By Invitation Only by Rocky41_7  

By Invitation Only

           It was raining, of course. Of course it was raining. Maglor kicked at a puddle, and missed. Maedhros seethed beside her. Maglor opened her mouth to complain.

           “Don’t. Do it.” It was the first Maedhros had spoken in the last fifteen minutes, and it wasn’t a standard, peaceable Maedhros silence either. It was the silence of Maedhros possibly plotting a murder, with Maglor the only viable victim in sight.

           “It’s not my—”

           “If you finish that sentence, Maglor, I will kill you, so help me Ilúvatar, I will kill you.” Maglor halted on the sidewalk and glared, folding her arms.

           “How can it be my fault that your bingo night-attending sugar mommy got all snitty—”

           “Do not bring her into this,” Maedhros snarled, spinning to look at Maglor in a way that made Maglor take a pace backwards, her high heels clicking against the wet pavement. “This is about you, and your chronic inability to behave like a fucking adult! ‘Behave yourself,’ I said. And what did you say? What did you say, Maglor?  ‘I will, Maedhros!’” She pitched her voice at a falsetto, which was terribly inaccurate, because Maglor’s voice was much lower than Maedhros’. “And now…” Maedhros was grinding her teeth in the way her dentist had warned her not to. “I have never in my life been escorted out by security.”

           “And now you have,” Maglor sulked, twisting the toe of one foot against the slick pavement. “So what?” 

           Maedhros looked as if she were weighing the pros and cons of pushing Maglor into oncoming traffic. But before she could come out with a truly cutting response—or calm herself enough to make a reply about how disappointed she was, something that might actually shame Maglor—a car drew up alongside them. It was a chic black number, nothing Maglor could have named on sight, but one that looked expensive, a fact augmented by the evenly tinted windows and spotless rims. Maglor also did not register that it was an electric, but it was. Presently, the back window facing the sidewalk rolled down.

           “Having a nice walk home?” Daeron crowed over Luthien. She had a champagne flute of fruit juice in one hand.

           “It’s all her fault!” Maglor exploded at Maedhros, pointing a finger at the sneering woman in the back seat. “You did this!” she accused Daeron, who smiled with insufferable smugness.

           “I didn’t make you lose your temper and cause such a scene,” Daeron replied, with a look in her eyes that said quite plainly she’d gotten exactly the outcome she wanted.

           “You—you—!” Maglor fumed incoherently, balling her fists up. 

           “Stop embarrassing yourself,” Maedhros snapped. “Take responsibility for once.”

           “Yeah, Maglor,” Daeron echoed. “Take responsibility. You got yourself kicked out all on your own.” She clicked her tongue in mock dismay. Her eyeshadow glittered in the light from the streetlamp, a seductive green against the deep brown of her eyelids.

“Do you have some message for us?” Maedhros asked, seeking not to sound too hopeful.

“Oh, sorry, did Thingol’s opinion on earlier not seem clear enough?” said Daeron. 

           “Daeron, don’t be crass,” Lúthien chided evenly.

“Yeah, don’t be crass, you puffed-up, simpering, ass-kissing—”

“Maglor!” Maedhros only refrained from physical violence because other people were looking.

Daeron stuck her tongue out at Maglor and then put the window up. The car moved on and Maglor emphatically flipped them off in the rearview mirror.

           “Cunt!” she bellowed after the car. “Talentless, paid-for hack!”

           Maedhros had started walking again, and Maglor hurried to catch up.

           “Can’t we call a car?” she wheedled. “Your phone still has battery, doesn’t it?” 

           “If I call a car, it’s for me,” said Maedhros. Maglor had the gall to look betrayed. 

           “And what am I supposed to do?”

           “Take the bus,” said Maedhros savagely. 

           By the time they made it back to the apartment, Maglor’s shoes were destroyed and her feet were both throbbing and freezing, and Maedhros was just as mad as she had been when they first left. Worse still, there was a cream-colored, embossed envelope waiting on the welcome mat. Maedhros snatched it up before Maglor could catch more than a glimpse, and tore it open as she stumbled in, dripping all over the entryway floor. 

