Work Text:
“Maedhros, you cannot be serious.”
“And why not?” demanded that peacocking reprobate, turning to favor me with a sidelong glance from beneath the polished brim of the hat which he had, so lately, elevated to its present height of ridicule. “These are all the rage, Finrod. You know they are.”
“You are seven feet tall!” I expostulated. “Vanity must find its check in absurdity!”
“You forget, my dear little cousin,” said Maedhros with a wink, “that we are not at present discussing one of your pamphlets. I placed a moratorium on serious talk when we came seeking Fingon’s birthday present, don’t you remember? Tsk, tsk, Finrod. I can see you don’t. But! As you have made so pointed an accusation, I don’t have any intention of checking my vanity, and I’ve long since accepted that striking looks such as my own will be thought absurd by those…” He paused, as if deciding how much he ought to insult me, even in jest. “By those,” he finished, “who like neither red hair, nor an Irish complexion.”
Then he turned back to the glass, twisting the silk stove-pipe this way and that atop his lustrous curls. I sometimes suspected Maglor of using curl papers to achieve a particularly Byronic ringlet, but Maedhros, never. I knew he wasn’t truly absurd; he had a natural grace and ease that prevented him from ever being a caricature.
The hat, however, was indefensible. I should not have let him coax me into the haberdashery in the first place.
To be sure, when we’d approached it, I had been eager enough—I had an errand here myself. With a sigh, I examined a modest boater, dragging a fingertip over its grosgrain band.
I didn’t want a boater. My height, though estimable, was not so much that a silk hat would go amiss for me.
In truth, I was partial to some refinements of dress, in their proper context. I dressed soberly enough for meetings with those whose means did not allow them any excess. But if I had to endure what was called “high society”—if I had to dance and play cards and sip madeira—well, hang a fellow for wanting to look the part! My grandfather Olwe, who lived far off in Ulmo's Bridge, had made me dozens of pretty presents over the years, and in turn I made good use of them. There were among his people (my mother’s people) skilled craftsmen from the old country. Their works—whether in mother-of-pearl, gold, silver, linden-wood, silk, or leather—had supplied my wardrobe in a singularly exquisite fashion for years. Nobody had the same brooch I did, or the same shoe-buckle.
Until he arrived in the city, Maedhros had dressed far more simply than I. I remember seeing him at family gatherings when we were small boys. He wore strong bright colors, thanks to Aunt Nerdanel’s artist’s eye—but all of the lines were simple, and the stuffs more durable than fine. He and Maglor and all the rest of my cousins, too, had clearly had their hair cut around the edge of a bowl. There, I supposed, my aunt’s artistic vision had fallen short.
No surprise, then, that Maedhros had compensated for earlier oversights by indulging in finery once he was nearly of age. The shy boy of fifteen—who had yet seemed quite impressive and superior to me, though less than a year separated us—had been replaced by an illustrious gentleman. He was now (as of just a few weeks past) nineteen years of age.
“Coats are so long these days,” Maedhros mused, half a dozen paces off across the carpeted floor, “that one must balance them with appropriate headgear. You see the wisdom in that, don’t you?”
“I see a giant.”
He ignored me. “I’ll take it, sir,” he said, to the ingratiating proprietor, whose bald pate would have ill-supported any of his wares. He beamed and bobbed, aglow in the light of Maedhros’ smile, and went in search of a box to fit the shot-silk stove-pipe that my cousin was holding now in two hands, tender as an infant.
“Maedhros…”
“Hush,” he said. “I shan’t be embarrassed by you, Finrod. Not after that damned card-party.”
I coughed, and left off my further commentary on his sartorial judgment.
He had, after all, walked the length of several streets with me in Violet Tibbs’ gown.
“Oh—oh,” cried Fingon, when the lid of the hat-box was off. “Oh, Maitimo, this is splendid! And much too fine for me.”
“Not in the least too fine for you, cano,” said Maedhros, with a merry laugh. “You’ve just the right coloring to set off a gunmetal hue like that… it will make your eyes bluer, your cheeks ruddier, and your hair as glossy as a raven’s wing.”
“And it will make me tall,” Fingon said. His laugh, pleased and shy in equal measure, sounded like the chuckle of an owl.
Maedhros clasped his hands behind the nipped waist of his claret-colored coat, never looking at me once. “Indeed it will,” he said. “You shall be all of six feet, I shouldn’t wonder.”
I waited to speak to Maedhros directly until Aredhel and Turgon had quite overtaken Fingon’s attention with some little trinkets of their own. Fingon was accepting these gifts with gracious formality; leave it to him to be conscious, at fifteen, that it was time to be a man of the house.
I went to the corner of Uncle Fingolfin’s parlor, where a table of refreshments had been laid. Most of what I liked had been plundered therefrom; I had seen Maglor, for instance, steal the last of the strawberry tarts.
Maedhros was there, pouring himself a little sherry.
“Ah, Finrod,” he said. “Should you like some? This is my last drink—Maglor and I are off home next week.”
There was something a little conscious about how he said that, as if I might judge him for his indulgence, or approve his plan for halting it. I didn’t know why he opened the subject. I had seen my cousin drunk; I had been drunk myself, in his company. I had dithered over what constraints I ought to place on my own conduct—but even when I had strayed, I still sometimes judged his.
That was the trouble with Maedhros; you always wanted him to be better. To be the best.
“Not tonight, thanks,” I said. And then, focusing my reproach on a lighter subject, “You really could have told me that the hat was for Fingon.”
He grinned at me over his half-empty glass. “And spared myself a few sallies of your rapier wit? Never.”
“Fingon’s going to sit on it before the month is out, you know. He’s absent-minded about his things.”
“God bless him,” said Maedhros. “He may use it as a fish-basket, for all I care. I wanted him to enjoy the grandeur of the moment, that is all. And I wanted to see your face, when he opened the box.”
“You weren’t looking at my face!”
“I was. Here and there. You must watch me more closely, Finrod. I’m very sly.” He set down his glass and reached out to pat my cheek. “There now, you didn’t think I’d really want to be seven feet tall, did you? I could scarcely fit through a carriage-gate—it would be absurd.”