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Fëanor was lying on the cold floor of the employees’ only area of the Silmarillion Jewelry Co., pressing his sweaty forehead against the tiles. All seven of his sons were gathered nervously around him, even though the room could only seat five and Fëanor was curled around the snack machine.
“The bourbon chicken was tainted,” Fëanor pronounced darkly. “I curse Melkor, and name him Morgoth, who served me this foul dish! Pass me the bucket, Curufin.”
Curufin rushed to kneel by his father, holding his hair back as he vomited into the bucket.
Fëanor’s fierce eyes settled on each of his sons in turn, but especially Maedhros. “You must avenge me against him and drive him from the Mall of Greater Arda, until he is banished to the strip mall which gets neither street nor car traffic. Peace must be made with Fingolfin and his kin, for I must return home and stay in the bathroom until the end of the active viral period. Curufin, again the bucket.”
“Mother is here,” Maglor said, moving out of the room so Nerdanel could nudge Fëanor to his feet.
“I have always counseled you against the food court,” said Nerdanel.
Fëanor took the bucket with him as Nerdanel led him outside to the parking lot. The remaining Fëanorians looked expectantly to Maedhros.
“What?” Maedhros asked.
“Fingon still holds you dear, though the others have hardened their hearts against us,” Caranthir said. “You must be the one to talk to him, so that he may sway Fingolfin and his many Bass Pro Shop employees to our cause.”
“But he has not texted me since the Christmas sale,” Maedhros replied, sadly looking at the tiles where his father had lain, “nor commented on my Instagram.”
Maglor squeezed Maedhros’s arm reassuringly. “He has not yet blocked you from his social media profiles, my brother. There is still hope of reconciliation.”
The Christmas Sale at the Helcaraxë Fountain had been the last time Fëanor and Fingolfin had spoken to each other. By agreement, the half-brothers were to share a van for the drive home to Tirion Estates. Yet Fëanor had grown impatient, and commanded his sons to get in the van with him. Maedhros had hung back, contemplating local incest laws and how they applied to half-cousins.
“Father,” he had asked, “who shall drive back to pick up the others?”
“They can take the bus,” Fëanor had said.
Maedhros’s iPhone had run out of battery, so he was unable to text Fingon of his father’s selfishness. Uncle Fingolfin, after waiting in the shuttle drop off for thirty minutes, had had to lead the rest of the family to the bus stop in the snow. But they had missed the last bus, and did not have enough cash to pay for a cab. For hours, they had walked through the snow in unseasonable shoes. Turgon’s wife, Elenwë, had lost two toes in the crossing.
“I will go to the other end of the mall, and beg Fingon’s forgiveness,” Maedhros said.
After wishing his brothers farewell, Maedhros stepped into the carefully neutral lighting of the mall’s hall. Fingon’s salon, Hair Commander, was past the Sharper Image, where Maedhros and Fingon had once sat in massage chairs together until they were asked to leave, and also the Spencer’s Gifts, where Celegorm had gotten a werewolf costume for his dog.
Maedhros humbly stepped into the salon, and asked if there were any walk-ins available.
“Have you been here before?” asked the receptionist.
“Long ago.”
The receptionist seemed unmoved by the pain in Maedhros’s eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Maedhros.”
“You’re not showing up. Is that spelled with a T H?”
“No, it’s spelled with a D but it’s pronounced as a soft T.”
As the receptionist continued to look for Maedhros in the system, Fingon appeared on the floor. He did not look angry, but neither did he seem glad to see Maedhros after so long apart. “I have a walk-in available,” he said. “What do you need?”
“To talk,” Maedhros replied.
“So it is to be a shampoo, cut, dry, and style then.”
Maedhros nodded, and Fingon gestured for him to sit in the closest shampoo chair. Leaning back, he could not see Fingon as he gently worked shampoo into Maedhros’s hair. He did not dwell on how good it felt as Fingon rinsed and applied conditioner, though his shoulders tensed when Fingon reached down and began the complimentary massage.
“Is something weighing on your conscience, cousin?” Fingon said, moving his head into Maedhros’s line of sight. His eyebrows were faultless.
“I tried to call you, but my phone had died.”
Fingon lifted one eyebrow. “Have you not charged it since?”
If Maedhros had known what to say, he would have said it before the change of seasons, from winter to spring. Fingon had only been wearing a light jacket at the Helcaraxë; Maedhros’s abandonment was unforgivable. After rinsing a final time, Fingon ushered Maedhros to the salon chair and wrapped a styling cape around him.
Combing his fingers through Maedhros’s hair, Fingon told him, “Your split ends are terrible.”
“Do not take off too much.”
“I will take as much as I like.” Fingon sighed as he picked through his selection of combs and scissors. “Would you like layers? Your hair never has enough volume.”
“Whatever you think best.”
While Fingon clipped Maedhros’s locks with inscrutable methods, Maedhros considered how to apologize. He must not shirk from self-blame, but there were also a pair of sharp scissors by his face, and Maedhros had a lot of hair to abuse, should he misspeak.
“My father would not lend me the keys to the van, despite my protests,” Maedhros said. “For my inaction, I am deeply sorry, and though I do not deserve it, I would fain have your pardon.”
Fingon held up the clippers. “How sorry are you? Does your contrition go so far as an undercut?”
Maedhros closed his eyes and turned his head. “If it would relieve you.”
He felt the clippers brush over his hair before they began to buzz. The noise was soon over, and when Maedhros opened his eyes, he saw that Fingon had only trimmed his sideburns. Now fighting a smile, Fingon started to blowdry Maedhros’s hair while using a round brush to straighten it.
“Uncle Fëanor can eat of a sack of cocks,” said Fingon. “But you, I will forgive.”
Reconciled, the two cousins removed themselves to a photo booth, where they reacquainted each other with their strong friendship. Unthinkingly, Maedhros’s elbow struck the ‘print’ button, and the machine soon vended photos of their meeting.
Morgoth, né Melkor, took the evidence of their fierce amity as he passed by on a dark errand.