High in the Clean Blue Air - Chapter Thirty Nine

[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

 

When Maglor woke it was late in the morning. For a moment he lay still, basking in the warmth of the tent and the blankets and listening to someone else’s breathing just beside him. Then Leicheg scuttled over the blankets to bump into his forehead, sniffing and making her little purring noises. Maglor smiled at her, but winced when he tried to lift his hand to pet her nose and found himself almost unable to move, he was so stiff. One of his eyes was swollen shut—that black eye that Amras had predicted. He sighed and rolled onto his back, grimacing with the effort, and carefully stretched out his arms and legs, trying to loosen the muscles again. His throat was still sore, but it felt less raw than it had the day before. He tried to hum and made some kind of noise, but it sounded awful, and it hurt. It would be whispers or nothing for at least another day. 

Beside him Maedhros still slept. His hair was unbound, falling in loose copper coils over the blankets. Pídhres lay by his head, but when she saw that Maglor was awake she immediately abandoned Maedhros for him. Maglor scratched her ears and stared at Maedhros. His bruises were as bad as Maglor’s, but the bandages around his chest and his arm were still clean, with no sign of any more bleeding. He was frowning, though, still in pain even in sleep. 

The tent flap opened, and Curufin stepped inside. “I’ve got your clean clothes,” he said as Maglor sat up. “How’s your voice?” Maglor shook his head. “We have more tea. That spiced stuff you used to like, and some other kind that Ambarussa says will help everything heal faster, or at least make you feel better.” He carefully moved Leicheg out of the way so he could sit beside Maglor and help him get dressed. He paused to stare at the brand on Maglor’s chest for a moment, but said nothing about it, instead picking up a comb to tease out the snarls and tangles of his hair. “Tyelpë didn’t mention any scars beyond your face,” he said after a moment. 

“He doesn’t know,” Maglor whispered, and grimaced. Even that hurt his throat.

“Don’t try to talk.” Curufin put the comb down and wrapped his arms around Maglor, being very careful about it. “I’m sorry, Cáno,” he whispered. “For everything that happened in Beleriand, and—”

“Don’t,” Maglor whispered. He leaned his head against Curufin’s and sighed. 

“I didn’t know that you were there when I died,” Curufin said, his voice very quiet and very small—sounding so very young. “I didn’t know you saw it happen.”

“I saw all of you,” Maglor said, and that was as much as he could manage before falling into a coughing fit, which hurt even worse. 

“I told you to stop talking,” Curufin said. 

It also woke Maedhros, who stirred and groaned. “Cáno…?”

“He’s fine,” Curufin said. “How do you feel?” Maedhros groaned again. “There’s some of Ambarussa’s tea outside for you.”

“Absolutely not,” Maedhros said. He rolled onto his back with a grunt and opened his eyes. “I’d rather jump in the river again.”

“You’ll feel better if you drink some. And Caranthir has good tea for afterward.”

“Where was the good tea on the journey out?”

“We had wine instead,” Curufin said. He tied off Maglor’s braid. “Celegorm’s gone scouting ahead to see if he can find another water source so you two can get properly clean when we break camp in a few days—if you drink the damned tea, Maedhros—and when you’re well enough we can go home. And if Ammë doesn’t lock you in her house for a few years, I’ll drag you to Tirion and lock you up in mine. I’m sure Arimeldë won’t mind.”

“I’m going to lock myself up just to get away from all of you. This trip wasn’t even my idea.”

“Oh good, you’re awake!” Ambarussa piled into the tent, bearing cups of dark green tea, still steaming. Maglor accepted his in silence. Maedhros groaned again, but that might have just been from the effort it took to sit up, even with Amrod’s help. The tea did not smell bad, but when Maglor sipped it he nearly spat it back out. He had never tasted anything so bitter, and there was no amount of honey in the world that would improve it, even if Ambarussa had bothered to add any. 

“Told you it was awful,” Maedhros muttered. “It’s the same stuff they made in Beleriand, except it tastes worse.”

