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“Look at them,” Fingon scoffed to Angrod. “They circle him like bees around a flower, not realizing it is the wrong shape for their pollination.”
“A disturbingly apt comparison,” said Angrod. “But I feel you are too incensed about it.”
“They are,” said Fingon. “Incompetent.”
Angrod cackled into his wine and nearly choked on it. Fingon patted his back, not taking his disgusted stare off the belle of the ball, the sun around which the carrion birds revolved: his eldest cousin, Maedhros. The elf was fielding admirers with a polite smile, too far for Fingon to pick up on their conversation. He could hazard a guess. He recognized most of the crowd from his governmental classes at Tirion University, and from running into them as aspirants in various spheres of the palace. There was Nelwen, with her mediocre ideas for zoning laws. The one who boldly leaned in to bat his eyelashes at Maedhros was Lindalion, who Fingon had once trounced in debate club, and so forth. His gentle patting turned into a fist that made Angrod yelp when Ornélië (whose claim to power began and ended with her mother’s council seat) trailed her hand up Maedhros’ arm to his bicep, which was the highest she could reach without looking awkward.
“Whatever you are thinking about, stop.” Angrod stepped away from him pointedly.
“Sorry,” said Fingon. “It just - does it not make you burn to see this?”
“No,” said Angrod bluntly. “I can honestly say watching courtiers flirt with our cousin inspires no strong feelings in me.” He considered the crowd more closely. “Except perhaps sympathy. He looks so uncomfortable!”
Maedhros did look uncomfortable, now that Fingon paid careful attention. He extracted himself from Ornélië’s touch with what was almost a polished, unrelated movement. Fingon could not help but smirk at her brief, frustrated look - an amusement he shared with the others surrounding Maedhros, which wiped the smirk right off.
“This is the problem with vague succession laws,” Fingon complained to Angrod in a low voice. They were in a shadowed corner by the balconies, closer to the people actually at the party for the reason it was being held (a poetry competition in Varda’s honor, which Elemmírë won) than for politics. “Is it even set that our dear Nelyafinwe will come to power? No! It could be our father. It could be us.”
“It’s likely not going to be us,” said Angrod. “On account of our aunts and uncles, and our parents, and that our half-uncle is clearly angling for succession to go through each family line first, which would put you at - what - eighth? Ninth? Tenth, if Aunt Findis doesn’t eschew it. I won’t bother to calculate my odds.”
“Shut up,” said Fingon. “Don’t be reasonable. I’m just saying. We could have an election. My father would win that.”
Angrod made a dubious agreeable noise. Fingon valiantly did not scowl at him.
“Regardless, that ignores the point.”
“Which is?”
“They are aiming to seduce Maitimo because they think Fëanáro will refuse the throne to focus on his craft - “
“An unfound conclusion,” said Angrod. “But reasonable if you've never seen him fight with your father.”
“And they want the power that comes with being King.”
“How stupid,” said Angrod. “Just look at what our parents accomplished without being the Ñoldóran!"
“It is wrong,” said Fingon, glaring. “And they are bad at it. I could do better. And I’d be better at ruling too.”
“Findekáno, no,” said Angrod.
“Just watch me.”
“I'd rather not.”
Fingon ignored him.
The problem was, now the idea was in his head. He could not help but entertain it. Fingon would be a good King (co-King, King Consort, whatever ). He'd sat at his father's side since he was a child only reaching knee-height. The minutiae of legalese and political maneuvering were old worn childhood toys to him, not quite cherished but familiar enough to bore. He could argue his way against any councilor and understood the laws structuring their society better than most aspiring councilors in the middle of their palace apprenticeships. In his hands, the power of the King would be used as wisely and strongly as though he were Finwë himself.
“I need you to tone down the grandiose thoughts,” said Angrod. “I can sense them.”
“You were right,” said Fingon.
Angrod was appropriately wary. “Regarding what?”
“It is unlikely the throne would ever naturally come to me,” said Fingon. “Our dear uncle will ensure that.” Naming his eldest child Nelyafinwe. And Grandfather Finwë would go along with it, as they all knew he would.