           Maedhros staggered against the wall, the paper from the envelop clutched in one hand, as if she had just received news of a loved one’s bloody demise. 

           “What is it?” Maglor asked, wringing her dress out over the welcome mat.

           “I am not going to be invited to any future events until I ‘learn to comport myself like an adult,’” Maedhros replied distantly, as if only vaguely aware of Maglor’s question. Beads of rainwater slid off her hand onto the paper. Maglor snorted.

           “What a pretentious—” That was all she got out before the front door slammed in her face, and the lock clicked into place.

***

           “This is really not necessary,” Maedhros was saying, trying to sound reasonable, and not like the woman who, moments before, had been trying to strangle a fellow guest. It was remarkable, Maglor thought, how quickly Maedhros could switch tracks like that. Hearing her now, she sounded the picture of a responsible and upright young woman. Maybe this little act was what had netted her the invite in the first place. 

           The security team did not slow down in hustling the pair down the back stairs to the exit. The stairwell was filled with the solid clunk of security guard boots and the tightly-wound clicking of Maedhros and Maglor’s heels (Maedhros never wore more than a kitten, but she’d worn a champagne set for that night which she had thought paired fetchingly with her suit, a little burst of femininity she was now regretting. Being escorted out in flats might have been marginally less humiliating.)

           “Ma’am, please,” said one of them, a Man, putting a hand on her shoulder to make sure she didn’t try to turn around and slip back upstairs. One of them handed Maedhros back her clutch purse, which she had pointed out to them on the floor as they were being pulled away from the wreckage.

           Maglor had stopped howling for them to let go of her, and was now primly picking her way down the steps, wondering if it would be possible to make a break for it when they reached the exit to prevent Maedhros from finishing the earlier job. Unfortunately, having forgotten to charge her phone the night before, she was now somewhat reliant on Maedhros for a ride back to their apartment.

           “We are aware of the exit,” Maedhros said, a hint of testiness indicating her earlier temper was not entirely cool.

           “Ma’am.” 

           Maedhros went quiet, and Maglor thought the affair might be past, except that Maedhros apparently could not resist turning with some pleading eyes to the pair of guards behind them to say: “If I could just speak with her, I could clear up—”

           “Ma’am. If you would keep moving towards the exit, please.” 

           “Oh let it go,” Maglor snapped. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

           Maedhros gave a tiny exhale of despair, and kept walking.

***

           Maedhros returned to the main hall nearly as sated as if Thingol had fingered her off in one of the stalls, and with a foolish lightness in her chest as she cast her gaze around the room. It did register relatively soon that Maglor was not at their table, but she, with perhaps a dose of willful ignorance, decided to believe this was not because Maglor was out disobeying Maedhros’ direct demands.

           Thus, her guard was down as she returned to the high little table to sip a bit more at her pre-dinner champagne, and she did not see Maglor approach before she heard her.

           “Is it true? Are you fucking Thingol?” 

           Since infancy Maglor had struggled with what Mother Nerdanel called “moderating your voice,” and Maedhros was certainly not the only person in the room who heard that question. Her skin began to crawl at once.

           Her mouth stopped up as the gears of her brain jammed between thinking she’d fallen asleep in the restroom and drifted into one of her own nightmares, and what was the most socially acceptable way to immediately stop Maglor from making another sound. 

           “Well?” Maglor did not give her much time. “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me Daeron is full of shit, like always.” 

           “I told you not to bother Daeron,” said Maedhros automatically, a deflection which did not fool even Maglor.

           “Are you fucking that bitch’s patron?” 

           Maedhros froze too long. She froze too long because a part of her wanted to brag. Elu Thingol wants me, it’s true. Elu Thingol sought me out for attention. Elu Thingol took me to her private estate and let me dine with her and her wife. Elu Thingol calls me “good girl” while I suck her strap. 

           Maglor’s jaw hit the floor.

           “You are? You’re fucking grandpa Finwë’s best friend?” Maglor’s voice was growing impossibly louder. “She’s married!” Maedhros did not have the time to explain the particulars and idiosyncrasies of Thingol and Melian’s marriage or the fact that Melian was well aware—likely more aware than Maedhros would want her to be—of what Thingol and Maedhros got up to right now. “She’s old!” Did Maglor not understand this was part of the appeal? “What is wrong with you? How could you do this to me? Daeron’s patron?”