“Just drink it,” said Amras. “You act like you’ve never had willow bark before. You’ll feel better afterward; the plants here are stronger than the ones in Ossiriand.”

Maglor drank his in a few large gulps, and made an exaggerated face at the twins when he handed the cup back. They laughed at him and pressed kisses to his cheeks before retreating back outside. Curufin went to help Maedhros get dressed, and the two of them bickered over the tea, though Maedhros did drink it, in gulps similar to Maglor, though he waited longer between them. Maglor turned his attention to Leicheg and Pídhres, who chased one another around him, up and over his legs. Pídhres jumped up onto his chest and butted her face into his. He rubbed his face into her fur as he pet her. The nice thing about cats was that they were not complicated. Pídhres just wanted affection and food and someone to get her down when she got herself stuck somewhere, and she didn’t care what had happened to him in the past, or what he had done, or what kind of scars he bore. 

Curufin eventually departed as well, leaving Maglor and Maedhros alone. “Cáno,” Maedhros said quietly. Maglor lifted his head. Even in the bright morning after a full night’s rest, it was hard to look at him, hard not to see Maedhros of Beleriand laid over Maedhros by Ekkaia laid over Maedhros by the riverbank. “I’m not—I know I’m not—” Maedhros looked away for a moment. “I’m better, I think, than I was when I first came from Mandos,” he said finally, “and better than I was when—when Atar came to see us. The whole idea of coming out here was to—to fix us. Celegorm’s idea. And it’s…it’s been working. I’m—I’m trying.” He looked back at Maglor, meeting his gaze. “I’m not going to die. The past isn’t going to repeat itself. But I’m not sorry for coming between you and the hill cat. I’m not going to apologize for trying to protect you.” 

“Oh, we’re not doing that again, are we?” Caranthir ducked into the tent that time, holding two more steaming cups—these, at least, were proper tea. Maglor took his and sipped it gratefully, glad of the excuse to look away. Glad, suddenly, that he didn’t have enough of a voice to argue, to say aloud that he couldn’t believe Maedhros’ words. He’d been trying in Beleriand, too. 

“It’s only an argument if you make it one,” Maedhros said, sounding tired. 

Maglor wondered what else Maedhros had been trying to protect their brothers from. Not hunting cats, certainly. Something must have shown on his face because Maedhros looked away and Caranthir grimaced. “He never told us that he’d looked for you in the palantír,” he said. “Let alone what he saw—”

“Good,” Maglor whispered. Maedhros looked up, and even Caranthir looked surprised. “I didn’t—I don’t—I never wanted—” His throat hurt too much and he gave up. He sipped his tea, letting the faint sweetness and the rich spices banish the bitter medicinal taste of Ambarussa’s brew. 

“Not you, too,” Caranthir sighed.

“You’ve all proved both of us right, you know,” Maedhros said quietly. “After Tyelko—”

“If you had told us before we wouldn’t have—” Caranthir stopped and rubbed his hands over his face. “No, we’re not going to argue about it again. Just—we have another chance at—at everything, now, and we’ve all decided that the two of you need to stop—stop being the oldest, and let us do it instead.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Moryo,” Maedhros said.

“Yes it does. Shut up and drink your tea. And we outnumber you, and we have Huan on our side, so you don’t have a choice but to agree. Or else Huan will—I don’t know. Sit on you. If you don’t go back to sleep you can come join the rest of us in the sunshine. No more hiding.” He glared at Maglor as he added the last part, and then left them alone again. 

Maedhros sipped at his tea. Maglor rested his cup on one knee as he pet Pídhres, wondering when Caranthir had gotten so bossy. Once upon a time he would have said that out loud, to make Maedhros laugh. He watched Maedhros out of the corner of his eye. The silence between them felt unnatural—but it was not quite as painful as it had been on the shores of Ekkaia that first night. 

“Thanks for the comb,” Maedhros said finally.

Maglor had almost forgotten that he’d made a new comb. “Don’t lose it,” he whispered. 