“So…”
“So,” said Fingon. “I will go to the throne instead.”
“Oh joy,” said Angrod. “I want it on record I refuse to help you seduce our cousin for political gain.”
Fingon rolled his eyes. “As if I'd need your help. Unlike them,” Fingon gestured at the courtiers, “I am capable of getting the job done.”
“Manwe preserve us,” Angrod threw the rest of his wine back in a smooth motion. “I need another drink.”
“Have mine,” Fingon passed him his glass. He preened himself in the reflection of the windows, ensuring his hair was still coiled beautifully and his robes flattered his body. Then he set his eyes back on Maedhros. “The hunt begins.”
“Don't cause a scandal,” Angrod chugged the second glass like a shot. “I'm going to pretend I'm related to neither of you.”
Fingon was already stalking towards the courtiers surrounding Maedhros. Closer, he picked up the chatter. Naryadil, a minor apprentice in the city beautification department, was drolly trying to figure out what stance Maedhros held on the new construction of entertainment houses spilling out into the Rose District.
“It's just quite a crass mixing of specialties,” Naryadil was saying as Fingon approached. “The noise from the shopping district will be intolerable in the tea houses.”
“One would expect the noise canceling architecture to handle that,” said Fingon mildly as he entered the circle of conversation. They parted for him as naturally as waves before a ship. “But then, functional architecture isn't much your area of expertise, Naryadil.”
Their mouth briefly flattened, ears flickering in surprise. “Findekáno, I was not aware it was yours.”
“It isn't,” Fingon acknowledged. “But one can only listen to my brother harp about the wonders of our aqueduct system for long enough with picking up some appreciation for the subject. I'm sure you understand, Maitimo.”
His cousin's keen gray eyes blinked, once, flickering between him and Angrod and his father's supporters loosely scattered around the room, and then the same vapid smile he gave everyone else spread his lips. Compared to the brief intense focus of his initial assessment, this made his beautiful face look beautifully mundane. Fingon would change that soon enough.
“Indeed,” said Maedhros. “Though my father is quite taken with the properties of gemstones these days instead.”
“Well, he's well-known for crafting gems,” said Fingon with what was not quite a leer. The surrounding courtiers paused, wondering if this was truly a comment with the undertones he implied — Fingon held a reputation for being friendly, not a flirt. He didn't give them time to decide. “I'm afraid I must steal you away, Maitimo.”
“Must you?” Maedhros’ focus was a transient thing, it returned now along with a curious tilt of his ears.
“Yes,” said Fingon, slotting his hand in Maedhros’ elbow and leading him away from the flummoxed crowd. “My father has had some interesting thought to share about that ongoing dispute between the weaver and that perfumist - you know the one.“
“Did he,” said Maedhros, permitting himself be led away. In a lower voice he added, “I could have sworn that dispute was resolved this morning.”
“It was,” said Fingon, matching his low tone. “You just looked like you needed a rescue.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“Not at all,” said Fingon, for he likely wouldn't have noticed if Angrod hadn't pointed it out. “I simply understand your struggle all too well, and frankly, the situation cannot go on as it is.”
Maedhros laughed lowly, more of a vibration of his throat than a sound. “I'm not sure what short of declaring myself pledged to a Vala would help.”
At least he was self aware. Fingon tilted his neck back to observe Maedhros face, which was gratifyingly leaned towards him. “Worry not, my dear. I have a plan to help you.”
If Maedhros was surprised by Fingon addressing him so intimately, he didn't show it. “Do you now?” He murmured, intrigued.
Fingon patted the gentle muscles of his arm and, despite a sudden intense desire to do so, did not give them an appreciative grope. In the distant crowd, he spotted Angrod flirting drunkenly with Eldalote and smirked. Love was in the air, and who was Fingon to deny it? “All in good time. Now what do you say to escaping this droll event with me?”
“Is this part of your plan?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Maedhros. “Lead the way then.”
