This was a part of Alqualondë that Findekáno had never been to before.
Really, he could say that about most of the Telerin city. He and his siblings and cousins were mostly interested in enjoying the beach when they ventured down from Tirion. They’d been to Olwë’s house (not really much of a palace, certainly nothing like Grandfather Finwë’s home) a couple times, too, what with Uncle Arafinwë marrying his daughter. But as a whole, Findekáno felt half lost as he searched for the shop he was looking for.
He’d gotten the name of the shop from an elf in Tirion who specialized in adorning the body. A common enough craft among the Noldor, though his parents would have objected to their son utilizing her services, given her reputation. He agreed with them on that, though more because she was bound to know about the family drama than because she was too liberal with her needle and ink.
No, no. For this he had to find an outsider, and Mórowen of the Teleri came well recommended.
Or, at least, recommended.
Findekáno stopped to squint at a driftwood sign polished nearly blank by the combination of saltwater spray and the fine sand carried by the wind and foot traffic all over the city. This looked like the shop he’d been directed to. The only way to know was to go inside and face whatever awaited.
Pushing aside the strings of seashells decorating the entrance, he stepped into the small shop.
“In a minute.” The sharp words came from a black-hair elf, uncommon for a Teleri, hunched over a low table.
“Mhph,” the elf laying face-down on the table said as Mórowen tapped her tattooing comb into their back.
Embarrassed (and more than a little flustered at seeing someone half naked), Findekáno ducked back into the street to wait.
Well over a minute passed before the Teleri, still indecently underdressed, walked out, accompanied by a taller elf he hadn’t noticed. The freshly tattooed patron offered the waiting prince a casual greeting gesture that broke off with a wince. The bigger elf laughed and then they were gone.
He hesitated at the lintel. Did he really want to do this?
“Come, come,” Mórowen said. “Don’t block the light.”
“Hello.” He tried to calm his nerves as he stepped into the tiny shop, more of a shack compared to what he was used to. “I heard you craft adornments for the skin?”
She snorted. “If your clothes or face were not enough, I’d know you're a Noldo now. Yes, I do.”
He stumbled over his tongue. The last time he’d been this embarrassed had to be when he slipped at the feast and landed in Maitimo’s lap, spilling wine all over both of them. Their fathers saw the whole thing and Maitimo quickly excused himself and fled.
“Sit down.” Mórowen pointed at a three-legged stool next to the table. “What do you want?”
It wobbled dangerously under him. “I-” there was no going back now, he’d come all this way and he’d see this through. “I’d like a tattoo.”
“And every fisher wants Ossë to not break their nets. Do you know what you want?”
He had the sudden urge to hide his hands behind him. The way her eyes flicked up and down made him feel like she was picking which spot of exposed skin to set her au to first. His answer came out in a rush. “A name.”
She sat back on her work stool, tapping one finger on the table. “A name?” Her eyebrows rose.
He wasn’t sure if it was mocking. He thought it could be. “Yes. Maitimo.”
From a pocket, he pulled a scrap of linen paper. He’d drawn the name out to look exactly the way he wanted, with extra flourishes. He stopped short of including hearts, but he’d wanted to.
Mórowen took the paper and inspected his work. “Maitimo,” she repeated and then read out each tangwa and ómatehta. “You want it to look like this?”
“Yes,” he insisted, defensive.
She shrugged. “Where?
“My side.” He’d thought for a long time about that. The tattoo had to go somewhere he would never casually reveal. “Just above my hip.”
“You’ll have to pull your shirt up,” she said it like she expected him to run out in a panic at the notion.
“Okay. Can we start now?”
She nodded. “I have time.”
In the course of a minute, Findekáno found himself lying on his side on the surprisingly comfortable table, his shirt bunched up under his arm and his pants pushed low on his hips. Mórowen’s hands were surprisingly warm against his skin but he couldn’t help flinching nervously with every foreign touch.
“Maitimo, Maitimo,” she murmured as she put ink to her comb. She paused with the comb’s teeth almost touching him.
He bit his lip and closed his eyes, bracing.
“Maitimo,” she repeated. “Isn’t he your cousin?”
Findekáno froze. “Half-cousin.”
“Aren’t your fathers feuding?”