Maedhros sighed, closing his eyes. “I’m better at that now,” he said. “Not losing things.” Maglor didn’t answer. He didn’t trust that Maedhros really was better, rather than just not having the opportunity to leave things behind because he usually had no cause to be traveling. “And I didn’t—there were things I didn’t lose until—until the very end. Things you made. Elrond found them afterward, and kept them. He gave them to me when I went to Imloth Ningloron this spring.”

Maglor knew about the chest of old things that Elrond had always kept in his study. A letter to him from Elros had been in it, but he hadn’t ever asked about the other contents. They were Elrond’s to share or to keep, private memories of his childhood and youth. Celebrían was probably the only other person in the world who knew the full contents of the chest. He wondered if Maedhros knew the importance of it, knew what it meant that Elrond had opened it for him. Likely not—Elrond would not have told him, and Maedhros would not have known to ask. 

It had troubled him deeply, once, that Maedhros hadn’t tried harder with the twins—that he hadn’t tried at all either to know them or to make them fear him less. He thought that he understood why, but that had been the first real sign that Maedhros was truly no longer the person he had once been, even before Sirion. It had been Maedhros who looked longest and hardest for Eluréd and Elurín in Doriath. It had been the first thing that really made Maglor fear for Maedhros, and he hadn’t known what to do. So in the end he had ignored it, as best he could, the way he ignored the Oath and so many other awful things, and in the end of course it hadn’t helped. It never did. 

“What else did he say to you?” he asked after a few moments. He didn’t know whether it was Ambarussa’s tea or just the benefit of drinking something hot, but his throat was starting to feel better, even if he still couldn’t speak above a whisper. 

“He was kinder than I deserved. I wasn’t—I haven’t—” Maedhros sighed. “I should have gone to speak to him years ago. It was just easier not to. He’s…very different from what I remember.”

“He has always been kind,” Maglor said. 

“I know.” 

The tent flap opened and Amras stuck his head in. “Are you two coming out or not? Caranthir was supposed to tell you, no more hiding.”

“Do you want us to talk to each other or come outside?” Maedhros asked him. 

“Maglor shouldn’t be talking.”

“We’re coming,” Maglor said.

“No talking, Maglor!”

Maglor got to his feet, slowly and carefully, and held out his hands to Maedhros, who did not hesitate before reaching up to accept the help. He staggered, and they both needed a moment to steady themselves before they could emerge from the tent without falling on their faces. Amras was waiting for them with Curufin, ready to catch Maedhros when he inevitably swayed. Daeron rose from his seat by the campfire to come to Maglor. “All right?” Daeron asked quietly, sliding his hands up Maglor’s arms. Maglor nodded. “Did you dream?”

“No,” Maglor whispered. Daeron kissed him, soft and warm, and for a few seconds he let himself forget all about his brothers and his bruises and the long journey still before them.

His brothers, of course, did not let him forget for long. “Ugh, must you?” called out Amrod. Maglor made a rude gesture over Daeron’s shoulder, and heard everyone laugh. 

Daeron laughed too, and pressed a few more kisses to Maglor’s face before sobering. “They keep asking me why you were so frightened by losing your voice,” he said, “but I do not know enough to explain in full—and I would not tell them without your leave.”

“I’ll explain,” Maglor sighed. “When I can speak properly again.”

“Let your voice rest, then.”

When they joined the others around the fire, Daeron sat with Maglor in front of him so he could wrap his arms around his shoulders from behind. Maglor leaned back against him gratefully, and tried to ignore the way Maedhros was watching. It made him think of his warnings at the Mereth Aderthad. He hadn’t been wrong to worry then, even if Maglor hadn’t needed the warnings—but all the reasons for it were gone, now. Maglor laced his fingers with Daeron’s and listened as he threw Ambarussa’s teasing back at them, not bothered in the slightest by the way Maglor’s brothers were all making themselves insufferable. 

