High in the Clean Blue Air - Chapter Forty

[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

 

Between Ambarussa’s awful-tasting tea and Daeron’s songs, Maedhros felt much better. He still hurt, but it was bearable, and he could absolutely ride the short distance to the creek that Celegorm had found. 

Caranthir and Curufin disagreed. “I’ve ridden farther with worse wounds,” Maedhros reminded them. 

“Only when there wasn’t any choice,” snapped Caranthir. “You don’t have to push yourself now, and you shouldn’t. It’s been less than two days!”

“But—”

“Give it another day, Nelyo. You can’t even stand up without almost falling over,” Curufin said.

“I can—”

Celegorm and Maglor emerged from the tent. Maglor had his hedgehog in his hands; he looked fragile, and as though he’d been weeping. Celegorm kept his hand on Maglor’s back, and took half a step in front of him when Caranthir rounded on them, pointing at Maglor. “Macalaurë! You don’t think you can ride yet, do you?”

Maglor blinked at him, startled. His eye was still swollen and dark; the other was reddened and damp. His voice was still hoarse and scratchy. “I—yes? If I had to?” Caranthir threw up his hands, and Maglor flinched; Maedhros didn’t think Caranthir had noticed, since he was already turning away.

“Is this about moving camp?” Celegorm asked, taking a step closer to Maglor. “It’s really not that far, Moryo. They can both make it if we ride slowly, and then we’ll stay an extra few days if we have to.”

“I want to wash my hair,” Maedhros said flatly. “I smell like the bottom of a river, and—”

“We’re the only ones who can see you, Maedhros, or smell you.”

“I don’t care what I look like. It itches.”

“A bath does sound nice,” Maglor said after a moment. He had followed Celegorm to the campfire, but kept his gaze lowered. 

“Ugh. Fine.” Caranthir got up. “But then we’re waiting until the bruises start to fade and Maglor can see out of both his eyes, and Maedhros can get to his feet without help or almost falling over until we move again.”

“Are we breaking camp?” Ambarussa called from where they were tending to the horses. 

“Yes.” Caranthir glared at Maedhros. “I don’t like how you’re acting more like yourself only now after you’ve almost been killed, Maedhros.” Maedhros stared at him, but he was already turning away to go clear out the tent and take it down. He had thought before that Caranthir was only annoyed, but now he saw that he was bordering on livid.

“He has a point,” said Curufin before following. 

That didn’t feel fair. He felt more present, perhaps, than he had immediately before falling into the river, but he’d felt more present at Midsummer too, and in the days before they’d arrived at Ekkaia. The pain of his wounds was grounding in its own way, as pain always was, but Caranthir’s accusation made it feel like they thought he’d done it on purpose. It was uncomfortably like what Maglor had said on the riverbank, furious and frightened enough to be careless with his voice even on the verge of losing it. 

Celegorm crouched beside him. “They’re angry because they’re worried,” he said.

“I know.”

“Should they be?”

Maedhros sighed, and rolled his eyes, and tried to speak lightly. “No, I don’t intend to make a habit of getting attacked by wild animals.”

“You know what I mean.” Celegorm searched his face, and whispered, “You told me by Ekkaia you should never have been let out of Mandos.”

He never should have said that out loud. “I’m not trying to go back, Tyelko. I promise. And I’m not trying to aggravate my wounds by getting back in the saddle. I really just want to be clean, and—and away from the hills.” He glanced toward them, rocky and grey, looming up behind them. He could still hear the sound of the river, still too high and too fast, just out of sight. There might be other cats and other creatures lurking nearby, and it made him nervous—especially at night, when only one of them was awake, even with Huan on watch too. Maedhros wanted to be far away; at least out on the plains they could see anything coming at a distance, instead of even Huan being taken almost entirely off guard.

“All right.” Celegorm grabbed the back of his head and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll hold you to that promise, Nelyo.” He rose then, and went to help saddle the horses. No one allowed Maedhros or Maglor to get up and help, even to pack their own things; Huan came and sat down beside Maglor when he tried to get up, in a way that suggested that if he tried again Huan would next sit on him. Maglor settled back down, and remained quiet and downcast; he only smiled when Daeron came to speak to him, but even then he spoke little, and he wouldn’t look at Maedhros at all. 

