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Here is an incomplete list of the things that he cannot sing:
A lament for his brother.
- This is for several reasons. Firstly, that it would be an admission of a defeat that he is still unsure if is real or not. Secondly, that it would probably cause a war.
A lament for his cousin.
- That one is not for reasons of things best unsaid, and much more for reasons of ‘would probably cause a war.’ They are all very busy holding their opinions on his deed close to their chest, and it would be a rather obvious statement.
Triumph at Fingolfin’s arrival slash glorious battle etcetera etcetera etcetera
- He is busy playing his role. He is regent, he says. Maedhros is definitely, absolutely not dead, he says.
An ode to the newly sailing sun and moon.
- The Valar have an interesting sense of timing, and for now they are markedly and unshakably linked to the newly named Fingolfin. And so, no songs.
Anything that would make it obvious just how much he wants to sleep for a decade, and wake up in Tirion before sword and endless darkness.
- He is regent, he tells everyone. He is his brother’s voice until such a time as that brother returns.
- His brother is not going to return.
- But they don’t talk about that.
All in all, it is a rather long list and one that leaves him with very limited material for composition. He is meant to be a king, or something like to it, now, so maybe it is for the best that his more musical talents are by necessity constrained. There is so little time for composition .
If Moryo knew his present thoughts, he would doubtless have a great deal to say on them, most of which would fall under the category of ‘our bastard half-uncle will be here in a matter of minutes, and you are still day-dreaming of composing’ but Moryo, at least, will not ask and would rather not know. They can each proceed contentedly enough under their assumptions of the other’s thoughts. And, better yet, Moryo is capable of keeping his thoughts tucked away until they are in private and, even if he will vent them with all the violence that has rooted itself in their blood then, at least he will play the obedient second until that point. He will not undermine Maglor’s authority, and for now that will have to be enough.
He has chosen his stage for this with all due care: this is not the grandest hall they have here, which was designed after his grandfather’s receiving room in Tirion and is a weak imitation. The dark, the lack of resources, the chaos of their early days here - frankly they did a remarkable job, but the effect only harkens to what they have lost. Instead he waits in a drawing room. A later addition, built by hands familiar with their materials and kept humble by necessity. The walls are hung with tapestries, though in the abstract designs of Formenos where they were for warmth not decoration, the furniture is well made but not overly decorative, with one exception. It stands out in the artful practicality that defines the rest of the space. An ornately carved chair, with a high back, behind which he stands.
The scene is set, his uncle will arrive shortly, and this deed he will set in song until the last days of Arda.
***
The guards knock, he nods at Moryo who calls out permission for them to enter. They swing the door open, bow, and his uncle steps in.
Fingolfin carries himself like a king. Maglor doesn’t know when he started walking like that, holding his spine just so, managing his expression into noble obligingness. He looks like Grandfather Finwë. Maybe - no, not before Formenos. He’d always been image conscious, but it wasn’t till after that first taste of Exile, when he’d been left to rule in Tirion, that he’d really learned how to look the part.
“Uncle,” says Maglor. Family titles first, for all his father might have to say about that. A meeting of kinsmen, not two strained, would-be rulers. “Wine?”
There is a carafe and cups on a silver tray, and at Fingolfin’s acquiescent nod he pours for the two of them, offers a goblet to his uncle.
“My thanks.”
They drink for a moment.
“I am sorry,” he says once the silence has settled in. “There is much I could say of the gratitude of my house to Fingon, for what he attempted, but I think, for now -” he allows the tangled knot that is his chest to overwhelm his voice, briefly - “I am just sorry. I - he was - I am truly, truly sorry.”
This is not a grief for which he can write a lament, even if he could, eloquence is not what this situation requires.
Fingolfin inclines his head. “Ever was he loyal to those he called friend.”
He had intended to ease into it a little more, but -
Here is an incomplete list of the lies he will bind them up in:
That, somehow, he knows that their king lives.
