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In hindsight it was embarrassingly obvious. Really Finarfin should have noticed earlier. And, to be fair to himself, he had noticed that his workload was lightening, that things seemed easier, that he felt like he had more time.
He had honestly just thought that things were calming down for the first time in four Ages of the world. The last few ships had arrived, most of their kin who had fallen in the First and Second Age had returned, and nearly everyone had accepted that.
It had taken one of his lords, one that had followed him from Tirion to Alqualonde and back to Taniquetil again, telling him that he had to check in with Maedhros before agreeing to a standard proposal.
That had been the moment that the pearl had dropped.
“You do know,” He said, attempting to sound casual as he leant against Maedhros’ desk, “You can just have the title if you really want it.”
Maedhros didn’t even look up from the correspondence from Alqualonde that he was reading. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
To anyone else, perhaps, he would have seemed utterly innocent. Finarfin knew better. He recalled full well that same expression upon Maitimo’s face when he protested his innocence regarding who exactly had borrowed Feanor’s circlet, all the while it was tucked up the back of his tunic for they had been using it in their games.
“So you don’t know why my desk is beautifully bereft of all the horrible paperwork that goes along with the crown, the same paperwork that is currently gracing your desk.”
A beatific smile was aimed at him, the sort that had ever meant trouble. “Must be a coincidence. Maybe you have a mouse infestation.”
There was an infestation of something within his halls, that was for sure. Finarfin was sure it was nothing so near as small as a mouse, and far more prone to terrible Oaths and explosions.
He doubted that he would get any answers of any use from Maedhros though. Not if he had set his mind upon being deliberately obtuse.
Stubbornness had ever been one of Maedhros’ more prominent traits.
Finarfin also should not have been so surprised by the utter lack of sympathy that his dear, kind, understanding son displayed when he complained to him.
“I am not entirely sure why you are complaining.” Finrod said with a raised eyebrow, “Just a few years ago you were complaining that there was too much to do and that you wanted someone to take the work off your hands.”
That was true, but it was the principle of the thing!
Finarfin avoided looking at the humour that was surely contained in his son’s eyes and focused instead on the tea in his hands. He would have rather had something stronger, but Finrod’s valet was very particular about when spirits could be served. Apparently prior to lunch was unacceptable, even when one had been dealing with a Feanorion.
“I wouldn’t have minded so much if he had offered to help.” Finarfin tried to explain, “It’s the taking over without asking that bothers me.”
Finrod took a very long, very pointed sip of his tea. “So you have chosen to come to me to complain of a Son of Feanor vying for your crown.”
Finarfin had a momentary flash of shame. Finrod had appeared to heal so well, had fit back into Valinor so well, had shown no anger towards his cousins, that he had half forgotten the events of Nargothrond.
“I am sorry.”
Finrod waved his apology off with a causal flap of his hand. “I know you did not mean any offence. In truth I find it rather humorous. How long do you think it shall be before people start calling Maedhros King?”
“Maybe,” Finarfin said with sudden dawning hope, “Maybe if they begin soon enough I can take your mother away on that holiday she wants.”
He sipped his tea once again, basking in the pleasant thought of months of peace and sunshine. The knowledge that he would be able to relax without returning to a mountain of work.
Such a thing would be worth losing his crown, especially as it meant he would no longer have to deal with the Feanorian Quarter.
“And, well, Father, we can look on the bright side,” Finrod finally grinned, breaking the peaceful silence, “At least you have had a coup against you led by the polite Feanorion. There has been a distinct lack of violence and werewolves in your usurpation.”
It seemed that Finrod’s perspective on Maedhros’ doings was shared by the rest of Finarfin’s kin. His sisters found it hilarious, and mockingly referred to him with the same title that had been decided upon for all the former High Kings that had come out of Mandos.
Fingolfin, on the other hand, decided that he wished to see such a thing for himself, and Finarfin was nearly certain that he wanted to do so merely to laugh at them both.
He led Fingolfin to Maedhros’ office, which was a mere two doors down from Finarfin’s own. Really, Finarfin reflected, he should have noticed Maedhros’ plan sooner than he did.
