When Finwë had established his court, he had, had nine close companions (plus Miriel), the wisest and strongest of the migrating Noldor, who had helped him lead their people to Aman. These he had made lords (minus Míriel to whom he was very much married) but the number had sat uneasily on the shoulders of many, superstition still being a driving force behind daily actions in those early days.
Twelve, it had been felt, would be a far better number but Finwë had been at a loss to find the remaining three.
It had been Valar Tulkas who had proposed a tournament of fighting prowess with the three left standing at the end who would be his final three lords. Those had been the days of crude stone knives and arrow heads, time consuming things to create from flint which had not been abundant. Actually owning a knife was unlikely and the eldar had created a form of fighting using only their body to help defend themselves against that which stalked them through the ever-twilight.
The matches had gone ahead and three lords had risen above the rest on the merit of their skill in this art and then finally the Noldor had set about properly claiming Tirion as their own.
Then when Fëanáro had come close to being of age, a rumour had arose and then behind it a growing expectation that there would be another tournament for surely Finwë would not allow his only son to go without lords of his own? Finwë’s lords were Finwë’s and not Fëanáro’s.
Finwë had obliged and thus set a precedent for the other two kings and the sons that came after Fëanáro.
And then time had carried on as time will do.
The tournaments for the three sons of Finwë had passed into living legend, tales of great fights and grand occurrences.
With the precedent set, the people of Tirion only had to wait for the son’s sons to begin coming of age to once again enjoy the days of fighting, festival and a reason for a holiday that did not involve a religious celebration.
Only two lords would be chosen though. Finwë had made that clear when Makalaurë had been born and the whispers had grown louder. He had not known then, of course, just how many sons his eldest would beget or he might have put his foot down entirely.
Too late now to change anything of course, and Arafinwë seemed to actually find pleasure in complaining about how their father had essentially added an extra fourteen votes to Fëanáro’s voting block; no one wished to deny him the joy.
“Another one come of age my prince, it seems yesterday I was chasing your boy away from my hounds because I was afraid one would eat him.”
Fëanáro looked up from the itinerary of the begetting day celebrations about to begin to stare at one of his three vassal-lords with a smile on his face.
Laureyávë gave him a cocky grin and wriggled her fingers, coming over to peek at the list.
“Same as usual?”
“The same as usual,” he confirmed.
“Though I wouldn’t call this “usual” my prince, you have not been supervising the preliminary rounds. Your son has attracted ALL sorts.”
He had expected his third son to be sensible when Turkafinwë headed off to the Office of Royal Scribes to draft his begetting day announcement. Instead of the carefully exclusive announcements of his older two brothers, Turkafinwë had invited a free-for-all with his only caveats besides the legal being that the entrants had to be able to skin an animal without nausea.
Busy with his family, Fëanáro had asked his three lords to supervise the preliminary matches since there were so many who had wished to try and attain a title that all of the fighting in total would take three days, the last being the actual tournament.
He was coming to regret that now; some of the stories he was hearing were fantastical in nature.
“Well the announcement did not place any holds on those who could make an attempt save those legally not allowed,” Fëanáro considered Laureyávë for a moment, his regard causing her to automatically fluff up her gold hair and shimmy her shoulders so her bountiful assets were in clear view.
The effect was spoiled by the fact that she wore a dusty, sweaty dress she had clearly been in all day under the blazing heat of Laurelin, and also that neither of them had ever felt an inkling of sexual desire for one another.
“A nice try my dear vassal-lord, I think I almost felt a twitch,” he chuckled, placing the itinerary down.
“Who knows, maybe by the time the last Note resounds I may have you at half-mast my prince.”
Fëanáro laughed and shook his head. Laureyávë had never had much control over her mouth, not even when he had formally asked her to swear fealty to him and she had told him he wasn’t bad looking for a grubby gem fiddler so why not?
“I think whatever the outcome the court will finally be interesting for a while until it sucks the life out of Tyelkormo’s lords as well,” Laureyávë contemplated.
“Will there be perhaps another female Lord to keep you company my dear?” he inquired.
“Hope springs eternal.”
Laureyárë had been something of a begetting day surprise, all those centuries ago when she had triumphed in being the second ‘man’ left standing at the end of the tournament held for Fëanáro.
Seconds after calling him a grubby gem fiddler, she had taken offence to being dubbed a Lady. The announcement of the tournament had put no holds on the gender of applicants, she had argued passionately, but it had been very clear that the winner would be a Lord.
Therefore she was Lord Laureyárë of the newly formed House of Rosewood, and the next person to call her a Lady would wind up with their teeth on the opposite side of the room from them.
Since that day he had learned that delicacy, tact, turning the other cheek and modesty did not frequent her vocabulary unless it was in a list of things she did not do.
She had also been Turkafinwë’s favourite of all his lords.
This should have been a warning in and of itself.