High in the Clean Blue Air - Chapter Thirty Three

[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

 

Maglor walked along the water for some time as the light began to slowly fade. There would be no sunset, not with the day so cloudy. He stopped once the faint sounds of his brothers had were lost behind him and he could no longer see the faint curl of smoke from the fire when he looked back, and sat down just above the high water mark. Pídhres jumped down from his shoulder to curl up on his lap, lightly biting at his fingers until he started petting her. The stones were cool under him, but the texture was different enough from other, colder stones that it did not trouble him. He closed his eyes and breathed a sigh, and listened. 

Listening to the Music was more than listening with his ears. He’d forgotten how, once, but he’d learned again, slowly, as his spirit recovered from the long silent darkness of Dol Guldur. The bright sunshine and vivid life of Rivendell had helped. Even the stones in that valley sang with joy. Now it was as easy as closing his eyes to open his spirit to the Music that still echoed in all the waters of the world, and to listen and learn of the part of it that lived in Ekkaia. 

The waters tasted of tears, and their music was lamentation. It sounded like every song Maglor had sung alone to the waves of Belegaer over the long years of his exile, of the Noldolantë and all the songs that came after in which he tried again and again to put to words what it meant to weep tears unnumbered, to mourn those who had been both great and noble, and also monstrous, what it meant to try so hard to hold onto something like hope while you felt yourself crumbling little by little under the weight of a terrible thing you had taken on before realizing far too late what it really meant. It sounded like the mournful whispers of the stones under Dol Guldur who suffered the presence of the Necromancer and his Nazgûl while remembering the Elves who had lived there in happier times, and the living sorrow of the Ents and the trees they tended as their numbers slowly dwindled. It sounded like Frodo’s quiet voice as he too struggled to find the words for what he had survived, and like Arwen weeping bitter tears in Minas Tirith as the city mourned the passing of King Elessar, and his family grieved the loss of their Estel. 

Maglor opened his eyes, blinking as tears fell from them. They felt different, though—because if Ekkaia’s music sounded like lamentation, it also sounded like the quiet patter of winter rain upon mallorn leaves, and like Sam Gamgee humming to himself as he pruned his roses while his thoughts drifted westward, and the wind through the flowering boughs of the White Tree, like the laughter of Elladan and Elrohir as they sat among the irises with their mother in the sunshine, like horns echoing across a battlefield as the sun rose at last, like Daeron voice singing the Lay of Leithian under the stars and the creak of wood and rope and canvas as their ship cut through the waves, sailing on westward. He knew this Theme. He had tried to use the power of it to save himself, once, and though he had failed the Music itself never had. He wiped the tears from his face, and looked down at the scars wrapped around his wrist. They were fading at last, though slowly. 

“I am glad to have come here,” he murmured to Pídhres, who purred under his hands, “but this is not a place to linger for long.” 

“Where will you go next, Macalaurë?” The voice was like the rain falling softly on his window at home in Rivendell, and Maglor knew who it belonged to even before he turned his head, and he knew that he should not feel afraid—but a frisson of fear shot down his spine anyway. Nienna stepped forward as he rose to his feet, taking his face in her hands and wiping away the tears that lingered, and he couldn’t stop himself shuddering under the weight of her full attention. Her own tears fell unceasing, even through her smile. “You are reunited with your brothers at last. Is that cause for tears?”

“You know it is, Lady,” Maglor said. “I can’t—I don’t know how—”

“You have been alone for a very long time,” she said, so gently that his eyes stung with fresh tears. In his arms Pídhres meowed softly, and rubbed her head against his arm. 

“I am not alone now,” he said, thinking of Daeron, and also of Elrond and his family, and of Galadriel, and—

“No, but you miss your brothers.”

“I shouldn’t,” he said. “They’re right there. They’re—”

“They are changed, as you are changed.”

“I can’t be who they need me to be.”

Nienna folded him into her embrace. She was very warm. Maglor let himself lean against her, feeling the soft fall of her tears on his hair, and the strength and quiet power of her being—so unlike Sauron’s that the pounding of his heart began to ease. “They need you as you are,” she said, “and you need them, do you not?”

