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Though the sun is bright enough that I must shade my eyes when descending the steps of the medical institute where I take my studies, this March day whirls with a wild wind. Maglor might enjoy it, but I don’t, and seeing as I forgot change for a cabby and have only two feet, the choice of my destination is a clear one.
Honestly, I suppose there are several reasons I find myself banging the ornate iron knocker of my favorite cousin’s door. The lecture I was to attend for three hours rapidly disintegrated in value when I discovered it was but a cheap disguise for an aging professor of nothing to advance his belief in the power of phrenology.
A ridiculous study, so Dr. Olorin tells me, and I trust him to steer me aright always, even if my father can barely refrain from asking me to associate with slightly more respectable mentors.
I suffered the false science for ten minutes, until the man—I shan’t name him, his title is foul in my mouth, as were his words in my ear. He tried to apply his study to people of different color, loudly proclaiming their lack of intelligence, and revealing only his own. If I had stayed, I might have caused a row.
Maitimo would laugh at that—the idea of me sparking a brawl amid a gathering of students. Amid a gathering of anyone.
(Does he remember the days when I fell out with my father, or all my spats with Celegorm? They were none of them brawls, but I have spoken harsh words before, and regretted them immediately.
No, Maitimo will not remember. He never remembers anything unsavory concerning me. I don’t deserve such loyalty.)
I shift my bag from my aching shoulder to the other side, and scuff the street-filth on the step. I wish I had said something, back at the lecture. I must satisfy myself with the knowledge that everyone saw me stand up in the front row, and heard the oak door swing shut behind me with a sea-deep thud.
No one answers the much grander door of Uncle Feanor’s city home, and I recall it is a Wednesday afternoon, and the servants will be out running errands, so I dig around in my bag, shuffling a mess of books and loose, crumpled papers, and find my key. I let myself in and poke my head into several rooms, but it seems clear from the beginning that no one is home, so I make to settle down in a forest green chair in the cozy drawing room, except it isn’t cozy at all, but rather too large for a day that deserves a warm fire.
Maitimo's bedchamber is smaller, with a fireplace of its own, and it will become bearable more quickly.
I climb the winding staircase, and the strain upon my shoulder grows in direct proportion to the heights I reach.
My cousin's bedchamber is at the end of the hall on the second floor, and it is with great relief that I push the door open upon the haven, sun-streamed as it is with light through an arched glass window. I enter, and drop my bag from my shoulder onto the feather bed, spilling books out all over the deep blue quilt.
Aunt Nerdanel gave it to Maitimo but two Christmas’s ago. I have seen him wrapped in it, suffering from an illness no known medicine can cure, and I have wrapped my own arms around him and the quilt as he tried to stabilize ragged breath and a broken heart.
Ah, but I promised him I would not speak of that illness again—I will silence even my thoughts.
There is wood stacked neatly on an iron rack just to the left of the firescreen, but before I can move to arrange a fire, one of my papers catches my eye, notes from a lecture on the uses of ether in surgery, and this reminds me I had several questions I wanted to ask Dr. Olorin. I abandon every other thought, retrieve my pen and ink jar from a pocket in the side of my bag.
The metal nib at the end of the pen is in fine shape, but the ink jar has cracked, and glancing about, I find the ink has leaked onto the cover of every book in my possession. Fortunately, it seems to have happened in the morning, for the ink is dry, and in no way threatens Maitimo's beloved quilt.
I sigh, turn to the desk Maitimo hides away in the corner. It is pulled out, just a little, and seems to serve two purposes. There is a book of accounts to one side, wrapped in leather, but next to it sits a glass and a decanter, the latter half-full of some dark liquor.
I slide open the desk’s drawer, find a small jar of ink, and sink down onto the floor with books and papers, bracing my back against the bed, and a journal against my knees.
For a long time I write, hours even, because questions about ether morph into further questions which in turn transform into a rambling essay that Dr. Olorin will either be kind enough to peruse or wise enough to return unread, that I might revise my thoughts and improve the shape and character of my words.
The metal pen nib scritches and scratches, and I must blame its noise for my lack of observation. The door lies open, as it did since I entered, but when I glance up, to steal a look at the cherry-oak clock hanging on the wall, I startle to see my cousin standing very still in front of me, the top of his copper head nearly scraping the doorframe.
“Maitimo,” I exclaim, happy to see him, but also dreading the loss of my train of thought, “wait but a moment and I shall grasp your hand.”
I turn my eyes back to the essay in front of me, and I furiously scribble my last few points. If my penmanship is legible enough, Dr. Olorin will be well-pleased.
Maitimo is patient with me, as he ever is. A few minutes go by, and I close my journal and toss it onto the bed above me with something of a flourish.
“There,” I exclaim, brushing hair out of my eyes, “I have finished, and if you will assist me to my feet, we can repair to the kitchens and feast on some stolen treat.”
Maitimo is slow to move, and so I grasp the bed post and stand without aid.
“I warn you” I say, gesturing vaguely at him,” I’ve a diatribe built up in me, so you will have to pretend to be highly interested in my disgust for elderly men who preach false science and medicine.”
(This is one of the reasons I found my way to my cousin’s—when I ramble on or dive full tilt into a monologue about my studies, he always listens with an attentive ear and an amused smile. My father, on the other hand, means well and feigns ill, and I always worry that I will overtax him with stories or recitation of odd facts.)
