Family Gossip by StarSpray

Family Gossip

“So, what is her name?” Maglor threw himself onto the pillows beside Fingon. It was quiet—relatively so—in Fingon’s tent, away from the continuing noise of the celebrations outside. Small crystal lamps had been strung between the tent poles, and Fingon had been just about to douse them when his cousin had come tumbling in through the flap.

“Whose name?” Fingon asked, tugging the sleeve of his robe out from underneath Maglor’s elbow.

“That Sindarin lady that saved your life and made you fall in love with her.” Maglor had his lap harp with him, and plucked a few strings—the first notes of a love song that had been popular in Tirion long ago, when Fingon had been very young and prone to sticking out his tongue at the mere suggestion that he would ever fall in love. “Irissë was talking of her but I missed her name, and couldn’t get a word in edgewise to ask.”

Fingon gave him a flat look. “Why are you gossiping about me with my sister?” he asked.

“I just told you, I wasn’t.” Maglor grinned over at him; his hair was falling out of its braids, and a few tangles lay across his forehead. “Your sister was the one doing the gossiping—mostly to Angrod, really. I just happened to be there to listen. Also Daeron was there. He knows her name, probably, but he left to talk to—someone, I forget who—and I didn’t get a chance to ask. So I am asking you. What’s her name?”

“You,” Fingon pronounced, “are drunk. I am not going to give you anyone’s name just so you can make up a silly drunken ballad. We do want an alliance with the Sindar, you know.”

“I’m not that drunk,” Maglor said. “And I promise I will write no ballads, either silly or drunken, though either would be nothing but complimentary, I assure you. Also I note you have not denied being in love with this lady.”

Fingon sighed and got up to pour himself a drink. He was too sober for even a mildly tipsy Maglor, who was like a dog with a bone when he wanted something. “You minstrels always want it to be love at first sight. I cannot give you that. I liked her from the start, and I think it might be turning into love, but it would be nice if I could have more time to talk to her and figure it out without busybody relatives hovering over my shoulder.” That was not entirely true. He was more than half-certain he was more than halfway in love. But he hadn’t thought about the pitfalls of trying to get to know Glingaereth at the feast—those being his siblings and cousins. He didn’t regret asking her to come, of course, else he suspected he would have never seen her again. But however healed they all wanted to the rift between the Noldor to be, Fingon did not particularly want to share that sort of heart-to-heart with Maglor, whose ideas of romance seemed eternally caught in songs and old tales.

“But what is her name?” Maglor asked plaintively.

“Glingaereth,” Fingon sighed, after taking a long draught of wine. Her name tasted sweeter than the drink, which was from one of the first vintages the Noldor had made in Beleriand, and therefore the worst.

“A lovely name for a lovely maiden,” said Maglor. “Is she one of Círdan’s people?”

“No, her people are wanderers. But I gather she’s spent quite a lot of time at the Falas.” Fingon frowned into his cup, and then looked over at Maglor. “Anyway, how do you know how lovely she is? You didn’t even know her name until just now.”

“All maidens that princes fall in love with must be lovely,” Maglor said airily. Fingon threw a cushion at him, and he laughed. “Also, I saw her at my performance with Daeron tonight—she was the one you were watching more attentively than you were listening to us.”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” said Fingon. They both knew performance had been sublime.

Maglor teased him for a little while longer, plucking at his harp while he did so, until Fingon threatened to take it and throw it into the Pools of Ivrin. Then Maglor sat up, stretched, and shoved Fingon’s shoulder. “All else aside,” he said, suddenly serious, “I am glad for you, and I wish you joy—and luck, if you need it.”

He left the tent, and a burst of laughter from somewhere nearby flowed in with the breeze as he did. Fingon secured the flap behind him, wishing for no more visitors that evening. He lay back and gazed up at the lamps, shining like little crystal stars against the canvas. He caught himself grinning up at them, comparing them to both stars and to the freckles scattered like constellations over Glingaereth’s cheekbones, and shook his head at himself. He whistled a single sharp notes, and the lamps went out, leaving him in darkness.

Somewhere nearby voices burst into merry song as Fingon drifted to sleep, dreaming of starlight shining in dark eyes beneath dark hair.