Chapter Text
During the Years of the Trees
Makalaurë found himself walking down the white-paved streets of Tirion, towards the great fountain at the heart of the city.
It was definitely not his intention to seek out the famously mysterious bard.
At least, that was what he convinced himself to believe.
Call it curiosity, from one fellow musician to another.
It had been a few days since rumors had reached his keen ears. A name whispered among the young ones and the shopkeepers of Tirion. A strange nís that performed songs with strange melodies unheard of from the bards in Aman. A musician who appeared in one corner of the city one day and another the next, leaving only echoes behind.
Such performances were nothing new in Makalaurë’s experience. He had heard thousands and thousands of songs in his long life. Surely, the rumors must have been exaggerated.
As he neared the great fountain, a melody slowly resounded through the morning air.
The melody brought nostalgia for a memory he never had. Strange, and yet he could not stop from listening.
He found himself slowly halting his footsteps until he had a glimpse of the said bard.
There he saw her, sitting on the edge of the fountain with a wooden harp in hand. There were no great crowds gathered around her. Most passersby merely slowed to listen before continuing on their way, a newfound delight in their steps and small smiles upon their lips.
The children, however, stayed.
They had gathered around the fountain, their eager eyes fixed upon the unknown bard as they waited for every note she played.
Saying she was strange is correct.
She wore neither the garments of the Noldor, the Vanyar, nor the Teleri. Her attire was unlike anything he had seen in Aman. The fabric bore none of the delicate elegance of the Vanyar, none of the elaborate craftsmanship his own people cherished, and none of the graceful simplicity inspired by the seas of the Teleri.
It was not poorly made; quite the opposite in fact. Every detail seemed intentional, every piece chosen with purpose. Yet it followed no tradition he knew.
Her ensemble simply reminded him of a traveler untethered by borders, a wandering soul carried wherever the wind and song might take her. Like the tune was free to carry her wherever its whims desired.
And then there was her hair. Red as a flame.
Not the deep copper with hints of red like Nelyo's, nor the darker shades he had seen among his kin. Hers was bright and vivid, like a living ember caught beneath the morning sun. It seemed almost impossible that such a color could exist among the gentle hues of Aman.
Despite its unusualness, somehow, it suited her.
It moved with every turn of her head, as though even her hair too, wished to join the melody.
His thoughts had carried him away for longer than he realized. He was only pulled from his stupor when the children erupted into applause and a resounding cheer followed, signaling the end of the performance. The bard basked in their praise, smiling brightly as the children gathered around her, each eager to offer their own little token of appreciation.
One gave her a beautiful blue stone that shimmered with different hues whenever it caught the light. Another presented her with a yellow ribbon, seemingly salvaged from the wrapping of some confectionery and, with a little ingenuity, perfectly serviceable as a hair tie. A third carefully placed a flower crown upon her head, woven from tiny celandines making her fiery hair stand out even more. Makalaurë found himself smiling at the scene.
It was a curious thing, he thought, to see a stranger so readily welcomed by the children of Tirion.
As the small crowd dispersed, he took that as his cue to leave. He had gained more than mere curiosity from this outing; he had discovered a melody he wished to hear again.
Something told him that Tirion would not feel quite the same once he finally introduced himself to her. The sons of Fëanor had always been drawn to things beyond the ordinary. From crafts unseen, knowledge unknown, and to wonders yet undiscovered.
And this wandering bard was a tune he had never heard before.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
He started his day with a bright mood. Makalaurë had a good filling of his favorite lamb skewers and a fresh cup of cold fruit juice. His morning was completely uninterrupted. A perfect day for himself, his harp and a promising new ballad he planned to make.
Yesterday at dusk, he had noticed that the humming of the birds seemed far brighter and lyrical than before. Maybe something good was going to happen in the following days. And that good omen deserved a good song. Something upbeat and hopeful he believed.
At the thought of hearing those melodious sounds again, he could feel the lyrics forming at the tip of his tongue. His slender fingers itched to reach for the strings of his harp.
