Archive of Our Own

“All my life

I have worshiped the wrong gods.

When I watch the trees on the other side,

the arrow in my heart

is like one of them,

swaying and quivering.”

- Louise Glück

(in hell, where there is nothing to do but see—)

- Louise Glück

Dusk had fallen early. The high-walled streets were black as night, and it would be easy enough to become lost in them, yet Maedhros was not an idle wanderer. He knew his path well. Had not Clement Tibbs led him along it often enough these past few months, while letting flow a self-satisfied stream of useless conversation? Maedhros, when his blood was up, when he was free of any obligation tending towards decorum, could be quite savage on the subject of Clement Tibbs.

As for Clement’s sister…

Somewhere, a dog howled, the lonely sound muddled by the rumble of carriage wheels. The City, with its narrow alleys and frowning edifices, seemed no friendlier than it had a year ago, when Maedhros lay awake night after night, too miserable even for tears. But if the City would not change, Maedhros could. Indeed, he had hardened himself bit by bit—had grown a few more inches in height and had gained a few pearls, if not of wisdom, then of knowledge and good sense.

Internally, he chided himself at once for this claim. Good sense? In Formenos, it might be. Here, cunning was the better word for how careful he was with Grandfather’s decanter, and how well he orchestrated these evening errands that led, not to the Tibbs’ looming front door with its panels of Spanish glass, but to the kitchen entrance where Hortense waited with a knowing look in her jet-bead eyes.

Always, Hortense held a key in her net-gloved hand. More than that, she was the key. With a finger to her lips, she would lead Maedhros to the stairs that led up to the servants’ rooms—including her own, which connected by a door to Violet’s sitting and sewing parlor. That was the reward for Maedhros’ lonely days and circumscribed hours: Violet Tibbs, as beautiful as Clement was foolish-faced, with snapping blue eyes and smooth golden ringlets tumbling over her shoulders. When he reached her room tonight, panting nervously under the folds of his new woolen greatcoat, she would look as she always did: serene and cool, her white hands moving gracefully at her work, her lips barely permitting him a smile of welcome.

Maedhros understood that it was one of Violet’s little triumphs to pretend that there was nothing at all the matter with a classmate of her brother’s slipping bashfully into her private rooms, unbeknownst to the family—to the father—who occasionally entertained him at supper. It was better than a joke to her; it was a pleasure. And it was a pleasure to Maedhros, too, though in the uncompromising light of the next morning, the memory might well sicken him like too much drink.

For now, he quickened his pace, trying not to think of the past—the future—of anything but the cold air nipping his nose and ears. It was a dangerous business in some respects, traversing the streets alone and after dark. Maedhros knew that Grandfather would willingly pay for his grandsons’ conveyance wherever their social obligations chanced to take them; he delighted in sending out a carriage for Maglor’s increasing array of musical fetes, and encouraged Maedhros to accompany his brother whenever possible. You have the whole world at your fingertips, my dear boy! Grandfather would say, with one of his cheerful laughs. You must not be poking about in my library forever—

And of course, Maedhros haunted the library less these days. Books were not equal to answering the lure Violet offered. Since the first time they kissed, he had ached with want for her. It was like some outer layer of his heart or soul had been flayed away, leaving vulnerable that which nerved him to action. Regret, he dared not court; fear, he merely tasted. 

Always, in the City, there was fear. Athair’s voice, whispering in his ears—Athair’s hands on his shoulders—Athair’s plea, or promise, or oath, whichever it was:

You are my eldest, my heir. I am depending on you.

Athair would be in Valinor Park in a few weeks’ time. He would expect an accounting from Maedhros, as he did at every meeting. So far, Maedhros had had very little to offer by way of gossip, news, or rumor. What could a boy of only sixteen, and with no particular brilliance, discern of important—or dangerous—workings of the world? Athair’s demands were shifting, changing like a restive breeze. He wanted to know about Grandfather’s friends, Uncle Fingolfin’s business associates, and of course, if even so much as whisper reached Maedhros of—of the one Athair called Morgoth.

Our name alone, Athair said, but someday it shall ring in every ear.

