#tinweriel

and

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manyskilled

when he drops and breaks a cup in his morning-drowsiness, and doesn't bother fixing it though he could. He has better things to do.

But she praises him, too. On their wedding day, when she sees him for the first time in all his finery and all his joy, she says, a fond, gentler-than-usual smile lighting up her fair face,

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           for no

other girl

           O bridegroom

                  such as this one now

and she takes his hand.

Later she will write, thinking of her own beloved though it is a song written to celebrate another's wedding,

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blest bridegroom, your marriage just as you prayed

has been accomplished

                                and you have the bride for whom you prayed

gracious your form and your eyes

as honey; desire is poured upon your lovely face

[]

*

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           far more sweetsounding than a lyre

golder than gold

are the voices and noises I plucked of you this night', says Tinweriel when they lie in their large new bed, still intertwined, after the physical act that made their marriage promises true. 'And no one will ever hear them but me.'

Makalaurë raises his weary head from her chest which makes a fine pillow for a bridegroom, he thinks. 'Would you share them if you could? Or make an orchestration for the harp and flute out of them?'

'Never', she swears. 'Our… night-music is for us alone, performers though we are.'

He hums. 'But we can write and compose some new themes now, I think, inspired by our night-music.'

She laughs. 'Ones that will leave the unmarried confused and scandalise the married by their boldness! Yes, let us do that, my love. Together.'

'Tomorrow', he mumbles.

He hands the bottle to his twin and says, 'Hard to believe it’s your fault your nose is almost broken, unless you went running your mouth again at –’

He doesn’t need to even name the person for Telvo to know who he means.

'I might have’, Telvo says.

Pityo sighs. 'I’ll get some ice from the kitchen.’

Nodding his thanks, Telvo slumps on the floor, leaning against his bed.

Pityo rolls his eyes after he has turned his back. He’s not a paragon of patience himself, but Telvo is worse.

When he gets back to their room carrying a bowl of ice and a clean towel to wrap it in, he finds two brothers on the floor, taking turns 'enjoying’ the mouth-burning spirits.

'What’s wrong with you?’ Pityo asks Tyelko as he passes the ice in the towel to his twin. 'Your face looks like you lost a fight too, though there doesn’t seem to be a scratch on you.’

'Írissë is mad at me’, Tyelkormo says, sullen and miserable. 'I didn’t mean to insult her father. Not while she could hear, I mean. But she heard anyway and got mad. She didn’t even pet Huan.’

Huan sighs and looks forlorn as he settles over Tyelko’s feet.

Pityo sighs, too. 'You two should just stay away from civilisation.’

Tyelko kicks his ankle. 'Brat.’

Pityo sits down, squeezing himself between his brothers because he wants Huan to be his foot-warmer too.

'Well?’ Pityo says. 'Give me the damn bottle, too, then. Since we seem to have chosen drunken brooding as our activity for the night.’

Telvo shoves his shoulder, just a little in a friendly manner, and passes the bottle to Pityo.

They sit in silence for a while, apart from Huan’s quiet snores.

'You have a brood of puppies you’re soon going to start training, right’, says Telvo to Tyelko after a while, his voice muffled by the ice he’s keeping on his face. 'You should give Írissë the best of them once they know how to behave. She might forgive you.’

'She does love good hunting dogs’, Pityo agrees.

'Mm. Perhaps.’ Tyelko stretches and belches. 'You need to spar with me more, Telvo. To learn how not to be taken by surprise so often.’

The bottle slowly empties while they talk half-seriously of serious things, complaining of them to their hearts’ content.

When there is no more drink to be had, Tyelko tosses the bottle to the floor with a clatter, to a protest from neat-freak Telvo and a startled noise from Huan.

'Don’t be childish, Tyelko.’ Pityo leans back. The ceiling is spinning a little. 'There are more bottles. You don’t need to punish that one for being empty.’

'Where?’ Tyelko clambers to his feet.

'In the cellar.’ Pityo chuckles as Tyelko curses.

And sits down. He and Telvo both look at Pityo.

Grumbling, he gets up. He takes the melted ice from Telvo and takes it to the kitchen, and then heads to the cellars, grateful that his father is at the palace and mother visiting her parents. He fetches two, no, three bottles, two of wine and another of the strong spirit to hide in his and Telvo’s room.

He stops short in the doorway again.

Tyelko and Telvo have been joined by Makalaurë and his wife, of all people. A lyre and flute lie carefully placed on Telvo’s desk, but Makalaurë has taken Pityo’s place on the floor, and Tinweriel lounges carelessly in the most comfortable chair in the room, her blood-red dress crumpled around her legs that she has draped over the side of the chair.

'I see that I must not leave this room tonight or an ever-greater number of miserable brothers will manifest in it’, Pityo announces, for Makalaurë looks far from happy, too, as does Tinweriel.

