Chapter Text
Tyelkormo and Curufinwe was waiting outside the west gate of Tirion, it already eight forty five, late morning in the hour of Laurelin.
'Where's Irisse?' Curufinwe, squatting, leaned his head on his palm, 'It'll soon be noon, she's late.' A few ravens flew across the blue sky.
The bells of Tirion rang, nine strikes on the heavy iron, reverbrating throughout the white city.
Tyelko huffed, leaped up on his foot, cried
'Huan! We're heading off now.' Huan, prancing around the fields further away from the city walls chasing butterflies, sprant back.
'Where are you going?' asked Curvo
'Home.' Telko collecting his gear.
Curufinwe rolled his eyes, he was reluctant to go home when a hunt was scheduled for the day; it is like their parents calling off a trip last minute due to some petty quarrels early morn while he is already fully prepared, dressed in leisurely tweed and jackets holding his suitcase, waiting at the carriage before the planned departure time, his Atar and Amme terribly late, Russandol and Cano deep inside the castle trying to calm their nerves and convince them though on the point of a 'divorce', a trip away from Tirion is still worth it. Two of them would appear sulken, grumbling at each other declaring they are doing this for the kids, their children, their sons! as Russandol and Cáno pushed them into their huge family nine seater carriage.
However, a hunt without Irisse's presence would be lackluster, and their prolonged hours of waiting has depleted their excitement, so Curvo agreed to go back home. They mounted on their horses, ready to ride back into the city, until they hear a mighty shriek coming from the white walls, louder than a fire bell.
'TYELKOOOOOO, cURVOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!'
They looked up, and saw Cano on the walls, screaming like a mad marmot, guards running away covering their ears.
'It's AMMËE's DAYYYYYYYYY!!'
'What's Ammë's Day?' Curvo glowered at the walls as if hearing some never-disclosed-before top secret esoteric alchemical information.
'Some goofy day toddlers fool around to please their Ammillë.'
'I have completely forgotten it. Someone reminded me while I was singing at the fountain square, and I realised it's been many many years since our last celebration, And Amme is nowhere to be found!!'
'AMMYAAAAA Melmëeeeeeee!!!'
Cano blared the phrase, loud enough to be heard over land and sea.
'Come innnnnn righttt noww!!!' he commanded, 'There's no time left to romp around! We must find Russandooooooooollllleeee,' pronouncing the Do on the verge of breaking into a musical sequence of solfège syllables, do-ri-me.
Tyelko grunted and spurred his horse into the streets.
'No wonder Atar is hanging these þ flags and banners all over Tirion!!! I thought he is up to some linguistic debate or pronunciation awareness day.' exclaimed Curvo, riding behind, 'and half uncle sticking those posters on the walls, distributing pamphlets arguing on the legitimacy of S! Insolent bastard!'
Cano hugging a silver harp in his arms, bolted down the long steps.
'We have to find Russandol! Instantly without delay!!' He climbed onto a horse yelling, 'To the Palace!'
They hurtled through the long winding streets, a straight formation unstoppable and speared their way through the legion of coaches, commoving straight into the narrow alley ways draped with fabrics and textiles on the rooftops for a shorter route. Speeding down the alley slope, Cano would have almost certainly crashed into Tyelkormo if the latter had not swerved towards the alley exit.
The pedestrians were frightened by their flight, scampering from their sudden turn.
'Would you calm down!' cried Tyelko watching his older brother frantically riding into the main road, a path he tends to avoid to prevent Huan running into stores and markets.
'I can't!!! It's nine!!! Nineeee!!!! Six hours left to look for Russandol and Moryo, next think of something to impress Amme and find her before the day ends!' he shrieked, carrying his strapped lyre harp like a bow on his back, galloping into the Neldion (Fifth day, end of Valinorian week) vegetable market. Upon their approach, cadent hawkings turned into a hue and cry; vendors, butchers and fishmongers pushing their portable trolleys, escaping from the incoming raid.
Cano flew into the air and smashed over a cabbage basket, his horse treading on the leaves,
'My lovely garden grown vegetables!!!' the store owner cried.
'Sorry!! Sorry!! I'm in a hurryyyy!! Ahhhhhh!'
'Make way, make way!! MAKE WAY FOR THE Sons of Fëanárooooo!!' the grocers squealed at the charging black stallion.
Curvo mangled into a cart of oranges and tangerines, the wheel careened, its pile of round fruits poured out, rolling down the uneven pavement, racing against its reapers. The Knight of Oranges veered his horse to the left, iron hooves trampling onto the plush fruit, splattering its sour juices into the air; fruit peel strewn across his face, the victims in his impact zone tasted their first fresh orange squash of the summer with their eyes.
'His highness the fruit squeezer, the citrus reamer! My clothes, my eyes...my hairrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!' they blurted, rubbing their lids and robes stained with fruit paint.
Huan bumped into a meat store, some market goers thought he is a predatory wolf resurrected from the Legends of Arda, fled right away at the sight of the deranged hound who was thrilled to see well-seasoned pork chops simmering on the grill. He leaped over wooden crates of apples and grapes, Tyelko barking along the way chiding him not to snatch the roast ham, although it was too late.