Maedhros had been a fool to think of that now. The dark alleyways seemed suddenly choked with shadowy watchers. Maedhros even fancied, in the rustling of old newspapers and dirty straw, that he heard gloating laughter.

He shuddered, and quickened his pace still more.

Hortense was waiting for him. She did not take his coat, as the footman would have if Maedhros had come by the front door. She only offered him the slim brass key, with a smirk that brought a flush to Maedhros’ already hot cheeks.

He hastened up the stairs. That was part of the thrill, to be sure—that a servant might meet him coming down. Hortense never promised to play the lookout perfectly.

Maedhros tapped at Violet’s door. Not for the first time, an idea parted the ruffled pages of his thoughts with a stabbing finger, suggesting that he was executing Athair’s demands with supercilious irony. Mr. Tibbs, Violet’s father, was Uncle Fingolfin’s banker. Maedhros was investigating Uncle Fingolfin’s business associates, therefore, though not at all in the way Athair intended.

A familiar, delicate voice bade him enter. Maedhros unlocked the door and went in.

Her silly little dog had learned not to bark at Maedhros, but he bristled, standing stiffly upright on the upholstered chair across the room. Violet herself was leaning over her mirror, her elbows propped on her frilled vanity table.

Maedhros’ voice caught in his throat. He knew, without speaking, that it would split and quaver if he tried to say her name—he would sound all of thirteen again, and that could not be borne.

Violet was not above laughing him out of her room, telling him to return when he could seem more like a proper man.

“Oh, there you are,” said Violet, catching one of her silken ringlets up with a butterfly comb. “You do know how to keep a girl waiting. I don’t know why Clement says you have a habit for being punctual.”

“We had company at supper,” Maedhros explained, his voice only a trifle husky now, though he still felt ill at ease for having offered no polite greeting. He was also acutely conscious that he had nothing to do with all six-odd feet of himself, standing there against the door as he was. “My grandfather…”

“Don’t let’s speak of company suppers, if you please.” Violet sighed, dropped her comb, and looked at him. There was the smile, darting like an arrow. “Won’t you take off your coat and sit down, you silly boy?”

Relieved, Maedhros shrugged off his greatcoat, hanging it with the rabbit-trimmed cloak that hung on a peg beside the cherrywood wardrobe.

He did not preen, but he was quite proud of his newmarket coat, with its sloping tails curving away from his waist, and the fine gold buttons that twinkled against the navy blue wool. He had new gloves, too; Grandfather’s Sunday gift.

Splendid, Mother would say, but Maedhros should not listen for her voice here—in this room, this hour.

“Alphonsus has the other chair, I’m afraid,” Violet observed, turning back to her mirror after a long, admiring glance. “But you may come and sit beside me if you like. I am almost finished with this wretched curl; I saw such a clever way of fastening it up in the Godey Lady’s Book, but for the life of me I cannot manage it.”

“Beside you?” Maedhros asked, a little stupidly, for he could not even see the little ottoman-seat concealed beneath the billow of Violet’s skirts.

She laughed, this time. “Yes, Maedhros. Beside me, on the floor. Alphonsus does it all the time; are you really prouder than Alphonsus?”

Maedhros thought it wiser not to answer, and safer not to glare at Alphonsus, who had ceased bristling and was now sprawled insolently on the cushions of the chair that ought to have been Maedhros’. Maedhros had examined his own face in the mirror enough to know that he looked as stormy as Maglor did when he frowned. Now, Maglor was a perfectly unimpeachable dear, but he would not be able to coax any affections out of Violet. A merciful certainty, for so many reasons—so thought Maedhros, as he went to take his place at Violet’s feet.

At once, her expression warmed, and she threw aside the silver butterfly as if it had never held her attention. Maedhros, kneeling, was careful not to crush the shimmering folds of her skirt. Their faces were just level with each other—hers raised a little higher.

“It is a wonder of the world,” said Violet, “to be taller than you.” With both hands, she reached for his face.

Maglor was in a fretful mood.

“It’s eleven o’clock,” he said. “Where have you been? And why do you smell like rose petals?”

If Cousin Finrod—assiduous and sometimes a little too curious for his own good—had asked that question, Maedhros might well have had cause for alarm. But with Maglor, the subject was a different one entirely.

