#rondamaite is going to be one of Fingon's loyal captains obvs

[berrysphase]

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Here, some very stalled Valinor fic! It pretends it's a ship fic, but really it's about Noldorin social structures, government, and politics. (Or maybe the other way around.)

They skipped the racing, but Fingon competed in the wrestling.  He went six rounds in the tournament before losing on an unlucky slip in the seventh.  "Well-contended, my lord," the villager said with a bow, fighting to keep a secret delighted smirk from creeping over his face, and Fingon laughed and clouted him on the shoulder.  

"Well-contended indeed!  Find me by the wine tent when you are through, and claim a song from me as forfeit!"  He made his way back out to the edge of the ring, where Maedhros was leaning on the fence and looking very amused.

"Well?  Have I suitably acquitted the honor of the house of Finwe?" Fingon said, grinning.  

"Oh, most creditably," Maedhros said, grinning back, and handed Fingon back his shirt. He nodded over at the villager, now squaring up against the next challenger.  "He'll take the whole thing, won't he?" 

"I expect so," Fingon said, stretching out his shoulders.  "He's won seven out of the last nine years, I asked earlier.  Fal lal la la valor -- fa la la -- What's a good rhyme for brawn?"

"Yawn," said Maedhros, and dodged sideways when Fingon tried to hit him with his shirt.  "The wrestling was your idea, I don't see why you need me to help."

"See if I bring you along next time!  Is there any mud on my back from when he threw me?" 

"You're fine," said Maedhros, "you can put your shirt back on without fear of besmirching your princely person.  Since we need to wait by the wine tent, are you going to buy me a round, or do you reserve that honor for people who can pin you?"

"I have just been working very hard to provide the fair with a fine spectacle while you have been relaxing, I think you owe me a song."  

"Oh, do you," said Maedhros, laughing, and he made Fingon pour, and he complained about Fingon's harp, but he sang a simple and fast-flowing song of Tulkas and Nessa while Fingon drank two cups of water and one cup of the bright new wine, and Fingon was well content.

A few rounds later, the villager, whose name was Rondamaite, came out beaming, a great wreath of blue flowers cockeyed on his head and a maiden laughing on his shoulder.  Fingon greeted him with a toast, and cups for Rondamaite and his maiden, and then sang an impromptu tribute to his victory.  He had come with the melody ready, and neither melody or voice might be up to the standards of Kanafinwe Macalaure, but he was there at the right time to sing it, and by the third chorus the whole tent was joining in.