High in the Clean Blue Air - Chapter Eleven

[starspray]

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

At Daeron’s suggestion, they left Elrond’s house to walk through the streets of Avallónë. It was a market day, and the streets near the main square of the city were filled with people and with open-air stalls in addition to the more permanent shops. Daeron plunged into the crowds without hesitation, pulling Maglor along in his wake. He paused at different stalls and tables to admire the wares or to greet the sellers if he happened to know them of old, and by the time they emerged at the other end of the street Daeron had a small basket of trinkets, and two cinnamon and sugar filled pastries in his hands, one of which he handed to Maglor. It was still warm from the oven, the sugar sticky and the cinnamon fragrant. 

“Have you seen much of the city yet?” Daeron asked as they walked down a quieter street lined with flowering trees, ambling slowly to enjoy the quiet and the pastries. 

“No,” said Maglor as he swallowed the last bite of his. “I have…” he trailed off as they came to a small square where, instead of a fountain in the center, a monument stood. There were sculptures of many familiar faces and others that Maglor knew only by description—beloved Elf Friends among the Edain, from Bëor and Hador and Barahir to Haleth and Bór, to Húrin and his family, to Andreth and Rían, and, at the forefront facing them as they entered the square, there was King Tar-Minyatar, holding Aranrúth in his hands with the point resting before his feet, his chin raised proudly, a crown upon his head emblazoned with the Star of Eärendil, the Ring of Barahir upon his finger.

Daeron looked at Maglor, and then at the statue. “Is it a good likeness?” he asked. “I wondered if they just used Elrond as a model, but it does not quite look enough like him.”

“He wouldn’t pose for such a thing,” said Maglor, unable to look away from it. “It is not a good likeness of the Elros that I knew,” he said finally, “but we parted long before he took up the crown—long before the war was ended.” He hated to think of that last parting, which had been bitter, and of the years afterward, which had been a steady downward spiral of misery and destruction, culminating in… His hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into the scars. The twins had been adults, but only barely, half-wild with having grown up in the wilderness while dodging orcs and worse things, having not had a permanent home since they were six years old. This glimpse of Elros as the king he had become was a mixed blessing—he was glad that he could see it, glad to know that Elros had risen so high, but grieved that he had never seen it in life, had not gotten to say a proper farewell before Elros had left Middle-earth forever.

He was aware of Daeron’s gaze on him, and he tore his own away from Elros’ face to look around the square. The buildings were all public ones: a library, a hall for meetings and audiences, and others he could not immediately identify. They were all relatively small, not meant for any great ceremonies or gatherings, and made of that strange and lovely mishmash of styles, Sindarin and Noldorin, mixed together with other newer innovations. On the side closest to the harbor, which lay just the width of a street away, is a plain tower of white stone, its door standing ajar, though no one was coming or going from it. The top of it stood open, like a lighthouse or a watchtower. Maglor found it curious, but not curious enough to venture inside.

Daeron led the way past the monument to the Edain away from the harbor, and they came soon to a lush garden filled with spring flowers. “I am leaving with Elrond and his household tomorrow or the next day,” Maglor said as they passed under a flowering cherry tree and sat beneath a maple, lush and green overhead. The ground was cool under his hands, and the tree rustled its branches in quiet delight at their choosing it for their rest. “Most likely tomorrow; he and Celebrían are eager to be home.”

“And I am leaving with Elu Thingol tomorrow morning,” Daeron replied, laughing. “Which is why I came to find you today.” He leaned against the tree and stretched his legs out in front of him as he began to sort through his purchases. “I heard about your meeting with Thingol and Olwë.” Maglor grimaced. “Nothing bad; you were not the only one to feel awkward. It has pained Thingol from the beginning to be at odds with your and yours, you know.”

“He said something of that to me,” said Maglor. 

“He’s heard that you were especially close to Finwë,” Daeron said.

“I was the only one to take much interest in woodcarving,” said Maglor. “Finwë did not have much time for other crafts, but he always made time for that. And to teach me.” 

Daeron hummed. He slipped the baubles and trinkets he’d acquired in the market back into the basket, and bent one knee to wrap his arms around it. “Beleg taught me woodworking when I was young,” he said. “I wanted to carve my own flute.” 

