High in the Clean Blue Air - Chapter Thirty One

[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 was late when Maglor and Daeron returned to the campsite, but no one had gone to sleep. Maedhros and Caranthir had come back first, and Celegorm and Curufin sat on either side of Maedhros, leaning in to whisper to him; they glanced up when Maglor and Daeron arrived, but Maedhros didn’t, sitting with his arms looped loosely around his knees, head bowed. Maglor went to the opposite side of the campfire to find his bag and pull out his blankets. Daeron stuck to his side; Pídhres and Leicheg were curled up together near the fire, uncaring of the tension thrumming in the air around them. Huan lay near Celegorm, watching everyone with inscrutable dark eyes. 

“Cáno.” Caranthir sat down beside him once he and Daeron had laid out their things. He glanced at Daeron, who squeezed Maglor’s hand and moved away to let them speak. Maglor wished he wouldn’t. He’d hoped they’d let him just go to sleep, so he’d have at least a few more hours to steel himself against whatever they had to say.

Maybe that was unkind. Only…none of them were angry at Maedhros—they had no reason to be—and they had every reason to be angry with Maglor, with Maedhros so obviously hurting as a result of his words. He couldn’t take them back, though, and he himself felt like someone had reached into him and scraped everything out, leaving him raw and aching, and he didn’t think he could bear an argument or a lecture or whatever barbed remarks Caranthir might have prepared.

But Caranthir just wrapped his arms around him, holding on as tightly as he had earlier after tackling Maglor into the surf. Unprepared for it, Maglor fell forward into him, and then couldn't find it in him to pull back. His throat felt tight and his eyes felt hot, but he’d run out of tears before returning to the camp. Someone—two someones—sat down behind him, and he felt Ambarussa’s arms join with Caranthir’s. “We’re sorry, Macalaurë,” one of the twins murmured. “You shouldn’t ever have been left alone.”

“I couldn’t save you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I wasn’t—”

“Don’t, Cáno. It was a long time ago, and it wasn’t your fault.”

It was at least partially his fault. He hadn’t been fast enough or strong enough to do anything but watch. And then afterward he hadn’t even been able to write music for them. There had never been any dirges or laments for the Sons of Fëanor. Not even from him. He turned his head a little, catching a glimpse of Celegorm and Curufin across the fire, and of Maedhros, who looked away before he could catch Maglor’s eye. Maglor couldn’t tell what either Celegorm or Curufin were thinking. 

He heard a little bit of rustling, and then the soft notes of his harp as Daeron began to play. He did not sing, and he did not play any melody that Maglor recognized; it sounded like something he might have learned in the far east. It filled the silence unobtrusively, and Maglor could feel the gentle power that Daeron put into it, for calm and peace and rest. Caranthir and the twins manhandled Maglor between them into a more comfortable position that still had him trapped under and between the three of them, like they didn’t want to risk him running away. Caranthir took Maglor’s hand in both of his, turning it so the scars on his palm showed.

“Why’d you even pick it up?” Amras asked in a whisper. They had all known—they’d known since Alqualondë, since they burned the ships—that they would not be able to touch the Silmarils again. 

“I don’t know,” Maglor said. It was a lie, but he didn’t know how to explain. He hadn’t been able to help it once they’d opened the chest. Reaching for that Light had been like reaching for—he didn’t know what, exactly. Home. A version of himself that had died long before, drowned in blood. A past that couldn’t ever be returned to. The Light that lived in the Silmarils was something holy and precious. It was the thing that Finwë had led their people across the world for. He had been so tired, and he had just wanted to go home, and the Silmaril was the last remnant of that home, and…

And of course it had burned him. It was no more than he had deserved. He just couldn’t say any of that without it sounding like he’d just been trying to punish himself, which wasn’t untrue but it wasn’t the full truth, either. It would only pain them to hear, and he’d done enough of that already.

“Does it hurt?” Caranthir asked. “Maedhros’ hand hurts sometimes—it pained him terribly after he spoke to Atar.”