“I shan’t leave you alone so long again, cano,” said Maedhros, allowing his guilt to flow into poignant affection for this perennially little brother, who was not growing so quickly as Maedhros had when he was not quite fifteen. “Was it tremendously dull, this evening? Did you practice your instruments?”

“Of course I did,” Maglor huffed. “That’s all I do, you know—practice, practice, practice, though mamaí keeps writing me dire warnings about what shall become of me when I am rich and celebrated. As if I would ever allow income to corrupt my sense of artistry! What d’you suppose she is thinking?”

Instead of answering, Maedhros sprawled out on the sofa, carefully propping his boots so that they would not soil the curved armrest, and pillowing his head on Maglor’s bony knees. At once, Maglor began to run his fingers through Maedhros’ hair, teasing apart the snags and tangles that Violet had delighted in making.

Maedhros sighed and shut his eyes.

He did not remember falling asleep, but the nightmare crept over him anyway. A bright, sun-spangled lawn, as tidy as a croquet green—and all the fine and fancy company in broadcloth and poplin. A thicket of living branches—and the hunter hiding within.

No, no, cried his heart, but only bloodlust answered its beating. Without more warning, he saw the ladies in their billowing dresses explode in crimson showers, saw the men’s heads roll upon the green. Yet no one stirred at the sudden madness—no survivor tried to flee. It was as if a painting of a garden party had come to life only to be massacred, one by one.

For there is only one ending, answered his heart, and it is death. That was the edge of despair: Maedhros could not allow himself to crumble beneath it, or his life would be forfeit. Or would he be doomed to live and breathe, to run and be winded, to gasp out his pain in useless silence through all the twilit years of the world? Here in this dream, it was the midday sun—but that was only a promise. If all that Athair feared came to pass, Melkor Bauglir would walk free again before another year was out. He would come seeking new rivals, new enemies.

He is not here, Maedhros told himself, and nearly leapt away to find himself still in Maglor’s arms.

“Oh, how troubled you look when you sleep, Maitimo,” said Maglor, still his fond, pettish self. Maedhros was frozen by the same instinct that always guided him at such times; to say nothing that would alarm Maglor more than could be accounted for under Athair’s letters or the letters from mamaí and the children.

I am dreaming of a mission with which Athair charged me

But even that would be too much for Maglor.

It will claim me, Macalaure. I am so afraid.

“A nightmare,” Maedhros said simply. “Nothing to frighten you—or me, now that I’ve had time to think of it.” He had time to remember other sensations, too—Violet’s hand, almost as warm as her blushing cheeks, caressing his face, his neck, undoing the carefully tied cravat he had so hoped she would admire.

You are too timid, she had said, teasing him until he let her steal the length of silk altogether, and open up the buttons of his shirtfront besides.

“I wish you were not so nervous,” Maglor said. “It’s a bad temperament for this city, you know. I’m beginning to learn that—how very demanding it will be, if I become a first-rate musician. The lights are so hot, and all the faces watching me so round and pale—it is as if I had to stare at thirty moons, and feel the heat of a dozen suns.”

Maedhros reached up and touched Maglor’s face. Then he remembered that he was a blemished sinner, unworthy of his younger brother, and he drew his hand away. “You have so many cares of your own, cano,” he said softly, wishing he dared to shut his eyes again.

“Cares enough,” Maglor said, “to keep us both up at this late hour. I suppose we ought to go to bed.” He yawned, then added, “The cook is making griddlecakes tomorrow.”

It had been a long time since Maedhros had been able to enjoy any meal, but he knew Maglor’s devoted love to breakfast (and the occasional second breakfast), and so he smiled.

“Griddlecakes it is. Yes, I’d better be off to bed.”

He washed up with as few glances at the looking glass as he dared. He did not like to see his own guilty face reflected there, the lips a little swollen and the eyes too knowing.

He could wander a thousand dreams, but his waking life would remain, for now, what he made of it: days of study that did not satisfy, troubled hours of solitude in the house he could not call home, and stolen rendezvouses with a girl he could not yet marry.

Marry Violet… A cold hand seemed to grip his throat with the very impossibility of it—with the very dread.