Maglor smiled. “I wanted to make my own instruments, too,” he said. “I can make them out of most things: metal, wood, clay—once I experimented with glass—but wood was always the most satisfying.” 

“I was too particular about what I wanted for anyone else to make something satisfactory. Well, no, that’s not quite right. I had friends among the dwarves that made me lovely flutes and viols and drums. What in the world did you make out of glass?”

“Nothing useful,” Maglor said. “I think I just wanted to see if it would work. It didn’t, but I don’t know if that was because I lacked skill or if it was just a ridiculous idea.”

“You could try again,” Daeron said. 

“Maybe someday,” said Maglor. “If I am feeling ridiculous. Or perhaps Celebrimbor would take up the challenge.”

“I have not met him,” said Daeron. 

“He was here only briefly to see me.” And now he was gone back to Nerdanel’s house, bearing tales of scars and torments that Maglor wished he did not have to. Maglor tilted his head back to watch the leaves dance in the breeze above their heads. “What do you make of Eressëa?”

“It’s lovely, but too small,” Daeron said. “Ask me later what I make of the mainland, after I have had a chance to explore it.”

“Do you intend to? Go exploring, I mean.”

“Yes, of course.” Daeron looked over at him and smiled. “Are you going to return to your own wandering ways?”

“Yes,” said Maglor. 

“Would you object to a companion? You know these lands better than I.”

“I did once, perhaps.” Maglor returned the smile. “I would like that.”

“Come find me at Thingol’s court, then,” said Daeron. “Or perhaps I will come to you.”

“You’ll find me easily enough at Imloth Ningloron,” said Maglor. “Even if you do not come to drag me off on some journey.” Daeron laughed, and Maglor grinned, and for a moment he felt as light and easy as he had at the Mereth Aderthad when they had slipped away from the feasting to talk in private. They had spoken of all kinds of things—mostly music, but also of writing and of trees and flowers and of Maglor’s many cousins, of the Gap, of Doriath, of a possible future of letters passing between their realms, and perhaps occasional visits. That had not happened, of course. Word of Alqualondë had spread before the first letter could be sent by either one of them, and fate had laid out their roads in very different directions. But there was no reason they couldn’t exchange letters now. Letters and visits, songs and stories and gossip and jokes. Daeron had said on the ship he would rather they make music together than exist in unhappy silence. They made no promises or plans that day, but the knowledge that they would, someday—perhaps someday soon—was as pleasant as the cinnamon pastries.

Before they parted, Daeron caught his hand and pressed something into it. “Here. To keep your hair out of your face—doesn’t it bother you, the way it is always falling forward?” Before Maglor could answer he was gone, striding away into the evening, hair swinging behind him, whistling a cheerful tune. Maglor looked down into his hand to see a hair clip, silver, adorned with a row of purple enameled aster flowers. He slipped it into his pocket, glancing once more at Daeron’s retreating back before turning to make his own way home.

It was late before Maglor returned to Elrond’s house. The stars were out and the pale crescent of the moon was rising over the water in the east. He found his things all neatly packed and a note by his bed telling him they intended to cross the bay to Alqualondë after lunch the next day. “Are you ready for another boat ride, Pídhres?” he asked as the little cat jumped up onto the bed beside him. She made a disgruntled noise, and he laughed. “Last one, I promise. I imagine you’ll be very happy about that.” She purred and butted her head against his cheek. “I thought so, silly thing.” 

The cat fell asleep quickly, curled up by his side. Maglor lay and stared at the ceiling for a long time, thinking of the Calacirya and what lay beyond. They would likely pass by Tirion rather than entering into it, and take the road south. Seeing Tirion again…he thought that he was prepared. He was less prepared for what lay on the road beyond, for his grandfather’s estate was south of the city, less than half a day’s easy ride. Celebrimbor had said that Nerdanel lived just beyond Mahtan’s house, on the other side of the plum orchard. Maglor closed his eyes and could see the orchard, see the house and the workshops of his grandfather set back from the road, reached by a long lane through his Grandmother Ennalótë’s gardens. They were always changing, and so he knew that his memories of the flowers and the shrubs was inaccurate. There had not been a house beyond the orchard when he’d been young. In his mind he pictured a smaller version of his grandparents’ house, and a large workshop beside it, bright and airy the way his mother liked. 