           “Shut up,” Maedhros hissed, advancing quickly into Maglor’s space. “Shut up!” Maglor was still making noise, so Maedhros, in a panic, defaulted to a method she had not used since they were teenagers: putting Maglor in a headlock. She had not gotten weaker since the last time she’d done it.

“Augh! Goddammit Maedhros, let go!” Maglor cried, more in irritation than alarm as she twisted about trying to loosen Maedhros’ grip. She punched back with her elbow, but Maedhros was too desperate to be deterred by nearly being winded. “Get off me!” she screeched.

           “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Maedhros growled. “We’ll talk about it later!”

            Maglor’s backwards-flailing hand caught the necklace beneath Maedhros’ shirt and she thrust it back into Maedhros’ breastbone, which was enough to loosen her grip so Maglor could escape. Getting free, she shoved Maedhros away from her for good measure, which unfortunately sent Maedhros reeling back into their table, which, being top-heavy by design, went over quite easily. Furthermore, the rim of its base caught Maedhros’ foot as she staggered backwards, which took her over too and she hit the ground in a cacophony of glass and porcelain (no disposable or plastic anything at one of Thingol and Melian’s events) shattering on the paraquet floor. 

           “I can’t believe you would do this to me!” Maglor had been further aggravated by Maedhros’ battery of her person, and thus disinclined to go quietly, but at least she wasn’t yelling anymore. “Does familial loyalty mean nothing to you? Don’t you care about my career at all?” Still, much of the damage was already done.

           There were people watching them. There were so many people watching them. They were a spectacle. Maedhros could think only of putting an end to it; she scrambled to her feet and seized the front of Maglor’s dress, which regrettably got her hollering again.

           “Let me go! Let go! Does Grandfather know about this? Do the moms know about this? Mother Fëanor would never—”

           It was time to try some diplomacy, at which Maedhros had always excelled more than the rest of the family. Coincidentally, this was when someone else started shouting for security.

“I’m going to bury you alive, you selfish fucking imbecile,” Maedhros snarled.

           “Someone’s being attacked in here!” one of the other guests exclaimed. “Security! Security!” There was the pounding of flat-soled shoes on the wood floor.

           Maedhros was about to start dragging Maglor into a private hallway to murder her to death when the security guards descended on them. She had a moment of catching Thingol’s eye then, as a pair of dwarves in black and white security uniforms wrenched her away from Maglor, twisting her arms behind her back, and she did not think she had ever felt her heart crater quite so hard or so fast as seeing the disapproval written so plainly across Thingol’s face. The floor was gone from under her feet; she couldn’t stay upright; her bones were jelly. The moon had been swallowed out of the sky. The future was snuffed out like a candle; there was only and would only ever be the endless agony of the present.

           No, no, no, she wanted to cry. It’s not my fault! I didn’t do this!

           “Shall we take them out?” one of the guards asked Thingol. She raised one long-fingered hand in a faint gesture for the guards to slow down, to be gentle. 

           “I think they would do well to take some fresh air,” she said. “For the remainer of the evening.” She was angry. Maedhros could tell. Thingol could never hide it when she was angry. Maedhros felt she was watching the sky overhead splinter like her shattered champagne flute. No, no, this was all wrong—

           Wait! she wanted to wail. But the guards were already pushing them across the room towards the back exit, and all she could do was twist her head to try to keep her eyes on Thingol. 

           The last thing she saw before the heavy oak door swung shut behind them, locking her into her personal realm of eternal torment, was that penetrating look of disappointment.

***

           Maedhros caught Thingol alone in one of the side hallways, returning from the restroom, and for a moment she thought the older woman would glide right past her as if they were strangers (which might have been titillating in its own way); but Maedhros slanted her eyes at Thingol, and Thingol came to a stop at a conversational distance.

