A/N: This fic is compliant to events in The Ransom of the House of Fëanor, but can be read entirely separately. Set approximately a month and a half after Fëanor and his sons are rebodied as per the events of The Ransom of the House of Fëanor. Elrond at this point has recovered well enough to continue convalescence at Avallónë.
A Night in Tirion
Eirian Erisdar
Chapter 1: Nolofinwë's Cursed Firstborn Makes A Suggestion
In the long yéni after, Fingon and Finrod would always insist the night's descent into madness began when someone (probably Fingon) ordered a round of Telerin brandy laced with sea-serpent milk.
Maglor, conversely, would always remember that legendary evening quite differently; he remains of the opinion that the evening took a turn down a slippery slope the moment the sun touched the western horizon and Ñolofinwë's cursed firstborn opened his mouth.
"Hmm," Fingon says conversationally, raising his head from where he had been napping comfortably in the grass with his head pillowed on Maedhros's stomach. "I fancy a drink."
"We have wine," Maglor says, frowning down at his quill as he scratches feverishly at the leaf of music in his lap. This new symphony is not cooperating – it is an attempt at the newer Noldor style, favoured by the younger musicians of Tirion, but there are certain nuances that Maglor still finds grating to his classically trained ears. "Help yourself, if Finrod's not gone and finished it all– Maitimo, I'm borrowing this. My inkpot is dry." He directs the latter at Maedhros as he reaches over his elder brother's legs to steal Maedhros's ink.
Maedhros does not react to Maglor's theft except to hum an acknowledgement. His gaze remains focused on the sheaf of papers in his hands – reports from the Fëanorian quarter, Maglor knows. Their father is striving to mend the chasms between their peoples now that the initial fervor of their return has cooled, and Maedhros, ever the diplomat, is invaluable to Fëanor's work.
For a moment, Maglor hears naught but the soft whisper of summer wind through the verdant grass of the garden as Fingon shuffles on his elbows over to Maglor's other side, where Finrod is napping with a scroll over his eyes, one long hand still wrapped around the handle of an ewer. Over the marble balustrade, the light of the setting sun turns the grassy slopes of Túna into spun gold; the walls of Finarfin's house shine hammered silver and gleaming white.
Fingon makes a frustrated noise to Maglor's right. "Findaráto! You finished the wine."
Maglor glances up. Maedhros's lips twitch in the corner of his vision.
Finrod does not move, but his voice issues from beneath the scroll, bone-dry. "Maitimo and 'Laurë did not seem inclined to help me finish it, and you were asleep. I thought it a waste to allow such a good vintage to turn into vinegar."
Fingon glares at him. "Very well. I will spare no expense. The first round will come out of your pockets."
"There will be no first round at all," Maedhros says, lifting his face from his papers; his hair is cloud of flame in the setting sun. His elbow brushes Maglor's as he places the parchment aside and reaches for another from the pile beside him. "I must finish these reports by morning."
"Maitimo," Fingon says, braids swinging as he turns to Maedhros. The dusk light limns the golden ribbons in his hair with a shimmering glow. "None of us are king any longer. You can stop kinging for a little while."
Maglor coughs a little into his sheaf of music. Even Finrod shifts, one blue eye peeking out from under the parchment to peer at their cousin.
Maedhros, to his credit, does no more than raise an eyebrow. "I am not kinging. I am prince-ing."
"Aren't we all," Finrod mutters, peeling the scroll from his face – a report on trade between Tirion and Valimar, Maglor notices – and frowning up at it. "Damn. I've smudged the figures. 'Laurë, do you think this says six hundred bushels of wheat, or three hundred–"
"'Laurë," Fingon interrupts from somewhere at Maglor's feet before Maglor can do any more than squint at the Tengwar. "Come for a drink with me."
"I have a symphony to write," Maglor says.
"Which isn't proceeding well," Fingon counters. "You were two pages in last I saw before I fell asleep. You've written barely half a page since then."
"Oh?" Maedhros murmurs, leaning over Maglor's shoulder. "You're usually faster than that."
"Are you having trouble?" Finrod says, perking up visibly as he casts his own reports aside. "Is it written in the new style? I could give you a few pointers–"
"Let's have a drink," Maglor says, slamming the inkpot shut and surging to his feet. "Fingon, lead the way."
(:~:)
Ten minutes later, the four of them are settled comfortably into the plush velvet and leather seats of the establishment across the street from the King's house. The low murmur of conversation around them is very proper, very nuanced – the speech of the noble houses and their retainers.
Finrod, Maglor notices, seems to be well acquainted with the place – they have barely settled in their seats before an attendant appears at Finrod's elbow, inclining his head.
"What will it be, my lords?"
