High in the Clean Blue Air - Chapter Thirty Two

[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

 

Maedhros had thought the worst that could happen was a complete rejection—was Maglor refusing to speak to him at all, or saying flatly that he could never forgive Maedhros, that he hated him, that he never wanted to see him again, and then turning his back for good. 

Watching the tears fall silent and unheeded down his scarred face as he said, “I don’t know how to forgive that,” was so, so much worse. Maedhros could weather Maglor’s anger. He thought he could even withstand his hatred, if he had to. 

He couldn’t bear to see him so hurt and to know that he was the cause, and therefore unable to fix it. If there was anything he could do, he didn’t know what it was. If Maglor didn’t know either—maybe there really was nothing to be done. 

All that Maedhros could think of, as Maglor walked back to the camp with that stone in his hand, picked up from the surf for reasons known only to himself, all he could think was that Maglor never would have come to Dol Guldur if Maedhros had not left him alone. More likely both of them would have died in the tumult of Beleriand’s breaking, or in the long years between then and whatever had caused Maglor to leave the shores and strike inland, up the River Anduin. But maybe not; maybe they would have survived it all, somehow, maybe even have come to Elrond in Rivendell in the end. He didn’t know. He couldn’t truly imagine a world in which he did not give himself to the fire. 

The Valar should have just let him stay in Mandos, he thought as he stared out over the dark waters of Ekkaia. The waves did not reflect the sunlight or the blue sky quite as they should, but it was still beautiful. Dark clouds hovered over the horizon and when the wind picked up again it smelled faintly of rain. Maedhros thought, distantly, that he wanted to paint this too—except he didn’t know anymore if he could pick up a brush and make anything beautiful with it. That felt like a passing Midsummer fancy, best forgotten before he returned home.

It was Amras who came down to join him after a while. “Do you take turns or draw lots?” Maedhros asked him. 

“Neither.” Amras peered up at his face and then embraced him. Maedhros returned it, resting his chin atop Amras’ head. “We all love you, Nelyo,” Amras said. “Even Cáno. Please come back.”

Maedhros released a shaky breath. “All right.”

“We’ll make sure Huan doesn’t try to push you into the sea again,” Amras said more brightly. He took Maedhros’ hand and pulled him back to the camp. Someone had found more firewood and gotten the fire going again; Maglor lay on his stomach, playing some silly game with his kitten and his hedgehog. No one had explained the hedgehog, and Maedhros didn’t know how to ask. Maglor’s gaze flicked up as Maedhros and Amras returned, but he said nothing. Daeron sat beside him, his knee pressed against Maglor’s shoulder.

Someone was asking Maglor about King Elessar, and if he had known him. Maglor laughed, a sudden and bright sound. “I met Elessar when he was eleven years old,” he said, “when I had to fish him out of the river because he’d fallen off the bridge in Rivendell—”

“Estel was Elessar?” Daeron interrupted, also laughing. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“He wasn’t Elessar yet,” Maglor said, smiling. When he looked up at Daeron his eyes went soft and fond and Maedhros felt an old familiar flicker of concern, leftover from Beleriand. Be careful, Cáno. 

It wasn’t Maedhros’ place to worry anymore, though. Maglor could guard his own heart.

“I thought his name was Aragorn,” Curufin remarked.

“It was,” Maglor said, “but as a child in Rivendell he was called Estel. It is still how most of us who lived there think of him.” He grinned, suddenly. “Estel acquired a great many names over the course of his life. Strider is perhaps the most famous—not a flattering name, given to him by the folk of Bree, but the hobbits adopted it later with far more affection, and he took it for the name of his house.”

“Strider is not a good name for a royal house,” Daeron said.

“Telcontar is,” Maglor replied. 

He spoke easily and with a smile, especially when Caranthir asked about Arwen and Aragorn’s children, but Maedhros saw the shadow of grief that lay behind it, though the smile itself was not feigned and the remembered joy was real. Maglor had loved Elessar as much as he loved Elrond, and Elrond’s children, and that was why he had tarried in Middle-earth, even knowing it would only cause him pain in the end. 

Maglor could guard his own heart, Maedhros thought, but he never did. 

Someone asked for a song, and Maedhros saw Maglor go very still for a moment, his smile faltering. It returned when Daeron leaned down to whisper something in his ear, and then he was sitting up and reaching for his harp—a lovely thing made of interlocking pieces of driftwood; even after so long Maedhros could recognized something made by Maglor’s hands, and it was such a relief to know that he still did those things—carved wood, made music. But the hesitation—why would he hesitate? Strands of hair fell forward to partly obscure Maglor’s face as he put his fingers to the strings. “What would you like to hear?” he asked, plucking a few of them, the notes thrumming in the air, sweet and light. 