Celegorm returned in the middle of the afternoon, announcing that he’d found a creek not far away that was running clear and clean. He had also hunted a few birds that Ambarussa and Caranthir took charge of. “Where is Huan?” Maedhros asked. “I thought he’d gone with you.”

“I don’t know,” Celegorm said. “I left him here.” He dropped to the ground on Curufin’s other side. “He’ll probably be back before nightfall.” 

Maglor had Leicheg on his lap, and watched as Pídhres went over to sniff at Celegorm, who offered her his fingers and then scratched her behind the ears for a moment. She purred and rubbed her head against his palm, and then vanished into the grass, darting away after some small creature or insect. Leicheg immediately abandoned Maglor to chase after her. “I’m surprised you have a cat and a hedgehog following you, Cáno,” Celegorm said with a grin. “And not a flock of songbirds.”

“I could sing one down,” Daeron said, and whistled a few notes before Maglor reached up to put a hand over his mouth. 

“No birds,” Maglor said.

“No talking,” Curufin and Amrod said at the same time. Daeron caught Maglor’s wrist and kissed his palm before freeing himself. 

Huan returned, damp and muddy-footed, from the hills in the early evening as the sunlight deepened and made the grasslands glow like gold and emerald. Whatever he had been doing, he seemed satisfied with it. When he came into the camp he trotted up and stuck his nose into Maglor’s hair at the crook of his neck, sniffing thoroughly before licking him up the face and making him splutter; laughing, Daeron pressed a hand over his mouth to stop him from trying to protest. Huan gave Maedhros the same treatment before lying down next to him. Maedhros scratched him behind the ears and leaned against him.

That night passed as uneventfully as the one before, except that Maglor dreamed of Dol Guldur again just before waking in the morning. This time it was a repetition of the waking-dreams he had suffered there, where his brothers marched before him, silent and glowering, pale as death in the deep darkness, and always dissolving into mist when he reached for them. He woke to Pídhres licking the tears from his face with her scratchy tongue, and to Celegorm looking down at him, his expression serious enough that for a moment Maglor thought he was still caught in the dream and flinched away. 

“Maglor?” Celegorm’s hand caught his. “It’s only me.”

The dreams never spoke. “Tyelko?”

“I’m sorry I woke you, but you’re crying.” 

Maglor pushed himself up, ignoring the bruises and stiffness, and wrapped his arms around Celegorm, who did not vanish into shadows, who smelled like woodsmoke and grass, who was warm and suntanned and nothing at all like the nightmares that had haunted him for so many years—and nothing either like the cruel and savage hunter who had stalked the forests of Beleriand, too consumed by bitterness and anger to remember that he had once been someone soft-hearted and kind, who cared for lost baby birds and wayward brothers. 

They were close enough in age that Maglor did not remember clearly the day Celegorm had been born. He had memories of a baby crying and of his father lifting him up onto the bed, where Maedhros was already sitting beside Nerdanel where she lay propped up against a mountain of pillows with their tiny baby brother swaddled in her arms. As soon as Celegorm had been old enough to toddle around after him they had been playmates and conspirators, and he had many memories of one of their parents carrying them both back home, giggling and wiggling where they were slung over shoulders or hauled up into someone’s arms, or of Maedhros, only a handful of years older and not big enough to carry them, dragging them both along by the hand, exasperated and indulgent by turns when Celegorm dug in his heels or Maglor got distracted by a passing butterfly or an interesting flower. Even as they grew older and their interests diverged, it had always remained easy to laugh together, to confide in one another and to share secrets; they had often gone out riding, racing through the Treelit fields outside of Tirion, always outstripping all their brothers and cousins. 

And when they had argued in Beleriand, after Nargothrond, before Doriath, it had not been only Maglor’s voice that shook the walls of Himring. They had both known exactly what to say to hurt the other most, and there had been no recovering from it.

But there might be, now, both of them softened and worn down by time and regret. “I love you, Tyelko,” he whispered into Celegorm’s shoulder.

“I love you too, Cáno, but what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just—I miss you.”

