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

There was nothing of particular note about the merry company heading south down the road until Huan lifted his head, sniffing the air and letting out a short whine. He was looking toward the riders, and as Maedhros followed his gaze he saw one horseman break away from the rest of the group, letting out a cry of challenge as he sped into a gallop, dark hair lifting behind him like a banner as he leaned forward in the saddle. Another three sped after him, two dark and one fair, who called out an answer to the challenge.

Maedhros knew both of those voices, but it was the first that took his breath away, not heard for so long but forever unmistakable. He had to brace himself against the nearest tree before his knees gave out entirely. Beside him Celegorm went very still, and Curufin, having not at first noticed Huan’s actions, spun around, eyes going wide. They all watched the horseman disappear into the distance, chased by the other three. The remainder of the party burst into bright laughter.

“Huan,” Celegorm said, breaking the silence so suddenly that Maedhros started. “Huan, go after him.”

“And do what?” Curufin demanded. “Drag him back by the scruff of his neck like a wayward puppy?”

“Just—just stay with him,” Celegorm said. He did not look at Curufin, or answer him directly; he never did, these days. “Make sure he’s all right.” Huan butted his head into Celegorm’s shoulder, and obeyed, loping away through the trees.

“You did not have to send him,” Maedhros said. If Maglor was well enough to race Galadriel like that, surely he was well enough not to need constant watching. Celegorm did not answer. Instead he watched the rest of the party—Elrond and his household, returning from Tol Eressëa—until they too were past the house. Then he stalked away through the trees, back toward the river, the beads in his hair clicking together with each step.

Curufin remained where he was. “Do you think it was coincidence that he decided to start a race just there, or do you think he wanted to put as much distance between himself and us as he could?” he asked. Maedhros didn’t answer; they both knew it was not coincidence. Maglor would have recognized the orchard and Mahtan’s house instantly. He may even have seen them from the road. Huan was difficult to mistake, and they had not been hiding.

It hurt, even having known to expect it after what both Finrod and Celebrimbor had said. Maedhros breathed through the feeling—remarkably like being stabbed—and pushed himself off of the tree. “At least we know he’s happy,” he said. Curufin was still watching the road, though even the last of Elrond and Celebrían’s party had disappeared from sight by now. Maedhros turned away. He did not follow Celegorm, but took a slightly different track, away from the road and toward the river. Once there he followed it upstream until he came to one of the willow trees, with its thick curtain of leaves that he could slip behind and pretend that the rest of the world outside did not exist. The tree knew him well by now; he came often to sit between its roots to bathe his feet in the cool water, or to sit with a sketchbook because his mother insisted that he do something with his hands, and at least a drawing could be ripped up or burned afterward if he hated it.

He hated most of his drawings. But he had found that he did like the act of drawing.

His sketchbook was back at the house, though, and he did not want to go get it. Instead he drew his knees up and rested his head on his arms. He did not look up when someone else slipped through the willow fronds to sit beside him. “Curufin told me you saw Maglor,” Caranthir said, leaning his shoulder against Maedhros’.

“At a distance.”

“Mm.” Caranthir sat back and moved behind Maedhros, picking up his hair to finger comb the tangles out of it and begin braiding. Maedhros lifted his head then, unable to deny that it felt nice, and unable to deny Caranthir anything, let alone this simple kindness. Neither of them spoke. They’d spent more time together since Caranthir had returned to life than they ever had in their previous lives, with the two of them lingering in Nerdanel’s house while their brothers went off into the wilds or back to Tirion, but it was most often like this—speaking little, both of them following the track of their own thoughts while glad of company that demanded nothing else.

“Why haven’t you returned to Tirion?” Maedhros asked after a while.

Caranthir didn’t answer immediately. He finished one braid and began another, fingernails scraping lightly over Maedhros’ scalp. It felt like he was braiding ribbons into it. Finally, he said, “Nearly everyone who died in the Nirnaeth is there.”

