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starsprayRating: 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
When Fëanor came to ask Elrond about Maedhros, Elrond was only surprised it had taken so long. “You told me once that Maglor raised you—but Maedhros was there also, was he not?”
“He was.” Elrond had been sorting through some treatises brought west by Elladan and Elrohir from Gondor’s Houses of Healing, but he set them aside as Fëanor sat across from him, casting a brief but curious glance at them. The table was set by one of the many windows in the library, this one looking southeast out over the flowering meadows and streams, toward the mountains; potted athelas and rosemary sat on the sill, lending their fresh and herbal scents to the others of the library—ink, parchment, leather. A bee landed on the flowering rosemary for a moment before buzzing away. “He could not avoid us, exactly—we were always on the move in those days, fleeing bands of orcs and other worse things, and our camps were never large—but he very rarely spoke to us.”
Fëanor frowned at him. “Why not?”
“I can only guess—and I cannot say that my guesses are good ones. You would be better off asking Fingon, or Finrod. They know him better than I.”
“They did not know him then,” said Fëanor.
Elrond picked up his pen, needing something to occupy his hands while he thought. Finally, he said, “They knew him long before I did, and have known him since. It is true that he may not have spoken to them of Sirion or the years afterward, but I still think they would be able to guess at his thoughts better than I can. I have heard it said they are counted among the very few these days to whom he will confide anything at all.”
“Have you not spoken to him since?”
“Until this year I had seen him only a handful of times since I came west, and never to exchange more than simple greetings, if even that; he goes to Tirion even more rarely than I do.” And when they had been in company together, more often than not Maedhros had just left, quietly and unobtrusively. “He came here earlier this year—just before we left for Eressëa.”
“What did you speak of then?”
Elrond sighed. “Maglor, of course. He knew something of what had befallen him in Dol Guldur, which I had not known, or else I would have sought him out much sooner. We had words too concerning the past, and neither of us came away very happy.” When he looked up he found Fëanor looking not at him but out of the window, arms folded, but one hand raised to his chin. He had soot under his fingernails, and tender spots on his hands where a craftsman’s callouses had not yet reformed. His hair was braided sensibly back, and he’d acquired golden beads from somewhere to weave into the smaller braids at his temples—acquired or made, Elrond supposed. “I cannot speak to you of Maedhros as someone who loves him. I was afraid of him for nearly all of my childhood, though now I think…I think he did care for us, in his own way. He did not try to ease our fears, except to keep his distance, but I am almost certain it was at his insistence that we learned to do most things with both of our hands, especially fighting.” He saw Fëanor wince, jaw tightening. “I am grateful for it. It saved my life at least twice during later wars in the Second Age. I never have gotten the hang of writing with my right hand, though.” It had been Maglor, and the others who had still followed the last sons of Fëanor, who had taught Elrond and Elros all they needed to know, from language to tracking to healing. Maglor had taught Elrond his first healing songs, and how to stitch a wound closed. And Maedhros had always been nearby—near enough to act if something happened, but far enough away that he couldn’t be expected to take part in whatever was going on, whether it was a lesson or cooking or just conversation.
“I am trying to understand them,” Fëanor said after a little while. “I hardly recognize any of them anymore, in what Telperinquar tells me, in what Nolofinwë has said, or Findekáno, even when they speak of the past. Especially when they speak of the past.”
“Years of war will change you,” Elrond said. “Even aside from their Oath, that was inevitable. Beleriand became a dark and treacherous place after the Dagor Bragollach.” He hesitated for a moment before adding, “I think they struggled to recognize you at the end, too.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Fëanor did not look away from the window. “I do not recognize myself, when I look back.”
“I hope you will let them come to you, when they return,” Elrond said. “Seeking them out has not, thus far, seemed to be the best course.”
“So everyone has said, and so I will. The younger ones made their wishes clear when they departed as soon as they learned I was back.” He sounded pained, and Elrond thought of Curufin, who had been similarly quiet and subdued when he had brought the news of Fëanor’s imminent return. Elrond did not know, however, whether the same demeanor spoke of the same doubts and uncertainties and griefs. Curufin had his father’s face, but that did not mean they thought alike—especially now.
“They have not been united in anything since they all returned from Mandos, from what I have understood,” said Elrond. “That they all left together speaks to hope of some kind of reconciliation between them, at least.”
“I cannot regret that,” said Fëanor, “even if what unites them is coming against me.”
