*Insert Obligatory Disclaimer Statement Here*
Warnings: This is a gender bender exploring what a female Maedhros might look like, so if that's not your cup of tea, don't drink it.
Curufinwë Fëanáro had taken one look at his firstborn, she who would be his only daughter, and had named her Tatyamíriel, despite her red hair clearly favoring her mother over her grandmother.
Her mother had called her Maitimë, that is, well-formed.
(It was an ironic name for someone who now smashed every mirror she so much as glimpsed her profile in.)
She had been the first, and (perhaps, in some manner, hopefully) the last reigning High Queen of the Noldor.
Her younger self, bright eyed and ambitious and frequently seen aiding her grandfather at his palace in Tirion, would have been thrilled. Back then, there had been the supposition that at some point Finwë would retire, or at least take a break, and he would appoint an heir to either take his place or be his regent.
People had argued back and forth over whether Fëanor or Fingolfin would be best when the time came. Yet, few voiced support for Aunts Findis or Lalwen. This had confused Maedhros when she'd been young, for she hadn't yet understood that neither of the two had any great desire, and so had not launched any campaigns, to rule over the Noldor.
The Vanyar and the Teleri also both had ruling High Kings. None had a reigning High Queen.
And so Maedhros had decided she'd be the first.
And so she had been.
But it was never supposed to have been like this.
Finwë was not supposed to be dead. Fëanor was not supposed to die. Maedhros was not meant to inherit a bloody throne in the midst of a war. And yet --
And yet.
Strange how life never seemed to work out the way one expected.
And in her fear and desperation and grief, she'd gotten herself captured by Morgoth, mere days after her coronation.
She'd supposed she would die there, in Angband. Only death did not come. It did not come, and by some cruelty of Morgoth, still did not come, decade after decade dangling by a wrist on the Thangorodrim.
But then, unexpectedly, there was Fingon. Dear little Fingon (whom she'd always played with and encouraged growing up, before abandoning him on blood stained shores in Aman) came to rescue her. He cut off her hand and saved her life despite her pleading with him to just kill her and get it over with.
After her return to her people, (the Fëanorian camp, though it had begun to look more and more like a city under Maglor's care) she'd needed to pull herself together, and quickly, because she was still Queen, Morgoth could go to Mandos, and this was her duty.
She'd been filled with spite and anger and humiliation those first few days, weeks, months, years after her return. She'd driven herself harder than she'd ever done before, pushing for recovery. She turned her attention to all her people, the Noldor-In-Exile as a whole, Fëanorian and Fingolfinian. She saw gaping divisions. And she saw an simple, uniting solution.
It was easier than she thought it would be, giving up the crown to her uncle. That crown had been the driving ambition of her youth. But now?
It was as useless baggage to her.
She needed not a crown nor a throne nor even a title to lead.
Her younger self would have been horrified.
Her younger self was a fool. And perhaps she was still a fool, for she was certainly far from being numbered among the Wise (she was not her mother) but she'd learned more than a few things since serving in the court at Tirion with all its little games.
(Perhaps a day would come when she would retake the crown. But it was not this day, and the day would not come for a while yet. In the meantime, crown and throne and scepter held little allure for her.)
Her time in Angband had given her little patience for such things now. A patience that would surely be tested in the upcoming Feast of Reuniting that her uncle, the new High King, had ordered.
She had hopes that, with her recovery, she would still be able to play these court games as well as she ever had before. But these were silm hopes. Oft, she felt that her time in Angband had made her... a little harsher, perhaps. A little more cruel. A little less kind. (Most especially the days when she grew irritable at her healers, at her brothers, at her captains, at Eru --)
When she rode to attend the feast, only Maglor accompanied her. The reason for this was that he was the only one of her little brothers she could trust not to make a scene of some sort. (Granted, Celegorm and Curufin, Caranthir, and Amrod and Amras would each, respectively, cause completely different kinds of scenes, but they'd be scenes nonetheless. And the Feanorian Host did not need any more poor publicity than it already had.)
Maglor followed just a step behind her as they entered the feast, the picture of the dutiful brother.
Though he was skilled at acting, Maedhros suspected this was no act. He was too guilt-driven. (She could see that guilt in his eyes. Could see that he kept telling himself that he should have done something to save her, that he should have, at the least, tried.)
(She didn't blame him for his descions, though. Had their places been switched, she may very well have made the same ones. So instead of blaming him for her years of torment upon Thangorodrim, she chose to be proud of him instead. Maglor had not been made for rulership, yet had done well keeping everyone alive in her absence, entrenching their people at Lake Mithrim.)
They approached and greeted their hosts, before drifting off to mingle with the other people gathered here. So many faces, old and new. Sindar from the north and south, laiquendi, Noldor from each of the three houses, and even some Iathrim were here, supposedly.
Maglor continued to tag along with her the entire time, always quick to jump in and offer her assistance whenever she --
When her --
Whenever her recent... trauma... threatened to make an emergence.
She was not ungrateful, but...
Well. This was a feast. Not only was it their first public appearance since Fingolfin's coronation, but it would also be their last for a rather long time as well. Maglor deserved a break, and the rare pieces of familiarity they could find in these lands as well.
Hence, when she espied the musicians setting up, she shooed him away to join them. It would do him some good to be performing in front of people in this kind of setting again, especially as this would likely the last opportunity he would have for such a thing, and that was if they even survived this war.
When he was gone, she drifted off to the side, where she could unobtrusively observe the crowds and avoid speaking with them at the same time.