His imaginings took on the slant of dream and memory, and for a moment he was back in the vision Sauron had conjured, with his mother smiling at him and looking all wrong from across the room lit by Treelight just a few shades too dark, slightly blurry and with her freckles in all the wrong places. 

Maglor sat up, inhaling deeply the smell of roses and lilac and the sea breeze, fisting his hands in the blankets to stop himself rubbing the scar on his chest, which burned with fell memory. Sleep would not find him that night. 

He slipped back out of the house and went down to the water. The waves were gentle and cool as they washed up over his bare feet as he sat in the sand, and with the starry sky wide open above him he felt like he could breathe again. He listened to the water and hummed along with it, weaving a lullaby around the soft whispers of the water. It soothed him, alongside the lingering warmth of cinnamon on his tongue, and though he did not sleep that night he found something like rest. 

It was Celebrían that came to find him in the morning. She was dressed for travel, in simpler clothes and a single long braid down her back, though it was adorned with green ribbons that matched her eyes. “You seem better this morning,” she said, dropping onto the sand beside him.

“I am,” Maglor said. The sunrise over the water had chased away the last of the night’s ugly and dark thoughts. He was still tired, but he thought that the dreams would leave him be.

“They never really go away,” said Celebrían after a moment. “The memories. But it does get easier—and if it does not you must go to Lórien.”

“I will,” Maglor said, and she looked at him a little skeptically. He didn’t know whether to be frustrated or worried that everyone except Elrond seemed to expect him to give them difficulties. “I don’t like being haunted by old horrors,” he said. “They come and go and don’t stay long, these days, but if they grow too dark of course I will seek help.”

Celebrían’s smile was exactly like Eldarion’s. “Forgive me,” she said. “I keep imagining that all you and your brothers share the same sort of stubbornness.”

“You mean Maedhros,” Maglor sighed, looking back out over the water. 

“Well, yes. He is the most egregious example, certainly. He spent so much time in Mandos but would not allow himself to rest, or to accept any kind of comfort, and so he was released. I suppose the Valar hoped he would find in life what he would not in death, but it has not proven so. I never quite understood what the stories meant when they said that his spirit burned like white fire in him, until I saw him here. And he is one of your brothers that I have met most recently. He came to visit Elrond just before we left home to come here; Curufin came too, seeking him. He seems much more settled.” 

Maglor shivered. It was one thing to see his brother’s spirit flare, fiery and bright, in the midst of battle, when the force of it was directed outward at the enemy, when it was a beacon to all their own people, a rallying point—the sort of thing to praise in the histories and songs. It was another to watch that same fire eat away inward. “I am not my brother,” he said quietly. “I have been as guilty as he is of punishing myself, but it was not like that.” 

“Good,” said Celebrían. She laid her hand on his arm. “And I hope you are not punishing yourself anymore.”

“I am not,” Maglor promised. “And—I really am fine. The dreams will pass. No one needs to treat me like I am made of glass.”

“Oh, believe me, I will not!” Celebrían laughed suddenly. “I know all too well how that feels, to feel so much better but to not quite look it, and have no one really believe you when you try to reassure them.”

Maglor laughed, as much in relief as in response to her own laughter. “That is exactly it,” he said. 

“Just tell me when someone tries to coddle you,” Celebrían said. She got up and dusted the sand off her skirts. “I shall set them straight. Or Elrond will, but he himself is inclined to coddle.”

“He isn’t that bad,” said Maglor, also getting to his feet. 

“Who isn’t that bad?” Elrond asked from a little ways up the path. 

“You,” Celebrían said, springing up it to kiss him. “You are perfectly acceptable and we have decided to keep you. Come on, both of you! Breakfast is on the table, and we are leaving before noon!” She swept away toward the house, leaving Maglor to shake the sand off his bare feet while Elrond gazed after her fondly. 

“I will be very glad to be home again,” Elrond said at last, as Maglor stepped up to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “You received a few letters this morning.”

“Letters?” Maglor said. “Me?”

“One is from Nerdanel, by the seal. I think the others are from your brothers but I cannot be certain; I do not know their writing.” Elrond was watching Maglor’s face carefully, and Maglor didn’t really know what it was doing. “You don’t have to read them.”