Makalaurë walked through the gardens of Tirion whilst humming a new tune for his upcoming composition. Distracted, he did not notice the bard from before was there near the stone bench in front of the small decorative fountain. The bard was looking at him in return her hands resting primly on her lap, the same curiosity he has towards her is present in her eyes.
For a moment, neither moved. Each measuring the other’s actions.
When Makalaurë is deep in his music making, he barely gives attention to his environment, so imagine his surprise when he felt a pair of eyes watching him, intently. The shining eyes of the bard he is intrigued with. She never spoke, only seemed to gaze at him.
It was only then that he had a closer look at her eyes. They were a verdant green, like the leaves he had seen in Yavanna’s pastures. They were full of brightness and mischief. Looking into them almost took his breath away.
They were so...beautiful.
He never thought that he would meet her again so soon. To be honest, it had almost slipped his mind that this mysterious bard had appeared out of nowhere in his beloved city. In his defense, looking after his younger brothers, each with their questionable hobbies and life decisions, could make anyone forget a thing or two. There were only so many troubles and headaches one could keep at the forefront of one's mind.
So yes, he had forgotten.
Out of practiced instinct as a friendly prince of the Ñoldor, he waves his hand and presents a charming smile. Unexpectedly, she reciprocated the gesture.
“Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo.”
The said bard spoke nothing, only smiling at him.
"It is a good day for feeling the breeze outside, isn’t it?"
Again, silence. His charming smile slowly became a bit strained at the edges.
“Excuse me but are you okay?”
The girl only tilted her head. In return, he tilted his.
She tilted farther, he copied.
They stayed like that for a few moments, slowly feeling his neck muscles spasming from the stretch.
Then, all of a sudden, she starts laughing.
Startled, he straightened like a wooden pole. His eyes clouded in confusion. This nís is weird.
She then parted her lips.
In broken speech, she spoke with matching hand gestures, “Words...hard...speak...know?”
Makalaurë realized what she meant and then signed back. The bard nods.
It is only when she nodded her head enthusiastically did he notice something odd about her head ornaments. From a far it looks just like a really tall hair ornament, odd but oddity is never uncommon with the Ñoldor. They all have their own quirks and preferences.
Her hair ornament, upon closer look, reminds him of a deer’s antler only hers are of golden tint, almost metallic looking. Additionally, he noticed leaf-like motifs surrounding it from the base.
But then when she tilted her head again, the ornaments did not even shift one bit, it followed her gesture like a sturdy tree rooted on the crown of her head.
Makalaurë stared.
They were not ornaments. He was certain of it. It should have at least with movement look unaligned but it did not. Then again, it is impolite to pry. He thought.
His eyes caught something glinting, the rays of light softly reflecting, in her lap. He tried to take an unnoticeable look at it but failed, unfortunately.
The nís noticed the direction of his gaze and looked at her lap. She unfolded her fingers and presented a small egg-shaped object, no bigger than his palm, that looks like it is made of ceramic or maybe clay. Upon looking closely, it has a series of tiny holes in it and a protruded part that looks like a mouthpiece.
It must be an instrument. Curious, it’s the first time I’ve seen this type.
She must have also caught on to his confusion and curiosity. She lifted it to her lips, and when she breathed into it, the instrument answered with a clear, gentle voice.
The sound is soft and flute-like but it brings a cadence different from other wind instruments he had used.
He found himself listening closely to the gentle melody drifting in the air. And almost as abrupt as it started, it also ended as quickly.
He found his eyes looking at her, or at the instrument. He has a strong urge to try this new wonder of an instrument but it would be rude to ask for another musician's instrument that they care for so well.
The girl, sensing his silent inquiry, then pointed at the instrument.
“Ocarina.” She said it slowly, each syllable clear and deliberate.
Ocarina? He silently mouthed the unfamiliar word. An instrument he had certainly never heard of.
Before he could raise any more questions, he felt something touch his mind. Osanwë. An irritated voice resounded within it.
‘Kano! Come home, quickly!’
