High in the Clean Blue Air - Chapter Thirty Six

[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 days after Celegorm inadvertently discovered the worst of Maglor’s scars were not good days. The sun had come out only for a few hours before the clouds gathered again; the heat remained, though, so the air was muggy and heavy. Maedhros did not sleep well, and his dreams were all of Beleriand at the end, breaking apart and slowly sinking under the inexorable rush of the incoming tides. He kept trying to find Maglor in them, but he never could. He only caught the briefest hint of his voice on the wind, an echo of lamentation in the distance, plaintive as a gull’s lonely cry, forever out of reach. 

Waking was no better. Celegorm and Curufin were butting heads again, and Caranthir kept making comments that were unhelpful at best and provoking at worst. Ambarussa abandoned the rest of them entirely to hunt through the hills or scout ahead for a path out of them; they did not, as Celegorm had predicted, find their way back to the plains after only another day or two. They kept running up against gorges and gullies impassible for the horses, and a river that snaked through the rocky landscape that they could not cross, for it was swollen and fast-flowing with the recent rains, and in the places where the current did not seem quite so bad the banks were too steep on at least one side of it. 

“I don’t remember anything like these hills on the way west,” Daeron remarked when they had to backtrack for the third time in one day.

“The lands change, sometimes,” Amrod said. “They shift, and distances get longer or shorter, or you find yourself in places you never meant to go—it’s the Valar, the way their power is sort of…soaked into the land. They don’t do it on purpose. It just sort of happens.”

“They do it on purpose sometimes,” Amras said, “but you can usually tell when they do.”

Maedhros woke one morning with a headache that he could not get rid of and his hair all in knots and snarls, and to make matters worse still, when he went looking for it he couldn’t find his comb. “Here, use mine,” Curufin said. “Or I can comb it out for you.” 

“All right,” Maedhros sighed, and sat down so Curufin could kneel behind him. He was gentler than Amras, taking care not to pull too hard. Maedhros became aware of Maglor frowning in his direction, but he had already turned away by the time Maedhros glanced at him. He watched Maglor murmur something to Daeron before disappearing into a stand of gnarled trees on the nearest hillside. 

“Do you want the braids tighter so they don’t come undone?” Curufin asked as he worked the last tangles out of the ends of Maedhros’ hair. 

“No,” Maedhros said. “Just one—loose, please.”

“Does your head ache?”

“It will pass.”

“Mm.” Curufin wove the braid quickly and tied it off. “There, done.”

“Thanks. And—Curvo.” Maedhros caught his hand when he went to rise. “Stop snarling at everyone, please.”

Curufin grimaced. “Sorry,” he murmured. 

“And stop treating Maglor like he’s made of glass. He won’t break if you say good morning to him.”

“You haven’t been saying good morning,” Curufin pointed out. Maedhros just looked at him until he turned away. “All right, but it’s not—”

“Nothing has changed. The scars were there all along; you just know what they look like now. You didn’t act this way when I came back from—”

“He isn’t you,” Curufin said. “We had time to—and you—it was different. Your scars were different. You came back still full of fire, and we had a war to fight. Maglor looks like he’ll break apart if we—”

“If Maglor was going to break apart,” Maedhros said, “he would have done it long ago. Ignore the scars, Curvo.”

“I thought we weren’t to take orders from you anymore,” Caranthir remarked from nearby.

“If you want him to stay, you’ll take this one.” Maedhros fixed his glare on Caranthir next, who averted his gaze immediately. Curufin went to help saddle the horses, and Maedhros pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing his temples would stop throbbing. He was sick of travel; he wanted to be back at his mother’s house where he could retreat to his own small bedroom and lock the door behind him, where he could expect to be left to his own devices and his own thoughts without being scolded for brooding; where he wouldn’t have to deal with his brothers’ ill tempers, or try to exist in the same space as Maglor, who so clearly still did not want to be anywhere near him. 

A sudden small weight on his lap startled Maedhros, and when he opened his eyes he found Maglor’s little grey cat sitting on his knees. She rose up to place her forepaws on his chest, and rubbed her head into his palm when he stroked her soft, silky fur. She purred and nuzzled at his chin before climbing up to curl around his neck. Maedhros looked over at Daeron, but found him laughing as the hedgehog evaded his attempts to pick her up. Maglor, though, had reappeared, and was watching Maedhros with an inscrutable expression on his face. He looked a little like Fëanor when he had that expression, though Maedhros knew better than to ever say that out loud. In his hands were a few pieces of wood. When Maedhros met his gaze he turned away, tucking the wood into one of his bags before smiling at Daeron, who scooped up the hedgehog with a triumphant cry. 

