The Line of Kings by Michiru

A Linguist's Rebellion

Angaráto delivered Thingol’s Ban in his perfect Vanyarin accent, and never again returned to Menegroth.

First Age Year 67

Maedhros is in Mithrim, celebrating Findecáno’s begetting day, when Arafinwë’s children return from Menegroth, weeks earlier than expected. He is in the King’s study, along with his uncle and Macalaurë and Findecáno, and they are sharing the last bottle of the wine from Aman between themselves. The alcohol has undoubtedly loosened tongues and dulled memories, as Findecáno and Macalaurë—never the closest of cousins, even before Losgar—are fondly reminiscing over their favorite ballads, as though no tension lies between them. As though Findecáno does not think Macalaurë a coward; as though Macalaurë does not think Findecáno a fool. Maedhros is wondering idly whether to look into the possible medical repercussions of keeping his family in a constant state of low-level inebriation, as it apparently works miracles for ensuring they get along.

“The real test,” he muses aloud, “would be Turukáno and Curufinwë. Or possibly Moryo and Alarcambo.” Nolofinwë glances up from the fire, quirks a wry smile.

“You’re considering it too?” he inquires pleasantly, and, since Maedhros can’t quite work out whether to be insulted by the implication that his uncle is surprised to find they agree on something, he smiles back.

“Absolutely,” he says. Nolofinwë nods speculatively—

—and Macalaurë and Findecáno choose that moment to burst into tears over the fate of a fictional maiden.

“Not,” he and Nolofinwë amend at the exact same time. Nolofinwë laughs, and Maedhros raises his glass in a self-mocking toast, and that is when Alarcambo throws open the study doors hard enough that they slam into the walls, gouging craters into the hard oak. Findecáno jerks at the noise, elbow knocking Macalaurë’s glass from the table. It shatters on the floor, and Nolofinwë’s clerk—just now scuttling in, propelled by Ingoldo, trying to reach his brother’s side—shoots a look of sheer poison at Alarcambo’s oblivious back.

“Your highness—so sorry—Prince Angaráto, this is most—“

“It’s quite alright, Órelion,” Nolofinwë interrupts, suddenly sober and studying Alarcambo closely. He is entirely too still, blue around the lips, ice water dripping from the ends of his tangled hair, fists clenched, muscles twitching along his jaw. Ingoldo has one hand hovering uncertainly over his shoulder, as though unwilling to make contact, seems torn between giving some explanation and simply removing his brother from the room.

“Angaráto?” Nolofinwë prompts, and Maedhros hears the fear: has the Enemy pierced the Girdle of Melian; is it already too late to save Hithlum? Macalaurë reaches across the table to grasp Maedhros’ hand; he fumbles clumsily to curl his left hand around the right-handed hilt of the dagger Macalaurë neglected to leave with the armsman. Still Alarcambo does not speak, seeming transfixed unblinkingly on some spot right before his eyes. Maedhros is rising from his seat to sound the alarm when Findecáno smiles.

“This certainly is a treat,” he beams, waving at Maedhros to sit, beckoning Alarcambo closer, soothing calm. “Here I had resigned myself to celebrating without you. Is Aikanáro here as well?” Ingoldo’s head jerks in an aborted half-nod; he bites his lip, finally drops his hand to Alarcambo’s shoulder.

“What a wonderful surprise,” Findecáno says in the same bland, unruffled manner. Then he nods teasingly at the doors, taunts, “Is this how you say hello in Sindarin?” Ingoldo flinches, but something in Alarcambo relaxes—or snaps.

“From this day forth, the tongue of the Noldor shall be neither heard nor spoken by the Sindar, lest they be held as Kinslayers and betrayers of kin unrepentant, by the order of King Elwë Singollo,” he reports in his distant, bell-tuned accent. And though Maedhros can feel Macalaurë already stiffening in outrage, can feel his own anger rising coldly, his lips curl in the approximation of a smile.

Chapter End Notes

Alarcambo is the mother-name I devised for Angaráto, and it means “swift tongue”. Just as Angaráto calls Maedhros by his disfavored name (Nelyafinwë), Maedhros calls Angaráto by his.

At first glance, the irony that Maedhros finds so amusing might not be readily apparent, though the use of Elwë Singollo is a clue.