Maglor let his hair fall forward, hiding his face as he glanced toward Maedhros, who leaned against Celegorm’s shoulder, eyes closed as he listened to whatever Curufin was saying. “It doesn’t hurt,” Maglor said softly. “Sometimes it aches in the cold, that’s all.” 

“Liar,” Caranthir murmured. “It hurt when you saw him too, didn’t it?” 

Maglor sighed. “It did. It’s just—memory.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing, really. I didn’t give him a chance.”

“Neither did Maedhros,” Amras said. “And he let you.”

“He didn’t have a choice with Maglor,” said Caranthir. “What did you say to him?”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t—I don’t want to talk about him.”

“It matters,” Caranthir said. “It mattered enough to say it in the first place.”

“I was angry.”

“Exactly. You don’t get angry, Cáno.”

Maglor didn’t answer. He did not want to repeat what he had said, because though he regretted none of it, it still hurt. And Amras was right more than Caranthir was—Fëanor could have shouted him down if he had wanted to. He had been one of the few who ever could. Maglor didn’t know what it meant that he hadn’t, and he had been trying not to think of it. “I asked him if he would slay me for casting the Silmaril away,” he said finally. “I said—I said I would do it again, and I never regretted it. I think I said something about haunting the shores dropping vain tears into the Sea.” He’d just wanted to throw Fëanor’s own words back at him, let him see how they had come true in the end. The deeds of the Noldor would indeed be a matter of song until the end of days—and that song was the Noldolantë. 

“Is that what you did?” Caranthir asked. 

“There was nothing else for me to do.”

“You never went to find Tyelpë?” Amrod asked. “Or Elrond…? Maedhros told us how Elrond loves you.”

Maglor looked at Maedhros again, and through the thin curtain of his hair saw him looking back. Maglor looked away first. “I never did,” Maglor whispered. “You must know by now how they found me in the end.”

“We know a little of it,” Amrod said. “Will you tell us…?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you come home to us?” Caranthir asked after they were silent for a while, listening to Daeron’s playing.

So many reasons, none of them acceptable except inside his own mind. “I threw it away,” he said again. “After you all died for it I threw it away and—”

“Good,” said Ambarussa together, vehemently enough that Celegorm, Curufin, and Maedhros all raised their heads to look their way. 

“It wasn’t worth it,” Caranthir said, after the others resumed their conversation. “We aren’t oathbound anymore. We’d rather have you than a stupid jewel. Were you afraid that we’d…?”

“I don’t know. I was afraid. That’s all.” Maglor did not look over at Maedhros, but he thought that he could feel him watching again. “I’m sorry.”

“We aren’t angry, Maglor,” one of the twins said. “We’ve never been angry. Not at you.” 

“Go to sleep,” Caranthir said, smoothing Maglor’s hair away from his face, just what Maglor did not want. He opened his eyes just in time to see Maedhros turn his head. “We can talk more in the morning.” 

Daeron shifted his playing to the same melody he’d sung after Maglor had woken from his nightmare, early in their journey together. Maglor wanted to return to his side, but he had Ambarussa on one side of him and Caranthir on the other, and they seemed determined to keep him there. He did catch Daeron’s eye for a moment; Daeron only smiled, and started singing quietly, his voice blending with the breeze through the heather at their backs, and with the quiet sounds of Ekkaia before them. Maglor sighed and sank back onto the blankets, looking up at the stars, at the brilliant, blazing spill of them across the dark velvet sky. Caranthir rested his head on Maglor’s shoulder, just as he had long ago in their youth. Ambarussa moved around and grumbled at each other about feet and elbows before they too settled, tucked up against each other and against Maglor. Across the fire Maglor was aware of whispered voices continuing their own conversation, but they too stopped after a while. 

He closed his eyes and let sleep take him, hoping he would feel steadier in the morning. 

His dreams were quiet that night, and he woke to the pale dawn when Ambarussa stirred beside him. “Go back to sleep, Cáno,” one of them whispered, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead before leaving. Maglor didn’t, but he also didn’t get up; his other arm was numb, but he couldn’t quite remember the trick to escaping Caranthir without waking him. It had been too long. He lay and stared up at the sky, listening to the rustle in the heather somewhere behind him as Ambarussa vanished to do whatever it was they did in the early mornings. When he turned his head he saw Daeron asleep nearby, seemingly untroubled by finding himself unexpectedly in the midst of all of Maglor’s brothers. 

