Playacting
by Mooselk
We play our game so often that falling into the roles is as natural as breathing. Maedhros takes a step forward, and I take a step back. He straightens his shoulders and hardens his expression. I bow my head slightly and sink into his shadow.
Good Fëanorian, Bad Fëanorian. Sometimes we count on flower petals. "Who will play the Bad Fëanorian today?" Maedhros laughs and I laugh right back. Our roles were chosen long ago and will not change any time soon.
I will not deny that we are well equipped for our chosen parts. Maedhros is tall, the very tallest, fiery and striking, while the top of my head barely brushes his chin. It is so easy to play submissive to his powerful presence that sometimes I nearly forget that that's all it is-a game.
Without my voice, I am as forgettable as a Fëanorian can be, with the black hair and grey eyes of most Noldor. Maedhros scoffs when I mention this.
"You are only forgettable when you are with me. And that, brother dear, is our advantage."
But if I am not forgettable, as Maedhros seems to think, then our game drives the point in even deeper. That Maedhros can tame one of his wild brothers without even sparing a glance in his direction speaks volumes to any visitors.
He commands and I whisper supposed arguments, often into his ear. He sends me haughty looks that scream, "Know your place!" to the messenger cowering by the door, embarrassed to be involved in what looks to be a family matter, but in which I read only weary amusement.
Good Fëanorian, bad Fëanorian. He shows strength and an apathetic face, while I slowly and painstakingly must try to "convince" him into certain acts of kindness, or of help. I must show them the sliver of goodness that is left in Fëanorian hearts. It is good that I am a practiced performer. Our hearts are so black and cold they could be lumps of coal. And perhaps they are, perhaps we are, lumps of coal left by our father's fire.
No one sees the steadying hand that I put on my brother's back. Back in Valinor, he was the master diplomat and he, while not as good a performer as me, can still keep up the pretense that nothing has changed about that.
Poor Nelyo. His defining trait is his compassion. Angband could not take it from him. He comes to me after each meeting and sits listening as I sing. He won't allow himself tears when I am looking, so I close my eyes and pretend to drift into our mother's lullabies by accident.
I hate them- everyone- for hurting him by making him pretend not to care and I hate myself for allowing it. How I wish it wasn't necessary!
We have tricked our brothers into seeing Nelyo as the same strong person of our youth. I still don't know whether to laugh or cry about it. They must have been desperate for his strength, or they never would have bought our act. And yet…
Celegorm gave me a look of disgust and stalked out without saying a word. I suppose it rankled him. He has always been proud, Tyelko, and does not understand that I am trading my own insignificant pride for Nelyo's. He needs it far more. But Curufin smiled knowingly before walking out after our hasty brother. Crafty Curvo. I know that he tried to play the same way with Celegorm, albeit with a different spin. As far as I've heard it worked very well for them in Nargothrond.
But I believe that we might have convinced them too well. Celegorm forgot that I was not, in fact, the harmless musician we had led everyone to believe I was. He was reminded the hard way when I broke his nose upon their return to Himring after the Nargothrond disaster. Findarato had been dear to me. Not as Findekáno to Nelyo, but no one could ever come close to replicating that friendship that came through fire and Ice and remained whole and true.
Good Fëanorian, Bad Fëanorian. Our game is forgotten with Doriath. We have all fallen so low that to pretend that there is still any hope left for our souls is laughable. Nelyo doesn't come to me anymore. I go to him. I need to make sure that he's still there.
A/N: I have a lot of feelings about Maglor. Sometimes they come out. Hope you enjoyed!