Work Text:
April 20, 1851
Dear Galadriel,
This is assuredly one of those letters that I will smudge up with wax when sealing, and slip out to the butler when everyone else is in bed—otherwise Mama (or Turgon!) will scold me for my penmanship. When it reaches you, Finrod will be home again, and I’m sure you will have heard—twice over—his wild tales. I know you will be vexed that he came here first, but he passed by on his way, and you know that Fingon and Turgon were wild to see him. No slight to you or your family was meant! But he will have to apologize on his own account; I shan't waste more ink doing it for him.
I also am not writing to you about the bears he battled, or the peoples who befriended him—why did your half of the family get all the charm? You know I don’t count the Feanorians as being 'charming'—but about what his return may mean for us.
Yes, cousin, I really do think that the wind is changing. Have you not felt it blowing from the west? The gusts are laced with adventure. Your brother may have willfully chosen the black sheep’s path for once, laying aside his linen and merino for rougher stuffs, and coming back quite sunburned, if you ask me…but I don’t doubt that by the end of summer, ‘Westward’ will mean more to us than just a sunset.
If they go, Galadriel—and I do mean our foolish cousins, this time—you know that Fingon won’t rest till he follows them. And if Fingon goes, I swear I’ll go too. And so should you! I saw the look in Finrod’s eyes today. They were bluer when he spoke of the lands he saw--there. New York will not keep him happy for very long. Not now.
I want to know what causes such a change.
My candle is positively guttering and I know you are shaking your head over how slovenly my letters are. But come and call—with ribbons in your hair, if that’s what it takes to make our mothers think we’re talking about bows and beaus, not bold ideas!
We’ve much to speak of.
Affectionately yours,
Aredhel
April 24, 1851
Dear Aredhel,
I found your letter perfectly legible. Turgon had better worry over the fact that he does not have the face for muttonchops than over your (less than) copperplate hand.
Finrod has been home three days. Did you notice, on his visit, how he coifs his hair? I remember when he used to pomade it before the glass for an hour a day. Now he wears it with thin braids along his temples, starred with beads that were given to him by the men who live in the west. It is rather beautiful, in a strange way to which we are not at all accustomed (I did not tell him this). Of course, Papa was horrified by how uncouth he has become.
Horrified—but not, I think, uninterested in his stories.
Now, your letter. You are something of a prophet, Aredhel. Some might say a Cassandra, but I shall not. I think you were very right to imagine us leaving this coast, these dusty cities. Grandfather Finwe’s death has fractured our family enough, and I dearly wish that we would permit the fragments to drift a little apart from each other. That seems to me the best way to grow. To recover.
Goodness, I sound as if I had turned into my big brother. When have I ever believed in wisdom, patience, and time?
When Finrod went west two years ago, I thought he was a little mad. He has always been such a dandy, even more than Maedhros or Maglor or—Lord help us—Curufin. Yet he vowed that he wouldn’t be happy until he’d seen another sea. That’s Mother’s blood in him, of course. ‘Those fishing Swedes’—can’t you just hear Uncle Feanor saying that in his disdainful tone?
You know the rest. No letters, nearly no news. Father thought he was dead, though I never did. And to have him back again? There’s not a trace of dandy in him now, not that would be praised and acknowledged in New York or Boston. But who gives a damn for the flighty opinions of current fashion? I am proud of him; I think he’s found another purpose, and it certainly lifts his heart and his step, even if I barely recognize him with those ruddy cheeks and strong arms.
Oh, Aredhel, I would do well in the west. I know I would. Mother would have no cause to call me 'mannish' if all our neighbors were wild horses, would she? Oh, I am as excited as you seem to be, for what may not even come to pass!
I will call soon, though for now, there’s nothing afoot but our own conjecture!
Lovingly,
Galadriel