“I think now the best course of action is to find a wife for you.”

Fingon stood at the window, arms folded over his chest, expression unreadable.

“I would rather we did not have to have such a conversation, but, you need an heir,” Maedhros said simply.

“Maitimo, I have no intention of taking a wife.”

The mood of the Feanorian darkened. “You know what will happen, then. You brother will be named king instead. The last thing we need is for that to happen.”

“You should be the one wearing this crown,” argued Fingon. “You should be the one searching for a wife.”

“I gave that power to your father – and freely,” stated Maedhros.

“Freely given, I give it freely back.”

“No!” Maedhros slammed his fist against the wall, the muscles of his right arm flexing, and had his right hand still remained, it was likely it would have been clenched in anger. “Even if I took a wife, I can no longer sire children, Findekano. It would pass to Maglor, who has no desire of it, and from him to Celegorm.” Maedhros narrowed his eyes. “Even Caranthir I would trust more with such power, and that is saying little as he is so blind to the council of others I could not know which way things might go. Celegorm, I cannot. Curufin would be nearly as bad. Maybe worse, for I cannot read him so well as I can Celegorm.” Maedhros ran his hand through his red hair. “No. It must be you. Who else do we have?” Maedhros stood, pausing when he reached the door. “You must find a wife, and soon. Marry her, and sire your heir. It is the only way to guarantee the success of our quest, and your acceptance by our people. The dark lord must not know there is chaos and distrust among us. You must unite our people against him, and though you have the wit and words for it, you must also have a wife.”

“Then find one for me, Maitimo, if this is your will. For although you do not call yourself king, to me, you are the true ruler of our people. If you command me, I shall obey.”

“If that is how it shall have to be...” Maedhros sighed. “Is this what it has come to?”

Fingon did not answer, and Maedhros took his leave.

An abrupt knock on the door interrupted Fingon’s thoughts, and he lowered his quill, staring up at the door. “Come in,” he bid softly.

His butler, Tauredhel, poked his head in and frowned. “I know you asked not to be disturbed, sire, but there is a lady here who has been demanding all morning that you have been expecting her. She claims she knows you, and while it is that she knows quite a lot about you, I have never seen her before.”

“I see.” Fingon looked down at his list of appointments. He had been fairly certain when he looked this morning that none of them were scheduled until after supper. The blank spaces still appeared on the sheet before and after lunch. “It does not appear that I am expecting anyone. What is her name?”

“She will not give that information to me, sire.”

Fingon smiled slightly. There had been plenty of unexpected guests during his short reign. Some of them just wanted to talk to him about the issues that they believed were most important, while others made odd sorts of requests. Twice, there had been some threatening comments made, and since the second time Fingon had been wary about letting just anyone come to him for counsel. “Perhaps she has at least told you her errand?”

“No, sire, only that it is important she see you, and that you are expecting her.” Tauredhel shrugged. “If I had to guess, sire, I would say she is a messenger from Lord Maedhros or Lord Cirdan from the seals on the documents she carries.”

Intrigued, Fingon queried in a louder voice, “What is the name of my harp?”

Tauredhel blinked in confusion. “Why would your—“

“Alcarinoma,” announced an anxious elleth who was blocked by Tauredhel.

“Allow her in, Tauredhel,” commanded Fingon as he stood. He rearranged things neatly on his desk as the door was opened further and the elleth quickly entered before anyone could change their minds. The door closed again, leaving Fingon and the newcomer alone. “You know the name of my harp, and yet, I know not yours.”

“I am Galadaurien. Lord Maedhros asked me to come.” She made a graceful curtsey, balancing the scrolls carefully. Fingon seemed indifferent, and Galadaurien’s expression changed to one of concern. “I was told you were expecting me. My papers, recommendations and such,” she added, holding out the scrolls she carried with her to him.

Fingon took the scrolls carefully and tucked them under his arm. “I was expecting someone; perhaps, not so soon. Where are you from?”

“I came from Beleriand, from the Falas.”

