High in the Clean Blue Air - Chapter Thirty Four

[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

 

The summer wound on like a slow river, lazy but steady. The weather grew hot, and the sunshine was broken only occasionally by an afternoon rain shower, which made the flowers and trees and grass all sparkle with lingering raindrops until the sun returned to dry it up again. Fingolfin and Fëanor lingered still in Imloth Ningloron, taking many long walks together and spending much of their time deep in conversation. Letters were sent to Tirion, but no one seemed in any hurry to return. In spite of his words to Fingon and Finrod, Elrond didn’t mind. If Imloth Ningloron gave Fëanor and Fingolfin the space and peace to find their way to something like friendship, Celebrían said, she was happy to have them there. Elrond agreed, but he hoped that Fëanor was not lingering in hopes of seeing Maglor again. That would not go well for anyone. 

When he was not with Fingolfin, Fëanor disappeared into the forges, to no one’s surprise. Celebrimbor often accompanied him, and small gifts and trinkets began to appear around the house, each one marked with a very tiny and unobtrusive star.

“I must admit,” Elladan said to Elrond one sunny afternoon as they sat in the library together, “none of this is what I expected when we set sail.”

“I don’t think it’s what anyone expected,” Elrond replied. “Certainly I did not.”

“Has Maglor sent any word yet?”

“No.”

“Are you worried?” 

“I’ll worry if autumn comes and goes without his return,” said Elrond. “But you have spent far more time with him than I have in recent years. Are you worried?”

“I don’t know.” Elladan frowned, his gaze going distant as he looked out of the window. A butterfly flitted past, seeking the roses that climbed up the walls outside; the breeze carried their scent into the room to mingle with the smells of ink and parchment and paper. “I never saw him so upset before. He took up wandering again after you left—we did not see him until we went back to Gondor again more than two years later; he had gone down to Dol Amroth by way of the coast, on foot. But he was not unhappy—in fact he seemed very happy. He wasn’t wandering for the same reasons that he had before.”

“He has always been something of a wanderer, I think,” Elrond said. “I’m glad that he found joy in it again.”

“I do wish Arwen had been here,” Elladan said quietly. “She would have known what to say to him.”

“Perhaps,” Elrond said. He took Elladan’s hand, squeezing it gently. “And perhaps there was nothing anyone could say that would have kept him here when he so desperately wanted to leave. But he’ll be back by winter, and Fëanor will certainly have gone to Tirion by then, and we can all breathe a little easier.”

“Naneth says we are not going to Tirion to celebrate Midwinter.” Elladan smiled, a little crookedly. “I’m glad of it.”

“Tirion is…bustling,” Elrond said, “and will be very full of people wanting to meet you and Elrohir. The loremasters there in particular will have many questions for you, I think.”

“We thought they might, and we brought plenty of copies of documents and records for them,” Elladan said. “That should keep them busy for a little while, at least, while we settle in! Finrod has already promised to deliver them for us.”

“What do you think of it so far, though? Valinor?”

“I think it is nearly as perfect a place as I can imagine, but really only because you and Naneth are here. This valley is so like home while still being itself that I can find no fault in it at all. It is strange, though, to be meeting with so many figures out of legend who died so long ago.”

“You’ll get used to it, though it will take some time. Do not forget either that you and your brother are also figures of legend.”

Elladan grinned. “Hardly,” he said, “compared to everyone else here—and I am content to leave it that way. You are more than enough a legendary figure for the whole family.” Elrond made a face, and Elladan laughed. “It has never felt like that, though, you know—even now, surrounded by all these other legendary folk. You’re only Ada, as you’ve always been.”

“I’m glad,” Elrond said. “I do not feel very legendary.”

“Nor do I!”

Over the course of the summer, Elrond and Celebrían also began, slowly, to open the packages and letters sent by Arwen and Aragorn and their family. Among the packages were several paintings; the first and largest was not done by Arwen but by a court painter of Dol Amroth, of Aragorn and Arwen and all their children when they were still young. 

