starspray | High in the Clean Blue Air

Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: T
Characters: Maglor, Elrond, Maedhros, various others
Warnings: References to torture and trauma
Summary: Maglor keeps a promise, and comes to Valinor, only to find the ghosts he thought he'd left behind are alive and waiting for him.
Note: This fic is a sequel to Clear Pebbles of the Rain, which is itself a sequel to Unhappy Into Woe.

Prologue / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Nerdanel’s house had not been built with seven grown sons in mind; only Maedhros and Caranthir lived there still, with Curufin having returned to Tirion with his wife, and Celegorm and the twins spending most of their time in the wilds with Oromë’s folk. Now all of them were there, and the place felt crowded, though not precisely uncomfortable in spite of the tensions running between them all. It had been days since they had all gathered, and in that time they had spoken of everything except the reasons they had come there. No one seemed to know how to start. Maedhros certainly didn’t.

Now the six of them were gathered in the dining room. It was the only room where they could all sit around and see each other clearly to speak, and they had all arranged themselves as they had long ago in Himring or Amon Ereb, with Maedhros at the head of the table and his brothers in order of age down it, with Celegorm on his left. It was far more orderly than the chaotic and unpredictable seating arrangements at dinner in their youth, and it was only after everyone was seated that they realized a space had been left at Maedhros’ right hand, where Maglor should have been.

No one moved to fill the gap, and Maedhros tried not to look at the empty chair. Maglor was in Avallónë by now, at the house of Elrond and Celebrían; word always spread quickly when a ship came out of the east, and this one in particular was of note with Círdan himself come west at last. There was a chance Maglor would appear on the doorstep alongside Celebrimbor, but Maedhros thought at best they would receive a letter. At worst, he would have refused to see even Celebrimbor.

Finally, Celegorm broke the silence. “Which one will we speak of first? Atar or Cáno?” He looked at Maedhros. “Why did you not go with Tyelpë to Avallónë?”

“Elrond advised against it,” Maedhros said, though it was not strictly true—Elrond had not said the words aloud, but he’d made it very clear that Maedhros was not welcome, but that Celebrimbor was. Celebrían had been kinder, but no less firm in her farewell to both Maedhros and Curufin.

It seemed strange to be sitting around a long table with his brothers with nothing on it but mugs of tea and a plate of jam-filled pastries that someone—he thought perhaps Caranthir—had baked that morning. There should have been a scattering of papers and parchment, maps and lists and notes. But of course they needed no such things now—they were not at war, there were no battles to plan, no defenses to manage, no supplies to source or inventory. Only a father no one was sure they wanted to see, and a brother no one was sure wanted to see them. Though a meeting with Fëanor might as well be a battle, Maedhros thought sourly. None of them were happy to know that he was returning, and he would not be happy in his turn that they did not welcome him.

“I didn’t realize you were lately in the habit of taking advice from anyone,” Celegorm said. Maedhros did not reply; there was no sting in the words, only truth. “But why? What does he know that we do not?”

“Maglor is a member of his household,” Maedhros said, “or he was in Middle-earth. It seems to me that Elrond knows him better than we do, now.” An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. It had once been that no one knew any of them better than the other six—good and ill, better or worse. For almost all of their lives they had been united—not only outwardly, but inwardly too, with no squabble or fight ever big enough to break them apart. That unity had fractured and broken in the end, unable to hold up under the weight of their Oath and what they had done in its pursuit both separately and together, and now none of them quite knew how to talk to one another. Maedhros had yet to see Celegorm and Curufin exchange more than a handful of words, and never outside of other company. Caranthir spoke little to any of them, and Maedhros knew himself to be nigh unapproachable. He did not want to be, but did not know how to be otherwise. Only Ambarussa remained as close as they had always been.

It was Amras who broke the silence next. “What about Atar?”

What about Atar, indeed. Maedhros looked at all of them, and realized the question had not been a general one, but directed at him. “I do not want to see him,” Maedhros said finally, sighing. “But that should not dictate what the rest of you do. This is not Beleriand.” And Fëanor was, after all, still their father.

“Our loyalty is to you, Nelyo, not to him,” said Amrod, as Amras nodded.

“I’ll not see him, whatever anyone else does,” said Celegorm, voice low and fist clenched on the table. “I know I cannot blame the Oath for everything, but I hate what I became in Beleriand, and I would not have come there if not for him.”

“I miss Cáno more than I have ever missed Atar,” said Caranthir quietly. “I will follow you in this, Nelyo.”

Maedhros made himself unclench his own fist on the table, and to take a sip of his cooling tea. It was the spiced tea that had once been Maglor’s favorite, and he wished whoever had made it had chosen something else. “I am not your liege lord,” he said, catching Curufin’s eye as he spoke, receiving a there-and-gone-in-a-blink smile in return.