           “I am pleased to see you found the time, little one,” said Thingol, and not from anyone else on Arda, nor all of Eá, nay not from Eru Ilúvatar himself would Maedhros have tolerated being addressed as such, yet from this one woman, it made something in her quiver from her toes to her crown. There was a warmth in Thingol’s face, even as they spoke at such casual distance, that even Maedhros could not deny, and it seemed to fill her up like a sweet cup of tea on a brisk afternoon.

           “I would not have missed it,” Maedhros replied, with the proper incline at her waist that a Noldo youth showed to an elder, which failed to disguise the faint pass of tongue over lip. “I wanted to see what you would wear.” She raised her eyes again to Thingol and raked her eyes up and down. “It was well worth the time.” Something needy must have shown in her expression—Thingol never loved her more than when she was ready to beg—for Thingol stepped forward and gripped the back of her skull, turning Maedhros’ face up to her so that she could lay an open-mouthed kiss on Maedhros’ lips. 

           Maedhros gripped the front of Thingol’s silver dress, longing to dig her hands into that gloriously silky hair, which Thingol had twisted up into an impressively complex set of braids for the evening. Her wide hands spread over Thingol’s chest; the smell of Thingol’s woody perfume was all around her.

           Despite an effort at maintaining control, Maedhros remained too aware of how near they were to a veneer of privacy, how easily Thingol might maneuver her into one of the bathroom stalls and slide her spidery hand down the front of Maedhros’ pants, and her knees wobbled. 

           But she didn’t, of course.

           Thingol withdrew timely, and massaged the base of Maedhros’ skull with her hand for a moment, making the younger woman shiver and her eyes slide nearly shut. Then, she carefully detached Maedhros’ hands from her with only a lifted eyebrow as commentary. Maedhros struck her most arrogant expression in hopes of hiding any fluster; she had been horrified to learn that Thingol had noticed a pattern in Maedhros’ interest in sucking on her breasts. 

           “Do make sure you get something to eat,” was all she said, until she was several paces past Maedhros, whereupon she turned, looked her up and down twice in quick succession, and added: “It looks well on you. I knew it would.” A self-satisfied smirk turned up the corner of her mouth, and Maedhros shifted her posture, putting herself in her custom suit a little more on display. A part of her wanted to unbutton her blouse, to show Thingol the necklace she wore—which Thingol had also given her, as reward (among other, less tangible things) when she was accepted into graduate school.

           “Enjoy yourself,” Thingol tossed over her shoulder with a little smile as she turned and sailed back into the main hall.

           Maedhros went into the restroom, and was very briefly tempted to go at herself, but refrained. It would be better if she waited until she had time truly alone with Thingol. That was something Thingol had taught her in no small measure—the pleasure of waiting for a promised reward. Instead, she rinsed her face, took a few moments to collect herself, and then returned to the gala.

           Elsewhere, Maglor was at confrontations of her own.

           In fairness to her, the initial confrontation was not of her own making. Daeron appeared at her side as she was gathering a plate of hors d’oeuvres to take back to the table at which she and Maedhros were stationed. 

           “Congratulations,” said Daeron in a tone which presaged trouble. 

           “On what?” Maglor asked, somewhat stiffly. She glanced to her side, where Daeron looked like some fairy sprite, dressed all in green and gold in something she almost certainly had not chosen herself. Maglor had seen too much of Daeron’s own fashion to think she’d think to choose anything so dressy on her own. Her microbraids were gathered elegantly up into a bun on the back of her head, but for two which hung down, one beside each ear, which sported brassy cuffs making it look that tiny dragonflies were alighting on her ears. The warm brown hollow of her throat and her collarbones were exposed by the neckline of her dress. And there was a very threatening look in her eyes, pale green and turned upwards at the corners as if to hint at perpetual mischief. Having looked on her, Maglor found it hard to look away.

           “Finally getting an invitation to one of Thingol and Melian’s galas, of course! Not that you couldn’t afford the entry fee, but without the invitation, that’s not worth much.” She shrugged. Maglor could have made a joke about Daeron not being able to afford the donation required—it was some environmental protection charity this time, she thought, Thingol had no end of environmental charities to sponsor—but that was a bit gauche of a jab even for her.

