True North by sallysavestheday

True North

Read True North

Maglor does not wish to be king.

King is Grandfather: Finwë, graceful and strong, solemn in court but laughing with that golden ripple that drew all listeners to him in love and admiration. King is Fëanor, burdened and bitter and grim, yet flushed with such beauty and brilliance that they all followed him, unquestioning, into the passion and terror of his fevered dreams.

King is Maedhros…

But Maglor will not follow that thought. It breaks him open, the ache so sharp in his chest that he cannot breathe. Ever in his life there has been Maedhros, to emulate and irritate and rely upon, foil and fellow-traveler both. Anchor and sail.

The space where he is not is raw.

Maglor will not use the title. When pressed, he acquiesces to Regent, holding the crown in abeyance, awaiting his brother’s return. He braids Maedhros’ copper ornaments into his hair but will not wear the circlet. He is not the King.

But in the King’s absence, he must do what needs to be done. And in the rare moments when he is kind to himself, he must admit he does not do it badly. Their people are fed and housed and clothed, turning the skills of their hands and heads to sustenance and shelter in the strange environment of Mithrim. The early impression they have made on their Sindar kin is not poor: strange of tongue and custom they may seem to these folk of the starlight, but the Noldor descended upon the beasts of Morgoth like an iron hammer, which has earned them a measure of goodwill. Trade agreements and a tentative alliance have been forged, and slowly, slowly, they begin to make themselves a home.

Home. Maglor rues the word, even as his brothers settle into new routines, carving roles for themselves that reach well beyond their princely ambitions -- or lack thereof -- in Valinor. Caranthir is an able quartermaster; he manages stock and accounts and trade with brusque capacity. Curufin drives the craftsmen to their tasks with bitter precision and a sense of urgency: the sooner they are settled and defended, the sooner they can launch another attack on Angband and retrieve their father’s gems. Or so he argues with Celegorm, who sneers at the thought. His fair skin is rough and weather-worn from riding patrol after patrol in Ambarussa’s company, scouting the great plain and the stony hills for passage. His eyes meet Maglor’s, filled with the grim futility of their efforts in the face of those dark mountains, that Vala’s inconceivable power.

Maglor shakes his head and faces Curufin down, again. No challenge. No attack. They are too few; they know too little of the landscape and the potential costs of such a move. Not now. Not yet.

And so the decades slip away, one after another after another. Maedhros bid him hold, and hold he will. The paper robes and tinsel crown of his regency are an illusion as great as any he ever embodied on the stage in Tirion: a challenge to rise to; a role in which to grow old. He walks in the privacy of his chambers with Maedhros’ measured pace, practices his brother’s sober stance, the elegant cant of his head. Catching his own eye in the dulled mirror, he winces. The gentleness that was Maitimo is beyond him now, no matter how long he rehearses, no matter how many poses he holds.

With each year that passes, Maglor grows fiercer and more cold. When Fingolfin meets him at last in the great meadow, he is thin as a blade, and sharper-edged. He has never looked more like his father, with his dark eyes lined in gold.

Fingolfin wishes to be King.

He has walked uncountable miles to tell his brother so, rehearsing his words with every slow step, adding to the litany of curses he planned to hurl each time a dreamer slipped away or another soul slid under the ice.

King is a burden, a responsibility: a way of living that Fëanor has always shirked. His bold mind and brilliant spirit have never settled – those who follow him are drawn along like leaves in a storm, but when the wind dies, where will he have taken them? King is an obligation, a commitment, two words his elder brother has never understood, flitting from thing to thing like some fiery hummingbird, forever changing everything he touches, but leaving ash behind.

King should be Fingolfin. His people have named him thus, acclaiming his leadership, his courage, his endurance as the keeper of order, the guardian of their failing hearts. Always he has followed his brother, seeking peace, seeking attention, seeking regard. But that tagalong child was left behind on the Ice, at last. The crown should be his. He will fight Fëanor for it, if he must. He has come to the meadow with his fists wrapped, almost eager for the rush, for the bitter satisfaction of the blows.

But here is Maglor, standing alone before the scarlet host, all copper beads and gold paint and whiplike, joyless smile.

King.

“Morgoth has taken them, Uncle. Your brother, and mine.”

Fingolfin sees in his nephew’s eyes the mirror of his own despair. The banners ripple in the chill breeze off the lake as they stand toe to toe, second son and second son, frowning.

They are anchorless, both of them, flung into the spinning skies with no fixed points to reach for, no greater stars to burn behind.