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There haven’t been any proper battles here yet, at this hard to defend strip of land he’s heard some of the men calling “Maglor’s Gap.” Not large scale battles, at least. There have, of course, been numerous testings of his defenses, and their consistent victories in those are well worth celebrating in his opinion. They must remain vigilant, of course, but they must celebrate their victories as well.
So tonight they feast out under the stars, a bonfire blazing in the center to stand against the first chill of the autumn air. The night lacks only one thing, and Maglor notes with amusement that his people are starting to shoot him hopeful looks.
He is more than happy to oblige.
He goes and stands with his back to the fire with his harp at the ready. The people around him fall into an eager silence. Sparks fall around him as the wind shifts.
He begins.
Fiercer than the fire raging behind him, stoking the blood into a cry of triumphant challenge: We are here. We are alive. We fight on, and we will not stop fighting.
He summons that fire with his call, and the sparks spiral around him in a manner no natural wind could create. He does not fear the fire. The flames always feel like the warmth of his father standing behind him, and their dance at his voice feels like his father’s love for his songs.
He does not fear the flame. Instead, it pushes him on to greater heights as he sings out the chorus for the second time, and his people join the tune, singing it back and whirling into motion as they dance upon the plains.
The song is a new one, made up on the spot, so they fall silent at every new verse before catching up the chorus, again and again.
He could sing for hours - has sung for hours judging by the moon’s progress in the sky - but he could sing for hours more if he had not caught sight of the face standing at the edge of the fire’s light. He brings the song to a triumphant conclusion and then bows and beckons for a young bard he’s been teaching to come take his place. She looks more than a little doubtful, but she comes forward anyway.
“How am I supposed to follow that?” she hisses in a whisper under the cover of the roar of approval coming from the audience.
“With your own undoubtable skill,” he says firmly, and she nods in a show of confidence before striking up a light dancing tune that soon has everyone moving again.
He smiles in approval and slips away to where he saw the face, but it’s vanished again in the crowd. He frowns, turning. Surely he would not have gone far?
“Truly you are the mightiest singer of the Noldor,” a voice says from behind him, and Maglor turns, delighted.
“Maedhros! There you are. I thought I saw you, but I wasn’t expecting you tonight. No ill news, I hope?”
“No ill news,” Maedhros promises as he greets him with a quick embrace. “Or at least none that you are not already aware of. I’d come with warnings about a larger than usual force moving against you, but fortunately, it seems they were unnecessary. I trust I am not unwelcome despite my lack of useful purpose?”
“Never,” Maglor promises. “Especially if you are going to compliment my singing.”
Maedrhos laughs. “Surely you must be sick of compliments in that area by now.”
“If ever I grow weary of compliments, then you can consider me well and weary of this world. And it’s always nice to hear someone calling me the best singer of the Noldor without Curufin following it up by saying, ‘Or the loudest anyway.’ I think he still hasn’t forgiven me for waking him up at all hours back in Tirion.”
“Technically, I didn’t say ‘best,’ I said ‘mightiest,’” Maedrhos says thoughtfully. “Mightiest could be interpreted to mean loudest.”
“If it’s volume you want, I’d be more than happy to personally come wake you up tomorrow morning.”
Maedhros holds up his hands in defeat, eyes still laughing. “Peace, brother, peace! You are the best and the loudest, and many other things besides. Such as a very competent military commander who doesn’t need his older brother anymore, apparently.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I need you.” Maglor waits a beat. “After all, if it weren’t for you, I’d be the one responsible for sorting out our younger brothers.”
Maedhros’s groan is even more pronounced than he’d expected. That could be unfortunate.
“What have they done now?”
“Nothing so bad,” Maedhros admits. “Caranthir was rather tactless, I’m afraid, but it was only to Curufin, so at least it’s only going to cause a family squabble, not a political one.”
“Tactless in a letter, or . . . ?”
“They’re both visiting at the moment,” Maedhros says. “And it’s nothing very bad, truly. I’m nearly certain they’re just doing it for fun at this point.”
“And yet, here you are, coming to me with a warning you must have surely realized it would be too late to give, instead of being the good host I know Mother raised you to be.”
Maedhros shrugs helplessly. “It’s a good deal of fun for them.”
“And so you won’t ruin it by telling them to stop and instead rode out to me when you could take it no more. Well, that makes a certain kind of sense. It would have made for a terrible song if you’d been killed by orcs while traveling alone to get away from our brothers’ bickering, but it makes a certain amount of sense.”
“A song is only as good as its singer,” Maedhros says. “I’m sure you could have made something of it.”
“With enough poetic license, you can make a good song out of anything.”
One of Maedhros’s eyebrows rises in challenge. “Anything?”
Maglor already has a feeling he’s going to regret this, but he nods. “Anything.”
“That blade of grass, right there.” He points.
Maglor is not actually sure which one he’s pointing to, but it probably doesn’t matter. “Give me a few hours, and I’ll have something,” he promises. What, he has no idea, but he’ll figure something out, or he’ll sing Maedhros into falling asleep and then tell him that he missed the truly epic song that Maglor composed and performed while he rested, and that he couldn’t possibly sing it again as the blade of grass had been tragically crushed in everyone’s mad rush to congratulate him. His people will back him up on the story if he asks it of them, he’s fairly sure.
“You have until your apprentice finishes her song.”
“She’s on the last verse.”
“I have confidence in you, oh, mightiest singer of the Noldor.”
“I’m going to sing about that blade of grass being the cause of the much lamented Maedhros’s downfall,” Maglor says pleasantly and strides forward into the light, fingers already itching with the start of a tune.