           “I suppose you’re here as staff?” she said instead, which was fair enough to pass her muster. 

           “Oh, I’ll probably play something later,” said Daeron, waving a hand. “Thingol likes it when I play for the party, and Lúthien likes to dance.” She was untroubled by Maglor’s efforts at insult, and that was troubling. Then again, it was Maglor who was truly devoted to their rivalry; Daeron most often took delight in feigning she didn’t even know who Maglor was. “How did you get one, anyway?”

           “Maedhros did,” said Maglor without thinking, and the sharky grin that spread across Daeron’s face suggested she had known this already. 

           “Oh yes, that’s right, isn’t it? You’re a plus-one.” She watched the motion of Daeron’s delicate throat as she spoke; she had a higher voice than Maglor (not saying much) and it was smooth and well-moderated; Daeron always used the tone she meant to use (and had a phenomenal ear for copying others’ voices). In singing, Maglor was confident, Daeron could not outdo her; but her voice was less grating to listen to than others’…with the exception of the drivel that came out of her mouth.

           “And you aren’t?” Maglor asked, irritated and concerned. “Where is Lúthien? She shouldn’t let you off the leash like this. I’m surprised you managed to peel yourself off her side.” 

           “Did Maedhros say how she got one? Was it originally for your grandpa?” Finwë and Thingol went way back—back to before the moon and sun, they liked to joke. 

           “No, she didn’t. Why are you so interested? Is annoying me supposed to make you feel better about my receiving the Influential Classical Artist of the Year award again?”

           Daeron deserved an award herself for how well she blinked total ignorance and nonchalance, as if she’d never even heard of such a thing; as if she’d never been present at the presentation of that same award. 

           “Oh, did you? Congratulations.” 

           “If you’re looking to rehash our Twitter argument, this is not the place,” said Maglor primly. 

           “Argument?” said Daeron, batting sage-green eyes at her in a way which Maglor supposed let her get away with actual murder and possibly even littering with Thingol. “We had an argument?” But she couldn’t keep that smirk off her mouth. Maglor turned fully away from the hors d’oeuvres to squint at her.

           “About your new single.”

           “You thought that was an argument?” Daeron trilled a laugh. “I thought we were having fun!”

           “You wrote three rhyming couplets about my failing career,” Maglor could not help but snap. They had gotten a lot of retweets, too. 

           “And? I had fun,” said Daeron, and if she had been at all bothered by anything Maglor said, it seemed she was determined not to show it. 

           “You had fun when my counterargument was highlighted on the trending page, too?” Maglor sneered. It hadn’t been an argument so much as a stream of colorful verbal assault, but apparently people had liked the sound of it. “I heard someone started a petition to get you kicked off the board of the Doriath Regional Music Council. How’s that going?”

           Daeron shrugged, still smiling. 

           Maglor rolled her eyes, grabbed her plate, and moved away.

           “Whatever. Go back to grubbing off Thingol’s bank account. I don’t have time for this.”

           “I owe you a congratulations on your attitude, too,” Daeron called, raising her voice only just slightly, to make sure Maglor was still within earshot. “You’ve made such an elegant show of being a plus-one to the host’s sidepiece.” 

           Maglor stopped.

           “What?”

           “Isn’t that how Maedhros got her invitation?” Daeron asked with a coy, sharp smirk. “I assumed, since they’ve spent so much time together lately.”

           “You’re full of shit,” said Maglor.

           “Don’t hold it against her, it’s hard to blame a girl when Thingol is so…well, Thingol.” Her beauty was practically legend, and carried forward easily into her daughter.

“Bullshit,” Maglor said. Daeron laughed quietly.

           “I think I spend enough time at Thingol’s home to know who’s there and when and for how long,” she said, amused. “She takes her morning coffee mostly black with a dash of cream, and has a scar right here beside her left knee, and a set of white panties with golden diamonds printed on them that say ‘Pricey Bitch’ on the ass,” Daeron recited, gesturing on her own leg, all of which was correct. “Not that it’s any business of mine. And it did get you the invite.” She shrugged again, as if it were truly nothing worth noting. “I’ll see you at the symphony hall,” she said to Maglor, leaving her alone with the rapidly-cooling plate of hors d’oeuvres and a growing urge for kinslaying in her heart.

