit in the tent, so all Nolofinwe can see is the outline of Makalaure’s sitting silluhete in the darkness.
“Why are you here, uncle?” Makalaure says quietly. His voice is parched and trembling, which worries Nolofinwe a little. “Do you need anything?”
“I am here simply out of concern,” Nolofinwe replies delicately. “Concern for my nephew.”
“You need not be concerned for me. Mai—Russo is the one who has been through hell and back.” The awkward stutter over Nelyafinwe’s name hangs over the air. Not Maitimo anymore, echoes through both of their minds. “And Findekano. He—I—”
Nolofinwe steps closer to see Makalaure better.
Makalaure’s face is pale and sunken, dark circles carving beneath his eyes. He looks like a skeleton, as if he has been starving himself. Which he probably has been. His eyes, normally calm pools of silver, are dull and muddy. And his hair—
Nolofinwe narrows his eyes. “Need not be concerned?” he echoes. Nolofinwe reaches out and carefully lifts up a lock of Makalaure’s hair, exposing the strands of silver-grey weaving through the dark navy.
“Do not blame yourself,” Nolofinwe says. “What happened to Nelyafinwe is not—”
“Do you blame me, Uncle?” Makalaure breathes. “For Losgar. For the Helcaraxe? For Elenw—”
“Do you blame me for not being strong enough during the burning? That I could not stand my ground against Atar, that I could not resist like Russo could?”
Nolofinwe catches his breath.
“Russo didn’t burn them,” Makalaure mutters. “Even when the rest of us did. Even when the rest of us followed Atar. Blindly. Betraying all of you.”
“I should not and will not lay all the blame on you alone, Makalaure, and you know that,” Nolofinwe said. He pauses. “In fact, if I commanded my children to burn them, I expect they would have done it too. They would have followed my order as blindly as you followed your father’s.”
Nolofinwe knows this is true.
He had asked his children, when they had cursed Feanaro and his sons every waking moment on the Ice, if they would do the same for their father. If they would burn bridges and boats if Nolofinwe merely gave the word.
They cursed their cousins less after that.
Well, their boiling hatred for Feanaro did not lessen in the slightest, but the cruel words were diverted from his sons.
Makalaure laughs, dry and hollow. The mirth does not reach his eyes. Nor his lips. Nor his laugh either, for that matter. “Findekano would not.”
“Findekano would not,” Nolofinwe agrees. He stops, reconsidering. "No. Findekano definitely would." His eldest son had burned far too many precious items as a child that Nolofinwe wouldn't put it past him to do it again.
Makalaure slips out of his chair, kneeling before his Nolofinwe and lowering his head. “I owe you an apology, uncle,” Makalaure trembles. “I owe you many apologies, as do all my brothers. For our treachery to you, your house, and your company. For abandoning you to the Grinding Ice, for the pain and suffering you endured, for all those you lost, for…for sweet Elenwe—”
“You and your brothers did terrible deeds, that I will not deny,” Nolofinwe says quietly. “Yet you should not be blamed for the nature of the Grinding Ice, or for the loss of my daughter-in-law. And I do not entirely blame you alone for Losgar either, as it was not your original intent but your father’s. Regardless of what you have done and who is to blame, however, the past is the past. There is no point in clutching on to bitter grudges when we have a common enemy to defeat and forces to unite. I do not hate you, Makalaure. Please remember that.”
“You should. You really should,” Makalaure mutters, still kneeling. “You should hate all of us. Yet somehow, you do not...which is a kindness we do not deserve. But many in your company do not share your sentiment.”
Nolofinwe sighs. “Although I advise against fiercely holding on to such grudges, my people have lost much due to your house’s actions. I cannot force them to let go of their resentment. That is their own decision to make. Please, Makalaure, rise. You need not bow.”
Makalaure does not get up; still kneeling before Nolofinwe. “The only reason a war has not broken out between our factions yet is solely because of your son’s actions. If Findekano had not—” Makalaure stutters, “if Findekano had not taken my brother from hell—”
Nolofinwe grips Makaluare’s arm. “Makalaure. Findekano told me what he heard after your argument with him when we first arrived.”
“Which is my main reason for coming here,” Nolofinwe says. “Along with your current condition. You look terrible and feel terrible. That is an obvious fact and you cannot deny that.”
“I am not a child, uncle,” Makaure sniffs quietly. “You do not need to watch over me as if you are my parent.”
“This is serious, Makaluare!” Nolofinwe snaps. He exhales, kneeling down and looking his nephew in the eye. “Do not blame yourself for Nelyafinwe’s current state. That blame is on Moringotto and Moringotto alone—”
“It is my fault!” Makalaure hisses, snatching his arm away from Nolofinwe’s grasp and standing up. “It is my fault, I know it, my brothers know it, Findekano knows it. And what he said to me, when he first found out I had abandoned Russo to Angband’s hell for thirty years? It was right!”
“‘How could you?’ Findekano had screamed, ‘How could you leave him there?’ And I am asking myself the same question! How could I abandon my own brother to hell? Why didn’t I try hard enough? Why wasn’t I good enough?” Makalaure’s voice cracks. “And yet Findekano could do it. With song, no less. What use is my own music, then? I could not even save my own brother.”
Makalaure’s breathing is rapid, panicked. Nolofinwe stands up, grasping Makalaure’s hands in his. “You tried. And you cared. That is all that matters to your brother,” Nolofinwe says. “You led party after party to try to save him. You ruled in his stead, even if it broke you. And now, Nelyafinwe needs your help to recover.”
“Russo is not even conscious yet,” Makalaure mutters. “And besides, I am no healer.”
“And what hearsay is that? Has the propaganda around that Sinda musician been getting to you?
“Þinda,” Makalaure corrects, muttering. “Daeron son of Thingol is nothing to me.”
“Precisely,” Nolofinwe says. “Visit your brother. Help him and stay by him, let your songs renew him once again. When he awakes, you will know that he does not blame you either. If you will not believe me, believe him.”
Makalaure does not look convinced, but gives a half-hearted nod anyway.
“Avoiding Nelyafinwe will make neither his injuries nor your guilt go away,” Nolofinwe points out.
A figure tears full-force into the tent, whacking the tent flap to the side. “Kano, where have you been? We need to see if your music will help Russo get—”
Tyelkormo screeches to a halt, realizing Nolofinwe’s presence. He freezes. “Hello, Uncle.”
Nolofinwe inclines his head in greeting. “Hello to you too, Tyelkormo. Apologies, I was just having a quick conversation with Makalaure.” He walks to the tent flap, turning with a knowing glint in his eye before he steps out. “Makalaure…Thanks to Tyelkormo’s timely message, I believe Nelyafinwe needs your help.”
“Yes, Uncle,” is the response. Nolofinwe walks out of the tent.
As he does so, he hears some shuffling and the pluck of a harp.
turnnoffyourmind
discoholicmusic
yousharknotpass
origamiaround
andulkaphoto
