The Breakfast Club by Saelind

The Breakfast Club

A low mist had settled over the lake, and Fingolfin stood to watch the sun rise from the east. With all the commotion of the past fortnight, the silence along the lake was almost eerie, but after last night, it was something he welcomed. The encampment was still strewn with remnants of the previous night’s feast, and those few who were not nursing hangovers had begun to rise for the day. Still, Lake Mithrim remained pleasantly quiet, and Fingolfin decided to take the long way back to his own tent.

“Atar!” a voice called out from behind him, and he turned to see Aredhel waving at him from a makeshift table in front of her tent. “Come join me!”

He made his way toward Aredhel’s tent, and upon closer inspection saw that with the table was laid out with small trays of leftovers from the night before, as well as some pastries and a pitcher of mallorn juice.

She smiled at Fingolfin’s inquisitive gaze and poured him a glass. “I persuaded one of the chefs to send over a few things last night, before the formal breakfast. Artanis was supposed to meet me, but I have a feeling she’s decided to choose rest over the pleasure of my company.”

Fingolfin sat down beside his daughter and raised an eyebrow. “Your cousin does not strike me as the type to overindulge.”

“I think last night proved to be an exception even for the best of us. Besides,” she grinned wickedly, “if the wine did not wear her out, I am quite sure that Teleporno did.”

Fingolfin choked on a bite of pastry, and Aredhel laughed as she pounded him on the back.

“You enjoyed yourself last night, then?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” she replied. “The dancing was superb, and even Turukáno was smiling by the end of it. The only problem was that I barely saw Findekáno all night. He was chasing after Russandol, I think.”

“Oh, yes,” Fingolfin said mildly. He thought back to the conversation he had had with Maedhros in his tent, and then with his sister Lalwen afterward. In the harsh light of day, it was easy to see what Lawlen wanted of him, but more difficult still to concede the point. “He found him, at the end of the night. Your cousin and I talked for a good portion of the evening.”

“You and Maitimo?” Aredhel asked in surprise. “Well, I suppose that’s good. If there’s anyone who can bring our branches of the family together, it would be you two.”

Fingolfin gave a brief smile and took another pastry. He rarely allowed himself the indulgence of regrets, but he wished he could see his son and daughter more frequently. He missed Aredhel’s acerbic wit and Turgon’s levelheaded wisdom. Fingolfin’s separation from his children was one of the several sacrifices that came along with being High King, and it was still the one that pained him the most.

“Atar?” Aredhel asked. “Is everything alright?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I’ve missed you, is all.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she said. “You’ll just have to throw feasts here more often. I think it’s the only way we can get Turukáno to leave the mountains.”

Fingolfin opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the approach of one of his heralds who, by the looks of it, had run from halfway around the lake.

“My lord Fingolfin!” he panted. “Your presence is requested at the Green Elves’ encampment. They are claiming that the Fëanorians broke into the last of their ale. They want it returned before the morning meal.”

Aredhel raised an eyebrow. “I’m glad I don’t have your job.”

Fingolfin suppressed a rueful laugh. If there was one thing he could count on his daughter for, it was her honesty.

“But I do not mind doing it, just for this morning.” Aredhel finished off the last of her juice and popped another pastry into her mouth.

Fingolfin blinked in surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” She rose, and kissed her father’s forehead. “You’ve earned your rest. I’ll deal with our misbegotten family members.”

“Don’t insult anyone,” Fingolfin warned, “even if they are our kin.”

“Not to worry,” Aredhel grinned. “I have learned a thing or two from you, after all.”

Fingolfin did laugh this time, and gave his daughter a warm hug before she set off with his herald. He watched them go until they were hidden by the cluster of surrounding tents, and he sat back down with a contented sigh, leaning back as he poured himself another glass of mallorn juice.

Aredhel was right. He really should make these feasts a regular occurrence.