Dedicated to my sister, who chose this prompt to torment me because I hate cute things. (Slight exaggeration, but still.)
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from the Silmarillion.
Pairings: none
Characters: Maedhros, Amrod, Amras, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Fëanor, Nerdanel (mentions Eru)
Warning: possible AU, character development, teeth-rotting fluff, dysfunctional family issues, siblings being siblings
Song: Dearly Beloved
Words: 2,403
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cookie (noun): a small flat or slightly raised cake
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/cookie
There was a soft knock at the door. It interrupted the steady train of thought--thoroughly focused on the subtle intricacies of political science and its many applications--and pulled the oldestFëanárion back to the reality of his bedchambers, back to the golden light peeking through the half-pulled curtains guarding his windows and the echo of the foreign sound off his walls. Had he imagined that? But then it came again, still gentle, almost hesitant.
At first, Maitimo suspected it was his mother for the lightness of it--his father would simply barge right in without bothering to knock, and his brother's would at least attempt to rattle the poor slab of wood off his hinges before admitting defeat and slinking away to brood.
But whereas Nerdanel would never open it unannounced, unlocked or no, he heard the handle turn and the wood give a faint creak as his door cracked open.
Two sets of large, mischievous green eyes peered through the slit. Maitimo just sighed. "Come in." He knew better than to send them away; he would not be rid of this pair of troublemakers so easily. If they did not have his dutiful attention now, they found find some way to capture it later, some way that would probably involve a very large mess that needed cleaning. "What is it that you need, little ones?"
They pushed the door open farther and shuffled inside. Tunics, stained with dirt and frayed at the edges, adorned their tiny bodies, and their wildly curly hair was full of dreadful knots and twigs. Maitimo winced at the thought of untangling that mess later this evening. Certainly it would not be his father or mother tending and braiding those locks before bedtime.
Most likely, the twins were searching for a playmate. Often enough, they were shoved aside by their older siblings. Kanafinwë would occasionally make time for them, but was more interested in teaching them music than playing in the grass and dirt. Turkafinwë would roll his eyes and tell them to get lost. Morifinwë and Curufinwë were not even worth taking the time to question, for they had no interest in being associated with the "babies" of the family.
Which, of course, left only Maitimo to assuage the twins' hunger for older company.
He fully expected a soft entreaty of "Will you play with us, Nelyo," from the lips that parted beneath his narrowed, expectant gaze.
Instead, he received "Will you help us bake cookies."
For a moment, he didn't quite comprehend the words. "Cookies?" he repeated skeptically. "Have... have you asked Amillë?"
"Emya is busy."
"She said to ask Káno."
"But Káno was busy."
"He said to ask you."
A pause.
"I do not know how to bake cookies." Which may or may not have been a blatant lie. It was not like their father ever had time, and Nerdanel could not cook anything even remotely resembling edible. It was only by the good graces of a hired cook that they didn't all starve in this massive house. But she was not in charge of concocting sugary treats for greedy elflings; that job had definitely fallen into someone else's hands.
But Maitimo liked to pretend otherwise. It was embarrassing to admit (even to himself) that he was more skilled at baking all manner of pastries and sweet delights than he was at shaping metal in the forge or carving facets into timeless jewels.
Whether or not they believed him, both of the twins' little mouths formed adorable pouts, lower lips wobbling tremulously as they gazed up at him with star struck eyes. "Please...?"
And here I wanted to get studying done this evening...
So much for that plan.
"All right." Because how could he say "no" to that?
---
And thus he found himself wearing an apron with his hair tied back in a bun, little wisps slipping free of their bonds to get in his eyes as he worked dough between his fingers. The squish of the soft mass between his digits was cool and soothing in a strangely cathartic way, like relaxing, reverse-massaging all the tension from his body that had been building up over the course of a very long and irritable week.
The twins stood on stools to reach the counter and dutifully obeyed his every command for once. When he told them to knead, they kneaded, and when he told them to flatten, they flattened. When he told them to stop throwing flour at each other (because they were making an awful mess of themselves and the floor), they giggled and wiped their messy hands on their leggings.
Of course, the chocolate shards that he had laid out--"They are for the cookies! Do not touch them!"--were persuasive incentive for good behavior. Otherwise, Maitimo fully expected he would have received a face-full of the clingy white powder.