“Something new,” said Celegorm, as Amras said, “Something you wrote.”

“I haven’t written many new songs lately,” Maglor murmured. “Not happy ones…well, there’s that one about the sea mon—”

“Not that one,” Daeron said.

Maglor played a few chords on the harp, apparently lost in thought. Maedhros tilted his head back to look at the sky, and found the clouds already starting to gather. They were pale and high, and he wasn’t sure it would rain that evening, but there was a definite chill in the air. He shifted a little, and pulled his cloak around Amras and Amrod on either side of him.

“I did not write this song,” Maglor said finally, as his fingers picked out a more deliberate melody on the strings instead of just playing delicate scales while he thought, “and it is not very new, though perhaps you have not heard it. It was written to celebrate the wedding of Aragorn Elessar and Arwen Undómiel, and the blossoming of the White Tree again in Minas Tirith after the fall of the Dark Tower and the destruction of the Ring.” As he finished speaking Daeron lifted his flute to his lips and joined him, and then Maglor began to sing. 

He had lost none of his skill, but his voice was not as Maedhros remembered it. There was something of the Sea in it, which was no surprise—it held the power of the tides, and a strange quality that made Maedhros think of the Ainur, of the times long ago when he had heard Uinen singing with the mariners of Alqualondë. There was also a roughness to it that Maedhros hadn’t noticed before when he’d been singing with Daeron, something unpolished, unpracticed, and he did not lift his head or reveal his face to them as he sang. It was still beautiful, all the more so for having gone so long without hearing it. The song, too, was lovely. As Maglor sang Maedhros closed his eyes and saw before him the White Tree, a slender sapling in flower atop the pinnacle of Minas Tirith built into and out of the mountainside. He could see there also Aragorn Elessar, with a green stone set in a silver-eagle brooch upon his breast, clasping hands with Arwen Undómiel, so like Elrond in appearance that there could be no mistaking her, both of them smiling and joyful, and the city around them filled with singing and merriment and celebration, for the king had come again and was now wed to his fair queen.

There was a thread of grief through it, though, that Maedhros did not think was meant to be there. The song was one of joy, and hope, not one of mourning. It was in Maglor’s own voice—and it had been there before, in the song he had been singing of Ekkaia with Daeron, though that song had not been mournful either, but a celebration of both the present and the past. He opened his eyes to look at Maglor, but Maglor’s eyes were closed; he had lifted his head at last, and the expression on his face was calm—not merry, but not unhappy either. 

Maedhros watched him until the song ended, only looking away when Maglor opened his eyes. He caught Celegorm’s eye; he’d noticed it too. 

Ambarussa called for another song, something merry, and it was Daeron who obliged, handing Maglor his flute and launching into a very merry song indeed that Maedhros thought must have come from Doriath before the Girdle, perhaps even before Menegroth had been delved. Maglor put the flute to his lips and Maedhros wondered a little if it was relief he saw in his face before he began to play, or if he was only imagining things. 

As the afternoon wore on the group broke apart again; Ambarussa wandered away into the heather, and Caranthir dragged Curufin away down the beach to stretch their legs. Celegorm and Maedhros also took a walk, going in the opposite direction, while Daeron and Maglor remained by the fire with their animals. Maglor’s laughter followed them as Maedhros and Celegorm fell into step together. Celegorm walked half in the surf, splashing his bare feet through the waves. “His voice is different,” he said after a while.

“I noticed.”

“It sounds like the Sea. Belegaer, I mean.”

“He wandered its shores for thousands of years,” Maedhros murmured. “He’s always been drawn to water.”

“Mm.”

“He still sounds like himself.”

“Just sad,” Celegorm said. “Even when he’s singing about something happy. He sounds like you.”

Maedhros stopped walking; Celegorm took a few more steps before he stopped and turned. “What do you mean he sounds like me?” Maedhros’ singing voice wasn’t terrible, but it was nothing like Maglor’s. Celegorm rolled his eyes. “I’m not—”

“If you try to tell me you aren’t sad I’m going to throw you into Ekkaia.”

“I don’t know what I am, but—” Sadness was a part of it but it wasn’t all of it, and it was too simple a word. Maedhros didn’t think there was a word for what he was, except maybe wrong, but he couldn’t say that to Celegorm. That would get him tossed into the sea. “What are you trying to say?”

“Just that you two are so much alike, and in all the worst ways. What did you say to each other last night?”

