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All eyes turned to the door as Findis screamed.
Makalaurë had finally arrived, but with a plethora of painful looking pustules on his face.
”Did you get stuck in a hornet’s nest?” Artanis grumbled.
”Precisely!” Makalaurë exclaimed, his glee making the bust next to him shudder gently. “We have a character who endured such a thing. Our group is testing new stage makeup for outdoor performances! This one doesn’t wash off, not even in thunderstorms!
“It doesn’t…wash off?”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll come up with the cleaning solution by the end of the fortnight. Risks of the trade, you know!”
“Káno, we have a court dinner tonight, in case you’ve forgotten you’re fourth in line,” Maitimo snapped. “Come on, let’s figure something out before Haru—“
”Is everyone here?” Finwë had arrived and started his head count of his many grandchildren.
”Kanafinwë intentionally disfigured his face for the event,” Artanis tattled gleefully.
Finwë gasped as he spun Makalaurë around.
“It doesn’t come off,” Makalaurë said, having the grace to be a bit apologetic now.
Fëanáro stormed in behind his father and Finwë looked at him desperately. Fëanáro just side eyed his son.
”It’s not real, Atar, it’s for some performance he has. Kanafinwë hasn’t gone near a hornet’s nest in forty years. That would require coming near the vicinity of a tree which is not religiously manicured within the confines of some enclosed courtyard.”
Makalaurë stamped his foot. “That is not true, Atya! You are just being spiteful because I did not come on the last mining trip. I have no interest in rubies, and I had a play to finish!”
“Káno,” Finwë wheezed. “What do you mean it does not come off?”
”It is a new formula designed for performances in the outside forum,” Makalaure explained. “They’ve not yet found a cleaning solution yet.”
”And you decided to let them do that to you before they had a fix?” Findaráto demanded, looking far more aghast than Makalaurë himself.
”Why not?”
A handful of snickers and sighs mingled.
“Just voluntarily hideous,” Findaráto lamented. “You are braver than I, Laurë, I’ll give you that for your troubles.”
”Káno, please do a better job of marking your calendar,” Finwë pleaded.
”I have a performance after dinner and it’s expected to rain tonight,” Makalaurë huffed. “See how the sky clouds?”
”That was so irresponsible of you, Káno!” Maitimo sighed. “You have a duty to show up, presentable, for these dinners. It’s disrespectful to the court—“
“They do not respect me, though,” Makalaurë said bluntly. “So I do not care what they think of me.”
”Who…did something happen?” Finwë asked gently.
“What hasn’t happened?” Fëanáro barked. “Your friends are insufferable and he needs approval from none of them. I have a project to finish and he has a performance, as he’s already told you. Let us get this Ilúvatar forsaken dinner over with.”
Makalaurë ate peacefully, ignoring the side eyes and giggles.
”You look even more disgusting than usual,” Tyelkormo whispered.
”Thank you, Tyelko.”
He left with his father, all but skipping.
“You might as well, the spring in your step is evident,” his father drawled.
They walked together, until the road forked. His father kissed his head, and gave him a piece of candy. “Have a good performance. Take the main road home, and I expect you to be in bed when I return.”
“Is this the same project you were working on last time?” Makalaurë asked.
”Yes. And Laurë?”
”Yes, Atya.”
His father gave him a bittersweet smile. “I was like you when I was young. I knew what my father was trying to do, but I wanted none of it. I didn’t care what any of them thought of me. I trust you can take care of yourself, and I am glad you carry yourself lightly after dinner. And yet, you are still my son; I know they are fools but as your father, I dare to think I could feel their reactions as if I were you. You may be fine, but if you ever have trouble, I implore you to tell your mother and I.”
He wiped his thumb across Makalaurë’s faux blemished cheek one more time before leaving.
Makalaurë, from the day he was born, was always a bit plain. He wasn’t ugly, but he wasn’t surpassingly interesting, visually. In the earlier days, he felt their gazes wash over him before lingering on Maitimo or Findaráto. They were older, but it never got easier, or better.
He threw himself into his craft, seeing his plain face as an empty canvas. Findaráto was horrified because he was beautiful, and could not imaging disrupting that. There was no such loss for Makalaurë.
They actually painted over his face, until the scene where his character got stuck in the hornet’s nest. It was a full house, and he took joy in seeing his people. He could see the woodworkers and the carpenters and the lace makers. Ironically, as a local minstrel he felt more connected to the Noldorin people than as their prince.
