High in the Clean Blue Air - Chapter Thirty

[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

 

It couldn’t be put off forever, though Elrond had the impression that Fëanor would have liked to delay a little longer—something about the way he held himself when he approached Fingolfin after breakfast. It had been several days since Elrond had spoken to him in the gallery, and if Fëanor looked a little more settled and less exhausted, the tension had returned to the set of his shoulders and his face was very grim, as though it were not his brother that he spoke to but some messenger of Mandos there to pronounce his doom.

Beside Elrond, Gandalf sipped his tea. “He’s taken his time, hasn’t he?” he murmured. 

“He is very new-come from Mandos,” Elrond said. “And has had at least two very difficult confrontations already. Can you blame him?”

“I suppose not.” Gandalf regarded Elrond from beneath his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to go keep an eye on them?”

“Someone should,” Finrod muttered on Gandalf’s other side. “I will, if Elrond doesn’t, but that might not be received very well.”

Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am the youngest person in this room,” he said, though he did not feel at all young. Surely it must count for something on occasion—surely he could shirk responsibility sometimes, if the fate of the world was not at stake. 

“Yet also the wisest,” said Fingon. “Especially since, as Maglor recently pointed out to me, Nóm here only got his reputation for wisdom because Men hadn’t yet met anyone else.”

“Maglor,” Finrod said primly, sounding rather like Bilbo when he was on his dignity, “has been under a great deal of strain of late and is obviously not thinking clearly. Anyway, what of my dearest sister Galadriel? Her wisdom cannot be questioned.”

Galadriel smiled, rising from her seat. “I,” she said, “have already made plans for this morning with my husband, Mablung, and Beleg, and unless something is set afire, I intend to avoid both my uncles—and you, my dear brother and cousin—until this evening at least.”

“You see? The wisest of all of us,” Finrod said as Galadriel left the dining hall. He reached for another jam-filled pastry, while Fingon refilled his teacup.

Across the hall both Fingolfin and Fëanor glanced toward their table—toward Elrond. Even they wanted him to bear witness over anyone else. He sighed and rose. “When this is over I am going to throw all of you out so I can have some peace,” he informed Finrod and Fingon, who laughed at him. “I did not sail west just to attempt to herd all my elders in the House of Finwë like a bunch of recalcitrant cats.”

“I don’t know what else you expected!” Finrod said. 

“Peace and rest are what we were promised,” Elrond muttered, “though neither it seems are to be found in this house of late.” He left Finrod and Fingon behind to keep laughing at him with Gandalf, and followed Fingolfin and Fëanor when they left the dining hall, and then the house. 

“Is there a place we may speak undisturbed?” Fingolfin asked Elrond once the three of them were outside. 

“There are many secluded places in the gardens,” Elrond said, “or you can go to the apple orchard.”

“I thought it was peaches,” Fëanor said.

“There are both; the apples are beside the peaches, and beyond the apples there is the strawberry field. The apple orchard is the largest, and there will be no one there at this time of year.” The apples had been planted first, even before the house had begun construction; Celebrían had brought a handful of cuttings from her beloved trees in Rivendell, and they had been carefully preserved and tended until she was able to find a place for them. Elrond led the way to the orchard, where the leaves were thick, and it was quiet, only the sounds of a few voices laughing and singing in the strawberry field reaching them. “Shall I leave you?” Elrond asked.

Fëanor stood with his arms crossed; Fingolfin had his hands clasped behind his back. “When we return to Tirion I would rather there be another party able to assure those who might doubt us, whatever is decided here,” Fingolfin said after a moment. “You, Elrond, will be trusted and believed from Eressëa to Valmar and beyond.”

Elrond did not pinch the bridge of his nose again, but only because he clasped his own hands together. “I think you overestimate my influence, Grandfather,” he said. 

Fingolfin smiled. “And I think you underestimate it. It is lucky for us, perhaps, that you have decided not to make your own bid for the crown.”

“The King of the Noldor should be a Noldo, and I am Peredhel,” Elrond said, “of Lúthien’s line, of Númenor. I care not which of you ends up sitting upon the throne in Tirion—or if it is given to someone else entirely—as long as we may all go on living in peace as we have been.” He had been offered a crown before, and rejected it. He had even less desire, if that were possible, to wear one now. 