“Ah, Sindarin, then.”

“No, your highness. I was born in Nevrast as Calare, but my family chose not to follow your brother when he departed Vinyamar. My father had been a jeweler. We herd sheep now, but... all of that is in the document you now have.”

After taking a second stroll around her, Fingon unwound the thick burgundy ribbons and broke the golden seals of the scrolls he held. He began to read them as he wandered back to his desk, perching upon it. The first was a lengthy family history, boasting her pedigree, and contained words of praise from neighbors, teachers, friends, and Cirdan himself. The second was from Maedhros, written in his own messy scrawl rather than with the flourish of his personal secretary.

Dearest cousin,

Per your request, one bride, chosen by me, submitted for your approval. I tried to find one more to your tastes, alas, we gingers are hard to come by. If you are pleased with her, announce your betrothal with haste; if not, send her back to me and I shall find another that might please you better.

She knows of you and I. Ask her of her brother. My writing is becoming illegible to even myself, thus I remain,

Ever yours,

Maitimo

Fingon paused after reading the letter to regain his composure. It had been a long while since his lover had addressed him in such a familiar way. Maedhros often had difficulty in showing his true emotions, and the few words of endearment he had offered in his letter made the decision before Fingon even harder to bear.

“Tell me of your brother,” he said when he finally spoke again.

Galadaurien looked uneasy, and fretted with her gloved hands. “What would you have me tell you?”

“Whatever you deem necessary. I have been advised to ask,” he said, simply holding up the letter.

“Ah. Yes, well, my brother. He was younger than I. We both lived in Nevrast with our parents. Your brother did not like him very much.”

“Why would that have been?”

She looked at the door, and then came much further into the room, approaching Fingon as he slid off the desk and back onto his feet. “Are we safe to speak in here? I am sure your guards at the door are loyal, but we could hear you in the hallway with the door closed.”

Fingon nodded, and walked to a tapestry behind the desk. Pushing it aside, he held it back for Galadaurien, revealing a small passage way. This led down a short corridor to a tiny room. The light grew dimmer until it was nonexistent in the little chamber, causing Galadaurien to take hold of Fingon’s arm so that she did not get lost. “You can speak here without fear of being overheard,” Fingon assured her as he closed the door without too much difficulty.

Nervous laughter followed. “It seems odd to speak to anyone in this total darkness.”

“Sometimes, it makes it easier to speak of things we would not say if we were looking at the ones we were saying them to.”

Galadaurien nodded, and tightened her grip upon Fingon’s arm. “My brother had an interest in... other males.”

“Ah. Well, say no more, I know my brother’s thoughts on that subject,” admitted Fingon, reaching out for the handle of the door.

“No, that is not the entire story.” Galadaurien sniffled and fought to keep her composure in telling the rest of the tale. “He was not interested in just any male. He was interested in your brother.”

Fingon fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. “Go on,” he coaxed gently as he handed the cloth to her.

“I kept telling him not to pursue the idea, but he refused to listen to me. My brother said, he could not bear watching Turgon sit for long hours alone in the garden he had planted for his late wife, that the desire he felt was because the Valar wanted him to be the one to comfort and console Turgon. Oh, he was so stupid! He was so foolishly in love. I do not know all of the details, but I was there when my brother came home one night, so pale and so lost. That morning he had been more cheerful than I can remember. He had said that it was going to be a big day, but I did not consider what he meant by that until I saw him when he returned.

“He faded so fast. He would not tell us what had happened, only that he wanted to die. Unable to think of what else to do, I went to Turgon and begged him to help my brother. Instead of explaining anything, he pretended he did not know who I was talking about, but he knew. I saw it in his eyes that he knew. So I went back to my brother, to make him comfortable. My parents were upset and afraid. They knew even less than I did, and my brother pleaded with me not to give them Turgon’s name. My parents were fiercely devoted to him and my brother did not want to interfere with that. On the third night after, in the darkest hours, Turgon came in secret to our house. He spoke with my brother in private, but I stayed where I could overhear them. Most was spoken too softly, but I did hear my brother tell yours that marriage was for the living, and Turgon argue back that it was unnatural what was suggested, for the purpose of marriage was for bearing children, not for whatever my brother suggested. My brother was too weak to argue, and he simply said, ‘It matters not; it is your loss.’ Turgon left, but not before my father came down from bed and saw him and the guilt upon his face. My brother’s spirit departed moments later, while my father held him and told him it would be alright and we would all see each other again someday in Valinor.”

