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.