Why was this Teleri, of all Teleri, reasonably informed on Noldorin politics? He thought they all had little interest in what happened beyond the shore. What would he have to do to convince her to forget about the whole thing and never speak a word of this to anyone? Father would be livid if he found out, and Maitimo might get in trouble too if Fëanáro heard about it.
“Eh, but perhaps I am mistaken,” she said and tapped the needles into his skin.
By the time Mórowen put her comb away and wiped his skin with a damp rag, Findekáno was almost regretting the whole thing. He wasn’t sure he could make the hike back up the mountain without his side tearing open. Even breathing made it hurt.
“Wash with cool water three times between minglings and pat it dry with rabbit fur.”
“Why?” He couldn’t imagine touching anywhere near the tattoo for at least a year.
She laughed. “You’ll know why if you don’t listen.”
“Now,” she hummed, helping him adjust his clothes so they fit right, “when your Maitimo is ready, send him to me for the other half.”
And with that, she bundled him out of her shop.
He stood in the street, sand accumulating inside his sandals again. He was not looking forward to the walk home. Maybe he could find someone in the market who would be driving a wagon back to Tirion and he could ride with them.
Already yearning for sleep, Findekáno set off toward the sounds of people arguing over prices and the good-natured conversations that seemed to be the hallmark of markets everywhere. He couldn’t resist tracing a finger over the name permanently inked into his skin as he went.
Two lords they had, for their numbers were very great: Elwë Singollo, which signifies Greymantle, and Olwë his brother. The hair of Olwë was long and white, and his eyes were blue...
But Olwe answered: 'We renounce no friendship. But it may be the part of a friend to rebuke a friend's folly... But as for our white ships: those you gave us not. We learned not that craft from the Noldor, but from the Lords of the Sea; and the white timbers we wrought with our own hands, and the white sails were woven by our wives and our daughters. Therefore we will neither give them nor sell them for any league or friendship. For I say to you, Feanor son of Finwe, these are to us as are the gems of the Noldor: the work of our hearts, whose like we shall not make again.'
These gorgeous things are flashboats (not mine!) I photographed them at Calstock Regatta. There is absolutely zero reason to have a flashboat. They are wooden, which is a hopelessly impractical material compared with modern plastics, aluminium or fibreglass: it is heavy, it goes rotten, it’s a pain to repair. And flashboats are a particularly ridiculous form of wooden boat: they are descended from the practical working river-boats and gigs of centuries past, but they are streamlined and much less stable, because they are built for racing. Nobody has wooden working-boats now, working-boats are light practical aluminium. Except, a plastic or aluminium boat would be faster to race in too.
LOOK AT THEM. My god they are gorgeous. Nobody try to tell me that Olwe doesn’t have a flashboat. The Teleri probably practice gig-racing too: it’s exactly the sort of of ridiculous water-borne art that they would love. ‘We want to go really really fast, only, and this is important, without compromising our aesthetic.’
Honestly, I do get part of Eöl's perspective when he is snubbing Turgon in the court of Gondolin. "No right have you or any of your kin this land to seize realms or set bounds... this is the land of the Teleri, to which you bring war and all unquiet, dealing ever proudly and unjustly."
After all, by what right did the Noldor have kingdoms here? They did just show up out of the West and take lands for their own, and it was by their judgement that they decided the lands already occupied by the Teleri were "sufficiently respected". If a Teleri could no longer roam the lands freely (for example when Eöl was waylaid by the host of Curufin) has not some injustice occurred?
Counterpoint: the Noldor and Teleri were of course kindreds, so it is somewhat stingy to play ownership over lands and holdings. Beleriand was, after all, home of the Quendi long before there was Orc and Dwarf and Man to stake claim to any part of it. Is it not fair that the Teleri be expected to share space with the Noldor, their long-time friends and allies?
Counter-counterpoint: did not the Noldor give up the right to kinship and closeness to the Teleri at the Kinslaying? Can you claim that alliance means something when you have a history of readily slaying your allies at the first convenience?
This is a lot of rhetorical questions, but my point is that Eöl was onto something. The Noldor colonised and made kingdoms as though they had a right to do so, and did not show any humility in this endeavour at any point. Even were their attitude different, with the same actions, it might have been more palatable and acceptable.