“Mmm. Well.” Fingon took a deep breath and let it out. “I think I better understand his sudden decree against those like myself. Still.” Fingon tried to imagine the scenes that Galadaurien had just described. “I can see why Maitimo sent you.”

“Maitimo?”

“My cousin Maedhros.”

Galadaurien blew her nose. “Excuse me.”

“Quite alright.”

“Not very ladylike,” she further apologized.

“But absolutely necessary. Much better than drooling out of your nose for the next hour.”

She giggled slightly. “That, your highness, was a most inappropriate description.”

“Yes it was, but that is the advantage of saying it in a dark room. There is much less need for decorum in dark rooms.” Fingon paused briefly before changing the topic. “So, you have been informed by Maedhros of our situation?”

“I know the two of you are bound and I am to be the surrogate mother for your child. That was made very clear to me, and I am honored by this chance to aid my king. Admittedly, my personal feelings towards your brother are also affecting my decision. I would rather not see him become the ruler of our people, and if that means bearing you ten sons, I would do it.”

“Uh... well... uh... to begin with,” said Fingon, “I was thinking more along the lines of one or two. Two at the most. I... I-I prefer one. And, uh, secondly, Fingon and I—I mean, Maedhros and I, we are not bound, not yet.”

Galadaurien smiled at the stumbles Fingon made. “Perhaps not formally, but he referred to you quite possessively. He called you both his mate and his husband, so I only assumed it to be true.”

“Well, someday... we have never... I mean, we have done some things, but not everything and... oh, this ever so awkward even with the lights off!” He chuckled uneasily, and felt torn. Part of him was reveling in the fact that Maedhros had expressed such feelings, while he warred with the fact that Maedhros had never expressed these things to him. It had always been ‘my lover’ and ‘dearest’, not ‘my husband’ or ‘mate’.

“I suppose we just have to make sure that neither of us calls upon Eru when we consummate our marriage, then,” decided Galadaurien.

“Exactly.” Fingon paused. “Marriage. Right. Have to start planning that.”

“Maybe we should get to know each other a little bit first?” suggested Galadaurien.

“I suppose I should court you,” mumbled Fingon.

“But not for too long,” advised Galadaurien. “We need to move things along as quickly as possible.”

Fingon pondered this. “We could just say we knew each other before; that you and I met previously.”

“If that is the case, we could say we were secretly betrothed. Then you could just have the wedding whenever you wanted,” Galadaurien said.

It was meant to be a joke, but the suggestion sounded ideal to Fingon. “Theoretically, it would only take two weeks to put everything into place for it. Actually... the official coronation is planned to take place in three already. We could just add the marriage in.”

“We could do that,” replied Galadaurien, unsure of whether she was allowed to argue with a king or not.

“Alright. Three weeks, then. Was there anything else we needed to discuss? I am beginning to feel rather closed in and would like to get back into the light.”

Galadaurien shook her head, and then said, “No, nothing I can think of.”

“Wonderful. Then I will see you in three weeks.” Fingon led a slightly disappointed elleth out of the dark chamber. When he saw her frown in the light, he mentally kicked himself and said, “We should probably be seen together ahead of time... would you... are you free this evening?”

A small smile replaced the gloom. “I have nothing planned at the present time.”

“Would you care to join me for supper?”

“I would be delighted to join you for supper and a walk in the gardens afterwards.”

“Oh... well, I have these appointments...” he began, lifting up the sheet.