Finrod recites a rapid string of words that Maglor cannot begin to fathom, save for yéni, solar year, month, and day.
Maglor raises an eyebrow. It would appear seven thousand years has wrought so great a change in the vintages of Aman that what remains is entirely foreign to him.
"You'll like this," Finrod assures him, leaning back against the upholstered seat and smiling up at the gold and silver gilt of the marble ceiling above.
"You're spoiling us," Fingon says to Finrod, snatching Maedhros's papers away from him when the latter attempts to peruse them again.
"Finno!" Maedhros hisses.
"Your father won't mind these arriving at his study at noon tomorrow," Fingon says, stuffing the parchment into a sleeve. "Spend some time at leisure. You've only been rebodied for a few weeks."
"I don't see you taking 'Laurë's work from him," Maedhros counters.
"Your brother," Fingon says, "is an artist. Being inspired by the art around him."
Maglor fights the urge to grit his teeth, etching another painful phrase into the trumpet line. Four ages of the world ago he might have found the gilded hall and the tasteful melodies of the harp quartet in the corner inspiration enough; but the quartet is currently two movements deep into a classical Noldor ballad that sits mournfully in his ears, bringing to mind long hours in his youth sat rapt in the great opera house of the Finwëan district, learning the most traditional of the classical Noldor melodies.
There is nothing of the capricious fire of the modern style that he is trying to emulate now.
He dots a quaver with force, and inadvertently plunges the tip of his quill clean through the parchment and into the silk tablecloth beyond.
"Damn," he mutters, pulling the quill back through the ruin of the parchment and examining its blunted tip. Moving the parchment aside reveals the blossoming spot of sable ink in the ivory tablecloth behind it. "Damn," he repeats, more vehemently.
"You can afford it," Finrod says easily, murmuring thanks as the attendant returns with four tall crystal flutes. "More importantly, I can afford it." Gold glimmers between his fingers as he places a handful of coins in the attendant's palm. "My apologies for the ink."
The attendant bows courteously and retreats.
Pride rears in Maglor's throat, familiar and raw. But Maedhros is laughing quietly at something Fingon said beside him now, laughing in a way that Maglor has heard little of since they rode east all those millennia ago – so Maglor presses down on the burn in his throat and nods, raising is glass to Finrod in thanks.
Finrod raises his glass in return, something quiet and understanding in his gaze.
Fingon and Maedhros's glasses join theirs, meeting with a crystalline clink.
They drink.
Maglor blinks. Maedhros stills.
Finrod smiles slyly.
"Damn," Maglor says, staring at his glass.
"Damn," Maedhros echoes, taking another sip.
"Damn," Fingon says, throwing back his entire glass at once. "I'll have to accuse you of favouritism, Finrod. You've never ordered something this nice when it was just the two of us."
The wine tilts back and forth in Finrod's elegant fingers, a perfect, dappled ellipse. "Do you wish to know how much it costs?"
"Goodness, no," Maglor says, closing his eyes as he savours another mouthful. "It's your gold. Be a good cousin and order another round."
"This is from Nienna's gardens," Maedhros says suddenly, holding his glass to the light. The flickering torchlight cascades through the mellow liquid and paints his face in a golden fractal.
"Why, you remain a quick study," Finrod says delightedly, flagging down an attendant and indicating a refill. "You'll have my father's courtiers fawning over your good taste again in no time. You used to be quite fashionable in court."
"I wager that will take a good long while," Maedhros says as the attendant takes away their empty glasses and replaces them with fresh. "My tastes are seven thousand years out of date."
"Hm," Maglor murmurs, sipping more sedately at his second glass. He frowns. On a second taste, there is something familiar about the wine; it rolls over his tongue with an intense sweetness that brings to mind another time, when this sweetness had clashed incongruously with the bitter fury and guilt in his chest–
"I think I've tried this before," Maedhros is saying, finishing the rest of his second glass in one long swallow and snatching up Fingon's as well, ignoring Fingon's squawk of protest as he holds the wine up to the torchlight again. "Or at least a similar vintage. I can't quite remember where–"
Maglor's hand clenches painfully around the stem of his glass.
The wind had blown bitterly cold through the ragged collection of tents on the shore of Lake Mithrim that day. Maedhros, thin and haggard, his right wrist bound tightly in bandages, had nevertheless moved with princely pride and purpose, the voluminous billow of his cloak hiding how much weight he placed on Maglor's elbow; how Fingolfin had nodded sharply, eyes glittering with sorrow and understanding and bitter acknowledgment as Maedhros placed the crown before him, and how Maedhros's left hand had been steady as he signed his name on the parchment between them, only to shake against Maglor's sleeve once Maedhros withdrew his fingers into his cloak.