Fëanor looked at Fingolfin, then. “Keep the crown, Nolofinwë,” he said. “You are better suited to it than I ever was. I did not ask to be released from Mandos just to make all the same mistakes again. If you wish me also to go into exile—to Formenos, or elsewhere—I will go.”

“I never wished to send you into exile, Fëanáro,” Fingolfin said in a low voice. “I meant every word that I said before the Valar, and I would have you return to Tirion now at my side, in peace and in friendship. That is all I ever wished for.”

“Even after Losgar?”

“No, not after Losgar, or the Helcaraxë. But you even ruined our chance to come to blows over it by dying before I could catch up to you.”

Fëanor actually laughed at that. His smile transformed his face into one that made Elrond understand why so many had followed him so loyally, why all of his sons had jumped to swear the oath with him without thought; once, he had smiled like that often—once, he had been someone worth following. He might one day be worth following again. “You can punch me now if you wish,” he said, “if you think Elrond would allow it.”

“I would rather you didn’t,” Elrond said mildly. “Celebrían would be most displeased.”

“We are all long past that,” Fingolfin said. “What did you ask to be released for, then?”

“I stayed because Macalaurë remained—I could not know what happened to him if I did not watch the tapestries. I went to Námo when I saw that he had taken ship.” 

Elrond wondered if Fëanor had gotten a chance to tell Maglor that. Probably not; he would wager that Maglor had not given Fëanor a chance to say much of anything. But then, he thought, it likely would have made no difference. Maybe once Maglor returned, having had time to think, time to find some peace, Elrond would tell him and he would appreciate what it meant.

“And what will you do now?” Fingolfin asked. 

“I don’t know. I wanted only to see my family again, and did not think far beyond that.” Fëanor paused for a moment, and added very softly, “Atya sends his love.” Fingolfin turned away abruptly, inhaling sharply, a hand rising to cover his face as it crumpled, looking suddenly very young. Elrond also turned away; this was not meant for him, this grief that at last united Fingolfin and Fëanor as nothing else could. 

He walked a little farther into the orchard, stepping out of earshot by remaining within sight, since if anything might drive Fëanor and Fingolfin to blows it would be Finwë. It was quiet among the trees; they were laden with fruit, still small and green. Come harvest they would be big and red-gold, and they would taste like home. Elrond rested a hand on the tree under which he stood, listening to its quiet thoughts. He thought of the orchard that remained in Rivendell, perhaps now overgrown, its orderly rows blurring as new saplings sprouted and other trees and plants crowded in, with few or no elves remaining to tend to them. He remembered the very first apple trees planted there, after the War of the Last Alliance. They had been a gift from Círdan on behalf of Gil-galad, who had known of Celebrían’s fondness for apples and for trees; it had both surprised and not surprised Elrond at all that Gil-galad had already made plans for his wedding gift to them, long before Elrond had spoken aloud to anyone his feelings or intentions. Hopefully, whenever it was that Gil-galad returned to them, he would remember the apples and be pleased to find them here. 

He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Fingolfin and Fëanor embrace, and decided that was a good time to slip away entirely. He made his way back to the house by way of the peach orchard, breathing more easily once he was out in the sunshine again. There would be peace at last in the House of Finwë, and all questions of crowns and thrones put to rest.

“Well?” Fingon and Finrod were, of course, waiting for him. Gandalf was nowhere to be seen and Elrond decided to pretend to be surprised later when it was discovered he’d made his way to the apple orchard—entirely by chance, I assure you!—to see what was going on. “You don’t look unhappy, so neither of them decided to break the other’s nose,” Finrod said. 

“Fëanor offered to let Fingolfin do it,” Elrond said.

“Did he?” Fingon said. “And my father didn’t take him up on it?” Elrond shook his head. “I don’t think I could have resisted, especially if he offered to let me.”

“And that,” Finrod said, “is why you are the valiant and not the wise. But what else did they speak of? I think it is safe to assume by now that Fëanor cares more about his sons than the crown, but…?”

“You are right,” Elrond said. “The crown will remain with Fingolfin. When I left they were speaking of Finwë, and I thought it best to leave them some privacy.”

Both Fingon and Finrod winced. “It isn’t fair,” Fingon said after a moment, “that Grandfather must remain forever in Mandos—just as it was not fair when they judged the same fate for Míriel, or anyone else who died and whose spouse remarried afterward, as must have happened at Cuiviénen, or among the Avari…”

“That is not a problem for us to solve now,” Finrod said. 

