Torchsong by Dawn Felagund, Elleth

The intelligentsia of the Noldor swirl wine the color of garnets, and the muted light of Fëanorian lamps caresses more than one lord's circlet. Ostensibly gathered in Hithlum to plan military strategy but cozened by the long peace of the Siege, the Noldor have fallen unthinkingly into the habits of Tirion. There have been recitations of poetry and a spirited philological paper read by Maedhros, the covering swept off a portrait of Fingolfin that now presides over the room, and the demonstration of a new musical instrument played by pedals and steam. And forthcoming: a performance by Maglor Fëanorion.

All are gathered; even Caranthir, glowering, has commandeered a bottle of wine to himself and circulates. Luscious fabrics gesture toward peace, and conversations linger upon scholarly topics only recently deemed too trivial. Maglor stands near Fingon, whose magnetism means Maglor will be left alone, and watches his people circle back upon themselves to the race they'd once been, in Tirion.

This is how it is supposed to go? His thoughts, unbidden, place the question mark at the end.

Once, a little child waving a firebrand in Telperion's gloaming at Formenos—as near to dark as he knew until—he grabbed the wrong end and did not make that mistake twice.

His name is called, and he wonders what his people are reaching for tonight.

The audience is black hair and gray eyes that blur into one when he squints. Maglor raises his hands to his harp and begins the Noldolantë.

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Lasbaneth finds the room and the Noldor assembled there stifling and exhausting.

She has claimed a goblet of watered-down wine for herself rather than indulging and has found a spot by an open window away from the crowd that allows her to gaze out past the stone battlements into the open land. She wishes she were there, riding with the wind in her hair, but at least, glancing back, Maglor seems as ill-at-ease as she feels. Her husband asked her to attend, after all, saying that he wished to share what he had learned from her.

He calls his song Noldolantë, which, in combination with the presumptuous Quenya (although she is no friend of Thingol's decree, finding it ridiculous as they have all but adopted Sindarin as their daily tongue), makes her roll her eyes at the arrogant fool, believing himself capable of hindsight already when not so long ago, she left him to wallow in misery because he could not look beyond the horizon of his own woe. She loves him deeply, and that has always been the constant of their marriage more than the political dictum laid down by Fëanor and her father, but he is a fool. Her fool.

But he surprises her.

As the song winds on, scathing words that shadow the Noldor from Tirion to Alqualondë, across the sea and the Ice, she hears Sindarin chords scatter into the Noldorin themes, at first unobtrusive, then stronger and louder, and the discomfort of the assembled Noldor becomes thick enough to cut with a knife. Almost, she is minded to fetch her drum and accompany him, but instead, wine and night air forgotten, she sits and listens, rapt and smiling. He actually learned to listen. 

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Alphangil, on the other hand, sits with the Noldor, offering a raised eyebrow to her cousin at the window, who seems moved to tears, not to discomfort. Caught in the audience, next to Caranthir's currently sour-faced wife, Alphangil attempts to understand what Maglor is singing - languages have never been her forte, and she has never bothered to learn more than she needed of Quenya, certainly barely enough for poetry or song. That goes double for Maglor's poetry, whose complexity and triple meanings make her head spin even in her native Mithrimmin dialect. She is still a little mad at him for that, even though it was a wedding gift. But then the Fëanorians seem to have a knack for making their gifts unwelcome.

Rowenn, in spite of her displeasure at Maglor, is kind enough to translate the gist of Maglor's song to her, and Alphangil winds up insulted on behalf of Fingon and everyone else with Noldorin blood in the room. She is friends with some, has sat on councils with others, and married their High Prince, and this strikes her as slander more than anything.

She'd like to smack the harp out of Maglor's hand, really. She gives Fingon a glance, who stands like a pale statue at the side of the room, and inevitably, Maedhros beside him.

Her jaw tightens as Maedhros speaks something into Fingon's ear. She can see her husband's answering shudder from halfway across the room, although it's anger, not pleasure. But Fingon at least had been honest with her before she had married him, about the Kinslaying and Maedhros, giving her the choice to continue their dalliance or leave it before it became serious. She knows that Maglor had concealed the truth about Alqualondë and the departure of the Noldor from Lasbaneth until she found out by chance and fled back to her own people. It took Maglor years to win her back and longer to fully heal the rift gaping between them.

But if her cousin, spiritually-minded and wise, approves of all this, perhaps she ought to speak to Lasbaneth before making her ultimate judgement.

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