For a moment Maedhros didn’t understand. Then he turned to look at Caranthir; the half-finished braid fell from his fingers to unravel. “That was not your fault, Moryo,” he said, horrified to realize that he’d never said it before—not aloud, not to Caranthir himself.

The smile that Caranthir offered him did not reach his eyes. “I know that, truly. I would not be here if I didn’t. But it’s—I still failed to see it in time, and it’s hard to see now everyone who suffered because of it.”

“Moryo…” Maedhros had two twist even further to put his arms around him. “You know I never blamed you. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Caranthir said, voice muffled where his face was pressed into Maedhros’ shoulder. “Yes, I know. Maglor—he made sure that I knew, afterward.”

The days and weeks after the Nirnaeth were a blur of pain and grief and fear. They had all been wounded badly—and Caranthir the worst. Had Maglor not been there, Uldor would have killed him. They had all trusted Ulfang and his sons. They had all failed to see the treachery in front of them until it was too late.

And of course then, as had so often been the case, it had been Maglor that kept them together, kept them moving, kept them breathing, teasing and cajoling and singing until they had gone far enough south into Ossiriand that they could stop—stop and figure out what had happened, and what to do next. Stop and mourn. Maedhros had been unable to find any tears by then, and so Maglor had shed them for him. Maedhros had been the eldest, the leader, but of course it had been Maglor to step in when he had been unable to even put together a coherent thought, let alone a plan of action.

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros whispered.

“Their treachery wasn’t your fault, either.”

“I know.” That wasn’t what he was apologizing for.

Caranthir drew back, and reached for Maedhros’ hair again, retrieving the ribbon that had fallen out. “I hate that we are all at odds,” he said, as Maedhros obediently turned around again. “Hardly any of us speaking to each other. Maglor staying away entirely. It feels wrong. Just like it felt wrong to—to have to sit and discuss meeting Atar again like were were planning for a battle.”

“I know,” Maedhros said. The willow fronds swayed in the breeze; somewhere a lark burst into bright and joyful song.

“We loved him once,” Caranthir said, very softly, as he tied off the second braid.

“Do you not still?” asked a quiet voice. Maedhros went still, immediately recognizing the twist in his stomach and the tightening of his throat for fear and hating it, hating that it was Fëanor’s voice that caused it. Hating that he was there and that they had not heard his approach. Behind him Caranthir shifted, and Maedhros turned to see his hand falling away from his belt, where he had been reaching for a weapon that was not there.

Maedhros hated that, too, because his hand had also gone to his side, seeking a sword that no longer existed. He dropped it to the ground and pushed himself up, Caranthir following, and they both turned to face Fëanor, who had ducked under the willow to join them. He was clad in the familiar plain robes given to those returned from Mandos. Like the ones Maedhros had been given, his bore small bits of subtle embroidery along the sleeves and the collar. By instinct, without thinking about it, Maedhros had stepped forward, putting himself between his brother and danger. He saw the moment Fëanor realized it, saw the hurt flash across his face before it was masked again.

This was not the Fëanor that haunted their memories. The manic fire in his eyes was gone, restored to the bright candle flame it had been in their youth. Why was that worse? Fëanor met his gaze and Maedhros was suddenly glad that they had met this way, glad—not to see his father, but to have his father see him, to see what he had wrought.

He did not want witnesses to this meeting, though. It would be painful enough without someone watching. “Caranthir,” he said, “return to the house.” He spoke in the tongue of the Easterlings, the first one he thought of which Fëanor would not know.

“But you…” Caranthir began to protest, in the same tongue, but Maedhros looked at him and the words died on his lips. His face was flushed, the sadness from just a few moments ago replaced with anger. He did not like being startled or taken unawares any more than Maedhros did. He set his jaw and said, “We just spoke of this, didn’t we? You do not have to protect me.”

“That isn’t why I’m asking,” Maedhros said. That wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t the whole of it, or even the biggest reason. “Go back to the house, tell the others he’s here. Please.”