“You need to go back to Maglor,” Maedhros told Pídhres, who ignored him and settled even more onto his shoulders, rubbing her head against his cheek. Maedhros sighed and got to his feet. 

Before he could say anything when he approached, Maglor turned and said, “She’ll only climb right back up if you put her down. If she’s really bothering you I’ll take her, but she won’t be happy.”

“She’s not bothering me,” Maedhros said. “She’s the least bothersome creature in this entire party.” Behind Maglor, Daeron snorted. “But she’s your cat—”

“She’s her own cat, and she’ll kick up a fuss if we try to move her.” Maglor reached out; Maedhros flinched at the sudden movement, but he was only scratching his cat behind the ears. “Her names is Pídhres because she kept climbing up my clothes when I attempted to leave her with the rest of her litter mates before I took ship. I’m only surprised it took her this long to realize you are the tallest thing around that she can climb.”

“Better you than a tree,” Daeron added. “We cannot just ask a tree to please set the cat down when she starts crying about being stuck and expect it to oblige.”

“Are you sure?” Maedhros asked Maglor. He’d seen how attached Maglor was to both his cat and his hedgehog. 

Maglor didn’t smile, but his eyes softened. It was the same look that Elrond had given him weeks before, along with the satchel and the carvings that he’d kept for so long, and for some reason that made Maedhros’ eyes sting. “I’m sure, Maedhros.”

They rode on, and by noon came again to the river; beyond it, at last, the hills opened up and through the lingering mists they could see the wide open rolling grasslands. There was still no good place to cross, however, and Celegorm was growing ever more frustrated—and nervous. Maedhros kept to the rear, scratching Pídhres behind the ears absently as he tried to think as little as possible. His head still ached, and he was hot, and the hills seemed suddenly far too close and too high around them, hemming them in like prison walls. 

“This will take a while,” Caranthir said finally, tuning back from Celegorm and Ambarussa. “Might as well make camp here.”

“It’s a terrible place to camp,” said Curufin, also eying the hillsides. 

“Only if you’re thinking of defense,” Caranthir said.

Curufin opened his mouth to say something, caught Maedhros’ eye, and changed course, instead bringing up rain and suggesting they move back to a wider opening between the hills they’d passed through before reaching the river. Caranthir also glanced at Maedhros before agreeing, and they all retreated while Celegorm and Ambarussa split up to try to find any place that was a better crossing. No one really thought they’d find one. Celegorm left Huan behind, and a warning that he’d spotted the tracks of a large cat a mile behind them. Maedhros dropped to the ground with relief, leaning against his horse for a moment. Pídhres purred into his ear; he still felt terrible, but somehow that helped. After a moment he straightened and went to help Caranthir set up the tent. The clearing was only big enough for one, which would make things uncomfortable come evening when it would surely rain again, but there was nothing to be done about it. As he secured the last peg, Maedhros glanced up to see Maglor speaking to Curufin; both of them glanced his way. Curufin looked away when Maedhros glared, but Maglor’s gaze lingered until Maedhros was the one to turn his head. He didn’t like the look he’d seen there. It reminded him too much of Beleriand—at the end, when it had been just the two of them, both of them withdrawing ever inward. 

No, that wasn’t true. Maedhros had been the one to withdraw. Maglor had kept reaching for him, even unto the very end—the same way he’d reached out for that mallorn leaf long ago. It was now that he was no longer reaching out. Once the tent was up Maedhros retreated inside to bury his head under his blankets where it was still too hot but at least it was dark. He even managed to fall asleep, rousing only when Caranthir woke him for dinner—roasted rabbit, thanks to Amras. “I didn’t find any good crossings, though,” Amras was saying as Maedhros emerged from the tent. It was not yet dark, but the clouds were heavy and steel-grey. “Nor did Amrod, and it will only be worse in the morning.”

