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Celegorm will be fifteen when the summer ends, but he doesn’t want to think of that now. The end of the summer is not the worst time of year; rather, it suggests it—and that is why it aches so. Celegorm would rather lie among the bright-green forest grass that floods the ground in May, counting down the days until the carriage wheels on the road tell him that all will be well.
He doesn’t like to write, but he writes Maitimo. Someone has to draw the birds’ eggs and toadstools and new-budded leaves. If Maitimo never spends a March in Formenos again, or an April, how will he know what those things look like?
Celegorm has to be the oldest, here, and Maitimo has to be the oldest, there. Athair doesn’t seem like an oldest, and is therefore no help. Celegorm did not ask to be one, and so he needs help. But there is the impasse, and the lure of the forest, in one.
There is much to speak of with Maitimo. Breena will be bred in another month or so, and if all goes well, she should have a litter of pups come fall. Pups! And that hope is not all his news; there are still some wild leeks to be dug, and the first strawberry flowers are here to be admired. Contented, Celegorm walks his fingers over his chest to ape the manner of the stick bug, which he caught, studied, and released recently. Athair said that Maedhros and Maglor will arrive tomorrow. He grins, alone among the sea of elfin blades, until his cheeks feel as if they shall split.
Hope is ever a little thwarted. Maitimo is taken ill with a summer cold as soon as he arrives, and even when he is better, it is nearly impossible to steal his attention from Mother and Maglor, who worry over him, and from the twins, who have been impatiently maintaining ill-structured mud and twig castles to show him. Mother wants to kiss him and stroke his hair and exclaim over how he keeps growing out of his clothes (can that be the cause of his frail constitution?). Maglor, who has a horror of congestion due to his precious voice, is as much aflutter over Maitimo's affliction as he would be one of his own. He never appreciates that he has had him all to himself for months.
“Look at him,” Curufin sighs, disgusted, when a week has passed in the blink of an eye. “Completely distracted.”
Celegorm is about to agree, before he realizes that Curufin is looking at Athair, who is come straight from the forge to boast of his latest creations and ruffle Maedhros’s perfect hair with a sooty hand.
“We were just turning the bowl of a cup when someone felt well enough to inspect the forge,” Curufin mutters. “He threw it aside! Now we’ll have to make it again.”
Celegorm hates the forge with rare passion. He shrugs, his best attempt at sympathy. Curufin scowls and steals away.
Maitimo finds him. Hands in pockets of worn, knee-patched breeches, and whistling.
“Celegorm! You’ve been absent since dinner.”
Celegorm is whittling, rather unsuccessfully. He throws the knobby piece aside with the shavings and clambers to his feet.
“It was too noisy.”
“Now you sound like Caranthir.” Maitimo smiles. “I’ve missed you, these past few days. Always had my nose in a soup-bowl.”
“Miss me? I'd hope so,” Celegorm says, boastful so that he need not be shy. “But never mind; you're well again. Orome is going to let us have his hound in another month, so that Breena can try for her first litter. She only goes into heat once a year, and last year, she didn’t take, but it was near the end of June.” He casts a careful glance over his shoulder; Mother doesn’t like to hear him talk so, says it is a little coarse, and then Athair always says something like, don’t you pretend to be missish, Nerdanel.
“Congratulations,” Maitimo says, very sincerely. Breena isn’t strictly Celegorm’s dog—she is the farm dog—but he is the one who tends to her and makes certain she is well-fed. He is also the one who has gone to the trouble of obtaining a sire for potential puppies. Orome has many hounds, and the best of these is an Irish wolfhound, same as Breena.
Athair, despite the nobility of the breed, is a bit skeptical. He does not like the prospect of more dogs. He says it is because dogs always bring fleas, but Celegorm knows it is because Athair does not really like Orome. Orome was the one who gave them Breena, some years ago now, and Athair has never mentioned her without chastising Orome for some perceived fault a half a moment later.
“Perhaps Macalaure and I can claim one of the little ones for the city,” Maitimo suggests. “Grandfather wouldn’t mind, I don’t think.”
“Indis wouldn’t like mud all over her carpets, no sirree!” Celegorm grins, a little devilishly, at the thought of her dismay. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Ach, I was only jesting.”
They have found their way to the barn, and Celegorm knows that the twins will come trailing after them sooner or later, but for now, he has these precious moments to himself. He thinks of the leeks, and knows that that isn’t what he really needs to speak of.
“Lord, I’ve missed the scent of hay,” Maitimo says, delighted, and he vaults over the low rail to fling himself amidst the last of the winter’s bales.
Of course, he comes up coughing.
Celegorm bursts out laughing. “You'll make yourself ill again! Has the city turned you into a fool?”
Maitimo stumbles out into the sunshine again, rubbing his eyes. “Quite obviously.”
“What are you doing?” And here is Maglor, whom Celegorm does not want to see at all, looking very pale and priggish. “Maitimo, did you fall from the loft?”
“No, I frolicked, and had to pay the price.” Maitimo sighs dramatically, and reaches up to run his hands through his hair. “Why the long face, cano?”
“What?”
“He’s half horse,” Celegorm says. “But we knew that.”
Maglor sneers at him. “For your information, if I were half horse, than you would be, too.”
“Not if we aren’t even related.”
“Oh, lay off each other,” Maitimo says, flashing a coaxing smile. “Macalaure, Celegorm is too good to tattle, but I threw myself into old hay like a proper lunatic. Can you believe it?”
Maglor raises his eyebrows. “I can.”
“You wound me—there, will one of you pull the knife from my back? No, in truth, I do think I have lodged a splinter just between my ribs.” He rubs his spine and grimaces. “Now is your chance, to race me to the house—and win, which neither of you ever have before.”
Maglor starts running before a mark is even called.
“What a cheat,” Celegorm grits out, but is satisfied when he outstrips the panting poet-brother at the half-way point.
He does not mind that he does not beat Maitimo.
No one can.