“You don’t have to,” Celegorm said. “I’m right here. We’re all right here.”

“I know.” Maglor didn’t let go, though. He heard someone speak outside the tent, and someone else respond in a tone either annoyed or frustrated. There were birds singing in the trees, and the tent was warm, sunshine peeking through the flap that hung open. It was as unlike his dream as could be imagined, but he still found it hard to shake the feeling that sometimes clung to him after some dreams—that it was this that wasn’t real, and that when he truly woke up he would be back under Dol Guldur, silenced and freezing and forgotten.

“What were you dreaming of?” 

“Ghosts.”

Celegorm shifted from kneeling to sitting, keeping one arms around Maglor as he did, and lifting Leicheg out of the way, ignoring the way she squeaked at him. Maglor turned his head as Celegorm set her back down, and watched her curl up into a little spiky ball in protest. “Cáno, why did he mark you like that?” Celegorm asked, speaking very quietly. “I know you don’t want to speak of it, but I have seen branding like that before, on those thralls of Angband too far gone to be saved.”

“He wanted—he wanted to make me his,” Maglor said. His voice was stronger than it had been the day before, but not quite strong enough to speak above a hoarse whisper. “He wanted my voice to serve his ends. But I never—I—” He closed his eyes again. “There was nothing he could do to me that would make me surrender that.” He’d managed to forget everything he knew about music long before Sauron had placed his last curse on him in the midst of his retreat from Dol Guldur. Even if he had broken entirely and fully surrendered himself, there had been nothing left of him for Sauron to use. He would have only ended up being made an example of, like Celebrimbor before him. “The branding came before the breaking.”

“But you didn’t—”

“I broke, Tyelko. Just—just not in any way that he could make useful.” Maglor drew back, and wiped his face on his sleeve, wincing as the fabric dragged over his black eye and other bruises. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Cáno. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have seen it in the first place, and I shouldn’t have withdrawn afterward. It was just—it’s—I can’t stand seeing how you were hurt while we were—we were here, we had no idea…”

“You were still in Mandos. You couldn’t have done anything, even if you had known,” Maglor said. “Maedhros wasn’t wrong to keep it from you. I wish he hadn’t known. It’s—I haven’t been doing well lately, but usually I can forget about the scars. I haven’t been always so broken and unhappy.”

“But coming here has made you unhappy,” Celegorm said quietly. “Seeing us has made you unhappy.”

“No. Seeing Atya made me unhappy. Seeing you just—it hurts, but that’s not the same thing.”

“It sounds like the same thing. Why did you come to Valinor at all? It doesn’t seem like you wanted to.”

“I did want to—I promised Elrond. I promised that I would stay with Arwen until the end, and then I would take ship. Even before that, I promised him I would not disappear again. I love Middle-earth, and I miss it, but I love him more. I love you more—I just—I needed time.” 

“We were trying to give it to you,” Celegorm said. “Truly. We had no idea you would end up at Ekkaia—”

“I know that. And I don’t…” Maglor looked away, back at Leicheg as she unrolled herself and came over to nuzzle at his fingers. “Maybe it’s better this way.” He couldn’t regret leaving Imloth Ningloron when he did, because it had brought him to Daeron, and he found that he couldn’t regret meeting his brothers as he had either. Even Maedhros. Nienna believed there was a way forward for them, and Maglor wanted so, so badly to believe it too. He just couldn’t see it yet. “I’m trying, Tyelko.”

“We’re all trying. I suppose that’s all we can do. Maedhros is trying, too.”

“I know he is, but I—” His voice broke, and his eyes burned with fresh tears. “I watched him die—I watched all of you die, but Maedhros was dying by inches, for years, until he took the last step, and I didn’t see it in time, and he’s still—”

Celegorm folded him into another embrace, rubbing one hand up and down his spine the way that Nerdanel used to when they had all been very small. “He’s going to be fine,” he said. “We’re all going to make sure of it. Neither of you are alone anymore.”