- He does not. He would be either vastly more afraid, or greatly less, if he could peer into Angband's depths.
- He hopes.
That he has control of his brothers.
- Tyelko listens to Curvo, Moryo bites his anger back in public (which is a marked improvement from even since they landed on these shores), and Ambarussa run wild without heeding any word from anyone.
That he has control of his people.
- One side of the lake are loyal to the house of Fëanor, which he is desperately pretending to represent.
- The other side are loyal to anyone but the house of Fëanor, and would never accept any claim he, ever loyal second son, tried to press.
That any part of him wants the crown.
- He was third in line to a throne that should, in theory, have been his grandfather’s until the end of the world.
- He is a singer.
- He is not a king.
And so faced with the challenger, his reverse reflection, the other second son to an impossibly bright elder brother, he knows exactly what it is he is going to say.
“Long were they in friendship,” he says, in careful grief. “Ever was Fingon in my brother’s thoughts, and ever did he seek to see old grievances healed and sundered kin brought together.”
Here is the truth that sets the trap:
“The king did not assent to the burning of the ships, and he alone was unyielding in his refusal of our father.”
Fingolfin looks doubtful.
“He is not here, and so, for now, it falls to me to interpret his wishes.” Pause. The ‘for now’ earns itself a querying look. “It is evident that he wished for you and yours to join us here then, and, I must assume, felt that your greater experience in the governing of our people would be of much use to himself, and our father.”
“Kanafinwë,” says Fingolfin. “Speak plainly.”
“The king clearly values your council highly, and in his absence, and given your greater experience, age, and wisdom, I can only conclude that he would have wished the burden of leadership to be passed to you until such a time comes that he is at liberty to return to his rightful place.”
Moryo snaps his quill, where he is taking notes. At a glance, his face is flushed and his expression thorny, but he says nothing. It does not matter, their uncle’s eyes are fixed firmly on Maglor.
Fingolfin places his cup upon the table. “You wish me to take your place as regent?”
“I seek only to fulfil the wishes of my king, in his absence.”
“Enough.”
Maglor gives a faint smile. “Moryo, leave us.”
His brother scowls, but does as he is bid.
“I cannot do this,” he says, once they are alone. “We are trapped in a war against a foe who has strongholded himself beyond our reach, our people are divided, and Maedhros, at the very least, would have sought to remedy that.”
“And so you claim that he actually wanted us here, that he had even a measure of the faith my son had for him, that he -” Fingolfin stops, breathes, that placid kingly mask shattering as his voice rises.
“He refused to burn the ships,” Maglor says, voice steady.
“Did he?” The question drips with disbelief.
“Ask any of the people here, any of my brothers, any of our followers. All will tell you the same. He and our father were near at each other’s throats, and though in the end he could not convince him to turn his course, he refused to participate. If I sought a convenient lie to offer you, I would claim that it was all my father, that each of us thought of old friendships and stood aside, but no. The king spoke of Findekano, fought to send the ships back to collect your people, and he alone dissented.”
“So this is your design,” his uncle says, more to himself than to Maglor.
The story is all laid out, now is the time for honesty.
“I cannot give you the crown. It is not mine to offer, and if it were, and I did, my brothers would revolt. Maedhros might have been able to hold them, but I cannot, nor with them the bulk of our followers who would see it as a betrayal of my father and brother.”
A beat, to allow that to sink in. Let Fingolfin know that he would’ve given him all, if only he could have.
“So this is your compromise?” His eyes are hard, their light focused into sharp scrutiny.
“Maedhros is our king, lost for now but sure to be returned to us someday, who fought for our people to be united against the rest of his misguided kin. You rule our people, as was clearly not only his wish but that of the Valar, and we move forward. No one is truly happy, but if any powers yet have a shred of mercy for us, despite our Doom, perhaps some of us may live to make peace with it.”