Maedhros flinched. They’d been over this. “I can’t—”

“Why not?”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the water, and by the faint echo of their brothers’ voices from down the beach. It was so quiet by Ekkaia; it was peaceful but the longer they stayed the more it grated. Maedhros wanted to return to a place with animals, with birds and crickets and other living things—with noise that might drown out his own thoughts. He looked out over the water so he didn’t have to look at Celegorm. 

“I should never have been let out of Mandos,” he said finally.

“You deserve it as much as the rest of us,” Celegorm said quietly.

“That isn’t true. But that isn’t what I meant. I don’t—I didn’t want to leave. And I’m not—all I’ve done since is make everyone I care about worry and I don’t want to be—”

Celegorm closed the distance and grasped Maedhros’ arm, reaching for his hand. “Maitimo, I would much rather you be here where we can worry about you and help you, instead of somewhere in the depths of Mandos beyond anyone’s reach.”

“But you shouldn’t have to—”

“Of course not—because you shouldn’t be hurting like this. Curvo said you were thinking about painting sunsets at Midsummer. You have been getting better.”

“I know, and I know you asked me—I just—I don’t know how not to—”

“And anyway, worrying all of us isn’t the only thing you’ve been doing. Carnistir wouldn’t have come to any of us for comfort when he woke in the middle of the night. Curvo and I wouldn’t be speaking still if you hadn’t done something. Ambarussa—they’re better off than any of us because they’ve always had each other, I suppose, but it was you that brought us all back together.”

“Only because Atya came back,” Maedhros whispered.

“Maybe we should thank him for it,” Celegorm said, only a little ironically. He rubbed his fingers over Maedhros’ palm. “Does it hurt? Speaking of him?”

“Not my hand.” Maedhros looked at Celegorm. “I didn’t want to hate him,” he said. “When he came back I didn’t want to—but I can’t—”

“Not everything that’s broken can be fixed,” Celegorm said, meeting his gaze. “But I think us—the seven of us, including Maglor—I think we can. What did you say to each other? Please tell me.”

“I don’t—I don’t know how to…” Maedhros looked back down the beach, at the distant figures of Caranthir and Curufin, and at Huan sitting like a guard near their campsite. Smoke curled gently up from the campfire. The clouds that had come in gave the scene a bleak look, drained of most color except for the purple heather on the hills beyond. “We sent everyone away with the twins. Everyone. It was only the two of us and I tried to convince him to go too, but he wouldn’t.”

“Could he have?” Celegorm asked quietly.

“He says not. I think…I don’t know. Elrond would’ve spoken for him.”

“Elrond was still practically a child.”

“He was the son of Eärendil, of Elwing. Even then I think he would’ve been listened to. He and Elros. I haven’t heard that the rest of our people were turned away. But it doesn’t matter because Maglor wouldn’t go and I knew—I knew what it would do to him if I left. And I still did it.” He closed his eyes, unable to look at Celegorm’s face any more than he’d been able to look at Maglor’s. “It was the best thing I ever did but the worst thing I did to him and he can’t forgive it. I never expected him to.”

For a moment he thought Celegorm was going to argue with him, but instead he just sighed and shook his head. “If he can forgive the rest of us all that we did, he can forgive you.”

“No. Not this. You weren’t there, Tyelko, at the end. I was all he had left in the world, and the Silmarils burned both of us, and I left him behind. He can’t forgive it—and I can never ask him to. It feels like asking too much just for him to sit across the fire from me, let alone having Huan drag us off—”

“I’ll ask Huan not to do that again. He just wants to help.”

“I know. I just don’t think anyone can.”

They returned to find Maglor and Daeron having some kind of argument about a series of notes that was incomprehensible to anyone but them. They were laughing about it, though, and when he smiled Maglor looked so much more like his old self, his younger self before everything had gone so terribly wrong—if you could ignore the way he kept his sleeves pulled down almost over his hands and the way he turned his head so his hair fell forward, like a curtain between him and everyone else but Daeron, even when he leaned forward to snatch the flute from Daeron’s hands to play a flourishing set of notes that seemed to be the culmination of whatever point he was making.

Daeron snatched it back and played the exact same sequence, except that apparently it wasn’t because it started the argument all over again.

Maedhros could have sworn they had done this before, at the Mereth Aderthad. Even the bit of music sounded familiar. 

After watching them for a while, Celegorm remarked, “Are you enjoying this or is this a serious argument? I can’t tell.”

“Both,” said Daeron and Maglor together. “Daeron is the mightier singer,” Maglor added, “but I’m clearly the better songwriter—”

“Not with the way you rhyme things,” Daeron said.

“—when I’m not out of practice,” Maglor finished. 

“Why are you out of practice?” Celegorm asked. 