He flung himself out on his bed and stared into the darkness.

The next day was Saturday. Finarfin and his family came to call, all of them so much more sedate than Maedhros’ own brothers—except for little Artanis—that the house seemed only slightly fuller than it ordinarily did. After a midday feast, the party shrank immediately, for Maglor retired to work on his sheet music, as he liked to when anybody other than Grandfather and Indis were about. When Uncle Finarfin (Maedhros felt less guilty about granting him that honorific than he did Fingolfin) had descended upon Formenos for a week last summer, Maglor had been less than enthused. Ever since, he had been no more than polite to his relations, even though pretty Aunt Earwen always asked after his music.

The grownups retreated to sit in the parlor, at Grandfather’s invitation. Angrod and Aegnor went in search of some of the cunning puzzles that their grandmother kept for them in a case in her sewing room.

Left to their own devices—Artanis was diverting her grandparents with a shrill little song—Maedhros and Finrod, with a nod and a shrug, stole off towards the sunny sitting room, with its windows facing the street. They both were content to watch people passing for a few moments, though Maedhros could feel Finrod’s sidelong, assessing glances.

Could Finrod tell that Maedhros had changed, since the summer? Their meetings this autumn had been chance and in mingled groupings, more on account of Finrod’s social calendar than Maedhros’. This was the first time they’d really had the opportunity to observe one another, and Maedhros did not yet know if he liked it.

Finrod was taller than Maglor, which was only just—he was a year older. His pale golden hair, much smoother than Celegorm’s, was thick and waving over his brow. When he wasn’t dressed for reckless adventuring, he had simply splendid clothes, worn with all the ease of careless fifteen. Maedhros knew, though of course it would have been the height of rudeness to comment or inquire, that Finrod’s clothing allowance was provided for by his maternal grandfather, who presided over a small town far to the west. Olwe was a very rich man; even Athair spoke highly of him.

A trip to Missouri probably surpassed a trip to Formenos, in Finrod’s mind.

“Will your family travel this winter?” Maedhros asked.

Finrod gave him a direct glance, this time—a quizzical stare that seemed to say, why should you pretend that we’re strangers? But if you will, I will—and said,

“Mother would like to, but the weather can be so treacherous that we’ll probably have Christmas here, as we almost always do, and head southwest in the spring.”

Maedhros had never been south of the City. He had not even seen Philadelphia, where Grandfather had done such important work, and where Athair’s boyhood had largely been spent.

“It is still years away,” Maedhros said, “but I’d like to sail to Europe one day. Do a proper tour.”

“It needn’t be so many years away,” Finrod answered. “Loads of boys manage to coax their masters to make a summer study of the arts, or what have you. And someone will probably snap Maglor up for just that purpose, if your fath—if nobody objects.”

There was an awkward little silence. It was Maedhros’ fault, not Finrod’s. Finrod was not afraid of Athair; he seemed more bemused by Athair’s views and conduct than anything else. Maedhros was always tongue-tied when Athair was raised like a spectre in conversation. He was not sure how much he should steer (or even try to steer) Finrod’s thinking on the subject. Would Athair even deign to see his half-brothers and their children when he came next to the City?

“Grandfather Olwe wishes I would visit Sweden when I am grown,” Finrod said. “He still misses it, you know. He has often spoken to me of the life he might have lived if he had confined himself to Europe—but then where would Mother be? Where would I be? It is such a strange thing to consider, how one man’s choices shape the very existence of the next generation. But that is exactly what each man is tasked with. And woman, too. I don’t mean to discount women in all of this.”

Maedhros answered with a smile, hoping it reassured.

“What are we going to do with ourselves, cousin?” Finrod pressed briskly. “You are so very tall that I look on you as one quite grown-up. You could walk into any law-office tomorrow and they would engage you as a clerk on the spot, I’m sure of it.”

“Has Grandfather been talking to you?” Maedhros asked, a little startled.

“No—why?”

“Oh, sometimes he says I ought to be a lawyer,” Maedhros answered. He felt his blush rising. “I don’t… I don’t know that I’m suited to it.”

