Bouche-trou pour sociopathes (petite_dilly) wrote,
Bouche-trou pour sociopathes

Bloody silmarils, chapter 31 : The Sons of Fëanor (PG)

Chapter 31 : The Sons of Fëanor

As they waited in Tol Sirion for the arrival of the other participants in the Council that was to bring together the princes of the northern kingdoms, Turgon addressed his minstrel, Hildor of the Harp : "Well, the Sons of Fëanor will soon arrive, so calm your ovaries !"

"M… me ?"

"Who else ?"

"But I have no ovaries, your Majesty…"

"Are you sure ? Those things are hidden..."

The trumpets sounded, interrupting their exchange. The herald stepped in front of the great door.

"The Sons of Fëanor, the Spirit of Fire !" he announced.

Turgon made a scornful noise with his mouth, then gave Hildor a threatening look, which meant "No squeeing".

The Seven Sons would arrive one after the other, the entrance not being passable by them at the same time. The herald then took his breath and gave his voice again : "Maedhros, the Well-shaped One !"

Turgon choked on the epithet. And the Lord of Himring rode through the gate of the fort on his great dark-robed horse. He was dressed in red, but his breastplate was black, except for a white star in its centre. His red head was girded with a copper circle, and it blazed in the sunlight. He held the reins of his mount in his left hand, his right hand hanging against his side, reduced to a leather bonnet.

His face was pale and hard, with a sculptural harshness.

Turgon felt Hildor fanning himself beside him. But this was only the beginning...

"Maglor, the Mighty Singer !" the herald proclaimed.

A flutter in the wind of long, smooth brown hair. The Second Son rode a white horse, and the high cheekbones of his fair face brought out large grey eyes with a certain gentleness. But his hand, covered with chained mail, was as good at making a harp sing as at giving death.

"I'm hot..." Hildor murmured.

Turgon whispered to him : "I think about it now... To you, Maglor must be a bit of an ideal man, right ?"

"Huh ?"

"Celegorm, the Beautiful !"

The Prince of Himlad, protector of the Pass of Aglon, was preceded by a chorus of barking. A pack of great hounds ran before him, and came to lie down behind Maglor. Celegorm, himself, rode a grey steed, and his bright hair waved regularly on either side of his face, beige and silver. His eyebrows were dark, and his eyes blue. Arrogance was in every atom of his person, and some would say it added to his beauty.

The Herald withdrew.

"What ? Is that all ? But where are the others ?" asked the distressed minstrel. "The Dark Caranthir, and his boiling blood ? Curufin the Crafty, handsome as his father ? The Ambarussa twins, athletic bodies and hair of fire ?!!”

"Will you stop embarrassing me, will you ? This is a council of northern princes, only northern princes have come. Curufin had to stay in Himlad to rule while his brother was away. And Caranthir isn't fit to be taken out in public. But it doesn't matter. Celegorm the Beautiful, but where did they go to get that ? That's Celegorm the Blond.”

What followed, however, calmed Turgon's worries. Maedhros did not allow himself any particular familiarity with Fingon, he was even rather distant, while always giving him strange looks. On the other hand, he never left Fingolfin, his uncle and overlord, with whom he had already won a battle and was actively cooperating. He gave him big smiles and laughs, and many compliments.

"So much bootlicking..." commented Turgon.

"Maitimo is back," Glorfindel simply said. "But there's worse... Celegorm."

"Celegorm... I could never stand him," said Turgon. "He looks even more pretentious than Ecthelion, and let me tell you, this one already sets the bar high."

Glorfindel pouted. Penlodh, who did not like to backbite, merely cleared his throat.

"Majesty, I don't think there was ever anything romantic between him and your sister, really."

"Anyway, my sister is not completely blind. She would never want to marry someone whose actions were responsible for Elenwë's death. Pfft ! There's not one to save in that family, except maybe Maedhros. But then again, he has some strange tendencies.”


Accompanied by their principal warlords, the northern princes were now gathered around a table for a diplomatic summit.

"I propose that we begin by discussing the securing of the Pass of Aglon," said Maedhros. "Majesty ?"

Fingolfin nodded, and the discussion began, serious and cordial. But if one could have read the minds of the participants, this is what one would have heard...

"What a pain in the ass... I can't wait to get back to Gondolin."

"The king seems to be in a bad mood again... I wonder if we should reconsider the dosage of his herbal tea."

"Actually, I'd like to explore the area. I wonder if my cousin Maedhros will want to go with me... We haven't had much time to talk since he arrived, and the thought of it stings my heart."

"I didn't think I hit so hard last time... But it's Turgon too, if he trained regularly instead of spending his time dreaming of castles in Eriador, we wouldn't have come to this."

"Hmm... I wonder what sweet Nieninquë is doing right now."

"What a bunch of morons. It's so hard not to say what I think. Besides, I don't even have Curufin with me to badmouthe behind their backs... I'm bored. Here, I'll give a little ironic smile, like him, to show that I'm not fooled."

"By Aulë... This banner with a heart... I will never get used to it."

"Tomorrow, I will go tomorrow... And I will ask Maedhros. That way we'll have plenty of time to talk, and we'll camp together, like in the old days. And we'll go canoeing and running and climbing... Um, maybe not climbing. It'll bring back bad memories. And then, with only one hand..."

"But what an asshole this one is... He thinks I can't see it, his little ironic smile ?"

"My brother wants to hit Celegorm... You can see it in his face."

"I wonder how Nelyo always looks so serious. He looks so focused and immersed in the discussion."

"Oh my god... If only... I could take his braids in my hands... I mean in my hand... And touch them... Kiss them... I love him so much... Why ?!"

"Good," Maedhros said loudly. "So we agree."

"Completely," said Fingolfin.

They shook hands.


They had appeared on the desert horizon, seven shadows on horseback in front of the twilight.

Against the twilight.

The Seven.

Who knows what call they were answering ? Their hands were covered with the blood of Revenge. In their wake, duels and punitive expeditions, against a backdrop of wandering harmonica lines, as broken and lost as the madness of their minds.

The Dirty Seven.

The Magnificent Seven.

The Seven... Sons of Fëanor.

"Hildor ? Hildor ?"

The minstrel gasped. He had dozed off for a moment.

"You were still in your phantasmagorical reveries from another time, weren't you ?" said Turgon.

"Yes Majesty... It's the local wine... I think it's too strong."

His gaze involuntarily fell on Fingon's back, busy talking weaponry with Aegnor... and in particular on the top of his skirt – a bold electric blue – which began with a slightly rounded, compact shape.

"Come on !" shouted Turgon. "Will you stop looking at my brother's butt, will you ??"

NB : I strangely forgot Finrod, even though the scene takes place in Tol-Sirion... Maybe his thoughts during the meeting would have been these :

"If only my sister would stop asking me why I'm single. It's a bit intrusive."

Tags: bloody silmarils, maudits silmarils, trad

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