Chapter Text
“Thank you, my dear boys,” said Grandfather Finwe, as they turned down the corner of — street. “It is a pleasant change, to have company. You have done me a great kindness.”
“It was no trouble,” Maedhros insisted, shivering as he hunched his shoulders a little deeper into his coat. It was a new coat, yet not new enough; fitted and sewn in early summer, and already an inch small at the shoulders and two inches small at the wrists. When his mother had shaken it out of the winter chest and held it up to him, she had frowned, but Athair had thought it nonsense to order a new suit of clothes to be made when in only a few weeks Maedhros should be living in the city and thus easily able to attend the tailor’s himself, without the added difficulty of the long drive from Formenos.
Nerdanel had done her best to fix the wrists by adding cuffs cut from an old pair of Athair’s trousers, but there was nothing to be done about the shoulders.
Grandfather Finwe had already promised him a grand day out to the tailor’s, and the cobbler’s, and the barber’s, and many more wonderful places besides. Even Maglor had been promised a new Sunday set, despite his current one still fitting with room to grow. But today, their first Saturday as fine city boys, Finwe had invited them to join him not to the shops but instead to his weekly visit to his first wife’s grave.
“You may think it no trouble now,” Grandfather Finwe said wisely, tap-tapping with his cane upon the pavement, “but that is only because you have not yet had time to make friends of your own age. Once you begin lessons, and social calls, you shall soon find your calendars filled up with appointments, you shall see! You shall not have the time any longer to spend a beautiful Saturday afternoon out walking with an old man. Ah, me.”
Maedhros’ brow furrowed, as it always did when there was any talk about lessons.
“I shall always have time for you, Granddfather,” he said politely, and with utmost sincerity. “And I—I did want to see her. Our grandmother’s grave, I mean.”
“Athair told Maedhros that he looks like Grandmother Miriel,” Maglor chirped, eager to contribute, but he was startled by the look Maedhros darted at him: not proud, or pleased, but instead almost frightened. Grandfather Finwe, however, did not look upset.
“She did not, of course, have your mother’s beautiful hair, Maedhros,” Grandfather Finwe said with a smile. “But in feature you are indeed very alike. Folk called her elfin, when we were young.” The old man paused, a little saddened by the memory, and then smiled warmly again to reassure his grandsons—and one grandson in particular, who was watching him anxiously with Miriel’s smoked-glass eyes.
“You have her eyes, especially,” he told Maedhros, “and her hands. Artistic hands, you know, just like your father. Have you trained with Feanor at all, in metalwork?”
“A little, sir,” Maedhros replied, “but not so very much—as he was gone, for so long, and since then I have had to—my schooling—“ he stammered a little, flushing as he looked down at his hands, and his grandfather hastened to comfort him.
“Well! Never mind that, never mind now. It is for the best, I am sure; a smithy is a dangerous place for small fingers. The amount of anxiety your father gave me over that, when he was a boy!—“
Tales about their father as a boy were rare treats indeed, and Finwe had the Irish knack for storytelling. The rest of the walk to the windy churchyard passed happily, and there was no more talk of school.
It was a very rare and prestigious honor, Feanor had impressed upon his sons on more than one occasion, to be buried in the grounds of grand St. Patrick’s cathedral. Easily one of the most beautiful and long-established bastions of Irish Catholicism in New York, the cathedral had run out of grave space long before Maedhros was born. Grandfather Finwe, however, being the splendid and important man that he was, had managed to purchase not only one plot but two, side-by-side, in a quiet corner of the cemetery. Athair had explained to Maedhros on a Sunday that this feat had been accomplished because Finwe was so beloved by his fellow Irish, whom he championed not only in city government but also in Washington itself. If Finwe—distinguished war veteran, accomplished craftsman, and gentleman politician—could not win a place for himself in the cathedral’s hallowed ground, then who could?
What Feanor did not explain at the time was that Finwe’s good fortune in grave-buying was at least as much to do with timing as with his social status; when Miriel died, long ago and far too young in the summer of 1807, it had not been nearly so difficult to purchase a plot of St. Patrick’s land.
Finwe led his grandsons confidently through the maze of green graves and headstones, some of the latter already half-swallowed up by the former, carven with Grecian symbols as was the fashion. Here and there a Celtic cross raised its stubborn arms, casting long shadows across the grass, but these were by far the minority. Not every Irish Catholic in New York had the privilege and nerve to be as open with his heritage as Finwe was, or as well-funded. Indeed, Miriel herself slept beneath a humble, unadorned headstone, marked with only her name and the date of her death. Finwe, a young man himself when she died, and a new father at that, had had little money left over for fripperies once he had paid for the burial.
Maglor, who had been imagining a rather more impressive tomb, did a poor job of hiding his disappointment. Maedhros stood with the reverent, wide-eyed manner of an altar boy, finally forgetting to tug at his coat sleeves.
“Well! Hello again, my dear,” Finwe addressed to the grave, with a tender smile. “I have brought your grandsons today, to pay their respects. This is Maedhros, and Maglor.” He turned to the boys and his smile warmed, as he tapped Maglor lightly upon the head.
“Your father brought each of you here before,” Finwe informed him, wagging his finger. “After your christenings. But you have grown so much, it feels proper to make a new introduction, does it not?”
