The matter of Fingon's marriage plagues Fingolfin for most of the evening and night. Laying sleepless in his tent despite his exhaustion, he cannot drag his thoughts away from it.

He wonders why the prospect scares him so. Fingon's youngest brother Turukano married years ago and brought nothing but happiness to his father. Perhaps he is so against it because of Turukano's haunted look, or because Itarillë is growing without a mother. Her aunts are guiding her as she grows up, but it is not the same.

Fingolfin scrapes together a few hours of sleep before dawn. He is awakened early by the shrill songs of birds, and the sounds of his servant Arandil setting up breakfast. Fingolfin gives himself a few minutes of calm, breathing slowly, feeling his body heavy with sleep. Then he sighs and gets up, every tired, tensed muscle protesting.

Instead of Arandil, Fingolfin finds Findekano arranging the table.

"Hello, Dad. Did you sleep well?"

Fingolfin considers lying, but Findekano's strained smile make all pretense useless.

"No, I did not. I am concerned about the matter of your marriage."

"I am not getting married," Findekano answers quickly. "Well not yet, and I will not marry someone I do not like. I am just... being open to considering the idea of being married."

He hands over a slice of bread covered with jam and Fingolfin waves it away. He would rather give this conversation his full attention, and eat once the matter is resolved.

"I do not understand why you would be open to the idea now. If you had spoken of this at Turukano's wedding or the birth of Itarillë, that would have been more natural."

"Why?"

"Would you have children with your new wife?"

"I might."

"How could you?" Fingolfin asks. He makes no effort to hide his disapproval. "How can you consider bringing a child into these lands? Into our war? What life do you think a child will find in Beleriand?"

"Life is the word, dad," Findekano responds. "Your answer to all of this is that we should stop living and stand vigil. You spend to much time meditating on my uncle's grave or watching Angband! I understand that is your way, but it is wholly divorced from my own temper."

He keeps on, gestures fast and wide, hands moving to the rhythm of his words.

"I agree with Nissiel and the Sindar. If we are to die then let us live fast! Let us not live in memories! If I am to die, I want to bring with me memories of children, friends, parties and breathtaking sights! I will not allow myself to be dragged into death with a life half lived!"

"What of the child you will drag into this? You say I will ! Do you know how egoistical you sound?"

"Do you know how patronizing you sound?"

"Mind your tongue when you talk to your king!"

Findekano closes up immediately, his body language switching from exuberant to guarded, lips thinning into a line.

"No", Findekano says when Fingolfin would... what? Take back his words? "If you were my king and only my king, we would not be having this conversation. My king would see that it is in our best interest for me to marry a Sinda."

"I do not agree with this statement."

"You do not want to agree with this statement because you feel the Sindar are unworthy of a Prince of the Noldor," Findekano tells him bluntly. "You think no one notices your disdain, and indeed most will not, but I do. Why do you think most of the Sindar of the north followed the Fëanorians? Fëanaro may have been foolish but he was not foolish enough to antagonize them, and for once he used his charm at the right moment. The Fëanorians were outnumbered, they would have got nowhere without the Sindar. Fëanaro could not invade them because he did not have the power to do so. We, on the other hand, are numerous enough that we are displacing them. It might seem to you that we do not have to make them feel needed; to pretend they are inferior and unworthy now that we are strong, but how long are we going to stay strong if we have no children and do not enlist the Sindar to help us? And just how strong are we against Morgoth if we let them leave?"

"You do not need to marry a Sinda to win allies," Fingolfin answers. He can think of a dozen other means to win their hearts. Has he not shown his will to befriend them already? What is the point of the Feast, if not to demonstrate his good will? "If you insist on marrying to strengthen our bonds with others, then marry a noble lady from the Fëanorian faction."

Findekano lets out an explosive laugh.

"A noble lady from the Fëanorian faction? You have so little respect for the Sindar, you would rather have me marry one of those who abandoned us to cross the Ice?"