"Here..." He directed small hands carefully with a circular cookie cutter. "Press all the way through the dough, and lay the cookies on the pan."
How the majority of them somehow managed to come out only vaguely resembling circles was a mystery to him, but he thought eager mouths and sticky fingers might have something to do with it. For once, the fastidious older brother allowed it to slide. And he pretended not to see when the two little redheads fished the last of the chocolate chips from their bowl and devoured them whilst his back was turned.
As he placed the pan in the oven and closed the door, the oldest brother felt a strange sort of calm settle over his spirit. For the first time all week, Maitimo did not feel like his brain was going to fry under the pressure of his studies. And he did not feel like his mind was going to crack from the strain of his father's disdainful eyes and hurtful comments.
Everything in the world felt calm and simple with his two little brothers pressing up against his sides, eagerly peering in at the cookies which would not show signs of actually baking and turning a delectable golden-brown for some time yet. Nevertheless, he found himself running his dirty hands through their hair, ruffling the curls.
The sweet innocence of children was enchanting. Perhaps someday...
"I see you have been busy."
It was Kanafinwë. The musician and scholar was leaning against the doorframe, immaculate as ever. Maitimo guessed that he had watching as the oldest brother carefully set their handmade treasure within the oven to bake judging by the amusement glittering in silvered eyes.
"Yes, well..."
"Káno, Káno, Káno!" Pityo cried in excitement. "Did you see? Did you? We are making cookies!"
As though it were the most amazing thing in the world. Maitimo's heart clenched just a little bit. The childish appreciation for something so simple was refreshing. More so than that, he enjoyed seeing the little ones smiling without that lurking aspect of attention-seeking trouble just beyond the edges of their sharp little grins.
"That I can see." The second-eldest joined them at the table, carefully avoiding sullying his hands or sleeves with the leftover flour smeared over the surface. "Are you having fun?"
Both little ones nodded eagerly. "Nelyo showed us how!"
"So I see..." Kanafinwë sent him a sly look indeed. "It has been a long while indeed since he has taken up the art of baking cookies."
A flush rose unbidden to Maitimo's cheeks. "I seem to recall someone appreciating my proficiency in that particular art as a sniveling elfling," he muttered in reply. "Dear me, his name seems to have escaped me, but I thought it might have started with--"
"Are those cookies I smell?"
Surprised, he turned to find Turkafinwë in the doorway now, carrying the scent of earth and fresh air and sweat. To the eldest brother's annoyance, the third brother made himself at home, tossing down his longbow upon the table--"Weapons do not belong on the surface upon which we eat, Turko"--and threw himself down in a chair beside the rooms other occupants. Maitimo's chastisement was dutifully ignored.
And then the twins, utterly pleased with themselves and their latest adventure, proceeded to repeat tales of their older brother's prowess in the kitchen to the new, willing audience. Luckily, Turko was no less guilty of both enjoying and taking advantage of that prowess, and so kept his teasing to knowing looks rather than his usual silver-tonged taunts.
Soon enough, the smell of baking cookies had wafted its way down the hallways and attracted the attention of yet another occupant of the house. Loitering outside the doorway was Morifinwë, his face shyly peering around the corner into the room
Resigned, Maitimo sighed. "Are you going to join us, Moryo?"
The fourth brother flushed vermilion, looking down at his feet as he shuffled into the room, but there was a smile upon his normally frowning visage that drove away innate darkness. And for once, he and Turko did not immediately break into a one-sided staring contest in which the oldest of the pair silently, invisibly beat his younger sibling's self-esteem into the ground.
Perhaps the sweetened atmosphere was good for something.
Especially when their last volatile member joined them in the small room.
Fresh from lessons at the forge, no doubt about it. If the smell of smoke and the glisten of a thick layer of sweat weren't telling enough, the red rims about large, glazed eyes spoke the rest. All of the older brothers knew how trying such lessons could be with a perfectionist father like theirs, too concerned with his own projects and his own abilities to realize that all others did not have the same untapped, natural potential.
Curufinwë came the closest undoubtedly, but was far from the mark of perfection, young as he currently was. How their father could expect so much of someone so young and untried frustrated Maitimo to no end! He hated seeing the discouraged expressions and hearing the litany of doubts that would follow each lecture.