“Hello, Grandmother,” Maglor muttered, awkwardly, frowning at the simple headstone. The grave was well-kept and the letters were still sharply cut, clearly maintained over the decades. It was, however, not particularly romantic. Not so much as a Latin epigraph, Maglor thought mournfully, tracing the letters of his grandmother’s name with his eyes.
“We visited with the twins, also,” Maedhros said softly, drawing his lip between his teeth. “When we stood up as their godfathers, we—do you remember, Maglor?”
“Not very well,” Maglor admitted. That had been years and years ago; he had been only eight.
“I had forgotten you were made godfathers,” Finwe said, pleased. “Your father does not visit here very often; the grief is too near still, for him. It is a terrible thing, to lose one’s wife; I cannot imagine how much worse it is, to lose a mother. You must have been a great comfort to him, when he brought the twins.”
“I carried Amrod,” Maedhros said, still in that mouse-quiet voice, but that was all. He was wringing his fingers together in thought, as he gazed at the little headstone; he did not seem to realize it.
“What was she like?” Maglor asked at last, with a quick look at his brother. “Our grandmother.”
Finwe sighed, and removed his hat to sweep one gloved hand back through his thick white hair.
“Oh, Miriel,” he said, pondering. “You have seen the portrait of her up in the house, have you not? It captures her likeness well enough, yet she was ever so much more beautiful in life. In the painting, she is quiet; in life she moved like a bird, or a deer: there was a wildness in her all her life, that came from the old country. She was a marvelous seamstress, and a weaver. A tapestry she made hangs on display in a Dublin museum! If ever you have the good fortune of visiting my hometown you shall have to go admire it. Your father took his talent for creation from her. I am handy enough myself, at the forge, but I have no genius for it; your grandmother made art of everything she did. She was a very intelligent woman, though she did not have the good fortune of getting a formal education. She used to love to have me read to her, in the evenings . . . In particular during the last days of her confinement, she loved that. She wanted, so much, to be a mother.”
The old man blinked, caught by surprise by the strength of the old grief, summoned up again with such swiftness. He set it gently aside, and hastened to reassure the boys still watching him.
“The important thing, Maglor, is that she would have loved you very much—indeed she does love you, both of you, for her soul can see you from Heaven.”
“I understand the functioning of souls,” Maglor answered, with dignity. He did not see his grandfather’s quickly stifled amusement.
“Of course you do,” Finwe replied gravely, and smiled again.
“You see there?”
The old man pointed with his cane, indicating the empty green space next to Miriel’s grave. Grass grew long upon it, fine and thick as ladies’ hair.
“That is where I am going, when the Good Lord says it is my time. A queer thought to consider, is it not? That I see now with living eyes my own grave un-dug. Yet that is the good of salvation, my boys; since my soul is clean, I need not grieve overmuch during my years left alive, for I know I have this space in hallowed ground set aside for me here. When I am buried, I shall be reunited with my Miriel in death, and thus shall my bones be comforted—and when the trumpets of resurrection sound, we may arise triumphant as two souls together, hand in hand.”
Maedhros listened attentively, his eyes growing wider and wider. He was still a fanciful child, with a love for beautiful things; that much had been easily apparent in the week since he came to live under Finwe’s care. He had already divested Finwe’s private cases of no less than four books, and all of them novels. In conversation, he confessed a love for Scott, and for Andersen: fantastical characters and pretty, historical adventures. Finwe had recommended he further explore Dickens’ catalogue, to help foster his sense of social responsibility, but he had not begrudged the boy a look in his book of Irish folk stories either, nor how easily his grandson’s attention was distracted from prayer on Sunday by the light of the cathedral stained-glass, or the magnificent gowns the city ladies wore to service. It was a charming thing, to have a whimsical child about the place. Something intangible about Maedhros’ manner, in that regard, made the resemblance to Miriel even stronger.
Whatever gentle part of the boy that was so deeply touched by beauty—whatever young romantic impulse there was aquiver in his breast—it was clearly deeply moved by the vision of his Grandfather reunited with his first, lost bride, and the coming of paradise.
Maglor, however, frowned.
“Where shall Grandmother Indis be, then?” He asked abruptly. “Shall she have hold of your other hand?”
“Maglor!” Maedhros cried, looking wounded. “Do not be rude! And in any case, she is a—a woman of the Church of England, so she shan’t be buried here.”
He looked quickly to Finwe, who smiled to show he took no offense.
“Our Father loves all His children,” he chided gently, “no matter the division of our faith. It is like how I can love both your own father, and your uncles, Maglor. We are all one family in the end, and shall all be called home together, I am sure.”
Maglor looked still dubious, but thoughtful. Maedhros nodded a little more earnestly than was necessary, as if to show that he represented his younger brother’s understanding as well as his own. Both boys’ faces were pinked by the combination of the cool breeze and their heavy coats; satisfied with the lesson imparted, Finwe clapped his hands.
“Now! Why don’t we take a minute of silent prayer, and then be on our way home? Your grandmother will have supper waiting, and you ought to retire early tonight, so that you are fully refreshed when you meet your cousins tomorrow.”
Maglor, his nose all red with the cold, dutifully squeezed his eyes shut and clasped his hands together, mouthing pious words with all the haste of a boy who has his mind on hot supper and bed.
Maedhros did not pray. He meant to, of course! But when he reached for the words he instead found that all he could do was stand at the foot of the quiet grave, looking down at Miriel’s name, and at the blank spaces beneath.
What a strange comfort, the boy thought: What a strange comfort it was, to be yet living, but to know where you will go when you die.