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There is nothing to equal Christmas, in Fingon’s mind. As a child, he could be confident that the day itself would bring foil-wrapped sweeties and marvelous toys and even fire-crackers, if Grandfather could manage them. Forever and ever, he knows that the sacred and beautiful Midnight Mass shall be prayed with an extra sheen of gold on every call and response, the air heavy with incense and pine-boughs.
Religion will last the honest man a lifetime, he wrote in his book of sayings, just the other day. A would-be priest must accumulate such things.
Despite the reverence owed to the sacred feast, he has decided to be wise (a lesson that he fears must last a lifetime) and derive particular and pointed joy from the Thanksgiving celebration this year. If his plans are rewarded—and he hopes, he hopes they may be—he shall spend Christmas at Formenos.
He is, at any rate, too old for toys.
Thanksgiving is his last opportunity to prove that his plans are not a…well, the only word that suits is betrayal. He doesn’t want Father to think that he is a traitor, for then, Father shan’t let him go.
Accordingly, he tries not to shoot scathing or questioning glances down the table, even though his father’s very existence elicits such stares of late; he tries to elevate the meal and its history to suffice for the month beyond—
Oh, why will Father not say either yes or no?
“Every time I think I have emptied my plate, it is full again,” Maedhros observes quietly. Maedhros is too polite to drag his fork through the rich remnants of gravy, but if his plate were Fingon’s, Fingon thinks he might sop up the excess with a crisply finished roll.
A basket of them still shines just down the table, in front of Aunt Earwen.
“Well, that is Grandmother,” Fingon says, magnanimously. “She attends to everything.” Then he remembers that she is not Maedhros’s grandmother at all—and indeed, he does not call her so, but is wont to say Lady Indis before his father, and ma’am otherwise. “I only mean,” Fingon stutters, in addition, “That she is very kind, and bids the maids keep everyone well-fed.”
“Of course.” Maedhros is dressed in neat dark clothes, the sort one might wear to church, but he looks very fine and elegant despite this. He needn’t wear peacock colors, Fingon thinks. Unless he wants to.
(Fingon can only pray that his station at sixteen is somewhat…comparable. Equality is out of the question.)
“I have asked Papa—Father,” he says, low, and then wishes he hadn’t. Perhaps he should take more jellied cranberries, to cover his confusion. But no, Aegnor is monopolizing it.
Maedhros has heard him, though, and as Fingon might expect, has also guessed the subject of his allusion. “About the holidays…and our scheme?”
“Yes.” Fingon likes very much to hear it called our scheme.
“What did he say?”
“He hasn’t, yet.”
Maedhros sips a little of the mulled cider at the head of his plate; the same on which Turgon is busily making himself sick. “Give him a little time, cousin. I have no doubt that my uncle will be unfailingly reasonable.”
He winks, then stifles the slightest sigh as another serving of boiled onions is ladled onto his plate.
Fingon is fond of onions, but he forbears. “You may hide them in your napkin,” he says, as low as he can. “If you—”
“No, no,” Maedhros assures him. “I’ll be a martyr.”
Fingon laughs. “If he doesn’t say yes, perhaps I’ll stowaway in the carriage.”
“I declare,” Maedhros says, laughing also, “You’ll stop at nothing.”