Elrond suspected it would be solved in due time by both Indis and Míriel, neither of whom were any less strong-willed than their children. But for the moment Finwë would not return. It might be that he would never return even if the Valar were persuaded to change their minds. There were many who were too sorely hurt to ever find full healing. Finwë, who had died at Morgoth’s hand in the dark and alone in a land where he had been promised peace and protection, might well be one of them. Elrond had seen in Maedhros someone who had not found healing in Mandos, and he thought it cruel to thrust someone so sorely hurt back into the world before they were ready—unless the kind of healing that he needed was not to be found in the Halls. Elrond did not know enough to say one way or the other; it troubled him that the Valar, who should know, had apparently left Maedhros to stumble his own way forward.

“My part in all of this is, it seems, to reassure anyone who asks that yes, Fëanor really has relinquished all claim to the crown of the Noldor,” Elrond said after a moment. “I hope there are not many with such doubts. I would very much like to spend time with my own family without worrying about uprisings or something being set on fire.”

Finrod laughed. “If they ride together into Tirion side by side as friends, many doubts will be laid to rest,” he said. “I hope that they will, truly—and that Fëanor will make peace likewise with my father, and my aunts.”

“I will not be riding into Tirion with them,” Elrond said firmly. “I meant it when I said I was going to throw you all out. I would like at least a decade of peace to enjoy the company of my sons, if all of you don’t mind.”

“So much for your famous hospitality!” Fingon laughed, and then tilted his head back, eyes narrowing a little against the sunshine. “Isn’t that Lady Elwing?”

Elrond turned, shielding his own eyes with his hand, to see a familiar white bird circling lower and lower, until it alighted on the veranda before them and as its feet touched the ground it transformed into Elwing, arms outstretched to balance herself, a few feathers fluttering to the flagstones around her as her skirts and hair settled. “Naneth,” Elrond said, surprised but pleased. “We were not expecting you!” He crossed the veranda to embrace her. “What brings you to Imloth Ningloron?”

“Strange tidings from the birds that flock to my tower,” Elwing replied, frowning at him. “They were given quite a fright a few days ago.”

“Oh, that was only Maglor,” said Finrod as he came to greet her. “Hello, Cousin! You’re just in time to witness a thing truly unprecedented.”

“Only Maglor? What in the world was he doing?”

“Fëanor is here,” Finrod said, “and he lost his temper Maglor, I mean. Fëanor has been remarkably calm.”

Elwing’s frown deepened as she looked at Elrond. “Elrond—”

“No one was hurt, Naneth.”

“This time,” she said, very grimly. “I’ve heard his voice raised in—”

“So have I,” Elrond said. “This was not the same.”

“Where is he now?” Elwing asked. 

“He left after he—” Elrond was not quite sure what to call it. It had been a confrontation of a sort, but he didn’t want to suggest anything more volatile than the truth to his mother. She was worried enough. “After his meeting with Fëanor, he left the valley in Huan’s company. Fëanor is still here.”

“So is Fingolfin!” Finrod added. “And we might even see them come back from the orchard arm in arm as friends.”

“You are ever hopeful, Felagund, but I think friends is pushing it a little too far too soon,” said Fingon. He also stepped forward to take Elwing’s hand. “Lady Elwing, it is good to see you.”

“Grandmother!” The twins burst out of the house, and all of Elwing’s concerns were forgotten for a few minutes, at least. Elrond stepped back to give them room, and glanced toward the path leading down from the orchards. He thought it would be some time yet before Fingolfin and Fëanor returned, so when Elladan and Elrohir finally released Elwing, he led them all back inside; there did not need to be an audience waiting. 

Inside, Elwing slipped her arm through Elrond’s. “I would like to know all about what’s been happening here,” she said. “I know you’ll tell me not to worry, but can you blame me?”

“No, of course not,” said Elrond.

Celebrían and Galadriel appeared to greet Elwing, as did many others in the household before Elrond could escape with her to a quiet part of the library upstairs. They sat by a window that looked out toward the orchards. “Is that them?” Elwing asked, nodding to a pair of figures just visible among the apple trees.

“Yes, that is Fingolfin and Fëanor.”

“I suppose everyone’s concerns have been unfounded,” Elwing said as she sat down beside Elrond. “At least with regard to Fëanor.”