“You are our brother,” said Caranthir.

“You had the wisdom to give the crown away after all he did trying to take it,” added Curufin.

“You hated me for that,” Maedhros reminded him.

Curufin shrugged. “I was wrong.” And that was no small thing for any of them, to admit error so frankly. “What good did the crown ever do anyone, in the end? And anyway,” he added, picking up his own mug with an affectation of carelessness that fooled no one, “I never hated you, Nelyo.”

“I might hate him,” Celegorm added, “but I could never hate any of you.”

“Are we united in this, then?” Caranthir asked. “That none of us want to see him?”

“If he comes to Tirion, I will not refuse to speak to him,” Curufin said, “but I will not seek him out, and I will take no part in whatever quarrels he wants to start with Fingolfin this time.”

“Surely they would not allow him to leave Mandos if he was going to do something like that,” said Amras.

“I don’t think even Námo can tell what he will do,” muttered Celegorm.

“Whatever Ammë decides,” Maedhros said, “she at least deserves our support. Whatever she decides.”

“Thank you!” said Nerdanel, coming into the room. “Goodness, is this what it looked like when you call came together to plan battles in Beleriand? It’s too grim for this house. You did not need to form a war council just for your father. But I am glad to have you all here. It gives me the strength to meet with him when he comes.” She came around to the head of the table to drop a kiss on top of Maedhros’ head. “I have not decided whether I wish to reconcile with Fëanáro, yet. I cannot, until I speak with him.” Her gaze strayed to the empty chair, and her expression softened into something wistful and sad. “I do wish I could have you all under my roof again,” she said. Maedhros put his arm around her waist, leaning his head against her chest as she stroked his hair. “Even your father—though what I suppose I am really wishing is to turn the years back.”

And that was impossible, even for the Valar.

“Is there any word from Mandos, or from Eressëa?” asked Curufin.

“Not yet,” said Nerdanel, “but I came to tell you I saw Fingon and Finrod coming down the road.”

“I asked them to come,” Maedhros said, seeing eyebrows rising and wishing to forestall any remarks from his brothers. If the tension between Curufin and Celegorm was bad on a normal day, it was even worse when Finrod was nearby. “I will speak to them.”

“About Atar?” Amrod asked.

“Yes. If Finarfin and Fingolfin have not been told, they should be.”

Maedhros rose from his seat, and heard his brothers following suit as he left the room. When he reached the courtyard he found Fingon and Finrod just dismounting. “Well met, Russandol!” Fingon said, grinning at him, as bright and exuberant as he had ever been. “To what do we owe this rare honor?”

“Walk with me?” Maedhros said rather than answering.

“Of course,” said Finrod, and the three of them fell into step together, walking around the house and out past the orchard. “I have just come from Avallónë,” Finrod said after a few moments. “I spoke to Maglor.”

Maedhros felt his fist clench and made himself loosen his fingers. “Is he well?”

“Oh, yes. I found him playing music in Elrond’s garden with a cat purring on his shoulder. Celebrimbor was there as well; I think he will bring a letter to Aunt Nerdanel.”

“Did Maglor not send any messages with you?” Fingon asked, sounding surprised.

“No, none.” Finrod glanced at Maedhros as he spoke, and Maedhros kept his gaze on the ground. “But I do not think you called us here to speak of Maglor.”

“No.” Maedhros stopped beneath one of the trees. They were heavy with pink flowers, the fragrance of them almost sickly sweet. “Word came to my mother from Mandos a few weeks ago. Did messengers visit your fathers?”

His cousins looked at each other before shaking their heads. “No,” said Fingon. “Or at least none that my parents have spoken of.”

“Nor mine,” said Finrod. “But why would Mandos—oh.” His eyes widened slightly. “Fëanor?”

“He is returned?” Fingon exclaimed.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not yet,” said Maedhros, “but soon. That is why I wanted to speak to you.” They’d met like this before, the three of them—in the early days of the Noldor’s unrest, the eldest of each house trying to hold everything together between the three of them. It had not worked. Maedhros had had no influence on his father in those days, and his and Fingon’s failures to be heard had contributed to the rift between them in turn, and Finrod had been caught in the middle before giving up entirely. Maedhros did not like to remember those days. But they were older now, knew themselves and their people better, and Fingolfin at least would heed Fingon better than he had in the past—especially with Finrod and Finarfin there too. “I do not think he will try…I do not think he will seek to cause trouble, else the Valar would not release him. But beyond that I do not know what to expect. Your fathers at least deserve a warning before he makes his way to Tirion.”

“Do you think he will want the crown, still?” Fingon asked.

“I hold to my decision in Beleriand,” Maedhros said. “It has passed from our house.”

“Fëanor might not see it that way now that he is back to speak for himself.”