Fingolfin reminds him that not all of his brother's followers were complicit in the burning of the ships. Did Findekano himself not advocate for forgiveness? Findekano merely shakes his head.

"This is going nowhere. Let us agree to disagree on this matter before we start throwing truly awful things at each other," Findekano sighs. "You should know Maedhros arrived late yesterday and will be seeing you in private to agree on the etiquette of your official first meeting. He will also tell you Aicahendë gave birth to a son just before he left the March. Try not to be judgmental."

Findekano turns away leaving his father flabbergasted. Of course Curufin would be the one with a child, since he was the only one whose wife came to Beleriand and they were a newlywed couple during the Darkening, but the idea of conceiving a child two decades after Fëanaro's death, in the wilderness of the recently settled eastern parts of Beleriand, in times of war and in a barely built fortress sounds ludicrous to Fingolfin.

"The child," Fingolfin asks just as Findekano steps through the doorway, "What did his mother call him?"

"His name is Celebrimbor, Tyelperinquar Curufinwë," Findekano says and leaves.

Fingolfin bites his tongue, but feels the morbidity of the names: one carried by his first grandfather, burnt to death by a fiery demon; the other belonging to his second, drowned by a goddess of the Sea.

Maedhros comes barely announced, entering the tent right after the elf who was meant to warn the High King of his approach, giving Fingolfin no time to compose himself. The prince wears no elaborate clothing, no crown, no circlet; a simple, short wool cloak covers his right side, leaving his left hand uncovered to show his fëanorian signet.

"Uncle."

The words contains everything: good morning, king, kin, how are you, fine, thank you. Ever since Maedhros came back from Angband, the meaningless politeness oiling the gears of civilized conversation have been absent from his private conversations, and in official ones they remain stiff and chilly.

"Nephew," Fingolfin answers. He gestures to the remains of his meal. "Have you had breakfast yet? Arandil can bring more."

"I have not. Do not bother." Maedhros eases himself into the closest chair, his scared face rendered even more expressionless by the hair covering its right side, the one most damaged in Angband. "I heard Fingon is getting married."

"He is not."

"I heard Fingon is considering getting married," Maedhros corrects himself, unconcerned.

"Do we need to have this conversation?" Fingolfin sighs. Talking with Findekano was bad enough, but complicating matters further by discussing it with Maedhros is nightmarish. He wants to tell Maedhros that he should mind his own business, but his nephew would only stare in silence until Fingolfin felt uncomfortable enough to relent.

"What conversation?"

Here it is. The expressionless face with a fixed glance, waiting for Fingolfin to unmask.

This is a game two Noldor can play.

"Please, do share your insights."

"I will not be discussing Fingon's marriage but a meeting between my father and an envoy from Thingol."

The mask almost cracks; this is unexpected, but no less annoying. Why must Fëanaro be dragged into everything? Fingolfin nods silently, agreeing to the subject.

"My father saw fit to send envoys to the people of Beleriand. Most answered with hope, admiration and offers of friendship because our arrival freed western Beleriand. Thingol's deputy, however, addressed my father with the patronizing tone of someone who knows better and would give advices to a young newcomer. Because of his tone and the content of the message, and because we found friendlier people in North Beleriand, my father chose to ignore Thingol's advice and it was not discussed thereafter."

Fingolfin wonders how the matter related to Fingon; opening the discussion with the marriage cannot have been innocent, unless Maedhros is just trying to unnerve him, as a way to remind his uncle that he is without a crown, but not without power.

"Thingol proposed an alliance with my father against Angband."

"I was unaware such an alliance had been made."

"Very few people knew of the offer. My father, myself, my brothers, some at Thingol court, I suppose. My father refused. You find his refusal absurd, don't you? What was Fëanaro thinking, refusing to ally with the greatest power in Beleriand? Did he refuse because Thingol vexed him?"

Fingolfin does not give Maedhros the pleasure of answering his rhetorical questions.