Fingolfin had gestured, and attendants had brought forward a cask; limned with frost, bloated and scored with its journey across the frozen wastes.
"A toast," Fingolfin had said. "A taste of brighter times, when we were one people. Perhaps we can be again."
There had not been enough crystal glasses or jeweled globlets for all of them; Amrod and Amras had to content themselves with clay cups, and Angrod and Aegnor with pewter, but they all had taken a precious, irreplaceable measure of wine from the western fields of Valinor and drank to the reunification of their kinship.
Wine from grapes watered with Nienna's tears, Aredhel had told Celegorm, and Celegorm had told Maglor, after. A wine of bitter grief and fragile hope.
How furious Maglor had been with Maedhros, to see him give up the crown of their father and grandfather. How furious Maglor had been with himself, for leaving his elder brother hanging on the precipice at Thangorodrim for thirty years of the sun instead of sallying forth alone as Fingon had done.
Maedhros had lasted until Maglor helped him back to his tent, and then vomited wine and blood into the dirt beside his bed.
The shared memory turns the sweetness in Maglor's mouth to the rancid bitterness of bile.
Beside him, the glass slips from the unmoving fingers of Maedhros's right hand to shatter against the marble of the table.
Cries of shock around them.
Maglor watches the wine seep into the pages of his unfinished symphony, leeching ink from the parchment like lye in water, and remembers to breathe, because Maedhros.
His brother requires his aid.
It is fortunate that Maedhros is sitting on his right, Maglor reflects numbly as he threads his fingers through Maedhros's left hand. He feels Maedhros's fingers clench around his own, painfully tight, as they did night after night in the cold winters of Amon Ereb when Maedhros fought against the Oath.
Then Maglor blinks, and returns to himself.
Mostly. The world still echoes as though beyond some strange, gossamer veil.
His left sleeve is wet with wine. Something is wrapped like a vice about his left wrist; Maglor follows the white-knuckled fist up the tastefully embroidered sleeve to Finrod's thin-lipped face.
Maglor looks to his right. Fingon has a palm on Maedhros's shoulder, and Maedhros is blinking slowly down at it, his left hand slowly loosening in Maglor's.
The conversation at the tables around them is stilted. Maglor and Maedhros's lapse has evidently not gone unnoticed.
Maedhros's left hand slips out of Maglor's to pluck the sopping remnants of Maglor's new symphony out of the puddle of wine.
"Your new work," he rasps. "I'm sorry, 'Laurë."
Maglor takes a breath.
"It's quite all right," he says. "It was mostly fit for kindling, anyway."
"I'm fine," Maedhros is saying to Fingon now, batting away Fingon's gentle hands. "I'm fine, Finno."
"My lords?" The attendant is back, hovering cautiously out of arm's reach. He is carefully avoiding looking at Maglor and Maedhros, choosing instead to direct his question at Finrod.
"Laurë?" Finrod asks under his breath.
Maglor looks at the mess of shattered glass and sopping silk.
"I need a drink," he says, surprised at the steadiness of his voice. "An actual one. Not…here."
The attendant looks briefly insulted, but Finrod is already standing, pushing a bag of coins into the attendant's chest with one hand and hauling Maglor up with the other. Beside Maglor, Fingon is doing the same with Maedhros.
They stumble out into the early evening, the stars budding overhead in a velvet, deep blue sky.
"Findekáno?" Finrod says quietly.
Already, passersby have begun to notice the little knot of princes; Maedhros's flame-like hair and Finrod's crown of gold shine like signal fires against the sable hair and white walls about them.
"This way," Fingon says, turning into a smaller side street and hauling Maedhros after him. Maglor allows Finrod to pull him to follow.
They turn into unfamiliar maze of smaller streets, all the architecture younger than Maglor's memories of his childhood city; the fair golden banners above bleed away to rich, deep blue, etched with Fingon's silver sigil. Many passing Elves look as though they wish to greet Fingon, but step out of his way hastily upon seeing his face.
Ahead, fair songs and laughter. A well-lit tavern of oak and silver fittings, with many Elves thronging its balcony above and spilling out in little groups to the cobblestone street below.
Fingon marches right through the middle of the throng like an obsidian spear veined with gold, up to the worn oak bar, and brings his free hand down like an anvil on the shoulder of the Elf behind the counter.
"Tatharion. A table and a dozen shots of last year's Mirulhath to start with."
In short order Maglor finds himself squeezed shoulder-to shoulder with Finrod, Fingon, and Maedhros at a tiny table, nothing but a thin wooden partition between them and the next table, and a dozen tiny glasses of clear fluid at the table's centre.