Just as the eldest was removing the steaming, molten-hot cookies from the oven, the last brother appeared in the doorway looking worse for wear and an inch away from crying his eyes out.
It was all he could do to set the tray down and offer his arms. And if the child--"I am not a child anymore, Nelyo, do not treat me like one!"--came willingly into his arms and hid his face against his older brother's shoulder, no one spoke a word against it nor mocked him for needing comfort. If anything, the glances around the table were knowing and understanding. They had all been in that position before, many, many times.
Maitimo brushed away the few stray tears that had leaked free from the cracked poise of the trembling facade, leaving behind streaks of flour upon rosy cheeks instead. "Come and sit, Curvo," he said softly, pressing a kiss to his brother's forehead.
And they were all together in a single room without arguing, without fighting, without taunting and without belittling for the very first time since well before the last two brothers had joined their merry band of troubled siblings.
"You have flour on your face," Telvo pointed out blatantly as the last brother sat. The elfling scrambled up to perch himself upon his brother's lap, his tiny hand reaching upwards, but as it tried to wipe away the smudges, it only succeeded in adding more pale decoration to contrast the blotches formed from weeping.
And Curvo, rather than pushing away the touches, instead reached out to the flour adorning the table and whitened his hand with its softness, pressing the newly-sullied limb against the little one's cheek. Not that the child needed to be any messier. Now not only was there dirt to be cleaned from ragged clothing and twigs to be untangled from wild hair, but flour to be scrubbed from ruddy flesh. It would take hours to get the twins in bed and asleep this night.
Yet Maitimo could not find it within himself to be anything short of amused, even when the little one responded by throwing a fistful of powdery white in his brother's shocked face. Which Curvo returned tenfold, splattering not only the twins, but also Turko and Moryo as well.
Thus began the battle.
By the time the cookies were cooled, they were all thoroughly splotched and laughing, and Maitimo wondered when the last time was that his heart felt so light. It was a glowing feeling, bursting to life in his belly and radiating outwards to his fingers and toes, bringing a natural broad grin unto his lips as he observed his messy siblings playing around like little elflings. By Eru, the affection he felt for them, regardless of their attitudes and intrinsic differences, arose in a heated wave to envelope him in an intangible, untouchable embrace.
They were still laughing as they dug in to the newly-baked treat courtesy of Nelyafinwë Maitimo, second in line to the throne of the Noldor.
So caught up were they in their newfound delight and camaraderie that it was only the oldest brother who witnessed the passage of their sire, star-eyes glinting from the darkness of the hallway, watching them with the strangest foreign look burning into silver depths. Yet for once Maitimo did not feel his smile fade at the sight, did not allow the intense presence to douse the glow of pleasure suffusing his skin and soul.
He met those eyes unyieldingly, equally adamantine. Let it not be said that the first son possessed none of his father's stubbornness and will to follow his own path.
They shared a gaze, for long moments unbroken, stronger than steel and hotter than embers. But it was the father, not the son, who glanced away first.
And Fëanáro passed them by without a word. Silent.
Brooding or scornful he might be, thinking of the waste of his firstborn son's talent, but Maitimo did not care, not at this moment. He commandeered the twins, settling them down in his lap as they joyously sang the praises of their scrumptious creations, and then the eldest redhead snatched a cookie for himself and bit into the gloriously melted chocolate, feeling the treat melt upon his tongue as butter.
Never had victory tasted so sweet.
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I had originally planned to write this as an angsty metaphor story, but I got a request from the suggestor of said prompt for Maedhros baking cookies, so we have Maedhros baking cookies. Maybe he can't shape metal or carve jewels or work with copper or wood or diamond, but hell can that man cook! And Fëanor would have absolutely no idea what to do with a culinary genius.
Listening to a remix of Dearly Beloved from Kingdom Hearts, composed by the wonderful Yoko Shimomura. I love this song in most of its forms, including any number of official and unofficial piano arrangements, orchestral arrangements and remixes. It's just an f-ing good song. So listen. Or else.
As for the cookies... Well, I had cake today, but maybe tomorrow. I have the sudden powerful urge to consume something sugary and delicious.
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