Maglor’s smile faded. “I just—I haven’t written much. Not since—”

“Dol Guldur?” Celegorm asked. Maglor flinched. “We all know about it, Cáno.”

They didn’t know everything, though, Maedhros thought as Maglor looked away. Maglor said quietly, “No, not since Dol Guldur.”

Daeron said lightly, “That’s still no excuse for that abomination of a lay you’ve been concocting.”

“It isn’t my fault your name doesn’t rhyme with anything heroic,” Maglor replied, though his smile was not as bright as it had been before. He picked up the flute to play a quick series of notes that sounded like they belonged to a dance. Daeron had leaned forward as he’d spoken, as though he sought to shield Maglor from whatever memories might be brought to mind by the mention of Dol Guldur. Maglor leaned right back, and it was as though the two of them suddenly existed somewhere set apart, pulled away from the rest of the world into one made only of music and whatever deep and quiet understanding existed between the two of them. 

Celegorm sighed quietly; Maedhros bumped their shoulders together, and Celegorm leaned against him. “Give it time,” Maedhros whispered.

“I will if you will.”

Maedhros sighed. “Fine.”

As the afternoon began to wane, Maglor slipped away, murmuring something to Daeron before going off alone, toward the water. He paused only to scoop up his kitten, settling her on his shoulder as he went on. Daeron remained behind with the hedgehog. “All right,” Celegorm said finally, “is anyone going to explain the hedgehog?”

“Huan brought her to us,” Daeron said with a smile as he tickled the hedgehog’s belly. It took Maedhros a moment to realize that the sound he was hearing was the hedgehog’s purr. “She had a broken leg, which I sung to rights, and then she decided not to leave. Her name is Leicheg.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. She and Pídhres are great friends, though not quite united in their opinion of Huan.”

“Cats like Huan,” Celegorm said.

“Pídhres doesn’t. Maglor says she sees him as something of an interloper. Maglor is her person, you see.” Huan whined, and Celegorm reached back to scratch him behind the ears. “She’s a very silly cat.”

“I didn’t know Maglor even liked cats,” Celegorm said. 

Daeron shrugged. “He likes this one enough to have brought her all the way from Imladris.”

Maedhros could count on his only hand the number of times he had spoken to Daeron before now, by Ivrin. He’d seen the way Maglor was drawn to him, and he’d been caught between wanting to warn Daeron away and needing to remain open and friendly for the sake of potential alliance with Doriath, and the end result had been mostly empty pleasantries. Now he wasn’t sure what to say. There was no reason to warn him off except a fear for Maglor’s heart, but Maedhros had already broken it beyond repair and lost all right to say anything. The trouble was that he did not know Daeron, had never had a chance to even begin to get to know him, and that meant he couldn’t even begin to guess at his thoughts, except that he cared for Maglor and, perhaps, knew more about Dol Guldur than any of the rest of them. 

Celegorm, of course, had no such reservations. He crossed his legs at the ankle and tilted his head slightly as he regarded Daeron, who met his gaze with a slightly raised eyebrow. “What brings you out into the wilds with our brother?” Celegorm asked him. 

“We spoke in Avallónë of traveling together,” Daeron said. “We are both of us more used to wandering than to staying in one place. We met almost by chance on the road after he left Imloth Ningloron, and there was no reason not to join him.”

“Almost by chance?” Celegorm repeated.

“I was on my way to visit him,” Daeron said. His smile disappeared. “He is very troubled by his meeting with your father, and I did not like to leave him alone.”

“And what are you—” Celegorm began, and Maedhros knew by his tone that he was going to attempt to be protective. 

Daeron cut him off before Maedhros could shove his elbow into Celegorm’s ribs. “It is very surprising to me that you of all Maglor’s brothers would be the one to ask me my intentions.” His tone was amused, but his dark eyes had gone hard. Celegorm’s face flushed, blotchy and red.

“Both Celegorm and Curufin have made peace with Thingol,” Maedhros said quietly, putting his arm across Celegorm’s chest to keep him from getting up, lest he do something stupid. “We would make peace with you too, if you wish for it.”

“Of course I wish for it,” said Daeron. “I laid aside all the old anger and hatred long ago. It is a poison I do not need to carry in my spirit; nor would Lúthien wish me to; and for Maglor’s sake, I would have us be friends. I do not, however, feel the need to justify myself to you concerning your brother. If anything,” and here his gaze caught Maedhros’ for a moment, “it should be the other way around.” He scooped up Leicheg then and departed, vanishing into the purple heather. 

Maedhros glanced at Celegorm. “Well done,” he said.

“I know, I know, I’m an idiot.”