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Allowing Eönwë to bond him had meant he was permitted out of the Maia’s home, at least as long as the Maia was present to supervise him.
Finrod thought it was a brilliant thing, and had spent months convincing Maglor to venture out to one of the festivals they held often in the city of bells.
“What are we celebrating?” Maglor asked quietly. He and his cousin were hidden away in a corner, lounging on a pile of pillows where they could watch the party.
“I don’t recall,” Finrod admitted, sipping his wine. “Probably Lord Manwë himself.”
They were both dressed in the typical Vanyarin fashion of loose, revealing clothes, layers of practically translucent fabrics. Eönwë had taken his time braiding Maglor’s hair, delighting in the simple task and weaving in bells and colorful ribbons (not jewels, he was forbidden from wearing those).
Even with his beautiful clothes, he felt ridiculously plain beside Finrod who was practically dripping with gems. They both wore circlets, to denote their position as members of the House of Finwë, but Finrod’s was far grander (it made sense, given that he was now the crown prince).
Maglor didn’t mind his lack of jewels, but he had pitched a fit when Eönwë had forbidden him from wearing a circlet Fëanor had crafted for him (it had no jewels, so in his mind it should have been allowed). They’d had a bitter argument over it, broken up only by Finrod’s arrival (at which point Eönwë had plopped the circlet of his choosing on Maglor’s head and pulled him out the door).
Without necklaces there was no way to disguise the scar on his shoulder from where Eönwë had bonded him. Already he had seen people pointing at it, whispering behind gilded fans that it was kind of Eönwë to let his pet out of his cage.
“Don’t,” said Finrod quietly.
“I don’t care what they say about me,” Maglor said truthfully.
“No,” agreed his cousin, pouring him more wine. “But you care what they say about him and I promised Eönwë I wouldn’t let you get into trouble.”
“Should I be concerned that you’re taking orders from another Alpha?”
Finrod looked up at the voice and his face lit up to see Amarie standing before them in a splendid gown of blue silk. “You should,” said Finrod. “I’ve been very naughty.”
Maglor rolled his eyes and sipped his wine. He would need to be very drunk to get through this. Amarie sat between them, pulling Finrod into her side and stroking his hair, whispering into his ear what she was going to do to him later.
He purred.
Then her attention turned to Kanafinwë. Her voice was quiet, barely audible over the sound of the party, “Eönwë is going to come over in a few minutes and you’re going to kneel in front of him.”
Maglor paused, his wine hovering in front of his lips. “Why?”
“He’s been good!” promised Finrod.
“The Teleri ambassador has been watching you all evening. I heard him tell his wife that you’ve been given too many freedoms.”
“Wouldn’t bowing to him be better?” Maglor asked, frowning into his cup.
She stared at him.
“Ah,” guessed Maglor. “They want to see me humiliated.”
Amarie nodded.
Finrod peered around her to look at his cousin. “Is Eönwë going to do anything else to him?”
Maglor bit his lip. He’d take any punishment Olwe wished to bestow upon him, no matter how harsh. But being humiliated in front of a room full of people he had once called his equal?
No. He wouldn’t do that. “He had better not,” Maglor replied, his eyes flicking across the room to find the Maia where he was chatting with Ingwion.
Well, at least he knew who had come up with the idea for the little show. It wasn’t the sort of thing Eönwë would suggest, and Manwë probably hadn’t even noticed what was happening, too deep in conversation with Olorin; so it must have been Ingwion. The crown prince was always worrying about things, and Eönwë would take his advice.
It was good advice.
“You should perform at the next festival,” Finrod was saying. “I could-“
“No.”
“You don’t have to harp-“
“No.”
Finrod sighed and whined quietly. “Is there a reason you have abandoned your music?”
“Yes.”
Because people listened to it, and no one ever needed to listen to him ever again. He’d only recently returned to poetry - mostly because Fionwë Urion was too tempting a word to pass up, begging for him to create couplets and rhymes - but he had yet to let anyone other than Eönwë read his creations.
The last time he had played music had been lullabies for Maedhros and the twins, since no one in their camp had been capable of sleeping well.
Finrod studied him. “Alright,” he said finally. “But if ever you change your mind, I can acquire one of your old instruments from your mother, or something new if you would prefer.”
He was spared from having to do anything besides nod when Eönwë turned and began his approach. The Maia was still laughing with Ingwion, as if nothing was happening.
Maglor alone - and possibly Manwë, if he was listening - could feel the guilt already swirling in the Herald.
He pressed against the bond to promise Eönwë he wasn’t upset. Maglor only had himself to blame for his situation: if he hadn’t sworn an Oath and murdered people, then he wouldn’t have an entire country (and some) mad at him.
At least the whole hall wasn’t watching. Most people seemed distracted by the music and dancing, a few by Manwë himself; the only eyes on Maglor belonged to the Teleri ambassador.
Ingwion and Eönwë split paths, heading in two different directions: Ingwion back to his father, and Eönwë on to the corner Maglor and Finrod were sitting in.
As Eönwë reached him, Maglor shifted forward, onto his knees and pressing his forehead to the ground.
The Herald merely snapped his fingers, a press on their bond calling for Maglor to raise his head, and their eyes met. Maglor resisted the urge to look at the Telerin ambassador. He kept his shoulders relaxed, trying not to let it show how much he was chafing against the humiliation (it was not common knowledge that their bond was an equal one, and - for the time being - it was safest that it stay that way).
Eönwë only nodded his approval, keeping his face impassive.
Their performance over, Eönwë joined them on the pile of cushions. At a stern look from Finrod, Maglor leaned into the Maia’s side and closed his eyes. Eönwë immediately began to stroke his hair.
‘I am here,’ his mate murmured in the back of his mind.
‘You owe me.’
Eönwë chuckled and ruffled his hair. ‘I do.’