Work Text:
November 1, 1843
Dear Mother,
I would not write to you on my own behalf, but—
Dear Mother,
Though we have been here but six weeks, I feel it only right to tell you that Maglor pines for home. He tries hard to be brave, but I mind the dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. Do you not think that, if Athair knew how ill-suited his sons son was to city life—
“Maitimo!”
“Maedhros,” Maedhros corrects automatically. Athair has reminded them not to use the affectionate nicknames that have sprung up at home. You are not here as children, Athair said.
Maedhros crumples the latest attempt at the letter in his hand. “What is it?”
Maglor’s delicate features are flushed with pleasure. “I have been invited to dine with Professor London and his family.”
Professor London is not one of their instructors at school; rather, he is Maglor’s music tutor. Feanor would likely have scoffed at such a lofty title for a mere tutor had not the man conveyed his belief that Maglor’s musical ear was prodigious.
“Invited to dine...” Maedhros collects himself, though his pulse is throbbing in his ears like distant thunder. He prays Maglor does not look closely at his desk, at the mess he has made of letter-writing.
“He sees promise in me! Promise, Mai—Maedhros, and I am...I know I am only thirteen, and Athair does not trust teachers who offer too much praise, but this was hard-won, I assure you! My fingers gain new blisters every day.”
“I am sure they do. But we are in Grandfather Finwe’s house, Maglor, as guests—”
“Oh,” Maglor waves a hand in another showing of newfound confidence. Confidence, that, justly or not, makes Maedhros’s stomach lurch. “I already received his permission. I simply thought that Athair would want me also to ask yours.”
He would, Maedhros thinks, suddenly feeling as if he has administered a test he did not know he was giving. It is like Athair has reached into his mind and spoken through his mouth, laying a trap of loyalty that Maglor neatly sidestepped, proving his canny allegiance.
Nay, it is unfair to call it a trap.
“Then enjoy yourself,” Maedhros says, and waves gleeful Maglor away. Once alone, it is Maedhros who must feel trapped: this time by his own cowardice.
The letter to Mother was not on Maglor’s behalf at all.
He burns the paper against the grate of their small fireplace, guilty at the waste but knowing full well that Maglor—much less Indis!—cannot be allowed to find the scraps.
Athair made very clear that they were not to let down their guard with Indis.
“She is my father’s wife,” he said, his lips twisting as if the words tasted ill, “But she is not your grandmother. Maedhros! I would hear you say it.”
“She is not my grandmother,” Maedhros answered clearly, knowing full well that he would be obliged to repeat himself if he mumbled.
Considering Athair’s misgivings, it is a wonder that they were permitted to stay at Grandfather Finwe’s house at all. But Athair was busy expanding the kitchen in Formenos before winter set in, and could not often be in town. He and Mother agreed that Maedhros, at fifteen, was not yet old enough to keep house at the second home in Valinor Park.
Another tap at the door surprises him. Is it Maglor, worrying about whether his hair is properly combed? Or is it Indis, come to fuss over Maedhros’s sparse appetite at dinner each night?
“Cousin!”
It is Fingon. Fingon is only twelve, and Maedhros mostly remembered him as a shy, pale child with dark hair and Uncle Fingolfin’s eyes, more blue than grey.
Yet in Grandfather Finwe’s house, he comes and goes as he pleases. Maedhros—three years his senior—must not allow himself to be envious of such ease.
“Hello, Fingon.” Father did not forbid him to be friendly with Fingon. “Is your father here to call?”
“No. Mother was feeling a little unwell.” Fingon’s brow pinches. “So Turgon and Irisse and Argon and I are spending a few days here.”
He rattles off his siblings in one breath, as though he is always keeping tally. Maedhros is well-familiar with such an inflection.
“We shall be glad to have you,” Maedhros says, though it is not his place to welcome.
“I should go and keep them from plaguing Grandmama,” Fingon says. “They get underfoot so easily, you know.”
Maedhros knows. He bids farewell to Fingon, and learns that his heart is only lightened when Fingon is before him. The gloom settles in again as soon as his cousin’s footsteps echo away.
He can seek him out later, of course. Challenge him to backgammon or chess, while away the hours until Maglor returns. And then lift up another mask to Maglor, listening with interest to his tale of belonging.
Maedhros stares at the shadows as if staring will chase them away. He picks up his pen, and a fresh sheet of paper.
Dear Mother, he begins, We keep busy here, day and night, with our studies. Even the society we move in serves a good purpose: only tonight, Maglor was honored by an invitation to the home of his music instructor, who has been impressed with his ability and diligence.
Life flows more swiftly in New York than it does at Formenos, and we are happy.
We are very happy.