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There is a new trouble on Maedhros’ horizon. Maglor and Indis, if not fast friends, are well on their way to becoming so. Athair warned of this—not this particular eventuality, but of the likelihood that Indis would ingratiate herself to her husband’s grandsons, barring the intervention of any protector.
Scripture, Athair had said, speaks of the serpent and the dove. Somehow, she is both.
Maedhros can hear Maglor talking to Indis now, exclaiming over the slippers she brought him from the bazaar. Maglor does not know that Maedhros is here too, curled up in the window-seat with Oliver Twist on his knees. Perhaps if Maglor did know, he would only blush with a moment’s angry shame and then return to his present conversation… and his new slippers. Maglor is like—like Athair in that way.
Stubborn.
Maedhros closes his book and pushes it away. Indis’ voice is gentle, but not cunning. It is possible—it is likely, Maedhros can admit, in the private silence of the window-seat, that she means her gift to Maglor kindly.
Grandfather, of course, is generosity itself. He is almost enough to make one forget her entirely, Athair had said, sounding wistful. That is the sort of man he is—a great mind coupled with a great heart. By this, Athair meant that Grandfather was enough for Maedhros and Maglor… and that they, in turn, must be enough for him, as Athair had been when he was small.
Dutifully, Maedhros has cultivated what disdain he can muster for Grandfather’s wife in the long, lonely days of autumn. It has thus far borne little fruit. Indis seems cautiously pleased whenever she has an opportunity to speak in a friendly fashion to either Maglor or himself, but she does not seek them out. After so many weeks, Maedhros has been avoiding her. The few times he has attempted to return her warmth with coldness, he felt no thrill of righteousness. Even the knowledge that he was doing what Athair wished could not keep him off his knees for long hours of penitent prayer, deep in the watches of night where his guilt might not be detected—or attributed to its cause.
Of course, when Maedhros does not sleep, he is very dull over his lessons. The schoolmasters pretend not to notice. They are too soft with him; they are afraid of Athair.
Sometimes it feels as if everyone is afraid of Athair.
“I shall cherish these always,” Maglor is saying. “Thank you, Indis—it feels so strange to call you that, you know. You don’t mind?”
Maedhros leans forward despite himself. Is this the moment when Indis shall claim a title that does not belong to her? Will she prey upon Maglor’s eager affection?
Will she ask Maglor—and Maedhros, thereby—to choose her over their own blood?
“Of course not, Maglor,” Indis says softly. “That is my name, after all. I am glad you like the slippers so well. Your grandfather and I want you to feel quite at home, in this house.”
Maedhros presses his cold-blooded hands together. His heart thrashes in his chest like the beating of wings.