Fingon spent their outing observing Maedhros with a considering eye. He was aware of being observed in turn, though what Maedhros thought of him was unfortunately not open to his mind. They had spent little time together outside of state functions since Maedhros moved to Tirion a handful of months ago. The locals did a double-take when they were recognized: the two eldest children of the most antagonistic sons of Finwë strolling together with amiable ease.
They'd better get used to it soon. Gawking was only fun the first few times it happened.
“You've been enjoying working with my father, then?”
“I'd be a fool not to,” said Maedhros. “I read all his treatises growing up, it's been an honor to learn from him.”
“I admit to being surprised when you applied for an apprenticeship with him.”
Fingolfin had also been surprised. He'd told Fingon, I would be ill-placed to reject him regardless, but the application did his father credit. They'd all been more shocked Fëanor had not thrown a fit over it than to learn Maedhros was competent.
“When you want to be the best,” said Maedhros. “You learn from the best.”
Fingon was pleased. “So you are good at flattery; no wonder the court loves you already.”
“It's not flattery if it's true,” said Maedhros.
“Hah! You're a natural.” Where he learned it was the better question. The charted wilds of Valinor did not hint at proving grounds for courtly conduct, but maybe Fëanor created his children to be perfect from the womb? Or perhaps, thought Fingon wildly, the wild birds were just as good conversation partners as Fingolfin's coworkers.
“Spoken coming from a flatterer?” Maedhros raised a brow.
“I don't say things I don't mean,” Fingon said, grinning. “I just learned to say them properly.”
“Convenient,” said Maedhros. “So if I asked you what the purpose of this invitation truly was…”
“Then I would say: you must agree to come with me to the tea shop off Turtle Street by the library. You haven't been there yet, have you?”
“No,” said Maedhros. “You don't strike me as a tea shop enjoyer.”
“I've developed a sudden interest in bridging the gap between our families. Not being that closely related is no excuse to not be friends.”
“Is that what we are?” Maedhros sounded bemused.
“It's a start,” said Fingon.
Fingon eased Maedhros - and the rest of Tirion - to their burgeoning relationship over the course of six more dates. Maedhros indulged him whenever Fingon asked, clearly more out of curiosity than anything else. The Tirion Daily featured a piece about their third outing, and the Chattering Magpie was the only one of the papers of both repute and more… libelous nature...to accurately figure out Fingon's intentions, though even they proposed it along the lines of the next generation already seeking influence with the future crown.
Idiots. He would be the future crown.
By the time Fingon's family attempted to stage an intervention of did you hit your head? And what do you mean you have big plans don't worry, that's more worrisome, people started to get the memo this was a permanent development. ‘Fingon and Maedhros (???)’ turned into Fingon-and-Maedhros, and the courtiers who previously sought to occupy Maedhros’ attention backed off to sulk, panic, and re-think their strategy.
The intelligent ones did so, anyway.
Case in point, despite six outings staking his claim, right after the morning petitioner's hall Fingon had to extract Mardhros from a musician’s attempts to influence the future crown. “If they're angling for support for a new music hall, they ought to aim for your brother instead,” Fingon clicked his tongue disapprovingly. He was surrounded by fools.
“I might support the arts on his behalf,” said Maedhros. “It was a reasonable supposition.”
“Inefficient,” Fingon countered. “Just like Councillor Thinyon’s proposed limitations on horse-drawn carriages in residential areas — did you see it? It's a purely petty matter with no reason to be elevated this far up. He should learn to keep it in his neighborhood council.”
“Vaguely,” Maedhros replied. “I was busy trying to forget Councilor Náhawë’s motion to dam one of the tributaries. They want to enlarge one of the lakes and for no proper reason. Your father made me write the rebuttal because they wanted to involve one of the river Ainu if this escalated, and you know how mercurial they can be. It was a stupid motion and it nonetheless required an intelligent response.”