“And I am sure they will be understanding when you cancel them to spend the evening with your beloved betrothed, who journeyed far on her own through perilous lands to be at your side for your coronation.”

“Oh... well, yes, I...” Fingon lowered the paper onto the desk. “You made the trip on your own?”

“Your cousin escorted me the first two days, but he had business to return to. It was fairly uneventful. I only encountered the orcs once.”

“Only once. I will not ask how many there were, for it will just worry me more. If you will pardon my sending you off, but I have letters to write and appointments to cancel.” Fingon walked Galadaurien to the door, and upon opening it, motioned for Tauredhel to come forth. “Would you mind finding a room for my fiancé near to my own? She is tired from her journey and is in need of rest before supper.”

“Of course, sire, I will—“ The full meaning of Fingon’s words hit the butler. “Fian—well, of course, of course! I will see to it immediately, sire! Right this way, m’lady,” he added, bowing to Galadaurien.

Fingon shut the door, and bolted it from the inside now. He took a moment before looking to his desk. Once more he read through the documents that had been sent, and then they would need to be destroyed, for they revealed too much. A log was already burning in the fireplace. Fingon pulled a stool over and removed the grate. He reread Cirdan’s letter, looking for any hidden message of any sort, then crushed it into a ball and tossed it onto the fire. The genealogies were next, followed by the recommendations.

He saved the letter from Maedhros for the last, and found himself staring at it, not wanting to destroy it though he had easily memorized it the first time he had read it. Very carefully, and against his best judgment, he tore around the part with the words ‘Ever Yours’ on it, and threw the rest at the flames before he had time to reconsider. The small slip of paper he rolled very carefully between his fingers until it was a tiny scroll barely a centimeter long, and almost sliver thin.

Around his neck was a chain, which he now lifted. There was a radiant sapphire that hung from it, kept tucked under his shirt so as not to attract so much attention to it. He turned it over and ran his fingernail along the side until he heard the soft click that opened the hidden compartment. Inside the small space were items of little use, but of great value to Fingon. A bead, an eyelash, and a tiny scrap of black cloth were all nestled against a tuft of red hair. To this hodgepodge, the rolled up sheet was added. Fingon looked over his treasures, hardly breathing, not daring to touch them for fear one might be knocked out and lost. Then the compartment was closed once more.

Allegiance to the Crown

“Sire, the crown has arrived. Would you like to see it before the coronation, or shall I have the guards sent to protect it until then?”

Fingon wrung out the cloth he had been using to wash behind his ears and draped it over the side of the tub. “Maybe I should try it on prior to the ceremony. Or, would that bring bad luck?”

Tauredhel looked concerned. “I do not have that information, sire. Shall I ask the head librarian to find out?”

“No. Well, maybe. Yes, I suppose you should. I wonder if I should check on Galadaurien this afternoon.”

As Fingon sat up in the bath, Tauredhel took his cue to bring over the pitcher of warm water and used it to wash the suds out of the soon-to-be-crowned king’s dark hair. “Sire,” he said carefully as he set the empty pitcher aside and retrieved a large towel, “I do believe that seeing your bride would indeed be a breach in protocol.”

“I know, but...” Fingon sighed as he stood up, one hand on the rim of the tub to steady himself. “Tauredhel, it is only fair for you to know this, and I must entrust this information to you with the hope that you will not tell another soul.”

“Your majesty, I have never nor will I ever in the future utter to anyone a word that you say, whether intended to be in confidence or not, save what it is you ask me to tell others!” Tauredhel waited until Fingon had secured the towel around his waist, and then bowed down upon one knee. “When I swore my allegiance to your father, it was to his house, and now to you I do so again. By all of the stars in the heavens, may my life be forfeit if your trust I break.”

For a moment, Fingon looked down at his butler, speechless. “Uh, Tauredhel—“

“Yes, sire?”

“I... I need another towel for my hair,” he said, looking around. Fingon would have retrieved one himself, but he did not exactly know where they were kept, and so—

“Here we are, sire.” Tauredhel held out the item, and cowered once more once it was taken.