Maitimo says nothing in reply to me, nor has he so much as twitched since I first caught sight of him. It is enough that I look at him more closely.
His pale skin would shame a midnight moon, which is nothing unusual, but his body is taut, as though he strains against his own muscles, willing them to hold together. A dull red rims his eyes.
I open my mouth to question him, to ask if he feels unwell, but he speaks before me.
“Fingon, why are you here?”
Maitimo almost chokes on his own words, and immediately I dart forward, guide him to his bed with a light touch of my hand on his shoulder. He sits down heavily, and refuses to look me in the eye any longer. Instead, he leans forward, gripping his knees with both hands.
He’s not going to tell me what is wrong. I know that—he has not been my closest friend and brother for years without me learning how his mind works.
I brush his forehead to check for fever, but he shies from my touch.
“Maitimo,” I whisper.
“I am not ill,” he says thickly. He isn’t crying (not at the moment), but something is still terribly wrong.
I have an idea of what that something is.
“Where have you come from?” I gather my books and shove them in their bag, so that it might not appear how closely I am watching my cousin’s facial expressions.
Maitimo's sharp jaw works, clenching and unclenching, and he rises and walks to his desk. He stands there for half a minute before replying.
“A social call,” he says, and his voice is too light for it to be truly steady. His hand hovers over the decanter, but it drops, and when he turns he smiles too brilliantly, sun sparkling upon lake waters. “Just a social call.”
There it is, and it is what I feared.
He is still suffering because of her. The girl he wished more than anything to marry. Maitimo wears the blue coat she always loved but professed to despise...maybe he has been to see her, or perhaps he came across one of her friends.
I promised not to question him on the subject anymore. I will not bring it up again unless he does. I promised.
If I had freedom of speech, I would not know what to say anyway.
Maitimo is speaking to me again. “Did you not have a lecture this afternoon?”
“I did,” I reply. “I walked out of it. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“And you came here,” Maitimo says faintly, “rather than going home. Does your father know where you are?” His face is white again, and his lips almost bloodless.
Is he so shocked that I appear in his house? I try not to think how long it has been since I last saw him. I have been caught up in my studies lately, and it has been a full week since we had dinner together, and before that we had not been able to spend more than a quarter hour in each other’s company for a whole fortnight.
How often is my cousin alone? Though Maglor lives with him in their father’s house, he is often gone, busy with music and engagements.
I bite my lip, a habit I have picked up from Maitimo. I have neglected my friend...it is no wonder he fares so ill. His heart is far from mended, and I am the worst of those who claim to be his brother. Celegorm would insult me if he knew, though he were just as useless.
Dr. Olorin has invited me to dinner tonight, and my journal with my questions burns a hole in my bag of books. Let it burn through the satchel and through the floor where I toss it, and maybe it will sink all the way down into the core of the earth.
Let it.
“Maitimo,” I say, “there is, according to rumor, an excellent play this night at the theater. We should attend it, unless you have an engagement elsewhere.”
“I am—” My cousin cuts off abruptly. “No, I don’t,” he says. “I am quite free.”
I narrow my eyes at him, knowing he has always made time for me even when it strained his life and family relations. I cannot call him out though, cannot force him to reveal who he is snubbing for my sake, for the first hint of a real smile plays on his lips, and besides that, he sways a little where he stands.
Shaking my head, I force him to sit down on his bed once more. I should not be able to move him as easily as I do, but he seems to have lost all his strength. He submits to my light nudging without pushing back or arguing.
Wordlessly, I eye the decanter. I shouldn’t, because while being half-full it is also half-empty, and I worry how Maitimo puts himself to sleep at nights, but right now he needs something fiery to brace him.
Medical student’s orders.
Hours later, the two of us lie on our stomachs on a simple braided rug in front of a roaring fire, laughing over memories of days gone by—a broken wrist from a sledding accident on the iciest day of the year, feasts and ceilis, apple-picking and horse-racing. Turgon getting a massive rash all over his chest because Celegorm tricked him into lying down amid a bed of poison ivy. The Christmas I spent at Formenos, which, for all the turmoil preceding it, was the best thing that ever happened to me, because I grew close to Maitimo.
(Maedhros is his true name, but in his dearness to me, he is more.)
We have no thought of the play any longer, but we relax in each other’s company, and as the lively cheer of liquor abates, we stare sleepily into the flames before us.
Maitimo rests his chin on the top of his hands, blinking slowly. His copper hair falls and shines in the firelight, his cheeks blush red from the heat. I have lain my own head down completely, and it is only a matter of time before I drift off to sleep.
I can’t though, not yet. Maitimo wants to say something. He keeps biting at his lip.
“I do not deserve you,” he breathes out at last. He does not look at me, but gazes into the crackling flames as though he sees a vision I do not.
I could stop him right there, could protest the comfort his friendship has given me, from shared boyhood adventures to encompassing hugs when I thought my father and I would never get along again. All the countless things in between.
But I cannot speak. My throat wells up, and I can barely swallow. If only Maitimo could believe better of himself—it has been a constant fight of mine for ages, convincing him of his own worth.
Words, however, have rarely convinced him of anything. All I can do is shift my body, bumping my shoulder against his, right where our poorly chosen tattoos are inked, hidden underneath our shirt-sleeves.
Just that slight contact, and he smiles, and his tired eyes soften and flutter closed.
He looks very young, and I feel very old.
We fall asleep like that, safe in the promise we have never made but always understood: to be brothers in name and deed, from now till the end of our days.