“You still want to be a farmer?” Finrod asked. They had talked mostly of that ambition, when Uncle Finarfin’s family visited Formenos. It was easier to believe in such a future while wandering the fields and exploring the barns with an eager audience. It was easier to dream when Maedhros could sleep in his own bed.

Of course, he had managed to lead Finrod astray even at Formenos—

“Yes,” Maedhros said, stifling a sigh, “but that would seem like a waste of education, wouldn’t it?”

“Clement says he still cannot decide whether you are dull or clever,” Violet said, twining a lock of Maedhros’ hair around her forefinger. “He says that you keep the masters to yourself in a really dreadful manner, but when the masters speak about you afterwards—which they often do, you know—he cannot make out what they think of you.”

Maedhros had been in danger of falling asleep where he lay, beside Violet’s cozy little grate, with his head on her silken lap. His imperious princess had deigned to join him on the rug so as to more comfortably fawn and pet him, but now she was teasing. Impertinent questions—a feather to tickle the end of his nose when he wasn’t keeping his eyelids propped open—and now, of course, the imprisonment of one of his curls. Not a permanent imprisonment—it was still attached to his scalp, as Violet’s occasional tugs reminded him well.

“Perhaps Clement is the one who is dull,” Maedhros murmured. “He isn’t as fascinating as you, you know.”

Violet patted his cheek. “No, of course not. What a different life I might have led this past year, if you had become fast friends with my brother, and never spared me a glance.”

“I should have been miserable,” Maedhros said, wide awake again, and gazing up at her pale, sharp-boned face.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, smiling. “You would have found another girl to hide behind curtains with. You would have begged favors off her maid just as you do Hortense. You are too eager, Maedhros—it doesn’t please me as much as you think it will.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she smothered him with her dainty hand. “There. Not another word, you liar.”

In a dream, Maedhros returned to the same high-walled house, the same kitchen door. Too late, he realized that his fine clothes had faded to rags, that his hands were broken-nailed and dirty as if he had been toiling endlessly in the Formenos fields. But how could it be so? If he was retiring after a long day at the farm, he would not be hastening to see Violet—he would not be thinking of Violet. She was a figment of the City, a comfort that, divorced from giddy longing and forbidden pleasure, was not really a comfort at all.

Maedhros plucked at his rags, and ducked into the shadow of an alley. But it was still a dream—he knew it was a dream—and so instead of emptiness he found himself pressed amidst a tramping tumult of faceless bodies, all humming with the low, eager call of violence. Terror gripped him—or was it a torrent of shadowy hands, tearing at his clothes, his hair, his skin?

He woke with a violent start, but not to the comforting sight of Maglor leaning over him, coaxing and scolding with almost maternal affection. Rather, he was slumped against Grandfather’s desk, with the bottle before him half-empty, and a few spots of liquor staining the wood.

The tall clock ticked, unallayed in its familiar rhythm. Carriage wheels rolled on outside. It was late—late enough that Grandfather and Indis might soon be returned from their dinner with several of Grandfather’s fellow Council-members. And here was Maedhros, like a greedy urchin, stealing from the stores of the house in their absence.

He replaced the stopper in the woefully depleted bottle, and returned it to its cabinet. Then he examined the spots on the desk. It was possible that they would not stain. He scrubbed at them with his sleeve, but that did no good. Half-weeping—he was very drunk, he could feel it—he stumbled towards the far end of the desk, gathering a few papers to spread over the surface. What if someone should find him here? He had not yet been the subject of Finwe’s ire, but he knew it to be formidable, even to Athair.

“Most people,” said Master Webb, “know Augustine only for this famous quotation—da mihi castitatem et continentam, sed noli modo. Do you know what that translates to, Maedhros?”

Maedhros knew. Give me chastity and continency, only not yet. He had seen several distillations of it in other, later writings—make me good, but not yet. Make me holy.

It was curious, how words could change without altering meaning overmuch.

“Yes, sir,” he said. Dipping his pen, he transcribed the Latin first, then the English below it.

Master Webb hummed in acknowledgment, if not approval. Then he asked,

“Have you taken it to heart?”