He was one of them, an artist, a writer. He was consumed by his projects and his craft, but appreciative of the other crafts in their city. With his plays, there were so many elements of craft, and Makalaurë could see their eyes continue returning to whatever element they’d helped work on.
They were there to support him, and each other, and themselves. He was a bit tired, having run around before and after his family’s dinner. For today, he declined the public reception, although he thanked them profusely before the curtain closed for the last time.
After the performance, in his dressing room, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
”You could not have done that to start with?” Findaráto asked. “Cover your face?”
“I was in a rush, and it was not important to me,” he said bluntly.
”You are so odd, Káno. I do not know how you could stand to go outside looking like that.”
”You do not understand,” he said, for he always had to have the last word. It was also true.
”I do not,” Findaráto confirmed. “Who would not do everything in their power to not show up at an important dinner with pustules on their face?”
”I didn’t think it was very important, and clearly you did not either, as I know they are still doing drinks and dessert now,” Makalaurë responded.
”You said they do not respect you.” Findaráto, like their grandfather, seemed so baffled by his assessment.
”They do not, hence why I said that.”
”Did someone bully you, Káno?” Findaráto asked worriedly.
”No, I have a mirror both in my bag and in theory. There is nothing for them to care about in me,” he said. “Even when I do perform for Haru’s events, my person is ignorable and they consume the music without regard the for the source—“
“You make yourself—“
”Makalaurë, I think I got it!”
He waved to his cousin before leaving without entertaining further discussion. He knew what Findaráto would say. Makalaurë hardly helped matters. He liked to dress in muted attire, even preferring to wear jewelry with minimal jewels, and in a shadowy corner. Sometimes, he even wove subtle cloaking into his Music with an unassuming chord on the harp.
He was nigh invisible, like they wanted him.
Calinel did not, in fact, have it resolved.
He ended up with a real rash on his wrist.
”Is this for another character?” his grandfather sighed as he came in to discuss his next performance.
”Ah, no,” he said with a slight flush. “This is real.”
“Come.”
His grandfather went into his medicine cabinet and Makalaurë watched in fascination as he crushed a strange dried plant.
“Is that from…before?”
”Yes. Here.”
Finwë lifted his wrist gently and rubbed salve on it.
“Next time, before you run off, you must tell me what performance you are doing, and what your character does. Aside from being stung by hornets. I was asked many questions once people found out it was for a performance.”
”Why? People were laughing.”
”There were at least fifty people there, Káno. Not everything is a slight against you personally. And yes, some people, like us, were worried about you.”
”Why do people care what I do or look like?”
Finwë laughed incredulously. “You are the most sought after minstrel in the land. I’ve been asked about your availability for performances but every time we do one of these meetings, you barely manage to schedule me.”
”Part of the issue is that I must account for travel time,” Makalaurë said shyly. “If I have a performance elsewhere, especially if I must prepare extensively, I need to do that. Atya also says I need to save time for myself to write.”
“You are happier as Makalaurë.” It was not a question.
”I don’t hate being Káno, Haru.”
”You don’t hate being Káno, but you love being Laurë.”
”You must admit, my mother-name is more flattering.”
”It is not just the name. You do not like being a prince. You do not like people knowing you as a Noldoran,” Finwë continued, his voice resigned.
”I am not good at it,” Makalaurë returned. “Princes are peacocks. Beautiful, colorful. I am a songbird.”
”Can a songbird not be beautiful?”
Makalaurë cracked open the window and gave a whistle tune. A songbird flew up to him, landing gently on his finger, singing back to him.
“It is not ugly, and it is very talented, but compared to a peacock, it is plain. I am plain, and it is fine, really. I consider myself something of a blank canvas. I am an artist, and an artist needs a blank canvas. But a prince? I am bad at that.”
With that disclaimer, Makalaurë went about his life.
He did not start adding the court dinners to his calendar, and his brother had to chase him down in one of his costume fittings.
Maitimo just huffed irritably. “As we are already late, I don’t suppose it’s worth wasting my time attempting to get you to change?”
”No, I will,” Makalaurë said unhappily.
”You will?!” Maitimo gasped before clearing his throat. “That is well. You should—“
”Play previews are too far away. It would spoil the work we’ve already toiled so long on,” Makalaure lamented as Melindë’s attendants got him out of the costume.
Maitimo rolled his eyes as Makalaurë perked up. “Oh, I have a brilliant idea!”
