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Arakano did not mean to… Intrude.
But then, it was so tempting, seeing the yarns, the colourful threads...
He had wanted to learn, and once took some of Irisse’s needle and yarn to practice. Then Amil caught him and told Adar, resulting in a long lecture of “Princes shouldn’t knit” and “Knitting is for Princesses and elleths”.
And in he went to the disorganised room, poking and prodding at the materials lying around.
Surely the owner wouldn’t mind? Irisse hated knitting and was more than grateful when Arakano helped her with her knitting lessons.
“What are you doing in my room?” a voice snarled, venomous and cold.
Arakano flinched, turning to the door. There, a tall, slender figure stood, a frown marring sharp Noldorin features. Coal black eyes scrutinized him, then the elf said, “You’re one of my half-uncle’s brats, aren’t you?”
Arakano bristled. Brat? He was no brat.
“I am a prince of the Noldor –” he started, scowling.
The stranger did not even blink.
“As am I.”
“But…” he trailed off. All of Uncle Arafinwe’s sons were fair-headed and smiling.
Realisation struck him – had Adar not mentioned of an “accursed half–brother”, whatever that meant?
“You are one of the Feanorions!” Arakano exclaimed, then frowned at the mess of yarn and wool around him.
“But why are you knitting?” he could not help asking.
“Is there something wrong with it?” his half–cousin retorted dryly.
Arakano frowned, “Adar said a prince of the Noldor mustn’t waste his time on trivial crafts.”
The other elf sneered, “There is nothing wrong with knitting!”
Arakano once again looked at the colourful yarn carelessly laying on the ground.
“Will you… Will you teach me?” he asked timidly, peering at this cousin anxiously.
The cousin hesitated, then said, “As you wish.”
A pause.
“My name is Carnistro.”
Arakano beamed, all previous shyness forgotten.
“Mine’s Arakano!”
“Your family doesn’t mind?” Arakano asked nervously.
Carnistro smiled at him kindly.
“My father encourages us to pursue our interests.”
He paused.
“We cannot all of us be politicians, can we?”
Arakano did not know what was “pursue”, nor had he ever heard the word “politician” before, but Carnistro was kind, and his cousin needn’t start thinking him stupid.
“Now,” Carnistro started, holding a pair of knitting needles.
“We begin by making a slipknot…” he trailed off, fingers deftly twisting the thread until a loop was formed.
Carnistro tugged the thread - and the loop was gone.
“Here,” said his cousin, and handed Arakano the thread.
“Your turn to try.”
Tentatively, Arakano took the thread and tried to copy his cousin’s earlier movements.
How had Carnistro made that?
Carnistro must have seen his failed attempts, for he laughed, but not unkindly.
Taking back the thread, Arakano’s new mentor demonstrated again, saying, “It doesn’t matter, you are yet young…”
“I’m not!” Arakano snapped, feeling upset. Was he disappointing his cousin already?
Findekano called him too young to hunt with him, Turkano said he was too young to debate with, Irisse called him too young to be fun. All of them called Arakano too young. Too young to play with, too young to help, too young, too young.
“I’m not too young,” he repeated in a quieter tone.
Beside him, Carnistro looked alarmed.
“It wasn’t what I meant,” his cousin spoke softly, placing a large hand on Arakano’s much smaller ones.
“I meant that you have time to do better and improve,” he paused, “We needn’t all get it right in the first attempt.”
“But you’ll still teach me, right?” Arakano asked timidly. “I swear I’ll try my best.”
Carnistro did not smile, instead turning to demonstrate once more.
“Carnistro!” A voice shrieked excitedly, a bundle of blue and black crashing into his legs.
“I did not realise you keep such… questionable company, brother,” beside him, Atarince sneered.
“Leave it, Atarince,” Carnistro lowered his voice.
He knelt down to he and Arakano were face-to-face.
“How’s the imp?” he asked teasingly, grinning at his little cousin.
“Happy begetting, Carnistro! I brought you a present! I even made it myself!” Arakano chattered on animatedly.
But Atarince seemed inclined on picking a fight.
“Associating with our half-uncle’s brat? Why, Carnistro, how low have you fallen.”
Arakano’s smile dimmed as he heard the words.
Carnistro watched helplessly as the elfling’s ears drooped down.
“I did not realise I am unwelcome,” mumbled the elfling, embarrassed and distressed, and fled from the foyer of the Feanorian home.
Angrily, Carnistro stood and turned to his brother.
“You needn’t judge a son by the name of his father! He is only an elfling!” he snapped furiously, then turned to follow Arakano’s trail.
“Cousin?” he called, stopping upon Arakano, who laid curled by Nerdanel’s roses.
“I am truly sorry,” Arakano told him sadly, tears welling in his dark eyes.
“But I made you a present and Findekano said I could come with him if I behave, and I really want to see you…”
“It is not your fault,” Carnistro soothed, sitting on the dirt beside Arakano, “It is merely Atarince being… well, Atarince.”
Arakano did not answer, but he scooted closer to Carnistro, sitting on his lap as he oft did during their knitting lessons.
“Now,” Carnistro said lightly, “I seem to remember a begetting day gift…”
Arakano immediately brightened, “I knitted it for you! Come, it is with Findekano!”
Joyfully the elfling leaped up, sadness forgotten, and tugged at Carnistro’s hand, leading him back into the foyer where a present lay untouched beside Findekano who was engaged in a conversation with Macalaure.
He did not even look up when Arakano took the wrapped-up gift, and neither did Macalaure, so immersed in their conversation were they.
Taking the gift from Arakano, Carnistro settled on a nearby couch as he gently unwrapped the gift – a knitted scarf.
“You made it?” Carnistro asked, awe-struck.
“Yes!” Arakano laughed, then bit his lip, “Do you like it?”
The scarf was colourful, and to any other elf with an untrained eye, it would be beautiful. But as Carnistro took a closer glance, he saw some holes, some… imperfections.
In the end, it mattered not, for Arakano was yet an elfling, and his happiness mattered most.
“Of course,” he answered, and returned Arakano’s bright smile with one of his own.
The orcs were gone, but they would return.
His head laid on Irisse’s lap, he caught sight of an ashen Findekano and a horrified Turkano.
Where was his father?
“Right here,” Nolofinwe spoke, as though he could hear his son’s thoughts.
“Is there…” Irisse choked on her tears, “Is there anything- anyone we can get you?”
Arakano blinked tiredly.
“Carnistro,” he murmured, “But he is not here.”
Irisse did not answer. None of them did.
“Fetch Carnistro…” he begged his sister, “He will make things better.”
His vision blurred… he could no longer see Irisse’s fair Noldorin features.
“He always does…”
His speech slurred.
Arakano did not know if his plea was answered.
He could not hear. Not anymore.