"No. Thingol, in his message, warned my father. The inhabitants of North Beleriand, he said, are untrustworthy. The worst of them are servants of Angband, wheareas the best are tainted, marred in some way. King Fëanaro, if he wishes to avenge his father, may remain in North Beleriand. His Noldor should purge these lands of the corrupted locals first. Do not talk with the Falmari of the Islands, the Mithrim of the mainland, the Orodrim from the slopes of the northern ranges and countless other tribes. Servants of Angband, all of them."

All of this, Maedhros explains flatly, not clarifying where the Sindar of the North were supposed to go, or if Thingol had expected Fëanaro would simply kill them.

"My father, however, believed himself a friend of the North Sindar already. They showed us what was edible and what was not, they helped us scout the land and settle. Our talks with the Mithrim were fresh and new, a welcome change after valinorean politics and everything that happened in Aman. It was like starting a new life with them. My father spoke of friendship and solidarity: we came for revenge, we will save each other, we will live and fight and die together. Thingol, on the other hand... he was not only patronizing, he was Olwë's brother and married to a Maia, and safely hidden in his lands. So my father sent the messenger away and told Thingol he would be perfectly fine with his new friends and Thingol's advice was not required nor welcomed."

Fingolfin knows Maedhros is finished when he reaches for an apple and calmly starts to eat.

"So you came to tell me Findekano should not marry Nissiel because she is a spy from Angband?"

"No," Maedhros answers after excruciatingly long seconds spent chewing his apple in uncomfortable silence. "I came to tell you Thingol believes Nissiel's people are spies from Angband."

"Do you believe him?"

"I have no proofs to build an educated opinion on. Unlike Thingol, Lord Cirdan welcomed the refugees of the Falmari. As for the Mithrim who followed me East, they have given me no reason to distrust them. Yet."

"Do you?"

"Trust them? No. But I do not trust you either. Are you untrustworthy?"

"Will you believe me if I say I am not?"

"Absolutely not. As I said, I do not trust you." The left corner of his mouth trembles slightly. This is the closest Maedhros ever comes to a smile. "My father trusted them. He was ambushed and died. I trusted them. I was ambushed and almost died. You arrived in Beleriand. Your troops were ambushed and your son died. But I do not know if Thingol is right. Nissiel may or may not be trustworthy."

"What are you going to do about this?" Maedhros merely raises an eyebrow, as if he hasn't already made his mind. Fingolfin may be king and Findekano's father, but he knows Maedhros will do whatever he wants. "Do not pretend you will stand aside while your favorite cousin courts a girl who may be a spy."

"If the High King wishes for my help, I can make enquiries and have her watched.

Fingolfin considers the offer, the obvious trap. Maedhros will have her followed with or without Fingolfin's agreement, but by asking for orders he drags his uncle into his plot. Should Maedhros get caught by Findekano, they will share the responsibility, and Fingolfin will be unable to reprimand him for spying on his heir.

Nonetheless, the trap is tempting. Fingolfin does not trust Maedhros, but he believes without a doubt that his nephew wishes Findekano well. The question is whether Maedhros' good intentions can lead to anything but paranoia and diplomatic failure.

"If your spies are caught, the Sindar will be rightfully scandalized."

"I know," Maedhros answers with the calm and stillness of a windless lake.

Fingolfin wears the crown and hosts the Feast, and will be blamed first.

"Do it."

Maedhros nods and stands up to leave.

"I shall come to you formally with my followers at midday. Maglor will be there. My uncle Naswë came with us, but do not expect him to come and give his respects."

"I think I will survive without them."

Naswë is Miriel's brother. His disdain and hatred for the children of Indis is legendary. The less Fingolfin sees of him, the better.

"As I expected," Maedhros agrees. "I shall see you then."

"By the way," Fingolfin says as Maedhros moves to leave, "congratulation on the birth of your nephew."

"Thank you," Maedhros answers, the flap of the tent muffling the flat words.