Elrond once again found himself grateful beyond words that his children had never had cause to turn away from him like this, and also that he and his own parents had not suffered such a rift. He’d been resentful of Eärendil when he had been younger, but that had faded as he’d grown and listened to what those who had known Eärendil had told him, as he understood better, little by little, what Eärendil had been trying to do, and all of the other forces that had been at work. It had been true what he’d said to Elwing: she had been meant to bear the Silmaril to Eärendil, as Eärendil had been meant to find the way past the enchantments of the Valar to plead the case of Elves and Men before them. The cost had been high, but worth paying to see Morgoth taken in chains and thrust beyond the Doors of Night, worth the peace that had come to Middle-earth afterward. It was not their fault it had not lasted. Being able to greet them in joy upon his coming west had been, alongside seeing Celebrían again, the greatest balm on his weary heart in the wake of saying farewell to Arwen and to Rivendell, and of losing the power of Vilya.
“I cannot help you understand Maedhros,” Elrond said finally, after the silence had stretched between them, both of them lost in thought. “Not when I understand him so poorly myself. I know the rest of your sons even less well, although Caranthir used to correspond regularly with Bilbo, who was quite fond of him. I believe they primarily wrote about flowers, though it would surprise me if Bilbo had not at least asked about the Elder Days. But if you wish to understand Maglor better, perhaps his music would help.”
“Has he written new music?” Fëanor asked. “In the tales your sons tell of him he seems to always be singing the songs of others, rather than of his own making. I noticed also that he did not often sing before any crowd larger than your daughter’s family.”
It was not Elrond’s place to explain Maglor’s relationship to his craft, the way that it had been damaged and then repaired, and was still greatly changed from what it had once been, though he had recovered all of his old skill. “Since he came to Rivendell he’s written few new songs,” he allowed, “but he has written some. Not all of them have words, but he did write them down. He did perform for all of us at Midsummer, alongside Elemmírë. He is as skilled as he ever was.” He rose from the table. “Come with me.”
They went to Maglor’s room; Maglor had been there so short a time that it was not yet really his—his things were not scattered about as they would be when he had lived there long enough to become truly comfortable, and he’d only barely gotten around to fully unpacking before he had left. His harp stood by the window, and there were a few sheets of paper on the desk with half-formed lyrics and musical notation scribbled across them; a book lay on the nightstand with a silver ribbon sticking out of it as a bookmark. The walls were painted blue, and light rugs of similar shades were scattered across the pale wood floor, like bits of spring and summer sky brought indoors. On the stand by the mirror stood a small jewelry box of dark wood inlaid with gold in a design Elrond recognized as Dwarvish; he thought it might have been a gift from Gimli, or else something traded from the Lonely Mountain. Fëanor hesitated in the doorway. “He would not like me intruding into his space,” he said, “or taking any of his things.”
Elrond found what he was looking for on the bookshelf by the desk, a slim volume bound in pale blue leather, with a curling ocean wave design embossed in silver on the spine. “This is one of several copies,” he said, holding it out to Fëanor. “I doubt Maglor even noticed them on the shelf before he left, and I do not think he will object to me giving it to you.” Maglor had not said so, but Elrond could guess easily enough that if he wanted anything from Fëanor, it was understanding—an understanding, however small, of what his sons had become, both in long-ago Beleriand and now.
Fëanor took the book, opening it briefly to glance over a page at random. Then he lifted his gaze, looking toward the harp. “He made that?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, of driftwood.”
“My father taught him woodwork. I was too impatient a teacher for him, and wood was never my preference.”
“He always had a bit of wood in his hands when I was young,” Elrond said. “He found it hard to come back to woodworking after Dol Guldur, precisely because it made him think of Finwë, and that grief felt nearer, then, than it had in many years.”
“What does he work with now?”
“Clay. The vase in your room—the blue one with a seashell pattern painted on it—he made that some years after he came to Rivendell, and I brought it with me when I took ship. He has not abandoned wood entirely though, as you see.”
“Yes, I see.” Fëanor raised the book in his hand with a small, wry smile. “Thank you. It seems your solution to every problem of mine is to hand me a book. To save time, is there anything else in your library I should read?”
“I am a loremaster. There are many records in my library of the First Age, primarily from Himring and some from Amon Ereb; less from Himlad or Thargelion, and none from the Gap. Himring survives still, an island off the coast north of Lindon. We recovered many records and artifacts from it after the War of Wrath. It is my opinion that books and histories and songs hold the solutions to many problems; it is always worth taking the time to try to understand the minds of others.”
