Fifty. That magical year. The year when, despite not yet being of full stature, not quite reaching full maturity, the laws and customs allowed for many privileges not known to the younger citizens of Valinor. Voting rights, ownership of land, of livestock, and of business were reserved for those deemed mature. Fifty meant the possibility of all of these things, and was also a time for apprenticeship, marriage, and even children for those most anxious.
For Macalaurė, it meant anxiety, not blissful celebration. From early on, his memories were of his father proudly pointing to tools in his forge, explaining what they were, and quizzing him at supper. Nightly, he spent time after studies helping to polish the jewels and gems with Maitimo, when he really wanted to sit in the glade and play harp. There was song, at least. This was an addition one of the young apprentices introduced, but Macalaurė perfected the loud, coarse forge dirges into ballads and songs worthy to be sung to the Valar. No happy songs would pass his lips tonight, Macalaurė grimly thought.
When Maitimo came of age, he had been presented with a fine set of tools, worthy of only the most capable smiths – which Fėanįro was sure his son would become. That night, as Maitimo showed off his gifts, he reminded his brother, “You will be fifty soon yourself. I am sure father will present you with your own tools of the trade.”
Now Macalaurė sat at the dining table gloomily. He had kept quiet that it was his begetting day. Every moment that passed was another that it was forgotten. No one said a word at breakfast or at lunch, and now he was beginning to feel neglected that not even Maitimo had wished him well.
He watched as little Tyelcormo squeezed mashed carrots through his fingers. Macalaurė had been left in charge of his little brother while their mother finished preparing supper for the rest of the family. Her humming could be heard coming from the kitchen, a soothing sound that carried through the wooden door. Tyelcormo tightened his fist until he had a pile of mashed carrots on the wooden tray that kept him anchored in his highchair. The orange goo was under the elfling’s fingernails, which he now discovered and examined with a quiet pout as the other hand patted the pile down.
“I should tell you to stop playing with your food,” muttered Macalaurė, his head rested on his folded arms. Tyelcormo stopped and held out his goo-covered hand, but Macalaurė shook his head. After giving his hand an experimental lick, Tyelcormo set to smearing the carrots over the entire tray. “If you do not eat those, you will not grow up to be big and strong. Maybe that is a good thing,” Macalaurė mused. “If you are big and strong, Ada will just make you become a blacksmith or a silversmith or something else you do not wish to—“ He stopped as the door swung open and sat up. “Tyelcormo, bad. Stop playing with those.”
“Oh, do not worry,” chirped Nerdanel happily as she carried a platter of roasted lamb and vegetables into the dining room. She placed it on the table and beamed at her middle child. “I made your favorite,” she announced as a wad of carrot flew across the room.
“There is so much food,” Macalaurė remarked. “Even with the appetites Maitimo and father have, we cannot possibly finish all of this.”
“I just assumed you might want extra. It is your favorite,” Nerdanel reminded, in the case that Macalaurė might have forgotten what his favorite was.
“Umm... I really do not think I am hungry,” admitted Macalaurė. He began to panic. No one had said anything because it was probably a surprise of some sort, and he hated surprises. They knew he hated surprises. Why would they do this on his begetting day, of all days?
“Well, your father has a surprise for you out in his forge.” The dreaded words were said, but Nerdanel remained cheerful as she had been, despite the fact she was now de-carrot-ing a fussy Tyelcormo. “Go out and let your father and brother know supper is ready, and maybe you will regain your appetite.”
With a heavy sigh, Macalaurė shoved his chair back and nodded. He took the long way to the forge, through the front door and around the house to the back. No smoke was coming from the fires, which either meant that everything had been shut down early so that he could spend the night adoring whatever hammers and chisels he was going to receive, or, they would be stoked and red-hot after dinner, perfect for trying out the new presents.
Macalaurė’s steps were heavy as he entered the forge, and he stared down at the floor as he passed through the throng of people. Apprentices, no doubt, but he did not bother to look up, allowing his long, dark hair to obscure his view. When he reached the place his father was always at, he took a deep breath and began to look up. “Ada, Naneth said...” His eyes caught the glimmer of something, and his stomach tightened. It was momentary, and then his jaw dropped in awe.
“I think he likes it,” teased Fėanįro as he held the object up a little higher, and those in the forge began to laugh. Macalaurė looked over his shoulder to see not only his brother and the apprentices, but his uncles, aunts, and cousins as well. He turned back to gaze upon the beautiful sight. “A very happy begetting day to you, my son,” said Fėanįro as he held out the shining silver harp he had in his hands.
“Well, go on, take it!” shouted Maitimo. “We want to hear you play something!”
Macalaurė took hold of the instrument, afraid he might discover he was in a dream. “This is...” He shook his head, taking in the delicate scrolling patterns of trees and deer. “I...”
“Time for dinner!” announced Nerdanel, appearing at the doorway with a much cleaner Tyelcormo. Macalaurė blushed at having taken so long to reach the forge and mumbled his apologies as everyone began to shuffle out and toward the house.
Held back due to being so far within the forge, Macalaurė waited until everyone else had left before he asked, “Should I bring it with me?”
“It is up to you, son. The harp is yours. I do hope you like it,” said Fėanįro, placing a hand upon his son’s shoulder. “I know I said I was going to have a set of tools made for you like the ones that your brother has, but... well, I understand if you are disappointed.”
“Disappointed?! Oh, no, Adar, I... I am in awe!” Macalaurė tested the strings and a lump formed in his throat. “I love it. It is perfect, and I intend to practice every day. Well, with your permission, of course.”
“Of course, and you hardly need my permission now,” Fėanįro said. “You are still my son, yes, but a child no longer. You should decide what you wish to do, and if that means you take an apprenticeship with a harper or a singer or some other bard, that is a decision you are free to make. It is a decision you must make, for there is no reason to base your choice on what you think I would want you to do. You must do what is best for you.”
“I... thank you,” said Macalaurė, his arms wrapped around the precious instrument. “I was afraid you would be disappointed in me.”
“Disappointed? No, son. Not for being what you are. Never for being yourself.”
Story Notes:
Written for the JFA Writing Challenge #10; part of the Bunniverse, but stands alone just fine.