”Are any of them here yet?” Finwë asked one of his attendants anxiously.
”Kanafinwë is early.”
”Kanafinwë? What luck…”
Finwë trailed off as he saw his grandson. Kanafinwë had seaweed tangled throughout his hair, which was barely bound. He smelled faintly of sewage and his face had a green hue.
The finest part of his outfit was the emerald jewelry set. He had a pair of oddly shaped emerald earrings Finwë had never seen before; they were disfigured and Finwë did not think his son or grandson had made them. The necklace was in a similar state.
“Is that algae…never mind,” Finwë forfeited his own question. “Is this for a character?”
”No, I am debuting a concept. Perhaps you are right, Haru, and people in your circles have more interest in my plays than I previously gave them credit for. We shall test the market tonight.”
Kanafinwë nodded to himself and flipped open his book. His cousins and siblings came in, some snickering, others gagging.
”What inferior jeweler did you waste your money on?” Fëanáro asked contemptuously when he’d arrived.
“I did not waste my money,” Kanafinwë disputed. “I went to an experimental jeweler for these custom pieces befitting my next character. I rather like them, Atya. They are interesting.”
“You think I cannot fulfill your custom order?” Fëanáro snapped, and Finwë ached as he heard the hurt in his son’s voice under the indignation.
”You already indicated you think my jewelry is inferior,” Kanafinwë explained. “You are not willing to make my pieces and I found someone who was. As I told Haru, I prefer the expression of the pieces in comparison to the more conventional beauty another piece would provide. Haru, now that everyone is here, can we go in? I have a meeting with the theatre director after this regarding our effects coordination.”
“It looks damaged,” Fëanáro muttered spitefully before following his son to the dining hall.
Already Kanafinwë was getting questions about his jewelry.
”Yes, this is intentional,” Kanafinwë explained enthusiastically. “I like to think of myself as something of a blank canvas. I do not think art necessarily has to be beautiful as much as it has to tell a story. I actually am quite fond of this design, but it is not very esteemed, I can acknowledge that. I was not intending for it to be.”
He touched his necklace. “While it may not seem as so, have you ever seen an emerald in this shape? I have not, until I bought this piece.”
The courtesans perked up.
”No…”
”Where is this shop?”
Finwë found his way next to his son who was observing the whole scene contemptuously.
”Well, you were not making clients of them regardless,” he tried to comfort them. “And if it bothers you so much, you should talk to Kanafinwë—“
”I will, but not about that,” Fëanáro seethed. “Whatever way he’d like to romanticize it, the jewelry is distorted. I cannot fathom how he’d ever thought it was acceptable to pay someone for it.”
The someone else was heavily implied and Finwë scrambled for the right words.
”He probably simply thought you were too busy.”
”How would he know? He is never home. He spends all his time regaling random vendors in the city about his creative processes,” Fëanáro said bitingly before storming ahead. “I have work to do today as well.”
The next fortnight, Makalaurë had the rare occasion where a family dinner was after a performance. He made his way off stage and walked to the palace.
”Forgive my lateness,” he said humbly as he stomped through the door. Well, he tried to, but his costume got stuck. Makalaurë huffed and squeezed through with a bit of effort.
Finwë looked pointedly at the green residue that had swiped onto the marble.
”You could’ve been later,” Lalwendë grumbled. “If it meant getting out of…what is that?”
”A swamp monster of the Northern Mountains, but alas, there is a twist!”
“Which is…”
”Well,” Makalaurë sniffed. “I cannot tell you. You must buy tickets, but make haste! The critics were thrilled! Expect splendid reviews by tomorrow and all the seats will be bought up.”
”They don’t give you tickets for family and friends?” Findaráto whined.
”They do, but my Haruni is bringing her cousin and their five children down from their village to see the show,” Makalaurë informed him, ignoring the wince his grandfather made that he did not have to specify which grandmother.
“Wait! I’ve never met these cousins,” Findaráto complained. “How were they prioritized for free tickets over me?”
”Who wouldn’t be?” Moryo sneered.
”Ingo if you want to go so badly, just pay. We know you can,” Makalaurë snapped. “I’ve just had a very intense performance and I need to eat.”
”Is that…material safe to be around food?” Arakáno the Little sighed.
”It is made of tree sap dyed with the pigment of crushed tea leaves,” Makalaurë explained. “But do not go spreading that around; it is a new formula.”
”Is there anyone else who can test these new formulas?” his grandfather fretted.
”Likely so, but why not me?”