Maglor sat near the fire, carving something. It was the first Maedhros had seen him with a knife and a piece of wood in his hands. Daeron sat beside him, and they were talking quietly together. Pídhres had abandoned Maedhros when he’d retreated into the tent, and was chasing the hedgehog around the fire, dodging around people’s legs and arms—including Maedhros, who then suddenly found himself with a lap full of small animal. The hedgehog seemed to be trying to burrow into his shirt, and then curled up into a spiky ball to deter Pídhres, who squeaked indignantly before fleeing back to Maglor, who scooped her up with a soft laugh, kissing her as she rubbed her head into his face. 

Amrod dropped down beside Maedhros as the hedgehog—was her name Leicheg? Maedhros couldn’t recall—unrolled and then curled up again, without the protruding spikes this time. She started purring. “How’s your head?” Amrod asked, bumping his shoulder into Maedhros’. 

“Better. Where’s Tyelko?”

“Still looking upstream for a crossing. He’ll be back before full dark. We’re going to have to leave the hills before we cross the river, I think.”

As though summoned, Celegorm returned then, looking frustrated and like he would snap at anyone who tried to speak to him. Curufin got up anyway, going to speak quietly as Celegorm tended his horse. It didn’t turn into an argument, which was something. Maedhros sighed, and let himself lean against Amrod until the food was ready to be passed around. There was still tension, but it wasn’t quite as bad. And after he ate, Maglor brought out his harp. He didn’t sing, but he played—gentle, melancholy music that wrapped around them all like a soft blanket. Maedhros didn’t know if it was his own weariness catching up to him again or if it was a result of the music, but he nearly fell asleep before Amrod roused him and retrieved the hedgehog so Maedhros could retreat back into the tent. He fell into his blankets and buried his face in his arms until sleep found him again. 

He dreamed, again, of breaking Beleriand. In the dream the ground cracked at his feet, a chasm opening and widening, and when he looked up from the darkness of it he found Maglor on the other side. Maedhros reached for him, but the ground shook suddenly and this time it was Maglor that fell into the earth, vanishing into the darkness before Maedhros could even fall to his knees. A scream rose up in his throat and he woke choking on it, to pale light and the soft sound of rain falling outside. His brothers were stirring around him, and Maedhros lay for a moment, remembering how to breathe. When he thought he could lift his face without betraying himself, he pushed himself up, and set about gathering up his things, rolling up his blankets clumsily and grabbing his pack to pull out his cloak. He paused, though, when he opened it. A comb sat on top of his folded cloak, newly-carved, with a pattern of leaves along the handle. It was both unexpected and, somehow, not surprising in the least. How many times had he opened his pack in Beleriand to find an almost identical comb sitting there—or maybe two or three of them, because he’d been forever losing such things? They just hadn’t seemed to matter, then. 

Maedhros looked over at Maglor, but found him already ducking out of the tent, hood up to shield him from the rain and to obscure his face. 

“Nelyo?” Caranthir was watching Maedhros. “All right?”

“Fine.” Maedhros shoved his blankets into his pack and flipped it shut. Some things settled into place in his mind, making sudden sense—of course Maglor couldn’t bear to be near him. Of course he could not forgive him. Of course there wasn’t anything Maedhros could do to fix it. Nothing had changed, had it? Maedhros was still as broken as he had been in Beleriand, unable to see a way forward, and Maglor was the only one who could tell. Bearing that in mind, though, he was more careful that morning to make sure he had all of his things, including the new comb.

Outside the tent in the rain, Celegorm was starting to talk about which direction they should go to try to leave the hill country and find a better river crossing. It would take days, though, and Maedhros felt exhausted just thinking about it. 

“I have an idea,” Maglor said, speaking up unexpectedly when Celegorm paused. “It might not work—but if it does we can cross right here.”

“Are you going to sing up a bridge for us?” Caranthir asked, only a little sarcastic. Curufin nudged him with an elbow.

“No,” Maglor said. “I think…I think that I can sing the current slow enough for us to cross.” He glanced at Daeron as he spoke; Daeron tilted his head thoughtfully, regarding the river for a moment. “It might not work,” Maglor said again. 

Once upon a time Maglor would not have even hesitated, Maedhros thought. He would have just started to sing and expected it to work simply because he wanted it to. 

“It’s much harder to slow a river down than to call it to flood,” Daeron said finally, “but I think I see how you might do it.”

“I know a song for flooding,” Maglor said, “that Elrond used to call the Bruinen to the defense of Rivendell. If I change the words and the key so it’s mirrored…” He hummed a few bars, and then a few more in a different key, though Maedhros could recognize no more than that.

