High in the Clean Blue Air - Chapter Thirty Seven

[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 force of Maedhros’ push sent Maglor tumbling out of his saddle to the ground. Pídhres fell out of his hood with an indignant yowl, and Maglor looked up to see a large tawny cat land on Maedhros, skin and bones but still heavy enough to knock him backward as his horse lunged forward in panic. Maglor’s horse bolted too, but he paid no attention, because the cat had thrown itself and Maedhros into the river—the river that was about to flood with all of the water his song had held back. “Maedhros!” he cried as three bows twanged. One arrow went wide but the other two struck the cat as it released Maedhros with a scream, taken by the current already. Maglor scrambled to the edge of the bank; someone behind him called his name but he wasn’t listening. He reached for Maedhros, who thrashed in the water, trying to pull himself out, but he felt the ground rumbling underneath him, and as soon as their hands met the water hit, a great tumult of brown water and debris that overflowed the banks with a great roar.

It was like being struck by a wall of stone rather than water. Maglor felt himself tumbling through the current head over heels, the only sure thing his grip on Maedhros’ hand until he lost that, too. It was impossible to tell how far the river carried them or for how long, and all he could think was that he did not want to die—not like this. He hadn’t survived the breaking of Beleriand and the torments of Dol Guldur just to drown in the wilderness of Valinor. He’d promised Elrond that he would return—he’d promised him that he wouldn’t disappear again. If he died now his body might never be found, and no one would know what became of him until Mandos at last released him, and who could guess how long that would take? If he would ever come back?

He struggled to find the surface, but every time he broke through he got a lungful of almost as much water as he did air, and he couldn’t even call out before he was dragged under again. He hit one large rock and then another, and dragged along the riverbed, churning up even more mud and stones, and then it felt as though the river turned suddenly into hands, scooping him up and in the wrong direction, out of the current instead of with it, dropping him onto the stony bank before retreating. For a moment he thought he glimpsed a face, and eyes like bright sparks in the water, there and gone again in a blink alongside the passing and bemused attention of an Ainu surprised by both the presence and the carelessness of the pair of Children they had found in their domain, before he rolled over to expel all of the water inside of him, coughing and retching until he could fill his lungs almost without choking, and all that came up from his stomach was bile that burned his already-aching throat. 

Slowly, he rose to his hands and knees. His cloak was twisted around him, soaked and heavy, and he fumbled with shaking fingers to get it off. Somewhere nearby he heard someone else retching and coughing, and looked up to see Maedhros, bloody and battered but alive. “Maedhros?”

“Maglor?” Maedhros choked, doubling over—and then collapsing entirely. 

Maglor scrambled over, slipping on the wet stones and falling hard to his knees at Maedhros’ side. “No, no, don’t do this,” he gasped as he rolled Maedhros over, off of his back and onto his side. He wasn’t moving. He was covered in blood, with more soaking through his shirt with every passing second. “Maedhros!” Maglor hit him, hard, between the shoulders blades, and shook him, and called his name, begged him to wake up, to breathe, but nothing seemed to work. He’d somehow forgotten everything he knew about helping someone pulled out of the water, and as a last desperate effort he called up the last remnants of his own power to Command, “Breathe, Maedhros!”

It worked. Maedhros’ whole body jerked and shuddered, retching and choking, expelling as much water as Maglor had. Sobbing in dizzying relief, Maglor pulled him up once it was all out and held on tight, pressing his face into Maedhros’ shoulder for a moment, the fabric of his cloak heavy and wet against his cheeks. “Maglor…?” Maedhros rasped, gripping Maglor’s shirt with weak fingers. “What…”

Maglor drew back. It wasn’t over yet. “We have to stop the bleeding.” He pulled at Maedhros’ cloak, and once that was off he and Maedhros between them, with clumsy fingers, peeled his shirt entirely away, in between coughing fits from the both of them, revealing the claw marks down his side, only a little shallower than the wounds on his arm, all still bleeding freely. Maglor had to try three times to tear the first strip of fabric from the shirt, his hands were shaking so badly. 

