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“Music is a language of its own, Father,” Makalaurë's expression was serious and his eyes narrow as he looked up at his father’s smiling face, hardly able to contain the grin that was pulling at his own lips. “As such, you must learn to appreciate it as one before you can truly understand your instrument. It is how the two of you will communicate, after all.”
Fëanáro cleared his throat and nodded, assuming a stern expression. “Well, of course,” he shuffled around so his legs were crossed underneath him as were Makalaurë’s, raising his right hand to the strings. Makalaurë rolled his eyes but looked pleased enough, so Fëanáro assumed he had replied correctly.
“Now, look.” Adjusting Fëanáro’s fingers, Makalaurë guided him to the first wooden fret and instructed him to press down. “Gently, but not so gentle that it muffles the sound. Gentle but firm.”
Fëanáro dutifully followed each instruction, quietly absorbing the lesson on the first E string and letting Makalaurë's soft chattering fill his mind and the motions of forming different notes put his ever-working mind at ease. His son touched the guitar reverently, just as he did with the harp and the flute, not sparing an ounce of respect based on which was his favorite instrument. To see him so passionately speaking about music reminded Fëanáro of Nerdanel and the way she would describe in depth exactly what she was doing with her hammer and chisel as she busied herself with the sculpting of stone and marble. He took after her in other ways, such as his gentle, sensitive nature, but where his dramatic spirit came from Fëanáro could not even guess. He had thankfully outgrown the temper tantrums years ago, but had moved on to a more refined and poetic way of showing his upset, walking about the house with his waves of dark hair draped around his shoulders and covering the corners of his eyes or theatrically flinging himself down upon the sofa or his bed or whatever was available to get across the fact that he was in a mood.
“Father, are you listening to me?”
Jolting back to the present, Fëanáro hummed and turned his attention back to his secondborn, quickly nodding in placation when the beginnings of a pout started to form itself on his pink lips. “Yes, Kana, I think I have learned all there is to know about the E string,” he assured his son with a smile, hating the way his frowns so easily tugged at his heart. Spoiling sons was something Fëanáro had always been quick to tease Arawfinwë for, but he always found himself quite helpless to deny Makalaurë anything in the face of his distress.
After dutifully running through all the finger placements and note names under his son’s watchful eye, Makalaurë was smiling widely as he packed his instrument back into its case and stored it in one of the corners of his bedroom.
“We will get to chords very soon,” he assured him, flopping down upon his bed and rumpling its linens. “You are a very quick learner.”
Fëanáro stood and laid himself down next to his son with a grin. “Shall I surpass even the mighty Kanafinwë soon?”
The smile dropped from Makalaurë's face and he narrowed his eyes, raising himself on his knees as he got ready to attack his father. Laughing, Fëanáro grabbed him and put him in a headlock, fingers wandering around his underarms in featherlight tickles until Makalaurë was begging for mercy in between breathless giggles.
“Alright, alright,” he was putting forth his best efforts to compose himself, quickly smoothing fingers through his inky curls the moment he was released. He rarely let himself be roughhoused.
“I will only allow you the spot of second best,” he compromised haughtily.
Fëanáro nodded somberly and knocked two fingers underneath Makalaurë's white chin. “And I will accept it with honor, my darling little songbird.”
The bed shook as Makalaurë fell backwards once more with a smile, sighing in satisfaction. Fëanáro watched him fondly for a long moment; the gentle waves in his hair splayed across the bed and the pleased look on his face as the dying light of Laurelin cast him in its golden glow. A hand came up to brush a wayward strand from his mouth and in a flash Fëanáro saw in its place a burned and mangled hand swiping tears off hollow cheekbones and devastated eyes that were lit with the glow of a wildly flickering fire rather than Laurelin’s comforting shimmer. He shook his head and, with a sharp stab of pain behind his eyes, Makalaurë returned to normal.
“Father!”
The two of them turned to the door just before it was slammed against the wall and Tyelkormo burst in, breathless and panting.
“Is… everything alright?” Fëanáro asked hesitantly, never eager to learn what mischief his second youngest was causing. Makalaurë looked vaguely annoyed from where Fëanáro could see him in the corner of his vision.
“I-” Tyelko broke off and plastered a sheepish smile onto his face. “I think I might have set the barn on fire.”