“Then he will stand alone.”

“Do you brothers feel the same?” Finrod asked.

“Yes,” Maedhros said, and saw the surprise on both of their faces. He did not repeat Curufin’s words, however true they were. The high kingship had never been an enviable thing—not to those who knew what it really meant. It was not a symbol of Finwë’s love or approval; it was not a gift. It was a burden. Across the Sea it had been a death sentence—for Fingon, for his father, for his son. It was not so in Aman, but Maedhros would tell anyone who cared to ask him that Fingolfin was better suited to it than Fëanor had ever been. Fingolfin understood it for what it was.

Fingon sighed. “Thank you, Russo,” he said. “I will return to Tirion to speak to my father.” He glanced at Finrod, who nodded.

“I’ll catch up to you,” Finrod said.

“Come to Tirion yourself,” Fingon added before leaving, catching Maedhros’ hand. “Stop hiding away. And do not only say perhaps and then never come!” he added when Maedhros started to reply. “If you wish to avoid your father, where better to go than to Gilheneth and me?”

“Perhaps,” Maedhros said. Fingon rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he went back to the house, the golden ribbons in his hair shining in the sunlight.

Maedhros waited until he was out of sight before turning back to Finrod, who fiddled with the necklace he wore, an uncharacteristically simple pendant on a chain. “How is he really?” Maedhros asked.

“He is well, as I said,” Finrod said. “He kept mostly to himself while I was there, but that I think was due to the stream of visitors coming and going from Elrond and Celebrían’s house, all wanting to see Celeborn or to meet Elladan and Elrohir. He is quieter than he used to be, but when asked to after supper he sang many merry songs for us.” It was a relief to hear that. Maedhros had dreamed the night before—again—of Maglor in the dark, alone and silenced. There had been no reason to disbelieve Elrond when he had spoken of Maglor’s healing, but it was different to hear this clear evidence of it—to know with certainty that he still sang and laughed and lived. After a moment Finrod went on. “He bears the marks of Dol Guldur, however. Scars on his face. I think—I do not think he is ashamed of them exactly, but no one likes having such things stared at. Elrond tells me that Maglor knows that you and your mother looked into the palantír and saw him, and that the fact distressed him, especially when he heard that your mother had seen it. I don’t know what has passed between him and Celebrimbor, but he would not speak of you at all with me.”

It was said so gently, but the words still felt like a knife between his ribs. “So it was…” His voice came dangerously near to breaking, and he had to stop and clear his throat. “It was for the best, then, that I did not go to Avallónë.”

“Celebrían had asked me, if you did come there, to keep you away,” Finrod said, only half-apologetically.

“Would you have done it?”

“Of course I would have. What sort of uncle would I be if I did not indulge my beloved niece’s every whim?” Finrod affected an insulted expression before softening and saying more seriously, “Yes, I would have. What good would it do for you to barge into Elrond’s house when Maglor did not want you there? He is healed—healing—but he is not who he was.”

“Are any of us?” Maedhros asked.

“Of course not. But do not mistake him for you, Maedhros. You did not break in Angband—”

“No, that came much later,” Maedhros said.

“—but I think that something in Maglor was broken in Dol Guldur,” Finrod said. Maedhros turned away, unable to look at him as he said such things so frankly, no matter how gentle his voice. “I say was, for he is not broken now. But the scars remain, and there is something fragile about him.” Finrod paused for a moment, as though in thought. “There is something about him that reminds me a little of Frodo Baggins. Frodo too found healing and peace, but he was not entirely whole, even after he came here. The marks of his torment remained, even if they did not trouble him any longer.”

“I never met Frodo Baggins,” Maedhros said without turning back to Finrod. He fixed his gaze on a low hanging branch, laden with flowers. Bees crawled over them, dusted with golden pollen, seeking the sweet nectar.

“But do you understand what I mean?”

No, Maedhros didn’t know. He was unable to comprehend Maglor as broken, or has ever having been broken. He had always been a pillar of stability, the one constant that Maedhros had been able to count on. He had also, Maedhros thought with a sudden sinking feeling, always been a performer. I can do almost anything in front of an audience, Maglor had said once. He’d been laughing, and Maedhros couldn’t recall what it was they had been speaking of when he had said it, but now he thought there had been more truth to that than he’d realized at the time. And he had been the audience, hadn’t he? What if Maglor had been performing all along—putting on a mask of strength that he did not really possess? And Maedhros, who of all people should have seen through it…hadn’t.

“Is he happy?” he asked finally. “With Elrond—is he happy?”

“Yes, I think so. But do not forget that house is one of mourning, now. There is much laughter and joy in the coming of Elrond’s sons, but grief lies over it all.”

“All the more reason for me to keep away, you mean.”