Elladan and Elrohir joined them for the unwrapping. “There is Eldarion, and Gilraen, Celebringil, and Thoronil,” Elrohir said; Thoronil, the youngest, had been small enough when the painting had been made to sit on her father’s lap for it. “The girls especially loved to spend their summers in Dol Amroth, and Celebringil married Prince Alphros.”

It was a formal portrait, everyone clad in fine clothes and jewels, with little of the various personalities shining through, but aside from that both Elladan and Elrohir agreed the likenesses were very good. This was a copy of the portrait that hung in one of the many galleries of Minas Tirith. “I think all of the others they sent are paintings Arwen made herself,” Elrohir said as that one was set aside, with plans to make room for it in their own gallery. “I know there are also sketches and drawings that she sent tucked into all the letters—and perhaps some done by her daughters as well. Eldarion never had the patience for it.”

“Let us open only one more today,” Celebrían said. “I want to savor them, going slowly. What is that smaller one there, Elrohir?”

“Oh, I remember this one,” he said as he slipped the fabric from it. It was a dreamy watercolor scene of a grown Eldarion with a lovely dark-haired woman, each of them holding a child on their lap, sitting on a stone bench under a dogwood tree in flower. “Silmariën of Lossarnach,” said Elrohir, pointing to the lady, “now Queen of Gondor and Arnor. And these are Eärendil and Tindómiel.”

“Twins?” Celebrían asked, when Elrond could not find his voice past the sudden tightening of his throat.

“Yes.”

Both young Eärendil and young Tindómiel were dark-haired and grey-eyed, like their parents, but Elrond, having now a much clearer picture of his father in his mind, could see the shape of him in their faces—and in Eldarion’s face, in the way that he held himself; even a still image caught in paint and ink managed to convey the quickness with which he was wont to smile, so unlike Aragorn as he’d grown older and grimmer under the lengthening Shadow. With it gone and peace brought back into the world, Elrond hoped that his Estel had lost that grimness, and that his children had never had cause to adopt it. 

They ended up all seated on the floor of the bedroom, the two paintings propped up against the wall in a nest of wrappings and bindings, as Elladan and Elrohir shared more stories that lay behind them—of weddings and births and journeys to the north to visit Dale and Erebor, and even on occasion south into Harad, or east as far as the Sea of Rhûn. They spoke also of Estel as a child and young man, when Celebrían asked. Elrond let Elladan and Elrohir do most of the talking, about Estel and Gilraen and about Arathorn and their other friends among the Dúnedain. It was harder, somehow, to speak of Aragorn’s childhood than his adulthood. The grief felt nearer when he thought of Estel climbing into his bed after a troubled dream, or tracking mud throughout the house every spring, or building snow forts in the garden to ambush Erestor or Glorfindel when they made the mistake of passing unwarily by.

Later, they took the paintings down to the gallery, and Celebrían ordered the three of them around as she decided where to put them and then where to put the artwork displaced by them, changing her mind a dozen times before Elrohir, laughing, begged for mercy. By that time the dinner bell was ringing, and they went to join the rest of the household in the dining hall. There they found Fëanor and Fingolfin speaking with Fingon and Celebrimbor; none of them were quite smiling—Elrond could not guess at the subject of their conversation—but they were not scowling either. 

Gandalf seated himself at Elrond’s left without ceremony. “I think it’s all going quite well, don’t you?” he said. “Not friends yet, but it won’t be long, I think!”

“I did ask you to warn me if you intended to meddle,” Elrond said. On his other side Celebrían laughed into her wine. “Are you meddling, Gandalf?”

“Me? No, certainly not! It isn’t my fault Fëanor was distracted from some very serious talk this afternoon when we happened to meet in the garden, and I see no harm in promising to show him the fireworks I still have left from Midsummer—”

“Of course you don’t,” Elrond sighed.

