A drunken Maglor WIP snippet
Maglor made a face. “I’ve heard too much of Finrod’s verse,” he said. “It climbed into my head! It is the worst!”
“Maglor!” Amárië objected, laughing over the sound of the harp she was playing. “If you are rude again about my husband’s poetry, I shall stop and make you play the harp again instead!”
Maglor made a horrified face.
“My fingers ache, my throat is sore.
My mind makes circles more and more,,
Oh Vanyar lady, kindly playing
I beg, excuse this singer swaying
I can only turn to the last High King
I swore to serve, to his feet cling
And sue for mercy!”
He suited the action to the word and threw himself dramatically down on the grass in front of Fingon.
“It is comfortable here, by Fingon’s feet,” he said indistinctly. “Instead of apologies, I might just sleep.”
Fingon looked up at the stars and laughed. “He is very drunk,” he told Elrond, unnecessarily. “It might be safest if he does not apologise to anyone else today. I dread to think what he might say. Oh no, now I’m doing it!”
“See? I told you he was good at kinging,” Maglor declared, from the ground. “Of all the many Noldor Kings, you are my favourite, Fingon. Don’t tell anyone!”
Fingon shook his head in mock despair. “I too am drunk, but obviously the House of Fëanor has to do it better.”
Maglor peered up at Elrond looking down at him. “We should have just given them the crown to start with,” he told him. “They’re naturally good at it! It’s probably the Vanyar bit. The Vanyar are good at kinging kings. But terrible at making rings and things!”
Fortunately, Lalwen, Amárië and the formidable Fingon only looked amused. “I see what you mean,” Elrond said to Fingon. “I was only wondering where you had got to, Maglor! I wasn’t going to suggest any more apologies.”
“Good,” Maglor said. “You can be my favourite hostage, Elrond.”
Fingon prodded Maglor affectionately with a foot. “Shush, Maglor,” he said. “If you go on talking, you might say something undiplomatic and have to start apologising again!”
“Shushing!” Maglor said. He settled his face on his arms and closed his eyes.
“You may have to carry him, if you want to take him home,” Lalwen said to Elrond, looking amused. “He may still be able to rhyme, more or less, but then, he seems to do that without thinking, as he does breathing. I doubt he can walk without falling over.”