“What joy, legalese. That's why I didn't apprentice with him,” said Fingon. Everyone wanted Fingolfin's opinion about everything. Just like Feanor, Fingolfin had them. But as a High Prince with a hundred responsibilities, he made his enterprising apprentices do the busywork. Elegantly written rebuttals were a useful skill for any civil servant of the crown, but one Fingon had learned by osmosis and found more boring than watching snow melt. At least that created interesting shapes.
“Well,” said Maedhros. “I learned that now. But I truly don't mind it. I just wish I could debate their proposals without people thinking it's my father speaking through me. ”
“No, it's just mine.” Fingon grinned.
“Only when I write his communications,” Maedhros laughed.
“When you are done with the apprenticeship and invited properly into the royal workforce,” said Fingon. “Then they'll know it is only your thoughts behind your actions.” And Fingon's, but that was neither here nor there. Queens— King Consorts — wielded a different sort of power when it came to influencing the Noldor.
“And you besides me,” said Maedhros, which nearly caused Fingon to walk into a palace fountain. “Because you surely must want to join the palace proper,” Maedhros clarified after Fingon merely tripped and cast him a surprised look. “Don't you?”
“Well,” Fingon hesitated, scrambling to regain his footing. “I thought about it, sometimes. But even princely young civil officials have no real power. And everyone will look at me and think it's my Father angling for guaranteed support.”
Nevermind that Fingon and his father disagreed frequently - sometimes vehemently, such that they refused to eat at the same table - over their politics. Fingolfin, like many of his generation, was… settled. The Noldor had built magnificent Tirion from Vanyarin simplicity, helped raise settlements across Taniquetil and cast the gemstones that glittered across Alqualonde. What could be more grandiose than that? All they cared about was micromanaging each minute detail of what they had already built. It was dreadful.
No one really stopped to listen to Fingon's opinions long enough to realize this. So when he'd declined to follow up his university schooling with an apprenticeship in the palace…
Well! People decided he was serious when he declared his sudden interest in horseback archery was the only thing on his mind.
Regardless, Fingon held no desire to be a middle-management paperwork writer until his elders realized he was more than his Father's child. An apprenticeship with Fingolfin would have only cemented that impression further.
Now the role went to Maedhros instead. The One clearly enjoyed ironic refrains.
The elf in question raised a brow at this explanation. “You don't want to join the government because it would… bore you to climb the ranks?”
“You would not understand. You enjoy the minutiae of it all. But when I see the larger picture, I desire the quickest path to it. Half of government is just built to slow down and make people think twice." The only one with the real power for change is the Noldoran, really, and Finwë never abused it. Not that Fingon would either. He would just make his goals clear and Maedhros would figure out how to make them work. They complemented each other very well. Pleased, Fingon threaded their hands together, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles of Maedhros’ hand.
Fingon was not a short elf. Maedhros nonetheless stood a head taller than him, and his hands were as broad as they were elegant. Pink delicate blush spread across Maedhros’ cheeks the longer Fingon traced the contours of where they touched. A bolt of desire struck Fingon's core like an unexpected flooding overwhelming a river dam. It filled him with sudden certainty he would marry this elf and enjoy every heartbeat of it.
Maedhros met his eyes and whatever he gleamed in them caused the blush to darken, painting his fair skin a red that matched his hair.
The first instinct to drop his hand like an embarrassed teenager came and went. The second instinct was an equal impulse, but one that caused Fingon to blush deep enough to match Maedhros. Without breaking eye contact he brought their hands together and kissed the crest of Maedhros’ knuckles.
Fetching as always, Maedhros’ breath hitched. He did not pull away.
Fingon didn't need their people to call him King. He just needed Maedhros to do so.
“I have something to share with you,” said Fingon. His breath caused little hairs to rise on Maedhros’ skin.
“Do you?”
“Yes,” said Fingon. “Privately.”
Maedhros’ hand flexed in his. “Okay.”
“Careful,” Fingon teased. “They'll accuse you of being easy.”
Maedhros did not look any less embarrassed, but his shoulders firmed. “If it's you, I think it will be fine.”
“Let us go to my room, then,” said Fingon. “This is a bit of an impulse for me, I admit, so that's where everything is.”