Pityo hands one bottle of wine to Tinweriel and the other to Tyelko, and pulls up the second most comfortable chair.

'You two don’t look too happy either’, he remarks, nodding to Makalaurë and Tinweriel. 'Oh’, he remembers to ask a little belatedly, 'do you want a cup to drink that from?’

'I’m not that fine a lady’, Tinweriel says with a crooked smile, taking a swig right from the bottle and giving it back to Pityo.

Pityo shrugs and takes it. What Tinweriel is is a mercurial lady; on some other day she would ask for a silver goblet to be brought for her.

Not tonight. Tonight is a lazing together, drinking together, commiserating with each other kind of night.

It turns out that Makalaurë and Tinweriel have lost two choristers because they decided they couldn’t keep singing in a choir led by a son and daughter-in-law of Fëanáro when they disagree with his recent ideas.

'Good riddance’, Makalaurë declares. 'One of them couldn’t take direction well.’

'And the other wore colours that clashed with mine’, adds Tinweriel in a tone that makes it clear to anyone that knows her that she’s just making up reasons.

'You’ll find new ones’, Pityo says with a yawn. 'There are always people wanting to join, aren’t there?’

Makalaurë brightens a little, though he also asks for the wine to be passed to him.

Pityo scratches Huan behind the ears just as he likes, leans into his chair, half-listening to the talk around him, saying something encouraging now and then. He had a good day himself, training a young horse and treating another one’s sore leg.

He doesn’t leave the room again, though, telling the others it’s their turn. When they get hungry Tyelko goes to raid the larder, and Pityo builds a fire in the grate, and they while the night away together with quiet talk and quietly improving moods.

*

A/N: I would like to note, in case it needs to be said, that though the Fëanorians sometimes use alcohol to help cope with their problems, I do not recommend it. It's not healthy.

On the outside surface of the rings he chisels, in musical notation just barely big enough to see, a snippet of the song he just wrote. It is a song of affection and gladness; when played well, it makes the air ring with golden-warm joy. Makalaurë intends to play it often, both alone with Tinweriel and in company.

On the inside he carves words for her to keep against her skin. With all the songs in my soul –

Already as he gives it to Tinweriel he tells her that the golden ring he will give her on the day they marry will continue the message. With all the songs in my soul – I am yours until the world breaks.

And he tells her, 'All the songs I sing are for you now.'

*

     II – Carnistir to Tuilindien  

When the right words to carve into Tuilindien's rings come to Carnistir, he wonders for a moment whether they are too romantic. Romance is, after all, something he did not think of highly for the most of his life, and several of his brothers still often proclaim their dislike of sentimental words like he used to. Curufinwë in particular bemoans and mocks the romantic tendencies Tuilindien has brought out in Carnistir.

But l'll be damned before I let my least favourite little brother influence what I promise to my wife, Carnistir tells himself after that second of doubt. Curufinwë's views on romance are, after all, completely irrelevant.

The only thing that matters is the truth of his feelings for Tuilindien, and what words he might use to make her happy.

Not caring if it is sentimental and melodramatic, he carves into the silver betrothal ring, With all the fire in my spirit. As soon as he finds the time he will make her golden ring, too, and continue his promise with I give myself to you.

For that is what he wants to do.

Into the outside of the silver ring he engraves tiny, delicate flowers and vines, all connected and flowing into each other, unending and inseparable like his feelings for her.

Thinking of her often means thinking of flowers. The roses her hair got tangled up in the night they met; the flower-shaped combs and other jewellery he made for her; the wildflowers dotting the grass in the glade where he first kissed her; the flowers surrounding the tables at the tea-house where he almost lost her by his own actions; the garlands she sent with her letters.

And on the mountainside, the blooming lavaraldar trees they danced under the night she asked him to marry her.

*

     III – Curufinwë to Netyarë  

Curufinwë finds it infuriatingly difficult to decide what special quality he will give to the rings he is making for Netyarë. In the end he stoops to asking his married brothers for advice. He begins with Carnistir only because he happens to meet him first.

Carnistir suggests nothing but an engraving. 'Something that says in a few words all that you want to say to her. It might mean more to her than any showy effect.'

Curufinwë knows that Netyarë likes some colourful, showy things, but he also thinks once again about the cruel way he spoke the first time he willingly engaged her in conversation: how he'd accused her of being a social climber and a fortune hunter. He had been completely in the wrong, and he apologised soon after and she forgave him, but he knows his words can never be erased from between them.

But he can promise her that in their marriage he will do everything he can to give her only the best of him: to keep his colder, crueller side away from her and make her happy with what gentler warmth there is in him. To make her smile that smile of hers that is like a bright summer's day and has become more necessary to his happiness than any single thing before.

Curufinwë pulls up a sheet of parchment and polishes the words like he would a gemstone, until they shine dark and clear, and the following day he carves them into metal.

His promise to her, in silver and gold, With all that is good in me – I am devoted to you.