“Maglor, you’re bleeding too,” Maedhros said suddenly, reaching up to touch Maglor’s forehead, near his hairline. It stung, and his fingers came away damp and pink, blood mingling with river water.

“It’s fine,” Maglor said.

“It’s—”

“You’re the one that got mauled, I’m fine.” 

“You almost drowned.”

“So did you!” Maglor yanked at the fabric and it finally tore. He wrapped the makeshift bandages around Maedhros’ arm as tightly as he could, but the blood still seeped through, soaking them immediately. They needed far more than this. Someone needed to sing, but even if he could think of any songs of healing Maglor was too spent. He’d known it would take a great deal out of him to sing the river back, even with Daeron’s help. He lacked the strength he had once had, and was sorely out of practice. Even a simple song without any power was beyond him now, his throat torn up and sore from choking up what felt like half the river alongside all the bile in his stomach, and all of that after he’d strained it with his singing. His head ached, too, and he felt dizzy and sick.

It was both familiar and strange to be patching up Maedhros again. The motions were the same, but having been attacked by a wild cat was new, and he had no other scars or marks on his skin anymore—and in the past they had almost always had real bandages with them, and needles and thread to sew up the worst wounds. 

Maglor had to stop and turn away, pressing his arm against his mouth as his stomach lurched with the thought of having to stitch his brother’s skin together. “Maglor?” Maedhros reached for him. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said when he could speak, and turned back to finish wrapping the remnants of Maedhros’ shirt around his torso. “I hope someone has a—has—needle and thread.”

“Caranthir does,” said Maedhros. “But—” Before he could go on Maglor finished tying off the last makeshift bandage and shoved him, just hard enough to knock him onto his back. “Maglor!”

“What is the matter with you?” Maglor demanded as Maedhros struggled to push himself up on his good arm. “Jumping in front of—”

“What’s the matter with me? You’re the one that jumped into a flooding river—”

“I was trying to pull you out!”

“I was trying to stop you being killed!”

“I would’ve been fine! Celegorm already had his bow out—”

“Even he couldn’t shoot it before it landed on you! Look at me!”

“I am looking at you!” Maglor shouted, except he couldn’t raise his voice properly. Every word scraped out of his throat like it had claws. “I’m covered in scars already, it would have been—”

“Don’t—”

“If you make me watch you die again I will never forgive you!”

“You haven’t forgiven me in the first—”

“And I won’t! Not ever! I can’t do it again, Maedhros. You have one foot back in Mandos already and I can’t—” 

His voice gave out entirely, leaving him unable to make a sound but for a voiceless whisper, and he forgot everything that he had been about to say. He forgot where he was, what he had been doing, that it wasn't his own blood slick and wet on his hands, that the stones under his knees were the stones of a riverbank and not the foundations of Dol Guldur. The sound of the rushing river turned into the roar of a distant inferno, into the voice of the Necromancer laughing at him before he departed, taking with him the last thing Maglor had left of himself. 

The great singer of the Noldor will sing no more.

His chest burned with sudden intensity and he doubled over with it, closing his eyes but seeing the yellow flame-wreathed gaze of the Necromancer when he did, finding no relief, no escape. There would never be any escape. The chains still dug into his flesh, as cold as the piercing attention of the Nazgûl. His skin stung and burned from the whips of the orcs. He was burning and freezing and bleeding all at once and he couldn’t even scream. 