"Drink," Fingon says, and Maglor reaches out, his knuckles bumping the back of Maedhros's left hand, fumbles up a glass, and downs it in one.
White fire burns down his throat and does its level best to turn his sinuses to ash on the way back up.
"Morgoth's shit," Maglor hisses, slamming the glass down onto the table and burying his face in his elbow.
The hazy veil of the world sharpens abruptly. There is the scent of mead in the air, laughter all around, and someone is singing a passable bastardization of a West Belerian war-anthem in three different languages.
Someone that sounds very like Fingon is laughing. Maedhros's wheezing chuckle shudders through Maglor's side; he sounds as though he is in pain.
Maglor raises his head, eyes streaming, to find Finrod lowering his own glass with an appreciative expression. The torchlight is very bright. It makes Finrod's head look a little like a flameless lantern.
"Not bad," Finrod says, toasting Fingon with the empty glass. "This tastes exactly like the liquor we used to make with fermented leather as children, when our fathers said we were too young to drink."
"This is the liquor you and Finno used to make," Maedhros rasps, sounding much more awake and present. "I remember offering to sneak you two some actual wine. Anything to prevent you from drinking this."
"It didn't work," Fingon says, nudging a new tiny glass into each of their hands. "I've perfected the recipe."
"Mirulhath," Maedhros is saying, blinking at the glass. "Why didn't I see it?"
"Words of the insane," Maglor says, downing the shot in one and wincing as it attempts to rip out his throat. "What'll this do to my singing voice?"
"Planning a concert soon?" Fingon mumbles, wincing into Maedhros's shoulder as he lowers his own glass. Maedhros himself looks as though he has never been more alive, despite his red-rimmed eyes.
"I've been told my new symphony sounds like wet parchment," Maglor says, and is rewarded with three snorts in unison before his companions collapse over the table in pain.
"You bastard–"
"You waited for us to drink, you utter–"
"Your own brother, 'Laurë–"
Maglor downs his third glass of Mirulhath. Maedhros pokes him in the side as he does so, making him regurgitate about half of it into his nose.
The world blurs into a haze of pain. Someone is laughing in the distance – a musical, wheezing laugh. It takes a moment for Maglor to realise it is his.
When he straightens, he finds Maedhros staring at him, misty-eyed.
"What?" Maglor says, suddenly a little wary.
"I've missed that, 'Laurë," Maedhros says. "I've missed hearing you laugh."
A pause, heavy with emotion.
"Oh," Maglor murmurs. He is unsure of the colour of the tips of his ears, but judging from the warmth it is likely not too far off the colour of their father's banners.
The silence is becoming awkward.
"No," Finrod says sharply, clapping their shoulders as Fingon pushes glasses into their hands. "None of that. Drink."
The four of them clink their glasses, and toss back the liquor as one.
Maedhros hisses into Maglor's shoulder. Maglor fights a laugh.
"This was a terrible idea," Maedhros murmurs. There is an edge of hysteria to his voice.
"Yes," Maglor agrees, slamming down his glass. "Let's have some more. Mead, next."
The mead comes in frothing tankards, tasting of the wild honey-farms of the foothills of the Pelori. Fingon suggests a competition to see who can empty their tankard the fastest, with a wager of a silver dagger to the winner. Finrod wins, to the protest of both Fingon and Maglor, so naturally this must be remedied with another round of mead for fairness.
Fingon wins this one, though he looks a little sick afterwards – Maedhros argues a little too fluently that now Fingon and Finrod have had their turn, it is only right that there are two more rounds so Maedhros and Maglor can have their hand at winning.
This is readily agreed upon by the rest of the party, and two more rounds follow henceforth, both of which Finrod claims victory.
The tavern erupts into cheers around them. Maglor blinks a little. He was unaware they had gained an audience.
"Do not worry, little brother," Maedhros says determinedly as he attempts to pat Maglor's shoulder. He misses, and pats Maglor's cheek instead – Maglor finds does not mind in the slightest. "I am still very proud of you."
For a moment, Maglor finds himself dangerously close to tears.
He remembers, briefly, waking up in Himring after what he was sure would be his death holding the plains of Lothlann against a river of flame, to Maedhros holding his hand.
Maedhros had not told him he was proud of him, even then.
"Thank you," Maglor murmurs, voice strangled.
Faintly, beyond the hum of alcohol in his hands and the faint grief that still curls in his heart where the Oath used to be, he finds a spark of hope.
Then someone hands them both a little glass of emerald green shot through with gold, and the evening spins into chaos once more.
Next up: "It's perfectly safe!" Fingon protests. "I can guarantee only partial paralysis."
Also, rap battles, the two contestants of which I am sure my dear readers can predict.
Comments and are much appreciated!
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