Chapter Text
Fingon wouldn’t agree to an unwrapping party.
“I wouldn’t either!” Maglor said, aggrieved. “It’s ghoulish, and in poor taste.”
“No one said anything about attending,” Maedhros soothed. “Except perhaps, Finrod. Care to defend yourself, cousin?”
“It is rather disrespectful to the dead,” Finrod said, sighing. “I…I might go once, out of curiosity.”
Fingon frowned. Maglor turned on his heel and stalked towards the windows.
“There are only a few mummies that have come to America at all,” Finrod protested. “For people who claim to have an interest in history, I would think you lot—”
Maedhros called order by drumming his fist on the edge of the billiard table. “This is what Grandfather would call an ethical dilemma,” he said gently, with a warning glance at Maglor. Maglor had been on the point of taking out his smelling salts, which were already a point of some contention among the recently formed Historical Society. “I have, if you will hear it, a solution.”
“What?” cried a chorus of voices.
Maedhros grinned devilishly. “We unwrap ourselves.”
“I can’t come out like this,” Fingon said, from behind the cheap rattan screen. Maglor huffed impatiently, though he felt a little guilt—he had stolen all the most voluminous garments for himself.
Guilt didn’t quite rise to sympathy, however. “It’s a quarter-hour of your life, Fingon.”
Fingon’s face reared up, startling because of the black smudge under one eye. “They say daguerreotypes are forever.”
“So they do,” drawled Maedhros, and Maglor gaped.
His brother was not known for subtlety, nor, if Maglor permitted himself to be honest, modesty.
It was apparent that Maedhros had not resented Maglor for hoarding the costume-linen.
In short, he looked scandalous.
Maglor took it all in: The sandals laced half to the knee, the unevenly pleated shenti made graceful when slung low over beveled hipbones…and Maedhros, damn him, had not troubled with so much as another stitch! He had turned to gold instead—gold armbands spanning his biceps, a weighted, gem-studded collar dipping down over his breast, rings on every finger, and a serpent circlet on his brow.
None of it was real gold, of course, save for the freckles on his shoulders and forearms. The cheap props were faulty brass, but that did not matter against alabaster skin, tumbling sun-god hair, and features rimmed in kohl. Maedhros had a superior drawing hand. He had lined his eyes with unbroken strokes, drawing the tail almost to his temples.
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings, Maglor’s poet-mind chanted desperately.
Maedhros raised on hand in salute, and solemnly said aloud (though his eyes twinkled):
“Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Maglor sputtered. “How do you always know what I’m thinking?”
“Don’t be sour, cano. Is that a lyre you have there?”
“It’s a poor showing of one. I’ve tried to tinker with it.”
“Maitimo,” squawked Fingon. “I can’t come out. Maglor took all of the clothes.”
“I left him enough to cover himself,” Maglor grumbled.
“I’ll give you a bracelet,” Maedhros offered helpfully.
Finrod, who had been dressing with Maedhros—there were two narrow rooms with screens, alongside the main photography chamber—came in just then.
He was wearing a wig three times the size of his head.
“Now there is a pharaoh if ever I saw one,” Maedhros said, applauding so that all the brass hanging off him rattled. “And not a mean attempt at the kohl! Fingon, darling, do come out. I’ll draw on your eyes. Maglor, can’t you spare a single shawl?”
“A musician shouldn’t be naked.”
“No,” Maedhros agreed. “Save that for the gods.”