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The throne room was still and silent as Maedhros and his followers entered, Maglor tight to his side. It was a familiar place--during their time in Hithlum, the Nolofinwëans had done well to make this place into something they could be proud of. Grey and white marble decorated the room, the walls a deep navy. Banners lined the wall behind the throne, with the heraldry of their king adorning them. It was beautiful, and the room itself nearly untouched by the battle fought only months past that had brought them so much sorrow.
Almost. It would be easy to forget the Dagor Bragollach, if it weren't for the fact that Fingon sat in the throne, instead of Fingolfin. The crown suited Fingon, and that might be the most tragic part of it all. Fingon sat before him, in Fingolfin's throne, with Fingolfin's crown upon his head--the crown of the High King of the Noldor. And, by Eru--Maedhros would never have guessed his dearest friend could ever look so regal, draped in robes of silver and blue. So proud and wise and sad. This was not the boy Maedhros had known in Valinor, full of quick smiles, easy laughs, and a wondrous wit. This was a King in Fingolfin's image. Fingon looked down at his from the dais, his face as clear as glass, and Maedhros knelt.
Behind him, Maglor and the handful of retainers and scribes and squires he had brought with him from his land followed suit. This was an important occasion, even in the midst of their war--as it had been the first time that Maedhros had formally knelt to a king. Perhaps it was even more important because of the war, and what the war had done to them all. Carefully, Maedhros pulled the brooch from his chest--a fine thing of weighty silver, made from Fëanor's own hand that depicted the seven sided star of their house. He did not smile as he looked upon it, nor did he smile as he offered it to Fingon, his old friend, his new King. "With this I offer you my mind, my hand, and my sword, in your service as the rightful High King of the Noldor, if you would have me, my lord." He could swear he almost saw a lip twinged in humor, there, as Fingon took the brooch.
"I accept you with a glad heart, as ever," he said, his words carrying the true ring of a ceremony they both knew. "You and yours will find yourselves welcomed as friends and Princes here, as you were under my father," he said, standing. Maedhros rose when Fingon motioned with a hand, standing still as his friend descended from the dais. Fingon fastened the brooch back onto Maedhros's crimson cloak, a brilliant but small smile on his face. That was a smile Maedhros knew--it was one that belonged to Fingon and Fingon alone, not this King who had taken his place. But maybe they could be the same, again. Maedhros drew his friend into a tight hug, chuckling as Fingon gripped him back with a fierce strength. A tension left the room around them as formality fell away, and the two held each other close.
"I'm sorry, Fingon," Maedhros murmured into his ear, his left hand tightening on Fingon's back.
"He did what he had to," he replied, pulling away but leaving a hand on Maedhros's shoulder. He turned to the crowd, then, gesturing as he spoke, "There has not been a celebration in these halls in a too many months, my friends. Tonight, we will rejoice with our dear friends of old, and celebrate these bonds which keep our lands secure in these dark times. Go! Prepare, and be merry, for the Noldor will not be defeated in body or spirit."
He watched as people filed out of the throne room, Maglor bowing his head briefly as he left. When they were alone, Fingon smiled, and hugged him once more. "You should rest," he said, "I'm sure the road from the March was not pleasant."
"Ay, it was not," Maedhros said, sighing, "But I will see you tonight, then?"
"Oh, certainly."
Maedhros pulled him into yet another hug, and enjoyed the warmth of his friend against him. "He will be proud with you, I should think."
"I can hope."
"I am, if it counts for much."
"Hasn't it always?"