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“I’ve an idea,” said Celegorm, who practically trumpeted the essentials of his ideas ahead of their explanation, usually by means of a wriggling animal or a bouquet of leaves—or, at present, drenched trousers and squelching boots. “I’ve made a discovery.”
“Made a mess is more like it,” Maglor retorted. He clutched his book in his hands; he had no desire to relinquish The Vicar of Wakefield, which he had only recently wrested from Maedhros.
A casual observer might have thought Maedhros was asleep, but Celegorm was a master of playing dead, and he mucked mud across the kitchen floorboards as if Mother was but a figment of their youthful minds. “Just an hour in the pond,” Celegorm proposed, standing directly over Maedhros’ limp form. “Come, Maitimo. I know you’re playing false. You’re twitching.”
“Promise you’ll never ask for anything again, after this?” Maglor snapped.
“That’s ludicrous,” Celegorm scoffed.
“I admit I am surprised you even know that word.”
“Shall we not come to blows, in Mother’s kitchen?” Maedhros proposed pleasantly, opening his eyes, just before blows commenced.
Not a speck of mud remained on the floorboards when the three eldest set off in old breeches, together. The day was warm, and the dragonflies were battling like ancient charioteers, whose carriages were iridescent and wholly theirs.
“Leave off!” Maglor cried, before they were halfway down the hill. The Ambarussa had sprung from the bushes, cackling. A proper ambush, as it were.
“You mustn’t scold them,” Maedhros interposed. “Come, bairns. We are going for a dip in the pond.”
Gold coins of sunshine, gifts of a July noon, were dancing on top of the water as they approached.
And the birds were singing!
“Green were the lilypads, white-armed their flowers,” Maglor murmured, as if he was quoting something—but Celegorm narrowed his eyes, guessing it to be an original composition.
“We shan’t have any of that!” he cried, and tripped poor Maglor into the rush-edged water.
“Are we to wait for him?” Maedhros asked quickly, since Maglor was easily wronged. Stripping off his shirt, Maedhros followed him in.
Serpentine weeds had sprung up under the water. The Ambarussa shrieked and giggled when their bare legs were entwined, but one and all struck out for the center of the water, where it was cool and deep and free of mud and growing things.
But for Caranthir, they had all been swimming as soon as they were walking. Caranthir had reacted to water as a cat might. No doubt he was hiding this day, in the loft of the barn, with the roosting pigeons.
“It’s a fine day, isn’t it?” Celegorm demanded gleefully. His hair was the color of old rope when wet. So Maglor thought, at least.
“Knowledge that is obvious to all has no real benefit,” said Maglor, sniffing. He was treading water with great looping thrusts of his arms. “Maitimo and I knew it was a fine day. We were spending it—leisurely.”
“We were being a little lazy,” Maedhros admitted. “At least, I was.”
“Believe what you will,” Maglor shrugged. Then Celegorm plunged him in, and pandemonium reigned.
True, they were making such a racket that the neighbors nearly came. But no one would have interrupted the pleasant spectacle of boys sporting in their own small and glorious lake.
And as for their two missing brothers, Caranthir was tucked away in a cozy, secret nook. Curufin was on an errand with his father.
“Our pond has giant dogfish in it, you know,” Celegorm observed glibly. “Big enough to eat your feet.”
Duty compelled Maedhros to inform the twins that it was not so. What fish there were, of course, were frightened away by the onslaught of human bodies. Such interruption in the domain of fishes was common, and they concealed themselves well.
Keen eyes, nonetheless, could catch sight of the silver-bodied trout.
“What do fish eat?” Amrod asked.
“We must have Celegorm tell you that,” Maedhros asked. “I am no expert.”
“Might eat worms, if they can get ‘em,” Celegorm grinned. “But trout, which is what lives in this water, mostly, eat insects. Aquatic insects.”
“Have you never anything pleasant to say?” Maglor shivered. “I don’t like to think of aquatic insects.”
“Been keeping quiet about the giant one in your hair,” Celegorm said, eyes glinting. “Thought it was right civil of me.”
The dunking he received, because he was laughing, did not deter him in the least.
Makers of chaos can rarely be quelled.
Of course, Maglor was nearly drowned in return.
Oaths that would have shocked their mother’s ears were exchanged, such that Maedhros told them to quiet down.
“And,” he said, “It’s not as if you should be using language like that around the twins.”
“Men swear,” Amrod assured him, as grandly as he could when he was floating on his back like a dumpling. “And we’ll be men soon, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Who can argue with that?” Celegorm pointed out.
“Loathe the teacher, not the oath,” Maglor said.
The curses were Maedhros’, which was why he was particular.
Things spun slowly, all that afternoon. They splashed one another, tried to catch foolish fishes in their hands, failed utterly, and made crowns for one another with the pond-lilies.
That they looked ridiculous never occurred to them. They were young.
“Make me king!” Amrod said, and the finest crown went to him, from Maedhros’ head, for a moment.
“Them that have,” Amras said, misquoting, “Shall have taken.” And the crown was destroyed.
“Grieve its loss,” Maedhros proclaimed solemnly, and made a fresh one.
Anew, Amrod was made monarch.
The light was changing.
Red hair grew redder as the sun went down. Maglor’s looked black, and Celegorm’s quite darker than it ordinarily was.
And even the trees—for pines grew on the rolling hill beyond—seemed to tip their needles in rose.
Gold light; silver moon-sliver. These were their gods, if only for a moment.
Of sunsets, too much had already been said. And yet—
Daylight, dying, always spurred Maglor to new heights of fancy.
Old worlds, new words.
“Taint not the valleys with the blood of clouds,” he muttered.
“The what?” said Amrod.
“Blood?” Celegorm scoffed. “It’s one of your pomes again, t’isn’t it.”
That perpetuated one last fight, which continued until Maedhros shook both his brothers and pointed out that the twins had disappeared. A frantic search revealed them bobbing under the surface of the water like apples. They were quite faint, when recovered.
“We were holding our breath—s’long as we could,” Amras puffed, pointing. “Amrod swallowed the whole pond!”
“Must you play such games?” Maglor was affronted, even though he did not prevent weary Amras from clinging to his neck.
“Breathe, love,” Maedhros cried, striking Amrod on the back until water spouted from his mouth and he sputtered nobly.
Through the rosy, shadowed trees, their voices danced—and if trees have memories, as some people believe that they do, their voices lived forever.
I’ve made a promise that I shall not leave you
Gold and green, we are serpentine
But it’s knowledge we believe true
And our duty keen, what we might have been
The makers of oaths, and men who loathe
The things that make them grieve anew
The red and gold, of daylight old
Taint the blood that we must breathe through.