Maedhros had guessed already that there must be an underlying point to the selection; Master Webb’s lessons, taught in more meaningful abstracts than those of his juniors, were often like that. Still, Maedhros could not guess how far the teacher’s knowledge of his pupil went. He answered as best he could,

“I—I don’t know, sir. I know that we shouldn’t defer our—our pursuit of goodness.”

Our pursuit of truth, Athair liked to say, is an endless battle pitched among many souls. Those who would deceive us would seek to rob us of our own salvation.

He meant half the City, and a single, monstrous man.

“Yet I sometimes fear you defer your growth,” Master Webb pressed, not in an unkindly tone. “You are clearly a bright lad, Maedhros—the fears I had when your father enrolled you in our school have all been allayed. But you seem reticent to truly learn and lead. I cannot always arrange for you to compete directly against your fellows—the particular nature of your father’s educational plan for you does not allow it—but you might compete more readily against yourself.”

Maedhros knew he was blushing. His own blood seemed to betray him these days; he was pale when nervous, flushed when ashamed, hot-and-cold when he might most wish to conceal his feelings. It was the curse of an Irish complexion.

“I am sorry that I have been remiss,” Maedhros said. “I’ll try harder.”

Empty words, of course.

“There is no cause for apology,” said Master Webb. “Merely a reminder that one can dream too much, as a boy, and lose sight of the man one might be.” He smiled, a trifle dryly. “I was one such boy myself,” he admitted. “Though now, it is hard to believe.”

Maedhros nodded politely.

But nobody, of course, dreamed as Maedhros dreamed. That very night, he was again wandering sleep-stirred streets, which appeared sometimes as crowded and bustling as the City’s, and sometimes as empty as the roads bracketing Formenos. It never seemed to matter, however, in what direction he hastened: always, he found himself at the first step of a stairway.

The way to Violet’s would have stretched up, up, but this dream staircase invariably disappeared downwards, into the waiting, trembling earth.

Maedhros stood frozen at the darkling entrance, and against his will, he listened. There were voices in the earth—voices that called to him. He knew himself to be in a dream, but it did not matter. He must stay and listen, until he could make out a word… or a name.

“Your move,” said Fingon.

Maedhros felt sorry for him—sorry, because it wasn’t Grandfather or Athair who had trained Fingon in the art of chess, but Uncle Fingolfin, who didn’t seem like much of a strategist at all. Fingon played fair and square; as such, he’d lost twice.

Maedhros nudged his latest pawn a square forward.

“You could have taken my bishop,” Fingon said, reprovingly.

Maedhros blinked. “Well, I suppose I could have, but—” He stopped short, arrested by the fond smile creeping over Fingon’s face.

“It’s very nice of you to stave off my demise,” Fingon said, “but I don’t mind losing.”

“Ha!” Maglor snorted, from across the room—where, until this moment, it had seemed he was utterly engrossed in composing poetry.

“I don’t mind losing to you,” Fingon amended, the smile growing a bit fiercer. He did not turn his head to look at Maglor. Even at thirteen, Fingon was too proud for his own good.

Maedhros loved him dearly for it.

“You don’t want to be babied,” Maedhros said. “That’s very proper of you, cano. I shouldn’t have.” He laughed, a little helplessly, conscious of how many layers of apology were truly owed. “I just… I always hated losing myself, and so I… held my fire this time.”

“Save that sort of treatment for your brothers,” Fingon suggested, lowering his voice just enough that it would escape Maglor’s hearing. To seal the bargain, he winked.

Maedhros winked back.

At that moment, Grandfather came striding into the room. He must have left Indis with Uncle Fingolfin and Aunt Anaire and the rest of the cousins in the parlor. After supper, Aredhel and Argon preferred their own amusements to hijinks with the older boys. And today, Turgon had declined Maedhros’ invitation to come and play a card game, saying that he was too taken with his penny-paper.

“Good afternoon, boys!” said Grandfather, with his usual high cheer. “Ah, there’s our Maglor—hard at work. And you two, with the chess board between you! I must say, both of your fathers showed unusual promise in that arena from a young age—from a young age. Now, who is winning?”

“Maedhros,” said Maglor distinctly.

Fingon squared his shoulders. “And for the third time, too,” he assented. “But I am learning a great deal.”