At last, Caranthir rolled away and Maglor could sit up, shaking the feeling back into his arm. He did not look across the remnants of the fire toward Maedhros, letting his hair fall forward to block the view. He felt…not steadier, but less like he would burst into tears at any moment. He felt rested. Pídhres came over to climb up onto his shoulder as he got to his feet. “Good morning, little one,” he murmured as he reached into his bag to look for the hair clip Daeron had given him. “Where is Leicheg, then?” The hedgehog was nowhere to be seen in the campsite, but he imagined she would turn up soon. He took his harp and climbed the largest of the two dunes they were camped between, which commanded a wide view of the shore and of the sea. As he sat down Pídhres rubbed her head against his cheek, purring quietly. Maglor leaned into it and watched Ekkaia for a while. There were no seabirds—that was the strangest part. He’d once known the ways of the gulls and the other shorebirds of Middle-earth so well, had considered them almost friends, had found comfort in the sounds of them calling to one another, even the cacophony of the great colonies of them during breeding season. Ekkaia had no seashells, either. He wondered if there was any life to be found in its depths, or if it was just a great empty watery barrier between Aman and whatever lay beyond the horizon. There was beauty in it, and a peacefulness, but there was a reason no one who came there stayed long, he thought. 

He ran his fingers over the harp strings, keeping his touch light so that he didn’t disturb the sleepers below, and then pulled his hair out of his face and clipped it back. The weight of it falling loose over his shoulders was a comfort, and Daeron’s gift an even greater one. He looked down at his palm, at the pale scars there, and flexed his fingers briefly before setting them back on the strings. 

Maedhros’ hand pained him sometimes. It shouldn’t, Maglor thought as he began to play, not in a brand new body. But then again, he was not surprised to hear it. Maedhros had not found healing in Mandos, though Maglor wasn’t sure whether he had refused it outright or whether Mandos just wasn’t the right place for him. The Silmarils had been more than just jewels, the Light in them more than just light. He’d never given it much thought before, but that bright searing pain he’d felt upon seeing his father—that had had its source in his spirit, not in his body. His body only ached sometimes and felt stiff in the cold. His spirit could remember what it had felt like, fresh as though he’d been wounded only yesterday. Of course Maedhros would feel the same. It must be the same reason he had not come from Mandos with two hands as he should have. 

Maglor’s fingers picked out a quiet melody—one of the first new songs he’d written when he was finding his way back into his music. It had been easier than he’d thought it would be, re-teaching himself to read and write the notations and finding the notes on the harp strings. This song had no words, and it was very simple, but he could play it now without thinking, and he let his mind wander as he did. He heard stirring down the hillside, and quiet voices as his brothers started to wake. When he glanced down he saw Maedhros step out onto the beach, shaking his head and running his fingers through the tangles of his hair. He glanced up toward the top of the dune, but the grass was tall enough that Maglor was mostly hidden, and then he turned away again to walk up the beach.

The sight of him turning his back made Maglor’s fingers fumble, and he hit a few discordant notes before fumbling his way back to the right ones again, forcing himself to keep playing through the trembling in his hands and the way his heart was beating too fast and a scream lodged itself in the back of his throat. He turned his gaze to the strings and exhaled slowly through is nose as Pídhres pressed up against him, until the images of the last time Maedhros had turned his back on him faded from his mind and he could breathe again, smell the heather and the fresh and faintly salty breeze off of Ekkaia. 

It was Curufin that eventually climbed up to sit beside him. Pídhres eyed him with suspicion before climbing down onto Maglor’s lap. “You really wore the earrings?” Curufin asked after a little while. 

“Yes.”

“You aren’t wearing any jewelry now.”

“I don’t wear it to travel.” Really, he only wore such things on holidays or when he had visited Annúminas or Minas Tirith. “Don’t you believe me? I do like them.”