They stared at each other for another few seconds. Finally, Caranthir took a breath and nodded. “I will warn the others,” he said, and reached out to grip Maedhros’ arm. Maedhros returned the gesture, trying not to think of how it was one they’d used when parting before battle. Caranthir glanced at Fëanor, who opened his mouth to speak, and then left, passing away through the willow and down the river before another word could be said.

Maedhros looked back again at Fëanor, who watched Caranthir until he was out of sight. “That was no elven tongue,” Fëanor said finally, looking back at Maedhros. In this, at least, he had not changed—anything new and strange would catch his attention and interest without fail. Or maybe it was not that he hadn’t changed, Maedhros thought, but that he had changed back. Everything about him was now like who he had been before it had all gone wrong; as the tension had ratcheted ever higher in Tirion before the exile to Formenos, and then the Darkening, Fëanor’s focus had narrowed and narrowed—to jealousy and anger and fear—and would not be swayed. That had resulted in the forging of their first swords, and culminated in the drawing of one against Fingolfin, before the king and before all of Tirion.

It should have been a relief to see this glimpse of the father he’d once loved so dearly. Instead it felt like the twist of a knife deep inside him, because Maedhros was not and could never be again who he had been before it had all gone wrong.

“It was spoken by Men,” Maedhros said after a moment in which he made himself take a breath. “By the Secondborn you scorned ere ever they woke under the first sunrise.”

Fëanor grimaced. “Nelyafinwë—”

He could not bear the sound of that name in that voice. “Maedhros.”

There was a flash of temper, however brief. “Nelyafinwë,” Fëanor repeated, doggedly. “So I named you, and you are still my son, whatever—”

“Yes,” Maedhros said as his hand throbbed with sudden, searing pain. His father’s eyes widened as he took a step back, though whether because of his tone or whatever his face showed, Maedhros could not be sure. He tried to bring forth the manner and speech of the Lord of Himring, but he could feel it cracking already as he went on, a tremor belying the hard and flat tone he strove for, lest he loose all control and begin shouting. Or weeping. “Eldest and leader of the Sons of Fëanor I have been, dispossessed and accursed, Kinslayers and thieves. That is our legacy, Atar.” He held out his hand, showing the scar pattern on his palm. It was no real scar tissue, only a memory of the wounding; it was usually unnoticeable except up close, but now it was pink and livid on his skin, tender and painful. Fëanor looked at it, and his face grew pale.

“I did not want this,” he said at last into the silence that fell between them. The singing lark had departed, and no other birds dared take its place. “I did not want any of you—”

“It doesn’t matter whether you wanted it. It is what happened.” Maedhros dropped his hand, and saw his father’s gaze go to his right arm, which ended before the sleeve of his tunic did. “All I have ever been is your son,” he said, the words spilling out of his mouth before he could stop them, voicing a hurt that he had not even known he had until Curufin had been born, and had not known how to name until years and years later. His voice broke on it now, like falling on a blade; he wasn’t the Lord of Himring or even the leader of Fëanor’s Sons anymore. He was just—Maedhros, broken so far beyond repair that even the Fëanturi had despaired of him. “From the moment of my birth, that is all I was. Nelyafinwë: the third—not strong, nor clever, nor swift, only the third. A point to make, a shot taken at your brother. Were you pleased that Nelya happened to sound so like Nolo?”

His father’s face had been pale before; now it was ashen. “That is not what I—”

Maedhros found that he did not care what his father thought he had been doing. “Of all my deeds in Beleriand there are only two that I do not regret.” It was not the full truth—he had done many things he didn’t regret, but none of them were as important. “They were the two things that went against the path you chose for us. I gave the crown to Fingolfin.” He paused for a moment, but Fëanor said nothing. “And I gave myself to the fire.” Something passed across his father’s face at that, but Maedhros was done trying to read his father’s moods. It didn’t matter anymore. “Wait here. Amil will come to speak with you.”

