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“Im, Ta, En, Ca, Le, Quë, Ot, Im.” Macalaurë paused after he finished the last scale and rubbed his face. The calluses on his fingers irritated the corners of his eyes. He had spent the afternoons, the evenings, and the late hours in the attic practicing, emerging only when his mother came to retrieve him or when his father would send Maitimo up to wrestle him away from the glorious harp he had recently been given.
It was a gift from his father, curved, like the graceful neck of a swan, and it fit perfectly in his hands. When the thirteen strings were tightened and tuned, it reminded Macalaurë of the raising of the silken sails of the Telerin ships. And why not, his father had agreed, for the harp, too, was of Telerin make.
Not everything was perfect. The very first notes wavered out of tune, and each pluck caused him to pull a face. Fëanáro offered stern encouragement and insisted that Macalaurë’s fingers grasp the strings firmly. “It will be of no use if you do not do it right,” his father explained as he demonstrated, with fingers, though rough from the work in the forges, caressed the strings and coaxed from them delightful melodies. “You will get used to it,” he promised when he handed the harp back, and Macalaurë had practiced every day since.
This morning, his mother had not needed his help for very long. Instead, he was allowed to escape to his retreat, where he worshipped the harp given to him by his father. He was more confident than he had been in the beginning, when he could barely remember the names of the notes, let alone whole songs. Now he could play several without stopping, and his fingers no longer stung when he plucked the silken strings.
Today, his father and Maitimo would be busy at the forge. No one would interrupt him for lunch – after breakfast, his mother had tied two small loaves of bread, a hunk of cheese, and fresh fruit into a cloth for him to take with him to his hideaway. The food was forgotten, hour after hour, as Macalaurë’s fingers danced over the strings, and his mind wandered to thoughts of a grandmother he had never known, and yet, knew well.
His father had shared with him the stories of many memories. Tales were told of a wise and witty woman, with a sharp tongue and a sharper needle. Everyone praised Fëanáro’s crafting abilities, but Macalaurë could tell that his father, for all of his accomplishments, saw himself as inferior to the mother he himself barely knew. He boasted of her like a parent would a child, but in this case it was the son speaking the praises of his mother, with tears unshed in his eyes as he recalled something she said, or told the story of how his mother had invented the metal needle.
As Macalaurë thought about this, strands of a theme were pulled from the strings. A song yet unsung began to form in his mind, and he spent the afternoon weaving a song of his own.
When Maitimo retrieved him, Macalaurë brought the harp and the untouched food back downstairs. His mother clucked her disapproval and heaped twice as much upon his plate. As usual, his father was almost late in joining them, but seemed to suddenly appear in his seat just as his mother sat in hers. Fëanáro began to reach for his spoon, but he looked up as Nerdanel bowed her head. There was a motion of their father’s hand, and the boys followed their father’s example to fold their hands and wait until their mother finished the prayer before they began to eat. Macalaurë waited until everyone else had taken their first bite to ensure he would be uninterrupted in his announcement. “If everyone is not too busy, I would like to play something after we eat.”
“That would be lovely,” answered Fëanáro before there was a chance for debate, though Macalaurë’s older brother and mother nodded their heads as well. “I would love to hear how you have improved.”
Macalaurë beamed, and then spent the rest of the meal silently fretting. The song was new, the words were unfamiliar, and if he tried to play on a full stomach he might get a cramp. He ate little and pushed the food around more than necessary.
Following dinner, Macalaurë felt a boost in his confidence from the smile his father gave him. There was very little that he had ever done to disappoint his father. In fact, everything had been met with praise, from his first smile (which probably *was* gas) to his first step, to the first note he had managed on the beautifully crafted Telerin harp he now cradled. “I thought I would play something new tonight,” he stated once his parents and brother were settled in the parlor.
“Anything you wish,” encouraged Fëanáro. “We delight at the thought of hearing you play.”
Macalaurë gave a simple nod and placed the harp in position. He took a deep breath and looked up. His mother was fishing about in a basket of yarn that the cats had no doubt tangled up, and his brother was leaned back, eyes half-closed, reading a letter that had come from the House of Ñolofinwë earlier in the day. Only his father was focused solely upon him, and for Macalaurë, that was enough.
When his father had told him the stories of his grandmother, it had seemed to Macalaurë as if he was there. While some had the ability to weave their tales with song in such ways that it seemed those in the tales came to life before the audience, so, too, could Fëanáro, but his projected tales were with words spoken. Macalaurë offered the stories back to his father, reverent prose into lyrical poetry. His voice was not as loud as his father’s was, but it was steady, as steady as the hand of the woman of whom he sung.
Macalaurë closed his eyes and felt the strings, knew where they were with confidence. That confidence amplified his voice, and his crystal words twisted with the notes so that they were bound as one, and if he had opened his eyes, he might have seen the images of which he sang. A bright young woman appeared to be with them in the parlor, as delicate as she was strong, with agile fingers and a slash of silver dancing between them.
When Macalaurë did open his eyes, he first took note that the letter was settled in Maitimo’s lap, and that his mother had surrendered the yarn to the cats. He finally worked the courage to look to the final occupant, his mind still doubting that his father would be proud of his first composition.
Fëanáro made no attempt to disguise his tears. Macalaurë bit his lip, awash with fear, until he realized that his father wept not because he was disappointed, but because he felt such overwhelming joy. Gently, Macalaurë set the harp down and approached his father, who held out his hand. He took it, and came closer. Maitimo joined them, his hands upon his father’s shoulders as Macalaurë sat down on his father’s lap to give him a hug. Nerdanel, too, reached over to hold her husband’s other hand.
“That was beautiful. Thank you.” Fëanáro tightened his embrace and stroked Macalaurë’s hair. “You are a true son.”