“I think he might have some interesting ideas for improvement,” Gandalf said cheerfully. “Perhaps we shall see the results of our collaboration by Midwinter.”

“Do keep any new ideas away from my house please, Gandalf,” said Celebrían. “And from my orchards!”

“Neither building nor tree will be harmed, I promise, Lady Celebrían,” Gandalf said, eyes twinkling. 

“I’m suddenly looking forward again to when you all return to Tirion to be Fingolfin’s problem, rather than mine,” Elrond said, as Fingolfin and Fingon came to take their seats just down the table. Fëanor and Celebrimbor followed a moment later, deep in discussion now about something to do with glass. 

“Still planning to throw us all out, Elrond?” Fingon asked, laughing. “I’d thought you’d forgotten.”

“Are you not going to come to Tirion with us?” Fingolfin added with a smile of his own.

“Certainly not,” Celebrían said before Elrond could reply. “We are going got spend a very cozy winter right here.”

“Not even for Midwinter? Anairë will be very disappointed not to see you.”

“There’s always next year,” said Celebrían. “This year I want quiet.”

As the first course was brought out the conversation shifted, and Fingon called upon Elladan and Elrohir to talk of Middle-earth. “We’ve heard much of your exploits already, but hardly anything from your own lips!”

Elladan laughed. “What would you like to hear? We played but a small part in the War of the Ring—”

“But not unimportant,” Elrond said.

“Certainly! But bringing messages from you to Estel is not as interesting to hear about as other deeds. I can tell you of the Battle of Pelennor Fields, or the fighting at Pelargir, or at the Black Gate, unless you would rather hear more pleasant things. We spent much time in Ithilien with Legolas and his people after the war, when we were not aiding in the rebuilding of Annúminas in the north.”

“Tell us of that!” said Fingon. “And tell us of its first building, too.”

“You’ll have to ask Ada and Naneth about that,” Elrohir said, laughing. “Arnor was founded long before Elladan and I were born.”

“Long before we were wed, even,” Celebrían agreed with a smile, reaching over to tangle her fingers in Elrond’s. “Elrond sorely tried my patience, waiting as long as he did to give even a hint of his intentions.”

“He tried everyone’s patience, as I have heard it told,” Celebrimbor said, grinning at Elrond. “I was very surprised to hear about it; you’ve never been shy, Elrond.”

“The time was not right,” Elrond said, and took a sip of wine so he would not be pressed to explain further. Even now he was not quite able to laugh about it. His reasons had had nothing to do with shyness. Celebrían knew it—had known it then—in spite of her teasing, and she squeezed his hand. Elrond lowered his goblet and added, “I too wish to hear of Annúminas rebuilt, Elladan.”

Elladan obliged, and the subject took up most of the remaining meal; with many interjections from Elrohir, he told many tales of the building work and of the city’s growth afterward, when the Dúnedain of Arnor were at last able to emerge from hiding, grim and elusive Rangers no longer. It gladdened Elrond’s heart to hear, for he knew how it had been the desire of Aragorn’s heart to see the North Kingdom restored. They spoke of the repair of the watchtowers along the Road, too, beginning with Amon Súl, and of the increase in trade and traffic between Annúminas, Bree, and the Shire. 

Maglor wandered in and out of the tales, his name coming up as naturally as Legolas or Gimli or the hobbits. He brought gifts and songs and tales, more often laughing and merry than not. Elrond saw the surprise on Fingon’s face, and on Celebrimbor and Fingolfin’s. Fëanor remained quiet and difficult to make out. The Maglor that Elladan and Elrohir spoke of with such warmth was a quite different figure than the quiet and pained one his kinsman had met again on these shores. 

Later, in their room, Celebrían said, “I think I see now why you haven’t been as worried about Maglor as I had expected.”

“He needs time,” Elrond said. “Sometimes that is the only cure for a troubled heart.”