“I believe you.” Curufin glanced away down the beach. He wore rings in his own ears, a pair of silver and turquoise hoops in each earlobe, just visible under his short-cropped hair. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He had been a very good liar, once, Maglor thought. “I have missed you,” he offered after a moment. He stopped playing and let his hands rest on top of the harp’s frame. “All of you. I think about you everyday.”

“If we hadn’t met out here would you ever have come to us?”

“I don’t know.” Probably, eventually, someday. But Daeron had been at least partly right about grief, and how it didn’t just end when the people you mourned stood again in front of you. It wasn’t the same for everyone—Maglor had been surprised but not afraid when Finrod had appeared beneath the tree behind Elrond and Celebrían’s house in Avallónë. He’d been nervous to see Fingon and Fingolfin, but—maybe it really was that he’d expected all of them to come back sooner or later. He’d never prepared himself to see his brothers or his father again because he hadn’t thought it would ever be possible. 

It was still so hard to believe that he had been allowed to come back. Every breath he took of the air of Valinor was a mercy he did not deserve, like the forgiveness of Olwë and Elu Thingol, and of Elwing and Eärendil—even of Elrond, given so freely and unconditionally before he and Maglor had ever found one another again.

Curufin was watching him, but Maglor didn’t know how to explain his hesitancy. How it hurt like a knife blade to look at all of them and see them smile and laugh, no longer weighed down by doom or oath or war, to be surrounded by them all and still miss them, because they had been restored and he…he just been diminished, scarred and worn down like stones into sand, and—

Celegorm appeared out of the grass, sitting down to throw an arm around Maglor’s shoulders, nearly knocking him over. Pídhres hissed. “Oh hush,” Celegorm said to her. Then to Maglor, more seriously, “What did you say to Maedhros yesterday?”

“I’m not going to repeat it.”

“Well neither will he, and we can’t help if we don’t know what’s wrong.”

“You can’t fix this, Celegorm,” Maglor said. “Ow, Pídhres.” She’d hooked her claws through his shirt as she climbed up his arm again. “You smell like Huan, and she hates Huan,” he added to Celegorm. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Cats love Huan. But you’re changing the subject. What can’t we fix?”

Maglor shrugged Celegorm’s arm off him. “Any of it,” he said.

“Why can you forgive us but not Maedhros?” Curufin asked. 

“Did you do it on purpose?” Maglor asked in return. “When you slipped in that puddle and missed your parry, was it on purpose?”

Curufin stared at him. “You weren’t even there,” he said.

“Answer the question, Curufin.”

“No, of course I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“That’s why.”

Celegorm said, “Maglor, you know he wasn’t—he still isn’t…he isn’t well.”

“I do know that.” Maglor picked up his harp and got to his feet. “Neither am I.”

He retreated to the camp, finding Daeron awake and playing with Leicheg and a piece of string. “Good morning,” he said when Maglor dropped to the ground beside him. “What’s the matter?”

“Brothers.”

“Mm.” Daeron ran his fingers through Maglor’s hair. “I maintain it’s better than a sea monster.”

“What about a sea monster?” said Caranthir from across the remnants of last night’s fire. He was sorting dirty clothes into piles and, apparently, eavesdropping. 

“Only a joke,” Daeron said lightly. “How was your journey west? You must have taken a different road than we did.” 

Maglor leaned against Daeron as Caranthir spoke of their journey—including their encounter with Gandalf, which only confirmed Maglor’s suspicions. Ekkaia was very nice this time of year, indeed. Leicheg climbed onto his lap and rolled onto her back so he could tickle her belly, and Pídhres vanished into the heather. Eventually Ambarussa returned, and Caranthir enlisted their help in finding a freshwater source for washing clothes and refilling water skins. Celegorm and Curufin returned from the top of the hill a little later, but neither of them looked at Maglor. 

Maedhros stayed away most of the morning, but returned when Celegorm went to find him. Maglor kept his gaze down, and ignored Huan looking at him until Huan actually got up and came over to shove his face into Maglor’s, which shoved Maglor further into Daeron, who fell backwards onto the blankets with a startled shout of laughter. “Huan!” Maglor shoved at him, but Huan just kept snuffling at his hair. “Celegorm!”