He did. Of course he did. But instead of agreeing he said, “I’ve survived without them this long.”

“But have you been happy, Macalaurë? Have you been at peace?”

“Yes,” he said. “Sometimes. But I don’t—”

Nienna drew back, but only to take his hand, his scarred one, in both of hers. Her tears fell over it, and eased the faint stiffness that had crept with the cooler weather. “If you had come to us,” she said, softly, “we would have brought you home. There would have been judgment, but it would not have been so terrible, I think, as you feared. It would certainly have not been so terrible as your long and lonely exile, or the years of torment that you suffered at the hands of Sauron.” With one hand she held his, but with the other she cupped his face, her thumb brushing over the scars on his lips, and the one over his cheekbone. “You did not deserve this. The time now for judgments and punishment is long past. You deserve what all Children of Ilúvatar deserve—peace, and joy, and love.”

“I know that I am loved, Lady,” he said softly.

“Do you? Your brothers love you. Maitimo loves you.”

It was hard to breathe through the tightness in his chest. “I can’t—I can’t forget—”

“You need not forget. Can you forgive?”

“No. No, I can’t. I told him I—I don’t know how.” Maybe if he had never come to Dol Guldur it would be different, but all of that had reopened old wounds he’d thought had been healing, and he’d only realized since returning to Valinor that they had never closed at all. He felt like he had been bleeding for six thousand years, and he did not know how much longer he could go on before it killed him. “They keep asking me why I haven’t come home but I don’t—there isn’t—” The closest thing he had to a home had been Rivendell, but even that had only really lasted until Elrond had left. Now there was Imloth Ningloron but he was too new-come to it for it to feel like home yet, however alike to Imladris it was—and it was because of him that trouble had come there to send him running away again. 

Nienna did not chide him. She did not try to tell him that he must forgive his brother or assure him that it would surely come with time; she did not tell him that of course he had a home, or that he could make one for himself wherever he chose. Instead, she said gently tilted his chin up so that he had no choice but to meet her gaze. His breath caught, remembering the burning eyes of Sauron—because if Nienna was gentler she was yet more powerful than he had been and they were still cut from the same cloth, of the world and yet not, with a power beyond comprehension—

Her eyes were the color of Ekkaia, with a gentle light shining behind them, older than the oldest stars, a candle in a dark room rather than a conflagration. She looked into his eyes and saw all that there was to see of him, and all she said, so very softly, was, “I know your sorrow, Macalaurë. I know your heartache and your pain.”

He believed her, and for the first time in many years it was not frightening but a comfort, to be so clearly seen and to be known, to be understood without having to try to find words to explain. It was like the floodgates in him opened—like they had upon his first coming to Rivendell long ago. Maglor let Pídhres jump to the ground as he fell forward into Nienna’s arms. She had been there, too—he remembered the statue of her, hands held out in welcome, like the one by the quays in Avallónë. He sobbed into her chest, feeling flayed open, raw; his chest hurt and it felt as though he would drown in his own tears. Nienna held him and stroked his hair, and wept with him. When he could no longer stand she knelt with him on the stones, murmuring words that he didn’t understand but that chased away the lingering chill of Dol Guldur that clung to him. 

Eventually, the tears slowed, and Maglor just rested in Nienna’s arms, spent and unwilling to leave the warmth of them. They felt like his mother’s arms, or at least like his memory of them. Night had fallen; it was very dark under the starless sky. He closed his eyes, and knew the answer to the first question she had posed to him. “I want to see my mother,” he whispered.

“She misses you,” Nienna said.

“I know.”

“Look at me, Macalaurë.” She lifted his face in her hands, and this time he did not hesitate to meet her gaze. “Your brother has been lost, too, in his own way. He has let the others help him begin to find his way back, but there is a missing piece, a gap in their number, a space that should be filled when they all gather together. That is your place. You have been alone for so long, perhaps you have forgotten what it is to be part of a greater whole.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Maglor whispered. “But the shape of us is different and I no longer fit in that space as I once did.”