“That is the spirit,” Grandfather said, approaching the game table so that he could set a hand on each player’s shoulder. “Our past patience will always inform our future successes.”

Maedhros turned the idea over in his mind, more interested in the philosophy of it than the game, more admiring of Fingon’s resolve than of any claim to victory.

“My father was good at chess?” Fingon was asking, almost incredulously.

Grandfather chuckled. “He was slow to start,” he said. “Feanor had such an agile mind for puzzles, games, for trickery, even! Ach, the pranks he put us through when he was young… no doubt he has told you many such stories, Maedhros.”

Maedhros nodded.

“But Fingolfin is rather more like an ocean wave than a forest-fire,” Grandfather continued. “Keep a lookout for how his judgment rises in a great tide, Fingon. Whether he is moving a piece about a board, or interpreting a tally of figures to advise his counselors, he is a great-minded man.”

Fingon’s brow knit, in reflection or consternation, Maedhros was not sure.

“Your uncle is here tonight,” Violet said, as she slipped her cool, prodding fingers through another of Maedhros’ buttonholes.

He wrenched violently away from her, though her hold on him did not loosen. “What?” he gasped.

“Fingolfin,” said Violet, dragging his collar open. “He is having dinner with my father. Don’t struggle. I’m the ruined maiden, remember?”

Maedhros shut his eyes as she kissed him, but his heart was not in it, and Violet drew back, annoyed.

“Why don’t you think it as droll as I do?” she demanded. “Two old fellows mulling over their banknotes, while we are ravishing each other over their heads.” She laughed, fingertips dancing over his chest, catching in the silver chain of his prayer-medal. “Oh, you’re such a rosebud when you’re embarrassed.”

The curse of an Irish complexion.

“I can’t laugh,” he said, though he knew sobriety would only increase her exasperation. “They might—if anybody were to find us out, Violet, it would be a catastrophe. I don’t make light of your reputation, I—”

She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you?”

Maedhros recaptured his buttons and his collar, if not his dignity. “Forgive me,” he said. “I must go.”

Perhaps it had been foolishness to slip away from the Tibbs’ home while Fingolfin was—however unaware—still within it, but Maedhros was sure he could not endure another moment of the agonizing peril. To be sure, Violet had been snow-bank cold in her farewells, when she realized he was serious about departing. It would be difficult to patch up such a quarrel. Only—Maedhros did not yet know if he wanted to. He wanted to sprout wings like a bird and fly above the grime and misery of the City. He wanted to never stop running.

He plunged down an alley, and then another, bound to earth but desirous of putting as much distance as possible between himself and the house he had fled.

Once more, it was night. Once more, his dreams and his waking both turned him towards the shadows. He was entirely alone, in spirit as well as body. He could not call his brothers or Fingon or Finrod to mind, after acting as he just had been. He was proving himself an unfit companion, and a worse guardian. It was a bitter conclusion, formed on an undeniable foundation. He had led Finrod and Celegorm and the little ones astray in the woods that stretched beyond Formenos—he had lied to Fingon every time he so much as pretended to be upright and good.

It will continue, he told himself, breathlessly veering away from the outstretched hand of a beggar. It will continue, unless you change your path. And if you do not act quickly—

Somewhere nearby, a drunk was howling. Maedhros, driven from his ordinary route, was in danger of losing his way. With every passing stranger, he felt eyes on him, though it was too dark to make out a face.

A lamp was burning in Grandfather Finwe’s study, but the door was hardly ajar and therefore it was mercifully possible for Maedhros to creep upstairs unseen. He was thirsty for something a good deal stronger than water; he often wanted a touch of whiskey before he slept. It was out of the question tonight.

Maglor’s bedroom door was closed, and beyond it, Maglor was snoring. Maedhros smiled to himself, but the smile was for Maglor, who could not see it—it did not spare Maedhros any of his own pain. He washed and dressed for bed in careful silence.

It was more difficult to pray now than it had been a year ago—than it had been in the seemingly endless year that Athair was away. Maedhros had been holier then, more chaste, more continent, with greater courage and goodness than he seemed to have at his present disposal.

Make me good, he thought, empty as the silence around him. Before it is too late.