[open] find it kind of funny, find it kind of sad

[valiantfinwe]

Fingon's relatively stable life seems to have been suddenly thrown into wild upheaval, and not the kind of upheaval he tends to sort of enjoy - the kind with bravery and heroics and possibly life threatening situations, that is - but rather the kind he just plain doesn't like, with inconvenient uncles attempting to usurp his place (it is his,

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[seasideminstrel]

Here is another cousin, possibly the most annoying of the bunch, who is just making his way through the main room to get outside. He will stop as soon as he sees Fingon, though.

"Findekano. Hello."

Don't be mistaken, there is very little cordiality in that tone.

[seasideminstrel]

He promised Irisse to not start a physical fight with Fingon. He promised, but it is so very tempting to simply punch him in the mouth right now, and shut him up.

As it is, Maglor sounds deceptively calm, quite at odds with the way his hands tighten into fists. "How is it, spouting Enemy filth from your mouth, Findekáno? Yes, it is my fault that he - was hung from Thangorodrim. It is my fault that I could not dissuade him from -- from the way out he chose. But I bear Maitimo no ill will." A pause. He is trying to gather himself, hold himself together, and it's not working -- "I AM NOT MORINGOTTO, YOU IMBECILE! ARE YOU SO FOOLISH TO BELIEVE I REJOICED IN SEEING HIM SUFFER AND DIE?"

He pushes himself up and backward, reeling because, Rrghhhhhhh, he promised Irisse.

[valiantfinwe]

---again, as stated, OH NO YOU DI'INT.

Because that is just Not Done. And it shows, first as surprise, recoiling a little, and then very quickly as hot, fierce, anger. "You speak so - to me? Vile coward, when I did what you would not dare, when I went to that place and pulled him back from a fate worse than death, when you would not - and you dare accuse me of ill will toward Maitimo?"

"You may not be him," voice vicious with scorn, "But just the same, only look at your damned hands to remember in what way you are alike."

[seasideminstrel]

Returned with the same kind of anger - it must be a Finwean thing, this - and Maglor stands, "I will be forever grateful for the rescue, and never accuse you of conscious ill-will toward my brother, but you seek to impose your own will over his with no thought for his wishes, and that is the doing of the Enemy. Call me craven, call me coward, I care for none of the hot air out of your mouth as long as you leave my brother his decisions!"

He steps back, then toward his cousin again, tearing off the glove, nostrils flaring. "Look at my hand and count yourself fortunate, for who was it, cousin, who came upon the vanguard of our host in Alqualonde, and rushed to join the battle? The only difference here is that you were fortunate to find your death, and never touched the Silmarils, or your hand might look like mine!"

And that means deeply scarred from the center of the palm outward, as if he made a fist around the Silmaril and carried it like that all the way to the coast.

[valiantfinwe]

Step forward, then, getting right into Maglor's face, furiously angry and trying to cut right through his cousin's voice. "When he can make choices for himself that are not going to hurt him worse then I will leave him free will," Fingon snarls. "Do you think I seek to impose my will out of some - some - no! I aim to protect him, from himself most of all now, and no one shall stand in the way of that, least of all you! You will harm him worse, drive him further into suffering and madness, and that I will not, will never tolerate-"

He's tempted to just - but holds back. With an effort. A significant one. "Don't speak to me as though you are somehow righteous," he snarls. "I am never the murderer you were. When I joined that battle it was because I saw my friends in need, in danger. I accept the error of that. But do not compare your soul to mine, not when yours is black with millenia of the blood of innocents, and you have done little, nothing to atone!"

[seasideminstrel]

This minstrel is snarling at his cousin, with an edge to his voice that is not at all wholesome. "Get out of my face!" And here is a vicious shove to try and remove this cousin from his field of vision. You don't try to keep Maglor from his brother, and you don't interrupt the minstrel.

He is spitting the words out now, "And what will that cost my brother? Is his other hand sufficient? Or his sanity? Or do you want his life while you are at it? Do not ever dare accuse me of seeking to harm him. He forgave me for Angband because there was no other way, but you, stubborn, foolish, harmful -- do you know what your death did to him? TELL ME and then dare call yourself better than I am in this respect!"

A deep breath here, and an irritable itch at the angry flush rising into his face, "You will not, cannot, ever comprehend what we have done, oh fortunate untainted cousin, but if you are so wise then love Maitimo as he is, a kinslayer as I am, black with millenia of the blood of innocents! And if you cannot -- stop your lies and

[valiantfinwe]

Shoved, though he catches himself before going too far, barely managing not to just - haul back and punch him in the face. It wouldn't be a good ideaaaa. "What will it cost him to have to deal with you, your madness? I will take nothing from him. Eru -"

However, at the comment about his death and what it did, he flushes, a deep, dark red, and his fury is evident only a moment after the brief hurt shows, because it does effect him to think that he hurt Mae, even with something out of his control.

"You think I do not?" Furious. "You think I do not love him, in spite of everything - you think me somehow false- --I have never been false, Cano, I have never been - you accuse me of-"

There are no more words. He gives up on self restraint and hauls back to give Maglor the gift he's been wanting to for a while: a good, solid punch in the nose.

[seasideminstrel]

Oh, good.

Maglor merely stares after being punched on the nose, and with an audible crack too, of bone, not merely cartilage, before the blood starts rushing, down his face and the back of his throat. He is tempted to simply spit Fingon in the face, blood and all, but he only grits his teeth and snarls,

"And you care more about your own vanity and crooked standards than him! A fine friend you are. Even a black-souled kinslayer has more decency than that. And if he were better than he is, he would hear of this."

Typist permitting Maglor will spit out now, not in Fingon's face but on the ground before him. Or his boots. And then wheel around and stalk off, but not before throwing a disdainful, "If I had not promised our sister, I would repay you in kind," over his shoulder. And then find ice. Unless Fingon wants to land another punch.