***

           Thingol and Melian’s charity galas—though they were really more of Thingol’s pet project than Melian’s—were a regular fixture in the city. There was always some beetle the size of a pinhead or rodent with a global population of six or bird that could only lay eggs in a virgin’s asscrack under a blue moon or some other sad, obscure thing for which Thingol was wringing the city’s upper crust. One couldn’t even get entry—even with the invite—without a certain minimum donation to the organization of the night. Maedhros, however, seemed to have been excused from that requirement.

           It was too cool and too late in the year to make use of Thingol’s usual favorite venues, which had large outdoor sections, so she had settled for one with a vast wall-sized window overlooking a nature park (marked, of course, to prevent bird collisions). Maglor made note of the details as she and Maedhros mounted the front steps and presented their invitation at the door.

           “She doesn’t skimp on the venue, I’ll give her that,” she said. “Hopefully the same can be said for the drinks!”

           “I imagine it will,” Maedhros replied, unusually pleasant.

           They passed and greeted a few other of Grandfather Finwë’s friends and acquaintances on their way to the main hall, all of whom made a point of saying hello to his granddaughters. Maglor primped her hair a little as they exited the foyer into the main hall, which was spread with the sort of small, tall tables at which one was expected to stand rather than sit.

           “Do you want to get us drinks, and I’ll pick a table?” Maglor suggested. “Ugh, Thingol’s pet is here.” Maedhros followed her gaze to see Daeron and Lúthien at one of the tables near the window. Daeron was saying something in a low voice, her face turned towards the entering guests, while Lúthien laughed; based on experience, Maedhros guessed Daeron was imitating various individuals in the crowd and making them say embarrassing things.

Maedhros could not say she’d ever grown to be comfortable around Thingol’s uncanny daughter, not the least of which was due to Lúthien’s appalling frankness about her parents’ personal lives, of which Maedhros was now a part. Lúthien also always had an air like she knew a secret Maedhros didn’t, and Maedhros could never tolerate her own ignorance, even where it was peripheral or imagined.

Daeron was, as far as Maedhros had been able to discern, of no actual relation to the family, but an artist Thingol had heard once and determined was of such surpassing talent and promise that it was incumbent on Thingol to fund her entire career. Maglor could not stand her, most likely because Maglor could not stand anyone who might compete with her for the world’s opinion as the most talented musician currently living, and Daeron was the chief candidate for that. Maglor claimed it was that Daeron had been improperly trained, and also degraded herself by writing pop music and musical numbers; when Maedhros pointed out, in a moment of belligerence, that Daeron did not have a wealthy mummy and a granddaddy who had helped found a city to pay her way through music school prior to Thingol’s intervention, Maglor had not been delighted. (In fact, by Daeron’s blunt admission to Maedhros one morning at the country estate, she had no family at all, which was perhaps why she had taken so quickly and keenly to Thingol’s.)

           “Do not start trouble with her,” Maedhros warned.

           “Why would I bother?” Maglor scoffed. Maedhros stared at her. “I won’t. Morgoth’s fires, you are a bore sometimes. What was it that Mother Nerdanel used to tell you about not trying to act like a third parent?”

           “I mean it,” said Maedhros. “Stay away from Daeron. We are here as guests of Thingol. Don’t embarrass the family. This is not the place to rehash your Twitter arguments.” 

           “Me, embarrass the family? I’m carrying this family,” said Maglor. “When was the last time Amrod got an award for something, besides most boogers picked?” 

           “Do not interact with Daeron.”

           “Ugh. Fine, I’ll go get drinks,” Maglor griped, although she was dying to ask about the petition. Surely enough of her several hundred thousand followers had signed to cause Daeron problems! She’d retweeted it eleven times to be sure they saw it. 