“—hear me? Maglor? Maglor!” A hand touched his shoulder and Maglor jerked away, falling over onto the stones, curling into himself. When he opened his eyes he saw Maedhros’ face staring back at him, just like he had for years in the dark, and he couldn’t bear it. He tried to pull away but the hand just gripped him tighter. “Maglor—Macalaurë, look at me!” He squeezed his eyes shut, because if he couldn’t flee or fight back he could do that—he knew better, he knew it was a trick, as much a trick as the vision of Nerdanel had been, and he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t—

A loud bark echoed around them, and then another, loud enough that Maglor felt it shake his bones—and all of a sudden he wasn’t in Dol Guldur after all, he was back by the river, and Huan was there, shoving his face into Maglor’s, licking away the blood and river silt before going to sniff at Maedhros, licking his face the same way. Then he lifted his head and barked again, and this time Maglor heard the answering cry, and felt the approach of the horses before he heard them. He pushed himself to sit up, gasping as his whole body throbbed, in time to see Daeron and Celegorm throwing themselves from their saddles at almost the same time, before the horses had even come to a stop. Daeron stumbled and nearly fell before catching himself; Celegorm landed as light-footed as he ever was, already moving. The others were right on their heels, though Caranthir pulled up short and said something to Ambarussa that made them split away from the group and disappear behind one of the hills that hemmed them in still, though they were smaller here and not as steep. The mist had burned away, and the sun was out.

“Maedhros, you idiot,” Celegorm said as he knelt in front of him, reaching for his bandaged arm. He glanced at Maglor with the same naked concern in his face, but Maglor wasn’t the one soaked in blood.

“Maglor!” Daeron threw his arms around Maglor, kissing him fiercely. “Never frighten me like that again! Are you hurt?”

“His voice gave out,” Maedhros said. His voice sounded odd, underneath the rasp from his own torn up throat. “I think he overtaxed it, but then he—watch it, Tyelko—”

“I wouldn’t have to watch it if you hadn’t gotten yourself mauled, Nelyo—”

“Maglor already yelled at me, so can we please—”

“Absolutely not, we are all going to take our turns yelling at you, and then you can explain to Ammë when we get home—”

Daeron’s arms tightened around Maglor, and he found himself bursting into tears, silent sobs shaking through him and making all of his bruises and sore muscles hurt all over again. He was far away from Dol Guldur; the cold and the burning and the darkness was just memory. This was real, and finding it so—Daeron’s warmth, the sound of his voice and the voices of all Maglor’s brothers around him, the sound of the flowing water and the heat of the sun, even the ache of his bruises—was such a relief that he almost couldn’t bear it. “Maglor?” someone said, sounding alarmed. “What’s—”

“He’s lost his voice,” Daeron said, in a tone sharper than Maglor had ever heard from him. Then, much quieter, he said as he leaned over Maglor to speak into his ear, “It will come back, Maglor, with rest. You know it will.” Maglor nodded into his chest. He did know—it wasn’t the same. He knew it wasn’t the same, even if fear had made it seem so. 

“Can they move?” someone else asked after a few minutes, as Maglor’s tears subsided and he was able to catch his breath—one of the twins, but Maglor found he couldn’t tell which one by voice alone. “There’s a better spot to set up camp out in the grass; there’s a copse of trees we can put the tent up under, and there’s room for the horses.”

“We’ll make it,” said Celegorm. “Come on, Nelyo. Has someone started a fire?”

“Amrod is working on it.” It was Amras speaking, then. “Caranthir, you brought tea too, didn’t you? If Maglor’s lost his voice—”

“Yes, I brought some. I’ll make it after we stitch Maedhros up.”

“Come on,” Daeron said. “Can you stand?” He helped Maglor stagger to his feet, and took his face in his hands, wiping at his cheeks with his thumbs. “It’s all right, beloved. I’m here. Where is your cloak?”

“I have it.” Amras came over, holding the cloak and peering into Maglor’s face. “You’ll have a terrible black eye by tomorrow morning,” he said. “The camp isn’t far. Can you walk?”

He could, but he needed to lean on Daeron for it. He didn’t know how long he’d been lost in dark memory before Huan had found them, but it had been enough for his battered muscles to go stiff. His head ached, and when he touched the back of it he found blood there, too, along with the dirt and river water. By the time he and Daeron reached the campsite the tent was halfway set up, and a fire was going, with a small pot of water steaming over it for Celegorm and Curufin to use in cleaning Maedhros’ wounds while scolding him. They were more eloquent about it than Maglor had been. Maedhros let them talk, though it might have been that he wasn’t strong enough to argue back. Maglor saw Curufin take up a needle and thread and had to turn away, stomach lurching again, badly enough that he nearly doubled over, thinking he would actually be sick for a moment. 