“Wait at least for Celebrimbor to come back to hear what he has to say,” Finrod said. “He was preparing to leave Avallónë when I departed after receiving your note; it should not be long. We may return to the house to find him there already.” He paused, and then shifted the subject abruptly back to Fëanor. “What will you do when your father comes?”

Maedhros turned away from the flowers and sighed. “I do not know,” he said. “Curufin is the only one of us willing to speak to him at all, but even he won’t seek him out. Ammë will speak to him when he comes—we are all assuming he will come here first, I suppose; it’s what we all did—but I do not think she will welcome him so quickly back into her house.”

“Of course not,” said Finrod. “Just because the Valar have seen fit to release him from Mandos does not mean anyone else has to welcome him back with open arms. Though if he does not stay here I suppose he will have to go to Tirion.”

“There is still a house there,” Maedhros said. Crumbling and overgrown, now—no one had set foot in it at least since he had returned from Mandos. He had only seen it at a distance, a glimpse of a forest of vines and crab apple trees over the garden wall, and climbing roses taking the place of roof tiles. Let Fëanor return there alone. If anyone could rebuilt it, it was him. If anyone could want to, it was him.

“Maedhros,” Finrod said, and then fell silent, as though he wasn’t sure what else to say. That was not like him, to be either silent or uncertain. But, Maedhros thought again, looking up at him, they were none of them who they had once been. Maglor was not the only one who had been held in torment by Sauron. “Maglor did not expect to find any of you returned from Mandos,” Finrod said finally. “Elrond told me that. Give him time.”

He didn’t have a choice, did he? Elrond and Celebrían and all their relations would conspire to hide Maglor away if he tried to go to him. Maedhros sighed, suddenly exhausted and sick of company. “I will,” he said, because it was what Finrod needed to hear.

“Thank you.” Finrod stepped forward to lay a hand on Maedhros’ arm. “And listen to Fingon and come to Tirion.”

“You and he are the only ones who want me there,” Maedhros said. “I think you misplaced some of your wisdom in Mandos.”

“If disdaining a beloved cousin is wisdom, then I don’t want it,” Finrod said. “At least think about it. Please.”

When at last he was left alone Maedhros slumped against the tree and pressed his hand to his face. His eyes burned, but no tears fell. He’d wept after seeing Maglor in the palantír, and that had been the first time since before the Nirnaeth, but afterward his tears had dried up again. Somewhere behind him he heard a brief rush of raised voices. His brothers. Hopefully they weren’t directing whatever it was at Finrod. Maedhros thought that he should go back to see what was wrong—but he couldn’t make himself do it. Instead he went forward, making his way down to the river. Clouds were gathering in the distant west, and the wind from there smelled of rain, but it would not reach them before nightfall. Maedhros sank down into the tall grass and rested his arms on his knees, staring at the sun-spangled water as it flowed along over the stony bed, and at a heron picking her way through the shallows by the opposite bank.

It was peaceful there by the river. He kept coming back to it and hoping some of that peace would stay with him when he left. It never did.

That peace was shattered when Celegorm appeared like another storm cloud; the heron took flight, winging away upstream to find more peaceful hunting grounds. Caranthir was just behind him, and when Maedhros looked back he saw their other brothers too, alongside Celebrimbor in the distance. “Why did you not tell us what happened to him?” Celegorm demanded as Maedhros got to his feet.

“What good would it have done?” Maedhros replied.

“What do you mean—we deserved to know!”

“Ammë and I agreed—”

“Of course Ammë would not tell us,” Caranthir said. “But you should have.”

“I ask again, what good would it have done?” Maedhros said. “There was nothing any of us could do about it.”

“You cannot tell us not to follow your lead and then deny us something like this!” Celegorm was close to shouting, and visibly holding himself back from doing so. “You just said today that you should not dictate what we—”

“What would you have done, then?” Maedhros snapped. “If I had told you that Maglor was locked away in torment—what difference would it have made except to make you—”

“He is our brother too!” Celegorm did shout then, voice ragged and every line of him drawn taut with something horribly like anguish. “You are not the only one that loves him, Maedhros!”

“We would have known,” said Caranthir more quietly. “Nelyo, It was not a burden you needed to carry alone.”

“I will not apologize for protecting you,” Maedhros said. Their upset now was only confirmation that he had chosen right. Celegorm snarled, baring his teeth before storming away, back toward the orchard. Huan melted out of the trees when Celegorm reached Curufin and the twins, and all of them retreated to the house together. Caranthir, though, lingered. Maedhros turned away, looking back toward the rainclouds.

“You said earlier that this is not Beleriand,” Caranthir said finally. “You were right—and if we no longer have to follow your orders, then you no longer have to protect us. We are not at war, and we are no longer children.”

Maedhros did not answer.