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To say the House of Finwë rarely gathered under one roof for any reason would be a serious understatement.
To say that these next to nonexistent occasions were lively would nearly qualify as an outright lie. After all, liveliness generally tended to imply that the event was a happy one.
At least, that was how Mahtan saw it.
True, the family had dragged themselves together to celebrate a holiday—the first they had celebrated together for quite some time—and, true, so far no one had been stabbed, struck, tripped, burned, or forced to avoid flying food or drink (all quite accidentally, of course.) They were even approaching their all-time record of five minutes without a single—
An ear-shattering clatter of falling pans erupted from the kitchen, overlapped by multiple voices cursing lividly at each other and at the turkey that had evidently just been ruined.
Apparently the record would remain intact until the next family gathering... if there was a next family gathering. Mahtan sighed and reached for his ale.
Kanafinwë's voice rose during a lull in the cursing. "Perhaps I should compose a lament for that turkey," he commented. Several voices swore again; Káno had to raise his voice over them as he added, "It will need a suitable title. How does 'Apsalantë' sound?"
"Káno," Nelyafinwë shouted over the din, "I will break your harp if you do not leave it be and help me clean this up."
Mahtan took a long pull from his tankard, then carefully reached across again to set it down on the little side table. Two tiny bundles sat secure in his lap, each sporting an identical tuft of bright reddish-orange hair. Telufinwë slept peacefully in spite of the chaos, nestled in the crook of his grandfather's arm; Pityafinwë was wide awake, stretching up as much as he could in an attempt to get his eyes on what was happening over Mahtan's shoulder.
The open space on the couch beside Mahtan sagged as Finwë sat down with a heavy sigh. The King of the Noldor rather resembled Mahtan at the moment: In one hand he held a tankard of his own, while with his other arm he struggled to hang on to a very wiggly Artanis.
"Yet another rambunctious holiday," Mahtan observed conversationally.
Finwë snorted and raised his tankard to his lips. Only after chugging down what must have been half of the vessel's contents did he sit back and reply, "They set the pork on fire. I do not care to know how. It was raw not thirty seconds prior to igniting."
Mahtan bit the inside of his cheek and very firmly told himself that the ruin of good meat was not something to be laughed at.
"Was it salvageable?" he asked when he trusted his voice to remain steady.
"Nerdanel and Indis managed to put it out in a timely fashion while Curufinwë and Ñolofinwë argued over who had caused the fire in the first place." Finwë took another gulp from his tankard and adjusted his grip on Artanis.
Mahtan reached very slowly for his ale, using the act to hide the grin cracking across his face. Little Pityo tried to scramble up onto his shoulder, but couldn't quite manage it before Mahtan sat back again.
A great commotion sounded from the dining room; the younger children assigned to set the table cried out as glassware shattered.
"Huan! Down!" That was Turcafinwë. Listening closely, the two grandfathers could just make out the sounds of large paws skittering around the table as the children chased the hound away.
"He got the roast!" That sounded like Ambaráto.
"Huan!" Turka shouted again. There was a dull thud; evidently Turka had tried and failed to tackle his great hound.
"Do you think they need help?" Mahtan asked as the chaos continued.
Finwë seemed to consider it for just a moment, but before he could respond there came a great crash from the dining room, backed by frantic screams and Huan's thunderous barking. Mahtan turned to look over the back of the couch in time to watch Turukáno race by; his shouting joined that of his siblings and cousins not long after he disappeared in the direction of the dining room.
Mahtan drowned his laughter with ale as Finwë buried his face in his free hand, momentarily squishing Artanis against his chest in the process.
"No," Finwë replied after a moment. "I do not believe they require any assistance."
"Turukáno!" Evidently neither Ñolofinwë nor Curufinwë approved of Turukáno's disappearance. The moment of rare agreement between the two half-brothers ended seconds later with Ñolofinwë loudly ordering Curufinwë not to shout after his son, sparking an enraged reply from Curufinwë that truthfully was far too impolite for the little ones to hear.
Finwë and Mahtan dutifully covered their grandchildren's ears as the kitchen dissolved into an outright shrieking match. Arafinwë could be heard offering to fetch Indis another glass of wine in a short break between Curufinwë's insults, Ñolofinwë's increasingly indignant responses, and the sounds of their respective wives and eldest sons doing their best to end the dispute before it came to blows.
"Fëanáro!" Nerdanel's voice was an interesting mix of warning, exasperation, and desperation as she shouted, "Put that carving knife back on the cutting board!"
"I need it for the thrice-damned pork!" came the heated retort.
"It's already in the oven!" There was a loud sound, a grunt from Curufinwë, and then the thunk of a knife chopping into wood. Evidently Nerdanel had managed to wrestle the knife safely away.
Finwë took another pull from his tankard, then looked into it with a grimace and woefully set it aside.
"Empty?" Mahtan guessed. Valar knew his own was bone-dry.
"I would have to walk straight through them to refill," Finwë muttered with a bitter glare towards the kitchen.
"It's probably for the best, my friend." Mahtan gently bounced Telvo in his arm as the younger twin yawned and rubbed at his eyes with tiny little fists. "All the ale in the world would not help."
Finwë only laid his head back against the couch in defeat as something exploded in the kitchen.
"Where did I go wrong?" he asked as Artanis finally managed to wriggle free and hop down from the couch.
Mahtan shook his head as Curufinwë and Ñolofinwë immediately began blaming each other for the explosion—which had, apparently, resulted in the pork lighting up yet again.
"I don't think knowing would help at this point," he answered honestly.
Finwë closed his eyes and groaned.