'Woof, Woof, Wooooffffffffffff, WOOOOOOOOOFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUC...'
Apart from Tyelko's animalistic, un-Quendi barks, Cáno's shrills were terrifying enough to alarm anyone, vocalising an aria of glissandos from low pitch to instant high pitch.
'Veee Vueeee, Veee Vueeee! Aghhhhhhhh, WE'REEEEEE LATEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! We caNOTTTTTT BE LATTEEEEEEEE!!!! AGhhhhhhhh, maaaaaaaa!!!'
'Cáno,' Curvo raised his voice in vain, 'CÁNOOOO!! An alarm Does Not objectively boost acceleration!!'
They embarked into the Great Bridge of Tirion, camargue galloping and the minstrel sirening like an amburlaure (I am making fun of the latin word of ambulance, ambulare) across the crowded arch-bridge. Curvo, Feanor the II, behind a following of rolling oranges, raced after his older brothers, his grim ashen face sneered to disapproval.
'Turn down your volume!' chased Tyelko, 'Russandol is IN the Palace, right on top of the hill! Stop panicking you silly goose, he's not gone!! You are inviting onlookers instead of clearing the...'
A road blocker on steed appeared at the end of the bridge leading to the peak of Túna.
The Siren finally halted his shrieks. Three of them panting after a long frantic ride from west to city centre.
The pair of silver interrogatory irises could barely hide the aggravated spirit beneath those puffy, dark circled eyes. His monumental face masked a fuming anger of being untimely aroused from his peaceful afternoon nap. After three sleepless nights, assisting Haru on simplifying the bloating bureaucracy, riffling through a thousand metre of scrolls in preparation of an ambitious law revision project and annual diplomatic meetings with the Vanyar and the Teleri, was chilling enough to pry a dangerously sincere answer. The guards probably reported that three of his brothers has been disrupting public peace in broad tree light, destroying wet markets at the expense of people's pleasure, barreling through the city exceeding the speed limit, and Russandol already in his pajamas was forced to bounce out of his bed, rebraid his hair and clad himself in layers of vestments, buckled his waist in a tight belt and wrists cuffed in laced tied sleeves before his brother blow Tirion off the grounds.
'It's Ammë's Day.' replied Cáno.
Tyelko and Curvo, smelling like orange juice and residues of fruit flesh and skins hanging on his hair, dared not let such a mundane answer slip out from their mouths; if they were lucky they would suffer a few days of silent malice and passive aggressiveness spoken through a smiley face, or worse, on most occasion they would be forced to recite the full tracts of Noldor laws from royal statutes, administrative, legislative laws and jurisdiction to common, civil law and criminal law...a never-needed clause but nevertheless laid out just in case some Noldor go mad, by the authority of hereditary prince.
Since it was his beloved little Hánno who answered his question, Russandol's features softened.
'What's that?' He asked.
Cáno was confused...
'Háno, Don't you remember we baked this huge cake mountain and crafted a malformed statue of Amme in our twenties? Ammë laughed so hard Atar thought she would pass out the next moment. Gosh we are so young back then. That's the last memorable Ammë's day I recall.'
The present image of the very serious Big Brother Prince Maitimo on horse overlapped with Curvo's imaginary silhouette of a teenage Russandol, sticking out his tongue, cleaving onto a marble block, beside the chaotic Cáno clumsily raising a hammer and chisel, improvising some monstrous figure of Ammë. Both petulantly proud of their masterpiece, unveiled it in front of the great sculptor of Tirion anticipating some jolly praise.
Russandol blinked, clearing his throat, 'So where's Ammë now? I will order the cooks to bake a big cake and we can bring it back home together.'
'Ammë IS not home!' cried Cano, 'I went to her workshop straight after I realised the special date, she's not there. I went to the City Hall and used the palantir booth to communicate with Márawen, she informed me Amme's not there, in fact she hasn't been home for a while. Atar is off for a solo hike in the Pélori Mountains so Amme's not with him...'
A thought dawned on them in their Osanwë,
Amme's at her girlhood cottage, Mahtan and their Harui Turuyanis, at least a three hour ride on full speed down south!
The bell struck ten, four of them staring at each other, stifled.
'Moryo!! The two jesters Ambarussaa! Where could they be!'
'I guess they're with Amme,' snapped Curvo, 'but Moryo...' he stuttered; he had no idea where could Morifinwe the Mysterious be at ten in early afternoon.
'He's in the Historic Library,' answered Russandol, 'Northwards.'
Cano steered his horse, 'That's another half hour ride!!' he screamed.
'TO THE NORTHHHHH!!'
In a whirlwind four of them rode off along the sycamore-treed embankment, stirring an air current past the pedestrians on the sidewalk, they scratched their heads;
'What are they up to?'
'Judging from their frenzied pace, it must be some grave business related to their tempestuous Atar.'
'Poor sons of Fëanaro!'