           While Maglor wandered off to hopefully obey directions, Maedhros set her clutch at one of the tables and glanced around. Over nearer to the door and by the window were Thingol and Melian, graciously greeting their guests by name. Thingol was, as usual, the picture of class; understated and never flashy (by Maedhros’ Noldorin standards). That night she wore a silver dress with gently billowing sleeves and a sharp neckline, and it draped off her like an embrace of starlight. Her hair was pinned up almost entirely off her neck and the resultant contour of her body was hypnotic.

           Maedhros was staring, and cared little, until Thingol glanced up and caught her eye. Even from a distance, Maedhros could see the smile that tugged at her mouth, and Maedhros had to control herself not to smile in return, instead flicking her attention away, though her gaze drifted back a moment later. She watched until Thingol disappeared into the crowd—which was not an easy thing to do, with Maedhros’ attention so focused on her—and then took out her phone to check her email, which was likely an incurable impulse at that point, as much as repeatedly checking her calendar just in case she didn’t already have it memorized. Fingon had once remarked that even in a coma Maedhros would manage to check her calendar.

           There was something delicious in sharing their secret from afar over a crowded room, in knowing what no one else knew. Yet Maedhros also thought that if she was lucky, she’d have a few minutes alone with Thingol before the end of the night.

***

           “Did you sort through the mail like I asked you to?” Maedhros asked rhetorically as she approached the untouched pile of mail on the table, setting her computer bag down on one of the chairs. “I won’t ask about the dishes, since I see they’re not done.”

           “Huh?” Maglor lifted her head up over the back of the couch to look at her sister.

           “The mail?” Maedhros emphasized, waiving an advertisement for Barad-dûr Legacy Jewelers—who were, apparently, having a sale on choice rings said to boost an individual’s strength and serenity of person (limited to the first three takers). 

           “I’ve been busy,” said Maglor with a shrug, looking back to her tablet screen. “Hehe. Did you see this? Someone’s started a petition to kick Daeron off the Doriath Regional Music Council.”

           “Was ‘someone’ you?” Maedhros asked, tossing a few bills aside to manage later.

           “No, but I signed it,” said Maglor. “It’s because of what I said about her lack of depth of vision. And because I implied she plagiarized her most recent single.”

           “Please tell me the chores I asked you to do to keep our apartment in working order were not forgotten because you spent all day bickering with Daeron on Twitter,” said Maedhros, pausing over an embossed, cream-colored envelope. 

           “I didn’t spend all day on it,” Maglor retorted. “I got my nails done.” She lifted one bony foot up to show her nude-painted toenails. “Ooh, what’s that? Looks fancy.”

           Maedhros carefully tore the envelope open and scanned the contents.

           “Thingol has invited me to her next charity gala,” she said neutrally.

           “Grandfather Finwë’s friend? Wait—a gala?”

           “It says I can bring a guest. I wonder if Fingon is available…” she murmured. This was not the time to admit she couldn’t immediately think of anyone else she might ask. Only having your younger cousin to invite to things was not radical, as Celegorm might say.

           “Fingon? Forget Fingon, I’m right here!” said Maglor, popping upright like an aggrieved jack-in-the-box. “I’ll go! When is it?”

           “Don’t you have a job now?” Maedhros asked, raising her eyebrows.

           “I’ll get time off! Or take a sick day.” Maglor waived a hand. “When is it? Please, Maedhros, please! I’ll do all my chores, I swear. Let me come!”

Maedhros continued to consider, and Maglor continued to beg, until at last Maedhros said: “If I let you come, you have to behave yourself. I don’t want you causing some kind of scene.”

“I won’t, I promise,” Maglor said eagerly, hanging over the back of the sofa. “I’m an adult, I can be good!” 

           “Alright,” Maedhros sighed, because it left Fingon available for something else Maedhros needed a guest for. She couldn’t ask for too many favors. “I’ll let her know we’re both coming.” 

           “Yes!” Maglor cheered and sank back onto the couch. “Oh, this will be fun!”

           “Yes,” said Maedhros a little dreamily, imagining what Thingol might wear, the thrill of seeing her among a crowd and having their secrets to themselves. “Yes, I think it will be.”

Chapter End Notes

Never fear, Maedhros and Thingol will make up and fuck about it.

Daeron and Maglor have a longer road ahead.

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