The creek was less than half an hour’s ride through the grass, even moving slowly. The summer wildflowers were all in full bloom, a fragrant rainbow of color stretched out all around them like a colorful patchwork quilt. Maedhros had gotten into the saddle with less effort than he’d feared, with both Caranthir and Celegorm hovering and helping by turns; Maglor had not sprung as lightly into his as he once had, but he too seemed relatively comfortable. They could have gone farther, Maedhros thought; but he didn’t mind stopping again, especially once he was able to escape into the shelter of a willow tree by the water so he could peel off his clothes and bandages and wade into the clean clear water of the creek, so unlike the muddy river of the hill country behind them. The bed of it was sandy rather than muddy, and it was just deep enough for him to be able to sit and duck his head easily under the surface to scrub his fingers over his scalp. Even without soap it was a terrific relief. 

When he surfaced he heard a voice from just upstream, in the shade of a neighboring willow—Daeron, and Maedhros thought Maglor must be with him, though if he spoke it was too quiet for anyone else to hear. On the bank under Maedhros’ willow waited Caranthir, with a set of clean clothes and a scowl. “Have you seen yourself?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Maedhros said, before ducking under the water again, needing a moment to push away memories of the last time he and Caranthir had sat together under a willow tree. Fëanor was not going to appear unlooked for out here, but the sick feeling in his stomach needed convincing of it.

He was covered in bruises, purple and blue and in places starting to turn sickly yellow, and though the bite and claw wounds had been neatly stitched, they would certainly leave scars, and remained red and slightly swollen. Thanks to Daeron, they were already more healed than they would have been otherwise. He rubbed his fingernails over his scalp again, to make sure he got as much dirt out as possible without soap, and then rose, twisting his hair around his hand and wrist to wring it out as he splashed back to the bank. “I’m sorry I frightened you, Moryo.” Caranthir just glared at him until he sat down again on the grass, and then he grabbed his arm to look more loosely at the stitches. Maedhros let him. They were healing well, and Caranthir couldn’t find anything to complain about, so he patted them dry in silence, and wrapped new bandages around them. Maedhros’ ribs received the same treatment. 

“If you do anything like that again,” Caranthir said finally, as he handed Maedhros a clean shirt, “I’ll never forgive you.”

Maedhros wondered if there was some script his brothers were following that he did not know about. “I didn’t intend to do it in the first place,” he said. “We’ve already been over this.”

“But you aren’t—”

“Of course I’m not sorry I did it. I would have preferred it if the cat hadn’t attacked anyone at all, but it did, and I reacted. I’m not going to die, and the scars won’t even be that bad, so can you please stop? If I hadn’t been there one of you would have been, and you would’ve done the same thing.”

Caranthir didn’t stop glaring at him, but before he could reply Daeron and Maglor ducked through the willow fronds, both of them damp and Maglor, at least, looking somewhat refreshed. Maglor’s steps faltered when he saw Caranthir’s face, and Daeron reached out to take his hand. Maedhros gave Caranthir what he hoped was a pointed look. It didn’t make him stop frowning, but he did get up and leave, muttering under his breath but at least ending the argument before it really began. 

“Your brothers are all even worse than my cousin,” Daeron remarked. “At least Mablung knows when an argument is finished.”

“Arguments are never finished when there’s seven of you,” Maedhros sighed. He grabbed the rest of his clothes to finish dressing. Daeron and Maglor exchanged a few quiet words, and when Maedhros looked up again he found himself alone with Daeron, Maglor having slipped away soundlessly through the grass. Daeron knelt on the grass by Maedhros, who looked at him warily. “You aren’t going to start an argument, are you?”

Daeron smiled. “No, but what I want to speak of may be worse. You do not have to answer me if you don’t wish to.”

“I’ll answer if I can,” Maedhros said. “Is Maglor…?”

“He’s all right—or as well as can be expected. Not being able to speak troubles him greatly, but it isn’t my place to explain why. That isn’t what I wanted to ask you about.” Daeron paused, as though putting his thoughts in order. He had his hands on his knees, and one of his fingers tapped in a rhythm Maedhros couldn’t quite follow. “I wanted to ask about your father,” he said finally. 