“It’s all right,” Daeron murmured, taking him to the other side of the campfire. “Never mind the scars; everyone knows about the worst ones already.” He helped Maglor strip out of his wet and filthy clothes, tossing them aside, and picked up a blanket to wrap him in. Maglor kept his head down, and with relief sank onto the grass afterward. Pídhres and Leicheg appeared to crawl onto his lap, Pídhres loudly scolding him. He petted her and rubbed Leicheg’s belly and did not look across the fire at Maedhros. Daeron sat with him, and combed the dirt out of his hair, humming softly as he did, the sound of his voice a comfort far beyond the blanket and the fire, and even Pídhres now purring on his lap. He then braided it back out of Maglor’s face, careful of the cuts and bruises on his scalp.

By that time Caranthir had put more water on to heat for tea, and he brought a cup of it over when it was done. “Daeron,” Celegorm said from across the fire, as Caranthir sat down and Maglor took the steaming up. “Do you have any songs for healing?”

“I do,” Daeron said. He kissed Maglor’s temple and got up to go kneel at Maedhros’ side. They spoke for a moment, very quietly, and then Daeron laid his hand over Maedhros’ arm and began to sing. Maglor knew the song; he’d sung it himself many times before; it was one of the first healing songs he’d taught to Elrond, long ago. It would be far more effective under Daeron’s power than it had ever been for him. Maedhros was properly cleaned and bandaged by that time, and Maglor could see that he also sported bruises as bad as his own in addition to the bites and scratches. 

He looked away when Maedhros glanced at him, and sipped the tea. It was hot, soothing his aching throat, and it was the dark spiced tea that had always been his favorite. Maglor leaned against Caranthir, unsure how to say thank you without speaking. Caranthir wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed the top of his head, seeming to understand anyway.

“Ammë’s going to be furious when we get home,” Amrod said as he dropped down on Maglor’s other side. He spoke cheerfully, having apparently gotten over the initial rush of panic and concern. “Here, Maglor—we took your clothes and laid them out to dry, but I thought you wouldn’t want to lose this.” He held out the brooch that Maglor used to fasten his cloak, the spray of mallorn flowers wrought in gold that Galadriel had given him long ago and far away in Lothlórien. He took it with an attempt at a smile, feeling steadier with it in his palm, a tangible reminder that his past was more than the darkness of Mirkwood, more than silence and ghosts and cold. There was kindness and blessings and friendship in unexpected places, too. He closed his fingers around the flowers, feeling the texture of them press against his palm, and thought of Lothlórien in spring and the music of the Nimrodel.

He drank the tea slowly, savoring the heat in his throat and the rich spices on his tongue. His brothers talked around him, making plans to set watches that night—Celegorm was taking no chances with the hill cats or anything else—and debating half-heartedly what kind of story they could tell that would put their mother at ease when they finally arrived home. He glanced toward Maedhros again and found him asleep with his head on Curufin’s lap. Like Maglor, he’d been stripped of the rest of his wet clothes and bundled in blankets. Amras sat down on Amrod’s other side and something he said made Caranthir laugh, the sound of it a thing Maglor felt as much as he heard as he leaned on his shoulder. It would have been nice, if Maedhros weren’t still so pale and if Maglor didn’t ache all over. 

Sometime after he finished the tea he fell asleep too, and only roused in the evening when Daeron woke him. “You should eat,” Daeron said apologetically. “There’s stew, and we found raspberries growing in among the trees. No, don’t try to speak,” he added when Maglor opened his mouth. “You know better.”