“I was never concerned about Maglor,” Elrond said. “Not in the way you mean. He was very angry, but only at Fëanor, and he took himself far away from the house before he so much as raised his voice.” He glanced out of the window, but the figures in the trees hadn’t moved. “If Maglor posed a danger to anyone it would be Fëanor.”

“Did he pose a danger to Fëanor?” Elwing asked.

“No. Fëanor did not come away from their meeting unhurt, but it came from Maglor’s words, not the power of his voice. It was Fëanor that set Maglor and his brothers on their path, and Maglor has not forgiven it.” He sighed. “He hasn’t forgiven Maedhros, either.”

“Maedhros—for what?”

“Dying.”

Elwing was silent for a while, before she got up and walked along one of the shelves, tracing her fingers along the spines. Elrond waited. He knew what she was thinking of, though it wasn’t a thing they had spoken of before. At last, she returned to stand in front of the window. “Perhaps I was too quick to shut the door on Maedhros when he came to speak to me,” she said softly. “I had forgotten that we had this in common—this choosing.”

“You were caught between the sea and swords,” Elrond said, rising. “Yours was a different kind of choice.”

“It was despair, still,” she said, “and seeing all that we had built burning before me, and I was so sure that you and Elros…”

“I do not need you to explain yourself, Naneth, nor to apologize,” Elrond said. “We were never angry with you.”

“Oh, Elrond. Do you ever get angry?”

“Yes, of course. It just seems that I am never angry with anyone that everyone else thinks I should be.” Elrond put his hand over his mother’s on the windowsill. “There were no good choices at that time, and there was more at work. You were meant to take the Silmaril to Ada in the same way that Frodo was meant to carry the Ring. Elros and I did not understand all of that at the time, but we never doubted that you loved us, or that you would not have left us if you had any other choice. Maedhros…he had suffered much, and he had caused much suffering. It does not surprise me that he chose an end to it, though it grieves me that it should have come to that. It isn’t too late, you know.”

“Too late for what?”

“To speak to Maedhros.”

“Perhaps.” Elwing did not turn her gaze from the window. Her hair fell like soft shadows down her back; under Elrond’s hand hers was small and slender, seeming far more fragile than he knew her to be. “It is very hard to reconcile them now with what they were.”

“What they are now is far closer to what they should have been—what they would have been, had things been different. Nothing begins evil.”

“But anything might go down that path,” said Elwing. “I hope that Fëanor chooses differently in this life.”

“He already has. Finrod was perhaps overly optimistic, as Fingon said, but given time I do think we will see friendship between Fingolfin and Fëanor.”

“One can hope,” Elwing sighed. “Does he also give up his claim to the Silmaril?”

“Yes. So he told me, before I even had the chance to ask him. He is far more preoccupied with his sons than with his jewels, and I do not foresee a change in that, not while they refuse to speak with him.”

“Maglor did not refuse.”

“If he’d been given any warning he would have,” Elrond said, and sighed. “Fëanor came unexpectedly, arriving just after Fingolfin. I think maybe it is for the best, but—” He did not know how to explain his concern, how he was not quite worried for the same reasons that others were, who only saw how changed Maglor was from when they last last known him and did not know how much worse he had once been. “He is unhappy,” he said at last. “He is unhappy and—time dulls grief, but he was not prepared to have them all alive and waiting for him. Least of all his father. I think he must feel more as though they had all just died again, old wounds reopening rather than closing for good.” And that was without everything else that made the grief so complicated. They had spoken of Maedhros only once in all the years Maglor had lived in Imladris. Maglor had despaired of ever seeing him again, but there had been a certain, painful kind of relief in it too—that if he couldn’t ever see his brother again, at least he would not have to confront all the pain of their past either.

Elwing looked at him. “Yet you allowed him to leave by himself?”

“It is not for me to allow Maglor to do anything. He will be back before winter—and he is not quite alone. Huan is with him, and I think his cat stowed away too, since I haven't seen her since he left. Mablung arrived a few days ago with word that Daeron had also joined him. I do not think that he will come to harm; I think the path that he has set out on is the one he needs to take now. It isn’t even that I am worried, precisely. He is not nearly so fragile now as he was when he first came to me in Imladris. It just grieves me that he is in pain and there isn’t anything I can do about it.”

“Even you cannot heal everything, Elrond,” Elwing said. She put her other hand over his. “I hope Maglor knows how lucky he is to have your love.”

“I had his first.”