“Oh, do get up,” begged Fingon, who bent down and pulled Tauredhel back into a standing position. “We have well established that you are not about to speak to others about things that go on in this room. If I did not already trust you with my life, well…” He raised his hands out to either side. “Look about. I can count ten ways you could have killed me while I bathed.”

“Your majesty! I would never!” Tauredhel was back down up both knees now. “Your majesty, I—“

“Tauredhel! On your feet!” Fingon glared slightly, which would have been an amusement had Tauredhel not truly been scared of the slight ellon who was shorter than he was. “It was only an observation. Now, I expect that sort of behavior shall not continue; I have important things to tell you. Come with me, and bring my comb.”

Fingon led the way to the parlor. The windows had been opened earlier that morning by the maid and a light breakfast sat untouched on a cart, save for a cup of tea that had been sweetened and barely sipped and a few nibbles on a thin slice of sugared bread. When returned later to the kitchen, one might mistake it for the remains left by one of the ladies instead of the leftovers from the king.

Once he had settled onto the settee, Fingon motioned to one of the chairs across the room. Dutifully, Tauredhel dusted it off. “Sit in it,” commanded Fingon in exasperation.

Tauredhel swallowed hard but did as he was told, perching just on the edge of the chair. “Sire,” he said in a bit of a panic, “Master Fingolfin begged me never sit upon the furniture like this.”

“It is a chair, Tauredhel, where are you supposed to sit, the floor?”

“Sire, I am on duty. I should not be sitting, in case you should have need for my services.” Tauredhel’s muscles were taut, ready to launch himself into motion at any moment should Fingon have a task for him.

“Relax, Tauredhel. Please.” Fingon waited until finally Tauredhel moved a little further back. “I think you have a right to know what is going on. Galadaurien and I are getting married so that I have a means to producing an heir.”

“Of course, sire,” said Tauredhel, cheeks colored crimson. “I would expect as much from most married couples.”

“Yes, well, the difference is that we are marrying for just that purpose. She was selected for me; I did not know her before the first day she came here.”

“Then you do not love her?” asked Tauredhel in shock.

Fingon shifted slightly as he worked the tangles out of his wet hair. “She is a very nice lady, and I love her for the sacrifice she is making, but I do not truly love her as a husband would and should.”

“That seems cruel.” Tauredhel bit his lip. “Forgive me, sire, I spoke out of turn.”

Placing the comb aside, Fingon worked through the snarls with his fingers. “I am not angered, but I am curious. How so, Tauredhel?”

“You are denying another, who might love her, the chance to be with her,” he explained carefully. “You deny her that ability, to choose such a path instead.”

“She was not forced into this. Freely, she has chosen this path, and she has assured me that she has no desire or interest in anyone at this time. On the other hand, it is I who am melancholy over this marriage, for although I understand it is necessary, there is another with whom I would rather be, and cannot.”

“Then it is true,” ventured Tauredhel.

“What is true?”

“That you followed your cousin here from Valinor because of your lover for him.”

Fingon looked down at the floor with a frown. “It is so obvious?”

“Well, you did rescue him from Morgoth, sire, from a peril no other would dare venture into.”

“Yes,” said Fingon quietly. “That I did.”

Tauredhel sat in the chair awkwardly until recalling his uncompleted errand. “Sire, I must be dismissed to go to the library, to look for the information regarding your crown and whether it is bad luck to try it on.”

“Oh... yes, that would be fine, thank you. You are dismissed.” Fingon waited until Tauredhel had gone before wandering to the serving cart. There was a bowl of cream with fruit in it, and he used a spoon to remove the pieces of fruit and set them on a small plate. He placed the bowl on the floor and took the fruit to the window, setting it on the ledge for the hummingbirds to enjoy. When he returned to the cart, there were already three cats nudging one another in order to get the best position around the bowl of cream. Fingon licked the cream from the spoon slowly before placing it on the cart as someone knocked on the door.