Chapter Text
“It is certainly not the first time he will kneel for him, if you understand me,” a Noldo blabbermouth with a hairdo resembling a ruffled bird mutters to her even more preposterously attired lord husband.
They gobble under their breaths like a pair of half-witted turkeys as Maedhros walks, solemn and ceremonious, down the Great Hall of Barad Eithel. He pays them no heed, for that kind of plebeian, envious, and frankly, utterly lacking in originality gossip is as old as the crown that now rests upon Fingon’s brow.
The first to say it plainly to his face had, to no one’s surprise, been Curufin: “Atonement and statesmanship! Do not take me for a fool, Nelyafinwë. You whore out our father's legacy for our cousin’s whispers in your ears and his hands upon your thighs.”
Others of his brothers had been somewhat less crass, like Maglor, whose sole performance at the Mereth Aderthad to celebrate the renewed friendship among the sons of Finwë, had been that little tune improvised in the wee hours of the night. Undoubtedly spurred on by his own carnal forays, Maglor had delivered the song with quite the corporeal theatrics right in front of Maedhros where he had sat by Fingon’s side in honor. To Maedhros’ frustration, its catchy chorus about oh my prince’s sword is long, his lance is keen, has remained steadily in popularity for more than four centuries of this new age. It has even developed some embellished variations rasped out at drunken mannish feasts, if Caranthir is to be believed.
Brutes, the lot of them, thinks Maedhros now as he falls before Fingon, gaze filled with pure devotion. What do they know of true fraternity, of friendship that endures in the face of all adversity, of sacrifice for the greater cause of prosperity and peace among their people? All that Maedhros has ever done since inheriting the lordship of his house has been in the name of unity and civic duty. He places a chaste kiss upon the hand of his king, his savior, the one whose prayer was heard by Manwë even in exile.
And later, behind closed doors, when Fingon stands before him, shaft erect as a freshly forged blade, Maedhros kneels once more with a deep conviction that there is no greater honor to be had than a life of service and loyalty.
“For the Noldor,” Maedhros whispers reverently, and swallows the High King to the hilt.