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“There there,” Azaghâl huffed awkwardly, patting one of the long, gangly limbs the first born son of the late High King had buried his face in. He was not quite sure how to handle this… situation. What had begun as diplomatic meetings a few decades prior, when he had first started the alliance between his people and Maedhros’, had now – He blinked, trying to find the best word to describe it. Evolved? Devolved? With a shrug, he settled for turned. It had turned, then, into… Into…
He groaned. First he lacked verbs, now the nouns and adjectives had abandoned him too! Doubtfully, he eyed the finely carved bottle of liquor in front of him. Just how much of this had he drunken?
Maedhros lifted his head, not without some effort, to stare at Azaghâl blearily. “I know”, he croaked, misinterpreting the dwarf’s groan. “I’ve also no clue what he wants from me.”
As he dropped his head back onto the table, Azaghâl leaned back to stare at the ceiling of the council room they were now alone in. Were they in his own halls, beautiful shapes would have been carved into it, carefully and artfully framing runes of friendship and protection of Mahal, helping the councilors meet wise decisions. Here, they were also not left undecorated, but not with carvings in the ceiling itself but with skillfully woven tapestries, showing many things in many colours that Azaghâl was too drunk to focus on, wound in a swirling spiral around the Emblem of Maedhros’ house, an eight pointed star. One image, though, seemed to pull him in, two pale, long fingered hands clasping together firmly, one clothed in a blue sleeve, the other in a red one, and both wrists and fingers finely jeweled. That rang a bell. A distant one, for sure, but a bell indeed.
Red and blue, clasping hands in unison, only to betray their promise later on. An… interesting choice, for a council room.
“He’s just so, so brilliant,” Maedhros mumbled into his sleeves and the table, desperation mingling into despairing love, and Azaghâl decided, right then and there, that it did not truly matter how much he himself had drunk. However many glasses or bottles he had emptied, it must have been far less than the amount of wine flowing through Maedhros' veins, and that, in some way, filled him with a sense of smug pride.
“And he is so strong,” Maedhros was saying, pushing himself back up and carding his long, bony hand through his thin, red hair, ruining the last remnants of the impressive braids he had worn when greeting Azaghâl in the morning. “But so reckless with it, and whenever he rides off, I…” his voice faltered, broke, and he reset it with a lot of effort, “I’ve no clue if I’ll ever see him again.”
He turned his eyes back towards Azaghâl, who realized with a start that they were glittering with tears. He drummed his fingers against the dark wood of the council table, the alcohol weighing down his tongue as he searched for proper words of reassurance. “If Mahal wills it,” he settled on at last, “then you and he will surely find peace, after the war.”
Maedhros' expression turned sour, suddenly, and he snarled, or tried to, it turned into more of a lall, “Too often have I hoped for aid from the Valar. It’s come to me but once, and I’m not foolish enough to think it will do so again.”
In a way, Azaghâl was almost relieved to find his… to find Maedhros' face twist into a scowl, to have some of his usual eloquence returned. He was used to that side of him far more than he was to whatever he became when drunk. He nodded, solemnly, before realizing he should probably say something. “Then you’ll find that end in spite of the Gods!”
He was actually quite proud of that idea. But Maedhros only shook his head sadly. “Vairë weaves my every deed before I even think of it,” he sighed, dragging a finger over the polished surface of the table. Azaghâl frowned, trying to remember who Vairë was. The dwarves did not care for many Gods other than Mahal, unlike the elves did, and he was struggling to find the name of said Goddess in Khuzdul, if she even had one there. If she did, he gave up searching before he could find it, and decided based on context clues that she must be a Goddess of Destiny or something or another. He made a brief mental note to ask experts on elven culture for more on it once he returned home, a note he would forget less than three minutes later.
“Didn’t you leave Valinor to get away from the Gods? Why should they still control you, if you’ve wrestled it back?”
Maedhros sighed wearily and Azaghâl resisted the urge to roll his eyes, lest he made the poor sod feel he did not wish to support him in whatever crisis of faith he was going through. “That is just it, isn't it?” he groaned. “Why do they still have a say over what I do and don't do?”
Azaghâl leaned closer as some spark of clarity returned to Maedhros' glowing eyes and he furrowed his brows. “Why would they?” he whispered. “How dare they!” he exclaimed, suddenly leaping from his chair, swaying dangerously and holding himself up only by gripping the edge of the table – Good, Azaghâl thought, he doubted he could have saved him from a fall in the state he himself was in. Maedhros winced at some pain fierce enough to push through to his drunken mind and wiped hair from his face, going back another few times, his movement growing increasingly more exasperated before the bothersome strand was put into its place, or at least into a less infuriating position.
“Do they believe I owe them?” he asked into Azaghâl’s general direction – he shrugged helplessly, but Maedhros had already moved on – “Do they think sending that eagle to my rescue was enough to get them back into my good graces?”
He sounded so offended by this notion that Azaghâl had to suppress a smile.
“And after all the evil they have caused!” The dwarf took another sip from his far too longly abandoned drink, nodding in silent agreement. “After causing the death of my grandmother, my grandfather, my father – after their mindlessness has caused the Two Trees to die?”
“After they put the Sun in the sky!” Azaghâl added, glad to not be completely lost in the conversation and grasping at any and all strands he could. He might have been born after the Sun had risen, but he had relatives who were older than him, who had cursed the thing throughout his childhood, and so, since he was a noble dwarf, he had taken up the dislike as well. Maedhros seemed to agree.
“The Sun!” he shrieked, waving his long index finger so abruptly at Azaghâl he had to duck to avoid being poked by a far too sharp nail. “Can you even fathom how hard that gigantic thing has made negotiations with the Avari and Sindar?” He took a big sip from his own drink, leaning over the table to set it back and putting a long since discarded map into risk of getting soaked with wine when he slammed the cup back down. Azaghâl quickly pushed it off the table and away from the slowly spreading puddle.
“I put on my best clothes, convince my brothers not to kill anyone, which is already a considerable feat, mind you, then I am kind! Considerate!” He slammed his fist down to accentuate every word, and now Azaghâl had to save his own drink – “I listen to every single one of their concerns, I offer protection! Alliance! Trade! And they waste my time by listening like they want those things before they say Oh but what about the sun – What about the damn thing?! Do they think it’s my fault it is up there burning their eyes? Do you think that?”
“Certainly not!”
“Of course not! Why would that have anything to do with me?!”
He abruptly deflated, pulled the chair away from the table and sat back down. He slowly put his head back into his arms, suddenly reminding Azaghâl very vaguely of a soaked dog. A very tired, overgrown soaked dog with far too thin limbs and far too long ears.
Left with no other options, he hesitantly reached out once more to pat his shoulder, swaying a bit as he leaned forward.
And then, Maedhros lifted his glazed eyes, blinked slowly, and whispered hoarsely, “Th’art a true friend, Azaghâl. I thank thee.”
The dwarf choked, suddenly found himself thrown into a coughing fit. Some of the alcohol was pushed up through his nose, and his eyes watered at the burn. Why would Maedhros slip into the informal like that? And without even the hint of a warning!
He heard Maedhros gasp, and then he was being slapped in the back by a being who had lived for millenia, who had witnessed more horror than Azaghâl could imagine and who fought so fiercly that Azaghâl did not want to imagine how their enemies felt when coming across him.
“Art thou alright?” Maedhros asked, and there was concern in his voice, care, and – by his Maker, Azaghâl was not drunk enough for this.