The Critic by oshun

The Critic

The fog comes
on little cat feet.
--Carl Sandburg, Chicago Poems (1916)

Home. The dark green carpeting of the back lawn smelled marvelous and felt velvety soft to the touch, a stunning change from sand, rocks, and scrubby fringes of sea grass. Macalaurë let his last chord die slowly before lowering his lute to look at his brother and his cousin.

“That was amazing.” Tyelkormo smiled up at him, his cornflower blue eyes gleaming with affection and his voice utterly sincere. “Was that a new one?”

“I wrote it when you were still little. You’ve heard it a hundred times at least.”

Írissë snorted at his brother, more to get his attention than anything else.

Tyelkormo pretended to ignore her. “When I have not seen you for a while,” he said, “I miss your music a lot. I try to listen to other people sing or play, but they reek by comparison. Complete rubbish. Then when I finally hear you again, I realize that you are even better than my memory of you.”

Írissë giggled and hit Tyelkormo on one of his impressive biceps. “Aww! He loves his big brother.” Turning to Macalaurë, she said, “You know, it’s true. He brags about you all the time. Girls adore it. Big manly man. Admission of sentiment.” She wrinkled a pert little nose at Tyelkormo, tossing her dark mass of tumbling curls.

Tyelkormo wrestled her onto her back and straddled her, tickling her around the waist just under her rib cage until she shrieked, loud enough that Macalaurë feared for his hearing. “Why would I care about any stupid girls when I have you. Gimme a kiss and I’ll stop. Now’s your chance. Gimme a kiss.”

“Varda’s stars, Írissë. Kiss him, please. You almost put your foot through my instrument.”  

“I will. Stop. I will.” Silence. Blessed silence.

“Do you want to hear a new song I wrote? It’s really short. You two will be the first.” Írissë and Tyelkormo, quiet in one another’s arms for the moment, nodded with vigor.

Accompanying himself with simple as yet unembellished chords, he sang a short verse that he had written on his last night in Alqualondë. He hoped it was poignant without being sentimental. He liked the brevity. It was good to be home again, but always painful to leave Alqualondë.

“So what do you think?” he asked when he had finished.

Tyelkormo slapped him on the back with enthusiasm. “Your voice is golden, brother! Absolutely golden. Nothing in the world like it. But lose the part about the cat's feet and the fog. It's just not working for me.”

“You know he’s an idiot, right?” Írissë asked, her voice tender with empathy.