Chapter Text
"The King will see you now."
Two supplicants are ushered into his study by the page, who hovers at the door, expectant. They are Mithrim, he can tell at a glance - partially from their stature, but primarily from the geometric patterns on their thick woolen cloaks. “Please, sit.” He has learned, over time, that such familiarity is likely to put them at ease. He calls up his older brother’s voice and expression before continuing. Always the charmer, their Nelyo.
"And know that I am not your king. I claim no authority over your people, except those of you who have chosen to join yourself to the Noldor - excuse me, the Golodhrim.” He is not, in the technical sense, anyone’s king, having forbidden an official coronation until more time has passed. But with the arrival of Ñolofinwë’s host, Curufinwë had judged it expedient that he adopt the title.
The taller of the two speaks first. “Begging pardon, your majesty, but it is the Golodhrim that our message concerns. You are aware, of course, that the boundaries of your settlements on this lake are of some significance to our people.” Maglor nods, politely. He is not an expert on Þindarin culture, but his wife, Mithrim as well, has taught him many of their rituals.
The messenger continues. “There are various traditions, associated with this alignment of the stars, that are commonly practiced on the shore.”
"And your request…?"
"The western shore, your majesty.” Her face is grave.
Another day, another crisis. Hopefully, Ñolofinwë’s desire for peaceful coexistence with the local populace will outweigh his resentment. “Very well. I will send a message to my uncle’s host.”
He dips his quill and begins to draft his letter, not without a wistful glance at the harp in the near corner of the room.