Yes, he did. Eventually. “Maybe when we reach Imloth Ningloron.” 

He did open the letter from his mother, though, when he got back to his room to make sure nothing had been overlooked in the packing, and to find Pídhres. His name was written neatly on the front of it, but inside was a more familiar, nearly illegible scrawl. It had been so long since Maglor had had to decipher a note from his mother that he was half afraid he had forgotten the trick of it—but he hadn’t, and the mere sight of his name in her hand brought him to tears. He blinked them away and sank onto the bed to read it. 

 

Dearest Macalaurë,

I was so happy to receive your letter, to know you are back again! Forgive me for not being there on the quay when you arrived. I am sure you know by now that your father has returned from Mandos, and I have been trying to decide what to do. Your brothers have all been here and holding war councils in my dining room about it. I’ve laughed at them for it, but it really isn’t funny. Nor is the way they keep a seat empty by Maitimo’s right hand, every time, no matter where they are seated, whether at the table or out in the garden. They are all united in not wanting to see Fëanáro, which I expected but which also grieves me too deeply to describe. From the way you did not write about either him or any of your brothers, and from what Telperinquar has said, I must suppose you do not want to see any of them. I wish it were not so, but I am not going to try to mediate. There is too much between all of you that I do not know about, and it all goes far too deep to be fixed by locking you in a room together until you make up.

Of course, that is the only thing that unifies your brothers. When Telperinquar brought back the tale of what happened to you—well, even as I write this there is shouting going on somewhere outside. They are not angry with me for keeping the secret, because I think they are all being very careful not to be angry with me about anything, but they are furious with Maitimo, and he is furious right back. At least they have not come to blows.

You have asked me not to worry about you, but I am still your mother and I do not think I can ever stop worrying. But it is a great relief to know that you found joy after everything. I do not know Master Elrond well except by reputation (I know Lady Celebrían a little better, for she has commissioned a few things from me over the years), but I have spoken of you often with Galadriel and I know that he loves you dearly. 

You also spoke of coming to see me, or of me coming to see you, but I will make no plans until I have seen your father and know what it is he intends to do. Of course, I may only be flattering myself in thinking that he intends to come here first. He might go to Aulë’s halls, or to Tirion, or somewhere else entirely. All your brothers are very reluctant to leave me alone until he does appear, wherever or whenever that may be. I don’t need their protection, but it is a comfort to have them all close. 

Whatever happens, I hope to see you very soon. 

Oh! Your gift! I have it here in my workshop with me to hold my brushes. It is beautiful, and Tyelpë tells me that you made it. I will always treasure anything made by your hands, whether it is pottery or a woodcarving or a letter. I love you so very much, Macalaurë. 

Ammë 

 

Maglor read it through again, and had to put it down so he didn’t drip tears onto it and smear the ink to make it truly illegible. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and took a few breaths. Then he folded the letter up and slipped it into his satchel. He had a box in a trunk somewhere probably already on its way south that held other equally precious letters; he would add this one to it when he was settling in there. 

The other two letters…Elrond might not recognize his brothers’ hands, but Maglor did. One letter was from Caranthir, and the other from Curufin. They were not as thick as the one from Nerdanel, but he couldn’t bring himself to open them, not even when he felt something small and hard tucked into the folds of Curufin’s. He slipped them into the satchel beside Nerdanel’s, and then went to coax Pídhres down from the wardrobe. By the time Elladan came looking for him he was dry-eyed and able to smile again. “All is well?” Elladan asked.

“Yes,” said Maglor, as Pídhres curled herself around his neck. 

The trip across the Bay was short, and horses were waiting for them. Maglor sprang into the saddle after tucking Pídhres safely into one of the saddle bags so she could nap in the cozy dark, suddenly eager to be on the road, to see again the lands that lay beyond the Calacirya in spite of the way his heart rose into his throat as they made their way up the pass, many in the party already singing a merry traveling song. Soon Tirion came into view, its towers gleaming under the bright sun. At a distance it looked exactly as Maglor remembered it, though of course the light was different. Up close he knew it would be much changed, the districts shifted around, many buildings still empty, perhaps some of them slowly crumbling as he had been told his own family’s home was. He allowed himself only a few moments to stop and stare at the sight before turning away to follow Celebrían toward the southward road. Elrond caught his eye, but seemed reassured by what he saw. It was not as overwhelming as he’d once feared. 

