Written for the February 2015 challenge: International Day of Fanworks, with the element Elu Thingol.
The banquet hall, as Thingol liked to call it, was full. The evening meal was over and it was time for the auditions. It had been hard to convince people to start coming to the events, but Thingol was determined to build a court for his queen, no matter how hard that was proving to be, in these first times.
The salon still had a few scaffolds here and there, and the Belegost dwarves protested their hearts out at the notion that anyone should use it before it was done and proper. Thingol would hear none of it. If he did not held his people in one place now, call it court or otherwise, soon they would be scatered through the woods again. Melian was building her Girdle and that might shelter them but no community sense would come from that. So a court they must have, and a court should have its minstrel, hence the auditions.
By his side, Melian snickered. Thingol looked up and saw the young minstrel Daeron coming forth. If minstrel could be called that. He sighed and started lifting his hand, but Melian held it down, so quickly no one noticed.
“Aww, honey bear,” she whispered, “give him another shot.”
“Melian, my love, please do not call me that in public, not even in a whisper,” Thingol replied, “and I have given him chances. All three of them. That is more than most other elves have had. Do you take pleasure in my torment?”
Melian snickered again. “A little. But do give him another chance, dear heart.”
Clenching his teeth, Thingol nodded for the aspiring minstrel to come forth.
On the space before their table, Daeron continued with his song from the previous day, unperturbed, brandishing another excruciating stanza.
“Oh silver tendrils hair, embodied masculine grace,
The fairest of features reside on your face.
Oh warrior king, thou keepest us all protected,
Under your lovely eyes we are never neglected.”
Keeping his face straight, Thingol cast his beloved wife his most demolishing evil side glance. She covered her mouth with the napkin and feigned coughing.
“Enough!” Thingol said, rising from his place.
Daeron looked startled, as a rabbit caught under the gaze of a particularly mean silver fox.
“Yes, enough,” Melian said, rising too. “Dearest Daeron, you have earned the place. Our king is most pleased with your… ahm, songs. Please seek me in the morning so that we can start working on a few commissions I have in mind and the kind of repertoire we expect from you.”
Daeron bowed so deeply he almost toppled over. “Yes, my queen, thank you, my queen, my king, sire, yes.”
Fuming, Thingol shooed him away.
“Why did you do that, woman? Are you possessed by Morgoth himself?!”
Melian giggled. “No, honey b-… honey. He plays wonderful, inventive music. He just needs to work on the poetry and trust me, he will be wonderful once he gets over his infatuation with you.”
Thingol exhaled as if all the air of Arda had been on his lungs. “You had better be right on this one, kitten coo.”
He left, with a smirk of his own, resisting the urge to watch Melian turn red.