“Okay,” agreed Maedhros, breathless. And then he asked, “What's ‘everything?’”
A few minutes later, in Fingon's room, Maedhros bemusedly held a paper with a bullet-point list in Fingon's neatest hand. “That is the summarized version for your consideration,” Fingon explained. “So it is easier to follow along my presentation and afterward you can keep it as a reference.”
“Your presentation,” Maedhros repeated.
“On certain politically gainful actions I'd like you to take in the next few centuries, or whenever Grandfather hands you the throne,” Fingon explained with patience that warred with the excited energy humming through his veins.
“Right,” said Maedhros. “Why does the first item on this list say ‘have a state wedding that reunites the three kindreds’ and is dated out to a year from now?”
“Because it will be a good opportunity to form personal connections with the current and future rulers of our distant kin, as well as establish your identity as a distinct agent in our society.”
“Which will be cemented by ‘forming my own house upon marriage’?”
“Exactly!”
“Question: Who exactly am I supposed to be marrying a year from now?”
“Me, obviously.”
Maedhros lowered the list to stare at him. “That makes more sense, I suppose. I thought you had invited me here for sex,” he admitted.
“We will get to that later,” said Fingon dismissively. “I want to ensure our goals are clearly established before everyone realizes we are together.”
“The Noldorin Communicator will have conniptions,” Maedhros’ lips quirked, then he said, “Fingon, we are cousins.”
“Half-cousins,” Fingon retorted. “Didn't care much about that when you thought I was inviting you here for sex, did you?”
Maedhros flushed. “I don't care. The people - “
“Will find that our union brought the feuding eldest sons of Finwe into cordial coexistence.”
“So sure of that, are you?”
“I've been thinking about this for a while.”
“Since you approached me at the poetry competition, I'd assume.”
Fingon nodded. It was always satisfying when Maedhros understood him so perfectly.
Maedhros glanced around Fingon's messy room office, at the list in his hand, and at Fingon himself. “I suppose this is the part where I ask ‘why you?’”
“I had also considered you might not ask that,” said Fingon, then grinned. “But yes.” With a dramatic flick he turned on the light to his projector. It illuminated the far wall with the first slide of his presentation deck, titled, ‘Why Marrying Me Is the Future of The Noldor.’
Despite the tension in his shoulders, Maedhros burst out laughing. "How modest!"
“It is one of my charms.” He cleared his throat and switched to the next slide. “Now, let me first establish my qualifications to be your co-ruler…”
Maedhros was a gratifyingly attentive audience. His expression shifted from amused to intrigued on slide 5 — earlier than Fingon had expected — and his focus did not waver until the very end of the 30 slide presentation.
“Any questions?” Fingon asked.
“Can we save those for later?” Maedhros stood to his full height and approached him with predatory intent. “I find myself filled with carnal desire for you.”
“Was it the bullet points?” Fingon allowed Maedhros to cage him against the wall, tilting his chin up invitingly.
“It was somewhere around the expanded itinerary list for your political agenda you want me to implement,” said Maedhros.
“I'll keep that in mind for the future.”
“I'm sure you will,” said Maedhros, sounding faintly exasperated, then kissed him. It was a gentle press of his lips, which did not grow any deeper even when Fingon clutched a handful of red silken hair and encouraged him downwards.
Fingon bit at the edge of Maedhros’ lip. “Don't tell me you suddenly thought of a prescient question.”
“Just one,” said Maedhros. Fingon sighed and drew back to raise both eyebrows expectantly. “It is just. Did you really only start planning this since the poetry party?”
“It hadn't occurred to me before that,” Fingon admitted easily enough.
“We'd barely ever talked before then.”
“An oversight on both our ends,” said Fingon.
Maedhros shook his head in disbelief. “In the span of a tree-light change you decided and began to carry out a plot to seduce me for the throne? And it worked?”
“You didn't make it hard.”
“It's been nine days, Findekáno. Do you know how many plots of this exact nature I've endured since moving here?”
“What can I say?” Fingon smirked and drew Maedhros back down. “I'm just that good.”