“When you mend a broken cup, the pieces do not all fit cleanly, but you fill in the empty spaces and make them shine.”

“We are not a piece of broken crockery, Lady. There isn’t—there isn’t enough gold in the world that could my scars beautiful.”

“You are beautiful, Canafinwë Macalaurë, son of Fëanáro and Nerdanel, in all that you are—yes, even your scars, mighty singer and lonely wanderer, precious child. You are more than your suffering. Is not Arda more than its marring? The love you and your brothers share is more than the pain of your separation.”

Maglor closed his eyes. “Lady, I don’t…I have been grieving them for so long, I don’t know how to stop. Why can’t I stop?”

“Grief and sorrow are a part of you as they are a part of Arda. The joy of your reuniting will overshadow the grief of your parting in time. Let yourself feel, Macalaurë, and do not try to hide it all away as you once did. Let yourself grieve for all that you lost. Let yourself be angry, but do not let it fester and turn bitter. That is what drove the wedge ever deeper between your father and his own brothers.”

“I’m not my father,” Maglor whispered. 

“No, you are not.” Nienna smiled at him, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. The warmth of her lips lingered when she drew back, like a benediction. “Go home with your brothers, Macalaurë. Let your mother see you. Know that you are always welcome in my halls, if you need them—but I do not think you will.” She stepped back, and in the space of a blink she was gone, disappearing into the mist that had begun to gather while Maglor had been weeping into her arms. 

Pídhres meowed beside him, and he scooped her up. He was still trembling, and he supposed he should count himself lucky that the first Vala to speak to him had been Nienna. As he pressed his face into Pídhres’ fur he heard someone call his name. He got unsteadily to his feet and walked back along the shore. His throat still felt tight, and he wasn’t sure that he could bear anyone’s company, let alone his brothers’, but it would be worse to have them worry about him all night—or to leave Daeron to deal with them on top of his own concern. 

It was Curufin who found him. “Where have you been?” he demanded. “It’s been hours.”

“Has it?” Maglor had cried himself hoarse, and couldn’t do much more than whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Curufin looked at him again, and his frown deepened. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I just—nothing.” 

“Maedhros did the same thing when we got here,” Curufin said. “He disappeared into the fog and when Tyelko brought him back he’d been crying. What is it the two of you found out there?”

“Nothing. I’m fine, Curufin.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Maglor felt his shoulders hunch a little. In his arms Pídhres made an angry noise. “Hush,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. Curufin wasn’t angry, he was worried. Maglor did know the difference; he knew how prickly both Curufin and Caranthir could be—he just couldn’t laugh it off as he should in that moment. “I’m sorry,” he said again. 

“Just—come on. We have the tent set up, and it’s big enough for all of us, even Huan. It’ll be warmer.” 

Daeron was waiting outside the tent when they arrived. Curufin glanced between them before ducking inside. Maglor heard him announce that his search had been successful, but not what anyone else said. “What’s wrong?” Daeron asked softly, reaching up to touch Maglor’s face just like Nienna had.

“Nienna found me,” Maglor whispered. “I’m—I’ll be all right, I think. I’m just tired.” He leaned against Daeron gratefully. The fog had brought a chill that threatened to reawake the memory of Dol Guldur that Nienna had banished, but Daeron was arm, and his hands were steadier than Maglor’s. 

“We can put up our own tent,” Daeron said, “if you can’t bear other company.”

“No. No, that will just make them worry more.” Maglor tried to smile. “Unless you sang up this fog and intend to spirit me away in the night.”

Daeron did smile, and shook his head. “No. If you’re sure…”

He wasn’t at all sure. He still felt painfully raw, as though his spirit was laid bare for all to see—and he did not want his brothers to see. But he thought it would be worse to try to hide away. “Just so long as no one asks me to sing,” he said. “I’ll be all right.”