It was Moryo, who sounded like he is at the end of his patience. Of course, his lovely siblings would start trouble the moment he is free from other responsibilities. So much for being the second brother.
‘What is it this time?’
Apparently, the Ambarussar and Tyelkormo are at it again. The twins found it hilarious to dye his hair blue while he was asleep and thus chaos ensued. He is more surprised at the fact that Moryo decided to call for him instead of throttling them himself. Maybe he is finally learning how to be a sensible sibling.
A series of expressions passed through Makalaurë’s face until finally it settled on tired acceptance. While pinching the bridge of his nose asking the Valar for patience, he sighs.
He bids the bard farewell with a gesture. He was halfway out of the garden when he remembered to ask for her name, maybe he’ll get it when they meet again. For now, he’s had a house to keep from burning to ruins or at least a fire to put out. Eru he loves his brothers but can he please have a peaceful break once in a while. He trudged the road home in a sulk.
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“Tyelkormo!”
“They did it first!”
Turning his gaze to the twins.
“What? It’s not our fault that-” one of them started.
“-his hair is begging to be dyed.” the other finished, sounding rather indignant, as if they were the ones who had been wronged.
"We only did what no one else could!"
Tyelkormo, riled by their comment, resumed his chase with renewed vigor.
With another sigh. He took hold of the twins by the cuff of their tunics as they passed him, nearly dragging him away from where he stood. These children were old enough to know better, yet still acted half their age.
“Enough or I’ll call Ammë.” He said sternly, eyes narrowed in annoyance.
As he said the magic words, the twins stopped struggling in his grip and Tyelko abruptly halted in his tracks. Glad to know the good old threat still worked. Honestly, he sometimes envied Nelyo for being too busy at the palace to deal with these gremlins.
For the rest of the day, Makalaurë found himself occasionally thinking of the strange bard by the fountain.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
He found her again in the same gardens a few days after their first meeting.
This time, she seemed much more versed in Quenya than before. Her sentences were still halting, and she occasionally paused to search for the right word, but at least they could now converse without relying so heavily on gestures.
And this time, Makalaurë remembered to ask her name.
“Ciaccona,” she said, smiling as she placed a hand against her chest.
“Þia-co-na?” he repeated uncertainly.
Her name was certainly unique. He had never heard anything quite like it.
She let out a small laugh and shook her head. She inched closer to him, intent on teaching him the right pronunciation.
“No. Ch—like chair. Chi-a-ko-na.”
“Chi-a-ko-na. Ciaccona.”
Her smile widened, bright and unrestrained, revealing a neat row of white teeth.
For some reason, Makalaurë thought her smile made the light of Laurelin seem brighter.
What am I saying?
I must have been influenced by the twins.
After that, their meetings became a regular occurrence.
Sometimes Makalaurë joined her in playing. Sometimes he simply sat nearby and listened. More often than not, however, he found himself becoming the audience while she listened to him instead.
Their conversations were equally mundane.
They spoke of the flowers blooming along the slopes of Túna, the best places to watch the sunset, and whether it was possible to climb a tree with dignity without inevitably falling halfway through.
It was nothing remarkable.
And perhaps that was precisely why Makalaurë found himself enjoying it so much.
Their meetings slowly became part of his daily life. He would find himself wondering whether she would be at the fountain that morning, or whether she had discovered another quiet corner of Tirion in which to play.
It was only after some time that he began to wonder about the things she never spoke of.
One day, while they sat together beneath the shade of a tree, he finally asked.
“Where did you live before coming to Tirion?”
He had already noticed that she was not from the city. Nor did she seem familiar to any of the Teleri of Alqualondë, despite his family having dealings with them. Perhaps she was Vanyarin. Perhaps she had come from some distant settlement he had never visited nor heard of.
Ciaccona only smiled.
“Hmm…”
She tilted her head, considering the question. Her eyes closing, feeling the gentle breeze blowing through the canopy above them.
“My home is wherever my music takes me.”
Makalaurë studied her for a moment.
There was more to that answer. He could tell.
But whatever the truth was, she clearly was not ready to share it.
So he did not press further.