“Yes, I think that would work,” Daeron said. He drew out his flute and they rode forward to the river’s edge, talking in musical terms and half-formed sentences, almost as in tune with the other’s thoughts in this as Ambarussa were all of the time. 

“Is that what they were like at the Mereth Aderthad?” Curufin asked Maedhros in a low voice.

“No. Or at least not when among other company. I don’t know what they spoke of alone.”

“If they did much speaking,” Celegorm muttered. Maedhros shot him a look. “What? You don’t know what they did—”

“I know what Maglor didn’t do.” What he’d known better than to do. “We went there in pursuit of friendship. That’s all that happened.”

“That’s not all that’s happening now,” Curufin murmured.

“Leave it,” Caranthir said. “You don’t see the rest of us speculating about you and Rundamírë.”

“Anymore, you mean,” Curufin said sourly. They’d gotten all the teasing out of the way during his courtship, thousands of years ago now. That had been a different time, when such things were less fraught and none of them truly minded six other noses being stuck into their business. 

“You could try being happy for him,” Amras pointed out. “I think Daeron is the best thing to have happened to him in a very long time.”

Daeron raised his flute and began to play then, cutting off all further conversation. Maglor waited a few beats, and then began to sing. Maedhros’ horse shifted beneath him, and he heard more than one of his brothers gasp softly as the sheer power of Maglor’s voice made itself known, as though the very air around them were a plucked harp string humming with it. He did not sing very loudly, but through the rain Maedhros heard every word, felt every note. Daeron too was putting forth his power, through his flute, but it was Maglor’s voice and Maglor’s words that shaped it the way his hands shaped wood or clay, molding it into precisely what he wanted it to be. Maedhros could hear again the Sea in his voice, the inexorable power of the tides and the rush of the waves—of Belegaer, rather than Ekkaia. Maybe it was only that time had faded his memory of what it had been like before, but it seemed that Maglor’s voice was stronger than it had been long ago. Certainly it was stronger than it had been in their youth—stronger and tempered, used with iron control and intention. There was none of the hesitation now that Maedhros had heard when he’d sung for them by Ekkaia, nothing rough or unpolished about it, though it was a song he had made in only the last few minutes.

At first, in spite of the power and skill on display, it did not seem as though the river would respond. The water continued to flow as quickly as it had when they woke. After several minutes, though, Maedhros saw the change, and by the time the song had been sung through the water was low and slow enough that they could ford it. Maglor began the song again, and lifted his hand to wave the rest of them forward. “Hurry up, then!” Celegorm led the way, all of them splashing quickly across. The water was still quite high, and the current still strong, but it did no more than make Huan stagger a little before he scrambled up the far bank; he darted ahead, nose to the ground as though he’d caught a sudden scent. Maedhros stopped once he was out of the water and turned to watch as Daeron, still playing his flute, followed. Maglor came last, and only once his horse was fully out of the water did he stop his singing, slumping forward suddenly, taking a deep, gasping breath. Maedhros grabbed the reins and led him a little farther from the bank before the anticipated flood of the held-back water came crashing through. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, alarmed. Maglor had only ever been so spent after a song if they’d been in battle, or if he was exhausted even before he’d started to sing. Maedhros knew little about songs of power, it was true, but he didn’t think Maglor should be so wearied by this one.

“I’m fine,” Maglor said hoarsely. He was pale, and Maedhros couldn’t tell if it was rain or sweat that beaded on his brow and upper lip before he wiped it away. “I’m fine. I—”

Huan began barking, suddenly—a great loud warning bark—and Celegorm cried out just as something moved on the hillside above them, behind Maedhros, dislodging a handful of stones to rain down the sheer embankment. It was a cat—a big hunting cat, tawny and too skinny, and Maedhros moved without thinking as it leaped; he shoved Maglor out of the way, throwing himself out of the saddle and between him and the cat, which landed on him hard, sending them both tumbling to the ground—and down into the river. Claws raked down his side and teeth sank into the arm Maedhros threw up to protect his face. He might have screamed; he might have heard the twang of bowstrings. When they hit the water the cat released him, falling away with an aborted scream into the strengthening current, and Maedhros struggled to find the surface.

“Maedhros!” Maglor was there, suddenly, reaching for him. Maedhros reached back, but just as he grasped Maglor’s hand the floodwaters arrived, and a great wall of brown water and debris overtook him.