“You are right,” Fëanor said, “and I am trying. Thank you again.” He glanced once more over the room, as though trying to glean some other small insight into Maglor’s mind through its contents before he turned and departed. Elrond glanced around himself, straightened the books on the shelf though they did not need it, and left also to return to the library.
He found Galadriel there, perusing the shelves. “Have you noticed that my uncle is avoiding me?” she remarked, sounding amused. “I had no idea he was capable of such a feat. We’ve hardly spoken ten words to one another since he came here.”
“You are rather formidable,” Elrond said as he returned to his seat, “or so I have been told.” Galadriel laughed. She had daisies in her hair, and did not seem to Elrond formidable at all—no more than Celebrían ever did. “I think he is trying very hard not to cause trouble.”
“He is succeeding. I am very impressed. My other uncle was speaking today of returning to Tirion soon. I think I will go with them, though I would like to see Macalaurë again first.”
“I am hoping they depart before he returns,” Elrond said. “Do you know where he has wandered?”
“No. I haven’t tried to look for him either; it has always been an exercise in futility, and I see no reason that would change now.” Galadriel pulled a book from the shelf and flipped it open. “It comforts me to know that Daeron is with him. I hope they return here together; I would very much like to hear them perform again as they did at the Mereth Aderthad.”
“Is it true that Daeron is the mightier singer?” Elrond asked. Maglor was always quick to say yes, of course, but Maglor’s judgment of his own abilities these days was somewhat skewed.
Galadriel thought for a moment. “Yes,” she said finally, “but by so slim a margin that it hardly seems to me to matter. At least at the feast neither of them particularly cared. I had never seen either so animated as when they met and began to get to know one another. It was my brother Angrod that introduced them, since Daeron and Mablung had come there with our party. That is what made it so wonderful to listen to them—the fact that they were so delighted to perform together.”
“Are you worried?” Elrond asked her. “About Maglor?”
She placed the book back on the shelf and came to sit at the table with him, taking the seat Fëanor had so recently vacated. “Yes and no,” she said. “My heart tells me that he is where he is meant to be in this moment, but I also wonder whether he will meet with his brothers out in the wild. The lands of Valinor are vast, but something in Gandalf’s demeanor suggests to me that chance will bring them together.”
“I did ask him if he was meddling,” Elrond muttered, shaking his head as he took up the papers again, sorting them into neat piles in front of him.
“Of course he is meddling. Since his task in Middle-earth was ended I daresay he has been rather bored—and what better challenge than nudging the disparate pieces of the House of Fëanor back together?”
“I hope he knows what he is doing, then,” said Elrond, “because if it goes wrong it will go spectacularly wrong.”
“I think no matter how they come together, the reunion will be a painful one,” Galadriel said. “Maglor spoke to me of his brothers that morning, before Fëanor came.”
“When he told Finrod that you were his favorite cousin?”
She laughed a little. “Yes. I think he was starting to consider whether to go see them, but then his father arrived and threw whatever plans he had begun to make into disarray. He was still hesitant to go see Nerdanel too, though for different reasons. He asked me whether his brothers were what they had been in Beleriand when I last knew them.”
“Did you know them in Beleriand?”
“Not really. I went to Doriath and did not often leave it except to visit Nargothrond on a few occasions—well before Celegorm and Curufin came there. Finrod would have been the better person to ask, but Maglor did not want convincing, he only wanted answers. They are not what they were,” she added after a moment, “even Maedhros, I think. I saw them at Midwinter but not to speak to. He seemed unhappy and uncomfortable, but not much as I heard him described in the latter years of Beleriand.”
“If even Fëanor will not approach you,” Elrond said with a smile, “you can’t expect his sons to.”
She smiled. “Perhaps. I do sometimes wish some others thought me as formidable. I was once the baby of the family and there are some who think of me that way still. Celeborn will be laughing at me about it for centuries after we visit Tirion and he meets the rest of the family.” She did not sound bothered by the idea; Elrond understood. He still courted Celebrían’s laughter too, whenever he got the chance, after having gone so long without hearing it.
Summer was passing, slowly but steadily. Soon the apples would be ready to harvest, and autumn would bring cooler weather and rain. Elrond hoped it would bring Maglor home, too, or at the least a message from him. He had told Elladan he would not worry unless autumn came and went with no word, but as the days passed he found himself glancing often toward the road, feeling uneasy. That was just old anxiety rearing its head, though, and some of it eased when preparations began for Fingolfin and Fëanor to leave Imloth Ningloron, and plans were made regarding what they would do when they returned to Tirion—together, as brothers and if not friends than at least as allies.
