Chapter Text
“The proud person always wants to do the right thing, the great thing. But because he wants to do it in his own strength, he is fighting not with man, but with God.”
― Soren A. Kierkegaard
Nerdanel thought it gave him no twinge of fatherly feeling, to depart the grimy crush of New York City knowing that his two oldest sons—his first fruits—remained therein. Such ignorance was a womanly trait, and in itself, was no real slight to women: they felt so openly and softly as to leave no room for a stoic mien.
Feanor had not yet convinced her to think differently, but he had reasoned with her.
Now, he attended to his last errand in the city: overseeing the introduction of Maedhros and his schoolmaster. Maedhros and Maglor both were to attend the same school, but Feanor remembered too well and too ill his own experiences in the open classroom, beleaguered by the follies of lesser, schoolboy minds.
Maglor was dreamy enough as to isolate himself, and his natural talent for the musical arts would set him apart from the rowdy urchins who buttoned themselves into clean collars and thought themselves masters of their worlds. No, Feanor was not—and was rarely ever—worried overmuch for Maglor.
Through no fault of his own, it was Maedhros who presented more complicated circumstances.
He was sweet-tempered. Strong of both body and mind—Feanor trusted few men of his acquaintance more—but inclined to be fond of those weaker than himself. Then, too, Maedhros bore responsibilities for his family greater than those that Maglor did. Maglor need only acquit himself well; Maedhros must keep his eyes and ears open, balancing his desire to construct firm walls of prosperity with the need to watch for evil at every obliging crevice.
At present, he was fidgeting.
“Nelyafinwe,” said Feanor, low and serious. It straightened the boy like an arrow: his slim, well-formed figure remarkably manly in new tailoring of dark grey. He had combed his hair down over his brow; Feanor, finding the hallway empty, reached out to smooth it back.
“Perhaps your mother was right,” he said, in a kindlier tone, “And you should have let her cut it a little before departing.”
“Oh,” Maedhros stuttered, before settling his nerves with admirable quickness, “I did not—”
“Never mind. Now, Master Webb is the foremost scholar in—at least, so your grandfather says. He shall tend to the majority of your schooling, applying to other teachers and tutors as needed.”
Maedhros nodded. The door at the end of the long hall opened, and there was no more time for conversation between father and son. Feanor checked his impulse to guide the boy’s shoulder as they walked. It was, in any event, rather awkward to reach.
Maedhros had grown so tall.
Master Webb was a distinguished man, thin and wholly grey where he had hair remaining. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles pinched on the end of his nose.
They are not of particularly fine make.
“Feanor,” he said, “If I may be so bold as to address you thus—your father and I are old friends. And this must be Maedhros. My, but you are a handsome lad.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Maedhros, extending his hand and sketching a neat little bow of his head and shoulders. Feanor saw a bandage adorning one finger, but was not ashamed: his sons were craftsmen, at heart, as he was, and Maedhros had spent some of his last days in the smithy.
After all appropriate greetings were exchanged, Master Webb bade them be seated. “From your letter, sir,” he said, “I believe that you desire special arrangements for your eldest.”
Feanor bristled at the phrasing. “It was my understanding,” he said, with less warmth than he had previously spoken, “That my requirements were already agreed upon.”
“You wish your eldest—Maedhros, beg pardon—to be schooled by several masters, apart from the other boys his age.”
“Except for physical education, yes.” Feanor relented a little. “And I suppose it would be sensible for him to take his exams with the other pupils, would it not?”
Master Webb sighed through his nose. “Indeed it would.”
“That is acceptable.”
Maedhros turned his new high hat in his hands. He did not slouch; he was not Celegorm.
“We will do our best, sir, but I must confess—we do not have endless resources. In the study of chemistry and biology, for example…”
“Yours is the finest institution of its kind in the state, is it not?”
“In the northeast!”
“Then I trust your capacity for ingenuity extends farther than the rigidity of your habits.”
Maedhros, very quietly, said, “Sir, I do not mind—”
“Be silent, if you please.” Feanor knew that Maedhros, through nothing worse than his own pure intentions, would be sure to assuage an old man’s fear-driven efficiencies. “Master Webb, my sons will ornament your school’s reputation. On that, you have my word. Be so good as to accept my naturally superior understanding of their needs and inclinations.”
Master Webb opened his mouth and shut it again. Then he said, very carefully, “Are Maedhros’s…needs…unusual?”
Feanor once again forbore from responding to the insult with the ire it deserved. “His capacity is unique, rather,” he replied. “He will flourish extraordinarily, given the chance to learn directly from focused teachers.”
Master Webb’s sigh was one of defeat, this time. “Very well,” he said. “Unless, of course, the prospective scholar objects?”
Maedhros shook his head quickly. “Not in the least, sir.”
“You will not be lonely?”
“I have family in the city.”
“Your grandfather, of course. And your brother.” Master Webb adjusted his spectacle. “Very well. Fencing and swimming and the other sports shall introduce you to your fellows, and I will consult with my colleagues as to—”
“A proper allocation of experts and expertise.” Feanor rose. “Excellent, Master Webb. My father erred not in speaking highly of you.”
He waited to congratulate Maedhros until they were alone in the hall together.
“This,” Feanor said, letting both hands rest on his son’s shoulders, “Shall be the making of you.”