This is where Fingolfin found her not even a moment later. "I see you've managed to shake your shadow."
Maedhros did not flinch at her uncle's sudden appearance. She bowed her head to him, a simple form of respect, one between equals. (For all that she was technically his vassal now, she had been High Queen for a brief period of time.)
"I remember seeing you strolling through the palace in Tirion, six little brothers in tow." Fingolfin continued, even offering a small smile. "It seems that never changed."
Maedhros snorted. "I seem to recall them running over to me to hide behind my legs after some unspeakable prank or another on one of their cousins."
"That, too." Fingolfin laughed. "And then they'd make faces at whoever they'd just offended, thinking you'd protect them."
"And they were wrong almost every time."
"Almost. True. You always liked to wait to hear the whole story before deciding whether or not to hand your brothers over." Fingolfin's smile grew sad. "You have always been good at patience and at listening. Both are vital qualities in a good queen."
Maedhros resisted the impulse to stiffen, forcing her posture to remain loose and relaxed. Just where was this going?
When he didn't continue, she raised a questioning brow.
At her prompting, he did. "I swore to follow your father before he betrayed us. When he burnt the boats, not even that could stop me nor my host from following him to Beleriand. I had half a mind to commit a little kinslaying of my own when I saw your father again. Only, he was already dead. Supposedly, so were you. When Fingon brought you back, and then you yielded the crown to me... I've been playing this game a long time, my dear niece. Longer than you've been alive."
"Are you insinuating something?"
The musicians had finished setting up and were now beginning to play. The tune was foreign to her, exotic, with many flutes and an almost Telerin feel to it.
Which made sense, she supposed, since these people were Teleri. Just not the Teleri of Aman.
Fingolfin's smile was well and truly gone now. "You lost nothing by yielding the crown. In fact, you gained from this move of yours. You could have remained Queen, I would have followed you, and my host would have followed me, but instead you chose to abdicate."
"You are Finwë's eldest heir on the continent. 'Tis only right."
"Yes." Fingolfin replied dryly. "I was there when you used that explanation the first time."
"And I was there, or at the very least, aware of, many of the events you just described. Yet, I fail to see your point."
"My point is this: crowns are illusory. Their power lies not in themselves but in what they represent -- the people who chose to follow you and your responsibility to them. You have sworn to follow me, but none of your host has. All the Feanorians are instead sworn to you. You control a rather large piece of my forces as a result. In addition, you are avoiding the inevitable hate and outrage that would come from my host if you hadn't yielded the crown. You maintain a degree of power while avoiding being the face of the Kingship. You have, essentially, installed me as your figurehead."
Maedhros was tempted to gasp and cover her mouth in a dramatic pretense at being scandalized by these allegations. Except her dominant hand wasn't exactly attached to her wrist anymore. So that would probably look stupid. And it wouldn't flow as naturally with her other hand, so she settled for a dignified raising of her brows.
"You have by far the greater host, in both numbers and in hardihood, so I am afraid I know not what you mean, Uncle."
Fingolfin graced her with an indulgent smile. "Which of us has more combat experience? The Noldor are warriors now, yes, but you must admit that we are all rather new to the experience. Games of political strategy in a Tirion court is one thing. No lives are at stake, then. I and my host are like children to this. You and yours, thanks to your forward assault, are more akin to... adolescents."
"Having more experience does not necessarily make us more skilled, nor does it mean that such a disparity will always exist. You may well one day surpass me." Maedhros pointed out.
Fingolfin inclined his head in acknowledgement. "This is true. But I also believe this: that I am someone the public -- and our Sindarin neighbors -- will focus on while you run the war."
That wasn't an exactly true interpretation of her motivations in giving up the crown, but it wasn't exactly false, either. She supposed she'd let him keep his assumptions for now. It wasn't like he'd believe her if she tried to protest, anyway.
"Let's say that you are correct in your assumptions, uncle. What now?"
"Now nothing." Fingolfin said. "I'm simply letting you know that I know."
"Thank you for sharing your theories with me, then, uncle. It is an honor to be in your confidence."
"Of course." He smiled at her like they were both in on a secret. "It's a pleasure, as always."
Maedhros, who did not think their "secret" was all that much of a secret, bowed her own head in acknowledgement.
"Now, with business concluded, perhaps you are feeling well enough for a dance?"
A dance.
Out there.
On the dance floor.
Where everyone could look at her.
Where they could see her scars and missing hand and marvel and shake their heads at the loss of her supposedly great beauty. Where they could pity their broken failure of a Queen.
She kept her face impassive, even as her remaining hand trembled. She tucked it into its, long, draping sleeve. "No, thank you. Not at this time."
"Of course." Fingolfin bowed. "I'll be off to find Aredhel, then. Enjoy your evening, niece."
"And you as well, Uncle. Oh, and Uncle?"
He looked to her expectantly.
"Try to avoid following my father down the path of paranoia. It doesn't suit you."
Their eyes met. Fingolfin smiled his most courtly smile. "Thank you, niece. I shall try to keep that in mind."
Then he turned around and left, leaving her finally alone in a crowded room.
She watched him go, releasing a shaky breath.
And yet, unfortunately, she had to acknowledge that the evening was far from over.
She straightened her shoulders and reminded herself that Fingolfin was right. At least, in a way. She was, and in some ways still was, a Queen. And Queens were they who could hold their own.
She would force herself onward.
Editing was done by me. Thank you for reading.