They knocked and entered when invited to, to find Maedhros sitting behind his desk with yet another tower of reports and correspondence before him. If Finarfin squinted he could make out that Maedhros was apparently focusing on a new iron vein near Formenos.
“I have some time before my meeting with the stone workers guild.” Maedhros said, setting down his pen, “What did you need?”
Finarfin was unsettlingly reminded of going to visit his father before the Darkening.
“You claimed that your House would forever be dispossessed.” Fingolfin said, in that slow, thoughtful voice he used when trying to annoy Feanor, “So why are you wearing a crown?”
“I am not!” Maedhros’ face held great offence.
Fingolfin’s disbelief was nearly tangible.
“It is a circlet. Just as you are wearing.” Maedhros said. His hand twitched as though he was stopping himself reaching for it self-consciously.
Finarfin knew that he was not the only one eying the so-called circlet upon Maedhros’ head dubiously. Circlets were, as a rule, not usually so ostentatious. They certainly did not usually have a multitude of gems upon them, a single one in the centre was the norm.
“If you say so.” Doubt dripped from every syllable.
“Curufin made it. I was hardly going to refuse his overtures of apology.”
It was a fair enough statement. All knew that you did not disregard such a thing from any of the Curufinwës. It did ask the question though of whether Curufin knew what his brother was doing, for the ‘circlet’ looked more similar to the crown that Finwë had worn than Finarfin’s own crown did.
(Unsurprising really, when one considered that Feanor had been the one to make the crown that Finwë had favoured.)
Maedhros glanced at his clock, “Was there anything else you wished to discuss, Uncles? Only I should like to finish this letter before I just leave for my meeting.”
“Just one more thing.” Fingolfin leant forwards intently, “Just how much of this manoeuvring did you do in Beleriand? Was this your plan all along?”
Maedhros’ smile told them everything they needed to know.
“I still do not understand why you won’t just take the title.” Finarfin complained, as they left yet another meeting in which all anyone seemed to do was look at Maedhros for approval.
Maedhros smiled at him. “Think for a moment of what my father’s reaction would be to me claiming the title.”
Finarfin blanched at the mere thought. Smug was not a word strong enough to describe Feanor should Maedhros claim the crown. He would be utterly unbearable to be around, no one would be safe from his crowing nor his pride.
He had, at the hands (hand if they were being specific) of his sons, accepted that Finarfin was king, and no one wanted him to think that usurpation was a valid technique.
“This is your revenge.” Finarfin suddenly realised.
Finarfin had heard that orcs had fled before the sight of Maedhros, and he was not surprised if such a thing was so had they ever seen the smile that graced his nephew’s face.
“That, and I know I am already doing a better job than you. What need have I for titles when a king is the one who wields the power and holds his own, not the trappings of monarchy.”
Finarfin probably should have been offended by those words, but he was not.
“I can wield far more power hiding behind your throne than I ever could with a crown upon my head.” Maedhros patted his arm, “Enjoy the chance to relax, and the privileges of the crown without the work.”
It did sound tempting.
“But if you take the crown then you can be the one to manage diplomacy with the other nations. Ingwë and Thingol can argue with you directly instead of through me.”
“I’m afraid Ingwë is already aware of who holds the power, he recognised the first speech I wrote for you. I had a letter a mere week later congratulating me on my re-embodiment and insisting that I do not rush back into work. We have kept up a correspondence since.” Something that could only be called mischief crossed over Maedhros’ face. “I do believe he only keeps up the face to face meetings as an excuse to check in on you.”
Finarfin had not realised that he was beset upon by betrayal on all sides.
“I did not realise that the ‘treason of kin unto kin’ portion of the Doom was still in play.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Maedhros scoffed, “If it was treason I would have my sword to your throat and an army besieging this city. You know as well as I that there are so many bored elves here it would be easy to make an army.”
Maedhros was unfortunately correct, and it was truly horrible to think about it.
“One day,” He muttered, “I’m going to shove the crown on your head while you sleep and escape to some other land.”
Maedhros laughed, “I wish you luck with that, Your Highness.”