“And your brothers?” The question was spoken softly, almost whispered, as unlike Fëanor as ice was unlike fire, and after such a long pause that Maedhros had almost turned to leave without expecting any reply at all. “Will they speak to me, or do they all feel as you do?”

“Wait here,” Maedhros repeated. He took a step backwards, wishing there was something else he could say. Something that would make Fëanor really understand. There wasn’t. Or rather: there was, but Maedhros could not bring himself to be so cruel as to invoke Finwë. Instead he just turned his back and walked away, keeping his pace deliberate as he made his way back downstream toward his mother’s house.

He met Nerdanel halfway back. “He is under the willow,” Maedhros told her when she stopped.

She took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead when he leaned down. “I am sorry, Maitimo,” she said.

He shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for, Ammë.” He kissed her in return, but did not linger to watch her go to meet Fëanor. She had not come with any of his brothers; like him, she surely did not want witnesses.

Maedhros made it to the garden before the twisting in his stomach turned to something sharp, clawing its way up his throat. He could hear his brothers inside, all talking over one another—about their father this time, instead of Maglor. He couldn't face them, and slipped in and upstairs to his small bedroom. It overlooked the garden and the way to the river beyond but he did not look toward the window. Once the door latched and he had something truly solid between him and the rest of the world his knees buckled, and he slid to the floor, back against the wall, and buried his face in his arms. He couldn’t stop shaking. His palm still hurt.

Part of him, he realized, had hoped that he would see his father and feel differently. That he would want to run to him as he had when he’d been young and the name Nelyafinwë had not sounded like a curse, when his father had been a source of comfort and protection, of love and warmth. Now, though, even after all this time, resentment and fear won out, tangled up in shreds of that old love dug in like barbs, nothing now but a source of pain. The dashing of that hope he hadn’t even known he harbored was the worst thing that he had felt since his return from Mandos.

It wasn’t until the door opened and his brothers all slipped inside, one by one, to join him on the floor that Maedhros noticed the tears soaked into his sleeves. No one spoke; they just all piled onto him, hands on his legs or his arms, arms around his shoulders, someone’s head resting against his.

“What did he say?” someone asked finally. One of the twins.

“Nothing,” Maedhros replied, voice thick. “I spoke. I did not want to listen.”

Silence fell again. Maedhros tried to stop the tears, but failed. This wasn’t the awful storm of grief and horror that had accompanied his glimpse of Maglor in the palantír. This was a steady river of them, tears that he should have shed many years ago but didn’t. Tears that seemed to take some of the heat of him away as they fell, leaving him feeling empty and desolate.

Curufin spoke next. “Come with me and Moryo to Tirion, Nelyo. Don’t stay here alone.”

“Or come with us into the wilds,” said Celegorm.

He wanted to protest. “If Ammë…”

“Ammë told us to take you away somewhere,” said Curufin. “If you don’t want to stay with me, go to Fingon like he’s always asking.”

“Or,” said Caranthir, very softly, “you could go to Lórien.”

“Or we could all go—anywhere. Somewhere far away to leave all this mess behind for a while,” said Amras. “We are strangers to each other and—and that should not be. Maybe we can fix what is broken if we are away from Tirion and from—everything.”

Once again the gap was left. No one spoke of going to Maglor, even though it surely took no great insight to know that where Maglor was, was the one place Maedhros wanted to be—and the one place he did not dare to go. How could he bring his misery there when Maglor had so clearly found joy and laughter again? But there would be no fixing what was broken between the rest of them without all of them coming together, and they all knew it. Still. Maybe Amras was right. If they could not fix it they could at least patch it, glue it together so it might hold until Maglor came to them.

Finally, he raised his head. Five faces looked back at him solemnly. Curufin’s eyes were red, and Celegorm’s face was very pale. Maedhros sighed. “I do not want to go to Lórien,” he said, “but beyond that—I don’t care. I’ll go wherever you want.”