Worse was when they came, after only a few hours, to the lane turning off the main road to his grandfather’s house. The land was aglow with flowers and flowering trees. Maglor saw the buildings beyond them, saw the smoke rising from the forges and heard voices calling to one another over the distant ring of hammers. There past it was the plum orchard, also all in bloom, pink and fragrant, and he saw figures walking through the trees—one of them a very large hound. His breath caught and his horse tossed her head as his hands tightened on the reins. He saw the hound’s head go up—damn Huan and his nose—and saw the figures with him turn towards the road; one of them was very tall, and he thought that he saw a gleam of copper-colored hair. 

Maglor urged his horse forward, coming up between the twins. “Care to race?” he asked them, and did not wait for an answer before breaking into a canter and then a gallop. The orchard passed in a pink blur, and then he had a brief glimpse of a house, and then nothing but fields and little patches of wood, and the river gleaming in the distance. 

A shout from behind him had him looking back to see Galadriel swiftly catching up and then passing him, her hair coming loose of its braids to fly in the wind behind her. Elladan and Elrohir were just behind her, and Maglor forgot all about his reason for starting the race to begin with as he laughed for the sheer joy of it. With the wind in his hair and the sun on his face, and a swift horse beneath him, Maglor felt almost like the Lord of the Gap again, racing across the plains careless and bold. 

It was many miles before they slowed—the horses could have gone even farther, being born and bred there in the Undying Lands and surpassing even Shadowfax in endurance—and Maglor found himself laughing again as he and Galadriel argued over who had won while they waited for the rest of their party to catch up. Elladan and Elrohir were breathless with the thrill of the race; Pídhres meowed plaintively in her saddlebag, having not quite enjoyed the sudden burst of speed, but she was placated when Maglor drew her out to lay across his shoulders instead. 

“Did you always have a fondness for cats, or is that new?” Galadriel asked. 

“I don’t think I thought about them one way or another until I came to Rivendell,” said Maglor as he scratched behind Pídhres’ ears. 

“One adopted him, and he has since been passed down through the generations like a very strange family heirloom,” Elrohir said. “Pídhres is one of Tári’s descendants, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Maglor. “I left the rest of the litter in Annúminas to terrorize the royal court there.” Galadriel laughed. She was busy combing her hair out with her fingers and tidying it into a new braid. “I had not intended to bring one with me, but this little one refused to be left behind.”

Galadriel’s fingers stilled as she looked back up the road. “Does she do well with dogs?” she asked. 

“Well enough,” said Maglor. “Why?” He followed her gaze, and his mouth went dry. “Oh.”

“What?” Elladan twisted in his saddle. “Where did that hound come from? It’s huge!”

“That is Huan,” said Galadriel. 

Huan reached them just ahead of Elrond and Celebrían and the rest of the party. He trotted up and laid his great head on Maglor’s knee with a soft woof of greeting. Maglor held very still, but for the hand he made himself lay atop Huan’s head. “Hello, Huan,” he said softly, and earned himself a lick up his entire arm. “Ugh, Huan!” 

Celegorm must have sent him, Maglor thought as Elladan and Elrohir laughed and dismounted to make the great hound’s acquaintance. He licked them all over their faces, doubtless recognizing them for Lúthien’s children. Maglor didn’t know what to think or feel about it—about his brother sending his hound to—what, keep an eye on him? Drag him back to Nerdanel’s house? He wouldn’t put such a plan past Celegorm, though he doubted whether Huan would really go through with it. 

“I think,” Galadriel said quietly beside him, “this means your brothers are worried about you.”

“I wish they wouldn’t,” Maglor said. It had been easier when he could imagine them as resentful and angry, like the ghosts and dreams that had haunted him in the dark—easier to justify to himself, in the privacy of his own heart, why he did not want to see them, if he could believe they did not want to see him either. It was one thing to be told that wasn’t true—by Celebrimbor, by others—but another to have two letters and a dog in front of him, like an admonishment for racing past on the road. He glanced back up it, but no one else was following. 

When their party continued on, he did not look back again.