Inside the tent it was warmer, and crowded in a familiar, jostling sort of way that Maglor would have once found comforting. Pídhres jumped from his arms and went to curl up near Caranthir, where Leicheg was already asleep, curled into a little spiky ball. He and Daeron were jockeyed into a place near the back of the tent, and Maglor found himself tucked between Daeron and Maedhros, who shifted away a little, though there wasn’t quite room for it. Maglor didn’t look at him; he didn’t think he could without bursting into tears again, and that would ruin whatever cheer Ambarussa were trying so very hard to keep up. They had produced a half-empty bottle of wine from somewhere. “We need to keep you away from the Woodelves,” Caranthir said after he took a sip. 

Daeron took the bottle next, and held it up to look at the deep red liquid inside after he had a taste. “Where did you get a bottle of Dorwinion?” he asked.

“Is it really?” Maglor reached for it and took a small taste. It burst on his tongue, bright and sweet and potent, and for a moment he was so overcome with a longing to be back across the Sea, back in time at a merry feast in Rivendell or in Ithilien, that he couldn’t speak. 

“It isn’t,” Ambarussa said, laughing. “It’s the Woodelves’ best attempt at recreating it,” Amras added. “Does it really taste the same?”

“Yes,” Daeron said. “Or nearly so.” Maglor passed the bottle to Maedhros without turning his head, who passed it on to Celegorm without drinking. “It is not the sort of wine meant to be swigged out of a bottle.”

“That’s why we only finished half of it the other night,” said Amrod. “Cáno, are you all right?”

“Fine,” Maglor said. His voice was still hoarse. “But I am not having any more.” The last thing he wanted to do was get drunk again, when he already felt halfway hungover even before the drinking had begun. If he started to cry again he might never stop. 

“More for us then,” Amrod said cheerfully, but when he looked at Maglor his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Maglor dropped his gaze, and let his head rest on Daeron’s shoulder. “You’ve both had the real thing, then? Is the story about the dwarves and the barrels true? I couldn’t quite tell if the drink had gotten to the Woodelves telling us.”

“It’s true,” Maglor said. “Bilbo was very fond of telling it.”

“I couldn’t say,” Daeron said. “I’ve heard the tale, of course, but I was far away east of Rhûn when it happened.” His hand had found Maglor’s, weaving their fingers together; Maglor squeezed it gratefully, and hoped he would not be asked where he was when Bilbo was smuggling thirteen dwarves out of Thranduil’s halls in apple barrels. 

“What were you doing in the east?” someone asked instead, and Maglor breathed a sigh of relief as Daeron spoke of the Elves who lived there, and of the Blue Wizards, and of their efforts to resist the growing might of Mordor after Sauron returned there to rebuild Barad-dûr. 

On Maglor’s other side he heard the rustle of paper, and when he looked he saw Maedhros with a sketchbook on his knee, drawing idly as he listened to the conversation going on around them. He noticed Maglor looking and tilted the page so that Maglor could see what the drawing was. It was sketchy and had little detail yet, but even so the form of Nienna, veiled, hands outstretched, was unmistakable. Maglor lifted his eyes to Maedhros’ face and saw the exact same sort of understanding there that he had found in Nienna’s. Maedhros wrote in the corner of the page, where only Maglor could see, she visited me too. 

That must have been what Curufin meant about the mist. Maglor looked away, but he let his legs relax a little so that when in the jostling crowding in the tent—for no one could ever be still for long—he and Maedhros bumped into one another, neither of them flinched away from it. 

Eventually the talk turned from the past to the present, and to their immediate plans. “Ekkaia is very nice but it is not a place to linger very long,” Amras was saying, when Maglor dragged his attention back after his mind wandered. He hadn’t struggled to focus like this since—since that first winter and spring after he’d come out of Dol Guldur. He didn’t like it. “Where are you two going to go next?”

“I’m only along for the journey,” Daeron said. “I care not.”

Maglor thought of Nienna. He thought of the agreement he and Daeron had made weeks before. “I would like to see Ammë,” he said softly. Daeron squeezed his hand.

“Will you travel back with us, then?” asked Curufin. 

It would be ridiculous to refuse—and he found, to his surprise, that he didn’t even want to. “Yes, of course.”