“What? I didn’t ask him to—”

“Come get him off!”

“Huan, leave off,” Celegorm said, without much enthusiasm. Huan did not leave off. “He wants you to do something, Maglor. I don’t know what it is.”

“He already dragged me all the way out here, what else does he want?” Maglor demanded. He shoved at Huan again, and then Huan took his shirt in his teeth and pulled him up. By then nearly everyone was laughing at him. “If you rip my clothes, so help me, Huan—”

“Stop it, Huan,” said Daeron, coming to Maglor’s rescue at last—or trying to. He pushed at Huan’s face, but Huan just pulled harder until Maglor tumbled forward, almost landing face first into last night’s ashes. “What is the matter with you?”

“Fine,” Maglor muttered, and got to his feet before Huan could do something worse. Huan took his shirt in his teeth again and pulled insistently toward the beach. “Celegorm, this is your fault.”

“I’m not doing anything!” Celegorm protested through his laughter. “Maybe he thinks you need a bath.”

“Huan thinks someone needs a bath?” Caranthir said. “If that’s true, I fear the Dagor Dagorath is upon us.”

“He’s your dog,” Maglor said over his shoulder before he left the hollow between the dunes and stepped out onto the beach. It was a bright day, and the dark waters sparkled under the sun, though clouds were gathering in the distance, and soon enough they would arrive with rain. Once Huan released him he walked down to the water’s edge. He wasn’t going to bathe in it, but it felt pleasant washing over his bare feet. Huan seemed satisfied, and trotted off back toward the camp. Another scuffle ensued, and Maglor looked up to see Maedhros being similarly dragged out. The laughter behind them died rather quickly as everyone realized what Huan was really trying to do. Huan released Maedhros’ sleeve and got behind him to shove at him with his great head, nearly knocking him over before he too surrendered to the inevitable and came down to the water’s edge. 

“Very subtle,” Maglor said to Huan, who woofed at him and turned to wander off down the shore. “You’re worse than Gandalf!” Maglor called after him; Huan wagged his tail but didn’t otherwise respond. 

Maedhros stood a few steps back from the high water line. He crossed his arms again; the breeze blew his hair across his face, obscuring most of it. Maglor did not turn fully toward him. “Celegorm really didn’t ask him to do that,” Maedhros said into the silence that had fallen between them. Back in the campsite Maglor heard the sound of a flute; Daeron was playing. 

“I know.”

“You aren’t…you aren’t upset with any of them, are you?”

“No. Huan is a menace all on his own.” Maglor crossed his own arms and wished for his cloak as the wind picked up off the water. It smelled strange. There was salt in it but nothing else—no seaweed, no fish. It didn’t even really smell like Belegaer had away from the coastline. He crouched to dip his fingers into the water, having a sudden thought, and when he put them to his lips he found he’d been right.

Ekkaia tasted like tears. 

“Maglor…” Maedhros spoke so quietly, and with such uncertainty. Maglor hated to hear that from him; it made him sound like someone else, not like Maedhros at all. He didn’t look up, instead keeping his gaze on the stones at his feet. He picked one up; it was perfectly round, and fit snugly in his palm. When it dried it would be a soft warm red, like a sunrise. “Maglor, what do you need from me?”

“What do you want me to say, Cáno? What do you need me to do?”

Maglor rose to his feet. The water felt cold, suddenly, though the sun remained warm. The chill came from inside him, that remnant of Dol Guldur that had reared its head along with everything else and wouldn’t go away again. 

He had told Fëanor there was nothing that he wanted, nothing that he could do to—Maglor wasn’t even sure what Fëanor thought he could fix. But to Maedhros—he couldn’t just say nothing. That would be cruel, and while he had been trying to hurt Fëanor, he didn’t want to hurt Maedhros, who was already in so much pain. “I don’t know, Maedhros,” he said finally, without looking up. “I wish that I did, but…I just don’t know.”