“Not here,” Celebrían said. “I know that you say he’ll tell you if he thinks he needs to go to Lórien, but what if when he returns you put the suggestion to him? I do think it would help.”

“I will speak to him, of course,” Elrond said. “But remember, he only just arrived. I wonder if everyone here realizes just how overwhelming it is to have every single one of your relations so eager to see you all at the same time.”

Celebrían smiled. “That’s true. I was quite lucky in that way, I suppose—everyone was so very careful with me! Especially my uncle; I think he must have fended off many intruding relations behind my back. But then, I was quite fragile when I arrived.”

“I was not, and I still cannot always remember who I have met and who I haven’t, and I was able to prepare myself for it. Maglor is—he is fragile in some ways still, but not nearly as he once was, and he never expected or wanted to see Fëanor again.”

“Or his brothers?”

“I don’t think even he knows that,” Elrond said.

Celebrían slipped under the blankets to curl up beside him. “You are not fond of Maedhros,” she said.

“It is not easy to like someone who makes it nearly impossible to speak to them, let alone know them,” Elrond said. “He kept his distance when we were young, and I am still surprised he came here at all.”

“He loves his brothers,” Celebrían said. “That, at least, cannot be doubted.”

“I have never doubted it,” Elrond said. And in his turn, Maglor loved Maedhros—but it might not be enough, now, to bridge the gap of six thousand years of absence and grief that lay between them. “I hope they can all come together someday in joy and peace, but I don’t think Maglor is ready.”

“I’ve been in company with all of them—his brothers, I mean,” Celebrían said. “There was that one party last winter that you couldn’t attend—I forget why—but they are rather a lot, though—the five younger ones, anyway. Maedhros is very quiet, but his brothers can be rather boisterous. What about Daeron?”

Elrond lifted his head and blinked at the sudden change in subject. “What about Daeron?”

“He’s off traveling with Maglor, according to Mablung. What do you think of that?”

“I think I am glad of it. They seemed to be friends, when I saw them together in Avallónë.”

Celebrían laughed. Her hair gleamed in the moonlight coming through the window. “I saw them together there too, and I think Daeron had something besides friendship on his mind.”

Elrond thought back to his own brief conversation with the two of them, but could not see it. “If you say so,” he said, resting his head on the pillow again. 

“Don’t you think it would be good for him?” Celebrían asked, raising her own head up, resting on her elbow to look down at him. 

Elrond wrinkled his nose. “I think,” he said, “that whatever happens between Maglor and Daeron is their business, and certainly not something I need to think about.” She laughed. “Wherever they are, I hope their summer is passing more peacefully than ours.”

“Ours has been surprisingly peaceful, all things considered,” Celebrían said. “We will not be hosting kings and princes forever. I did mean it when I said I have no intention of going to Tirion this winter. I hope neither you nor the boys were hoping for endless rounds of parties and feasts.”

“We are not,” Elrond said. “I very much hope to spend this winter more quietly than we have spent the summer.” He suspected it was unlikely to happen, but at least nowadays his vain hopes were as inconsequential as a quiet house. He sighed and lifted Celebrían’s other hand to kiss her fingers. “I am very sorry that you have to deal with all this trouble, too.”

“They’re my relations as well as yours,” Celebrían said, “and no one has broken anything yet, or even gotten shoved into the fishpond! I don’t mind a little chaos if it means the mending of these old rifts. I certainly don’t mind receiving a few new pieces of jewelry made by Fëanor himself while he gets reacquainted with his craft!”

“Is that what he’s been doing out there? Making jewelry?”

“At least in part. I showed you that lovely bracelet he gave me.” Celebrían lay back down, curling up around Elrond with their legs tangled together and her hair spilling across the pillow like starlight. “I heard him laughing out there earlier today with Celebrimbor, and for a moment I mistook the sound for Maglor. You’ll talk to him about Lórien when he returns?”

“Yes, of course.”