It was true, he did. Maglor sighed and sat up, wincing as every muscle in his body seemed to want to lock up in protest. The blanket slipped off his shoulders, and he fumbled with it until Caranthir knelt in front of him with a clean shirt. “We’ve all seen it, Cáno,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to hide.” It was still a relief to put on the shirt, hiding the worst of the scars. The brand felt tender and sore, and so did his back, and he still felt cold, even dried off and with the fire burning cheerfully in front of him. When Maglor looked up he saw that Maedhros was awake too, giving Curufin a positively withering look. Caranthir glanced over and smiled wryly. “Curvo was just suggesting that someone carry him into the tent,” he told Maglor, “and of course Nelyo thinks he’s overreacting, because all that happened is he got bashed around a river for a while while losing half the blood in his body. I’m of a mind to let him try to walk himself and then say I told you so after he falls over onto his face.”

“I can hear you, Carnistir,” Maedhros said, his voice a hoarse growl over the fire. Maglor looked down when he glanced in their direction. 

“I know,” Caranthir said. “I bet Cáno will let someone help him into the tent.”

“Of course he will,” Daeron said as he sat back down beside Maglor, two bowls in his hands. Maglor took one and sipped at the broth.

“I never said I didn’t want help,” Maedhros said, speaking through gritted teeth, “I said I didn’t want to be carried, because I don’t trust any of you not to drop me.”

They went on like that, the others even including Daeron in the teasing and bickering—though Maedhros sounded a little too serious to be truly lighthearted. Daeron teased right back, and Maglor was surprised at the relief he felt to hear it—to hear Daeron getting along with his brothers, laughing at them and making them laugh. No one tried to tease Maglor, though he wasn’t sure if that was because he couldn’t talk back or whether they still saw him as something too fragile to try to joke with. In that moment he didn’t care, whatever the reason. He ached all over and he still felt shaky and frightened—if Maedhros was feeling well enough to scowl at people, he was still too pale, and he really did need help getting up and making his way to the tent after dinner was finished. Celegorm and Caranthir did not carry him, but they supported most of his weight. 

Maglor also needed help, because standing up made the world spin and his head start to pound. Daeron steadied him, and Maglor leaned on him for a moment, eyes closed, trying to ignore the way everyone else was looking at him. “Maedhros is going to be all right,” Daeron said softly. Maglor nodded. “And so are you. Though when we return to Imloth Ningloron I am going to lock us both up in your room for at least two months, maybe all winter, away from all bodies of water and meddlesome relations except maybe Elrond, and only because it’s his house.” Maglor managed to smile, and was rewarded with a quick kiss.

Inside the tent it was crowded; everyone piled in except for Amrod, who had drawn first watch, and Huan, who would be up and alert all night. In the jumbling and jostling for position Maglor found himself beside Maedhros, and then knocked into him when Amras tripped over Caranthir. “Watch it,” Maedhros said, sounding more tired than annoyed, his good arm wrapping around Maglor’s shoulders by reflex. He let go swiftly, once Maglor had steadied himself. “Cáno…” he whispered, but Maglor turned away. He couldn’t look at Maedhros for more than a few seconds without seeing the moment the water overtook him, just a split second before it took Maglor himself—and that laid over the memory of Maedhros vanishing into a very different river, of flame and molten stone. If he tried to meet Maedhros’ gaze now he didn’t know what would happen, but he knew he couldn’t bear it.

Pídhres came to curl up beside him, purring softly. Leicheg was nowhere to be seen, but Maglor was too tired to worry about it. Daeron was there, and the rest of his brothers slowly settled down; outside he could hear night birds and crickets, and Amrod talking quietly to Huan. Maglor closed his eyes but the gaze of Sauron was there waiting for him, and he opened them again quickly, looking instead at Daeron, who was still awake and looking back at him, his eyes lit by the stars of long ago, soft and fond as they looked at Maglor. “I’ll sing the dreams away,” Daeron whispered, reaching for his hand. “Fear no darkness.” He began to sing, very quietly, the same song that he’d sung before to banish nightmares and dark memories. Maglor closed his eyes and saw nothing there; he sighed, and let the music wrap around him and pull him down at last into deep, dreamless sleep.