Not Again

“Your Highness!” Fingon’s steward bowed and handed Fingon a letter. Before he could even see the seal, he smelled Finrod’s cologne, sweet scents of lavender, beaugement and rose. The letter was thick and heavy.

Greetings, my beloved, adventurous Cousin, Fingon read as he made his way from his study to his bedchamber. I pray all remains well in Hithlum. Nargothrond continues to prosper since our last correspondence. How delightful it is to govern a kingdom of one's own. You would make a fine regent. I encourage you to ask Uncle for land of your own to govern. How is it that Maedhros can play warlord in Himring, yet the Crown Prince-- 

Fingon laughed lightly and skimmed to the middle of the letter, knowing he would find the point there. 

I write to recommend a young elf to your service, Gilmir Guilinion. A S He is the son of one of my esteemed Lords. Do you remember Guilin Oiastarion? He was that quiet, darkly dressed little elf that used to follow Orodreth like a grey, oversized duckling. He crossed the Ice, though he stayed mostly by Orodreth’s side. Apparently, he met his Valinor-born wife only when he arrived in Bele--

With a roll of his eyes, Fingon jumped several paragraphs. Gelmir is Guilin’s second son. His firstborn, Gwindor--

“Varda have mercy,” Fingon muttered. "Not another character." He breathed through his nose a few times, changed into his dressing gown and slipped beneath the covers. Comfortable, he resumed the novel his cousin wrote, this time skipping two pages ahead. Gelmir Guilinion is well matched to be your squire. You will find him bright, agreeable, and possessing many of the qualities you so steadfastly admire. He shall arrive with his father within a fortnight.

“Oh, how sweet!” 

“Thank you."

Fingon jumped at the sound of Maedhros’ voice. Maedros loomed in the shadows of his doorway, hair catching the glow of the fire. Fingon took a moment to admire him, ignoring Maedhros’ darkening face. It was their compromise: Fingon could look upon him with adoration, so long as no praise past his lips. “Good evening, Russo. I didn’t see you there."

Maedhros glowered. “You need to train more. Be more alert. Suppose I were an orc--” 

“An orc who somehow slipped through the gates, up the steps, past my guards, and fearsome cousin all without raising an alarm?" He grinned. “Well, if that be so, I would proudly bear my throat, for an orc with such skill deserves to slay Fingon the Valiant.

Maedhros’ expression did not change, but his nostrils flared once, then twice, then a third time, a clear indication he was holding back laughter.

“I brought you a warm drink and ginger cake.” He approached. “I thought you were talking to me.”

Fingon wound a thick tress of red hair around his finger. “Mmmm, my favourite bedtime treats. Spiced wine and ginger.” He yanked the curl. “I’ll have the ginger first. You’re sweet too.”

“Hmm,” Maedhros hummed as his eyes flashed. He dodged Fingon’s attempt to kiss him. “What was sweet before me?”

Fingon handed him a page. “Only read the last five paragraphs. Those before and after are filler.”

Maedhros rolled his eyes. “A letter from Finrod then.”

Fingon sipped the warm, watered-down wine, watching a crease form between  Maedhros’ brows.

“What?”

“Finrod says you are well matched with this Guilion lad, but does not say why.”

“Yes, he does. Findo says he’s bright, agreeable and possessing qualities I admire.”

“Yes,” Maedhros drawled, “but he doesn’t list them. Why does he suggest you? Findo doesn’t have a squire.  Why not take young Guilinion for himself?”

Fingon pressed his lips and snatched his letter back. “Maybe he plans to use the elder brother.” 

A copper eyebrow arched, and Fingon wanted to push it down. "Guilin won't send off his heir. The boy will learn from his father.” His eyes glowed. “No, Findrod doesn’t want this…Gelmir. I want to know why.”

“Findo doesn’t have a conniving bone in his body, o’ cynical one. Not all of us are sons of Feanor. No, Findo is just being a sweet, younger cousin who wishes for me to have a dutiful squire."

Maedhros rolled his eyes. 

“If you keep doing that,” Fingon said acidly, “your eyes will get stuck in the back of your head, you know.” 

Maedhros ignored him and started dressing for bed. Fingon pointedly looked away, with his most haughty sniff. “Qualities you admire…he’s hiding something. Guilin…” Maehdors mused. “I recall him somewhat. He was an overly timid, quiet little thing in Valinor.” 

“Well, I’m not employing him…only his son. And if this familial line has taught me anything, it is that sons are often nothing like their fathers--”

Maedhros head snapped up, eyes alert and gleaming like a hound who caught the scent. “That’s it! Guilin’s son is nothing like him. Quite the opposite, I’ll wager my right hand.”

Fingon pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. He could feel Maedhros' eyes on him, waiting. Fingon held his composure, and he said, “I like bold elflings.” 

Maedhros started laughing. “Gelmir is too bold for Findo.” 

“Oh stop it.” 

Maedhros laughed harder, deep and scratchy like rocks crashing down a mountain. Fingon's shivered, a deep sense of foreboding creeping into his pleasant evening.

Maedhros grinned with all his teeth. “Gelmir Guilinion is too much for the Finrod Felagund! And he has sent the youth to you.” 

Get him for your wall here