Torchsong by Dawn Felagund, Elleth

Torchsong

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.