Fingolfin takes his cup up again, downs the wine. “A true compromise then. And will your people accept it?”
Maglor shrugs. “If Maedhros is king in truth, and not just in name. I have laid out my side of the bargain, and will work to see all come to fruition, but -” he takes a sip of his own wine, lets the fullness of the flavour settle on the back of his tongue - “those who need convincing are your followers, not mine.”
“He truly did not burn the ships?”
“Truly.”
His uncle nods, mouth twisted into almost a smile. “To the king, then. Long may he reign.”
He steps aside, allows his uncle to take the ornate chair, almost a throne but a rather distinctive almost, and himself sits beside in a more humble seat. And they set to their work.
***
His brothers do not hesitate to pounce once Fingolfin has left, the sun already beginning its journey into the morning sky. Moryo looks fit to burst, Curvo’s eyes are bright-grey knives, and Tyelko looks bitterly amused.
“You have made us dispossessed in truth then, oh now our eldest brother?” It is as sharp and bright as the blades its wielder forges and Maglor acknowledges it, as Curvo goes to pour himself a drink.
“I have ensured that we will not be, I think you will find,” he says, lets something of power ring out.
“You gave up the crown.” Moryo is near snarling, face red with the anger he has clearly been waiting to vent.
“I gave up rule,” says Maglor. “The crown rests with Nelyo, and the succession with us. All I have done is see that we do not fall to infighting and petty squabbles.”
Tyelko scoffs.
“You gave up on Nelyo, you are giving up everything that Atar wanted, and you will give up our people to that bastard child of Indis. What next, shall we go marching across the lake and offer up our lives as penance for leaving a gaggle of half-blooded traitors on the shores of the paradise they loved so well?” Curvo’s knuckles are white around the handle of his cup, his smile tight.
“I hold to our brother’s wishes, to his last orders. I have not given up on him, but his wish was that if all came to ruin, I would seek stability, and cease casting our family’s lives as fruitless logs upon the pyre of Morgoth’s amusement.” He matches his brother’s gaze.
“Let me go to Angband,” says Tyelko. “He won’t expect something so soon after Findekano, we can set this whole thing to rights -”
“No.”
“And so our brother, our king, continues to suffer while you conspire to give all that is his away!” Moryo snarls out his accusation.
He rises, exhaustion suddenly clouding over all. How long have they been setting themselves to this same battle, how long has Nelyo waited for a rescue he cannot afford to send - does he live, does he wait, is Fingolfin to be king in name also - as he drags his brothers back from attempting it. He does not know how to be a king, but here he stands, eldest of the house of Fëanor who walks free under the stars. “Enough.”
“You -”
“Enough,” he repeats. “It is done. There will be a ceremony between the camps, a week from now, recognizing Fingolfin as regent. He has chosen a place where he will take his followers to set up a capital, and I will be accompanying him.” He pauses then. He had not wanted this part, but none of his brothers could do it, and he must in the end trust that they are finally grown enough to be without supervision. “We have begun collating our maps, and once the ceremony is done, we will meet to discuss who will be sent where, to govern what lands.”
“Discuss,” Moryo scoffs.
“Discuss,” he says firmly. “We will be sending no one to a fight they cannot win, or a line they cannot hold. This is not a war to be won in a single battle, but we have time to ensure that much of Beleriand falls behind our protection.”
“And when will we finally take the fight to him?” Tyelko lets his scorn drip through.
“When you are ordered to do so, and not before.” He makes eye contact with each of them. “We will hold, we will prepare, and when the time comes, we will recoup what we have lost, and claim our vengeance for all that is beyond our reach. This I promise you. And we will do so without dying needlessly.”
He nods as decisively as he can, hopes that the pretence of their assumed agreement will carry through into their actions. His hands are shaking, his legs weak from sitting through the night, but he forces his strides into steady, unhurried confidence. Fingolfin is not the only one who has had to learn how to look like a king.