“What about him?” Maedhros asked. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t that. 

“Maglor spoke to him, and came away greatly troubled. I think that is what lies behind everything else—I think if he had met you before, it would have gone very differently. He was somber but not nearly so troubled when we were aboard the ship together—I attributed that to grief at leaving, for I felt it too—and he was much more cheerful when we met again in Avallónë, though still not particularly merry.”

“I’m not sure I can tell you anything helpful. My own meeting with him went no better than Maglor’s.”

“But why did it go so poorly?” Daeron asked. “I wish to understand what it is that has hurt all of you so badly.”

Maedhros regarded him for a moment, remembering again just how little he knew of Daeron—loremaster, mighty singer, perhaps would-be lover of Lúthien Tinúviel, if those tales were true; traveler and friend of wizards, from the tales he had told of himself. None of that gave a hint as to what he thought of Fëanor, or of the rest of them, or of what had drawn him to Maglor in the first place—or back to him, after so long. Maybe it didn’t matter. He had been drawn back, and it seemed clear to Maedhros, at least, that he intended to stay. 

“I don’t know how to explain,” he said finally. “He was not always what he became before his death, but the change was…it was not sudden, and yet it felt so. He was once as great as the old tales say; he was brilliant and driven, but when we were young he would set aside any project no matter how important just to spend an afternoon in our company, doing nothing more than laughing and playing games, or just talking to us if we were troubled. There was nothing we could not tell him, no question we could not ask. He loved his own father; he never liked his brothers, and resented Indis, but tolerated his sisters, at least for a time. I don’t think he ever made peace with his mother’s death. We loved him as much as he loved Finwë—as much as you have loved your own father, I would guess.”

Daeron’s smile was crooked and did not reach his eyes. “No,” he said, “I cannot say that I love my father, for I cannot love someone I have never known. Perhaps if I did I would not have to ask such questions of you. I was raised by my aunt and uncle for the most part, but really by everyone around me, as was the custom in those days when a child was orphaned. I had no shortage of guardians—but no parents.”

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros said.

“You need not be. I cannot miss someone I never knew, either.”

“Our father turned into someone none of us recognized, by the end,” Maedhros said after a moment, “but he still wore our father’s face, and—and we still loved him, enough to swear his oath, once in Tirion and again at his death. What hurts now is that he seems restored to himself, to who he was before—or someone very like it.”

“Ah,” Daeron murmured. “And you are not.”

“We cannot be, any of us. He set us on our path, but we walked it, all the way to the end.” Maedhros looked out over the water. It sparkled in the sunshine; the breeze whispered through the willow boughs above them, and birds were singing up and down the creek. The noise of it all was such a relief after the silence of Ekkaia and the damp and dreary quiet of the hill country behind them. “It was never our intention to look for Maglor,” he said after a moment. “We came out here to get away from our father, and to try to know each other again. I never meant to reopen old wounds.”

“I know that,” Daeron said, “and so does he. I’m not so sure it is a matter of reopening wounds, instead of realizing they had never healed in the first place. He was longer in Dol Guldur than you were in Angband, you know.” He spoke the names with even more ease than Elrond had, and Maedhros winced. “Sixty years at least, almost certainly more. I am sorry to ask this, but I must: did the memories ever cease to trouble you, afterward?”

“No,” Maedhros sighed. Daeron meant the kind of memories that had rendered Maglor frozen and trapped in the maze of his own mind on the river bank, empty-eyed and white-faced with horror; the ones that clung to the spirit with barbs, that could be brought to the surface after years, centuries, by something as simple as a sound or a word or a scent on the breeze. Maedhros had learned, eventually, how to push them back and how to delay the inevitable panic and pain that they brought until he could escape somewhere private—the walls of his bedchamber in Himring had seen him fall apart many more times than he had ever let anyone know, even Maglor. He had never learned how to keep them entirely at bay. “I learned how to manage them,” he said aloud. “How to do what I had to in spite of them, until everything turned into one long unending nightmare that even the memories of Angband could not surpass.”

“And now?”

“They have not troubled me like that since I returned,” Maedhros said. Mandos had done that for him, at least. “I dream of it sometimes, but not often.” Other things haunted his dreams more, but he was not going to remind Daeron of Doriath or Sirion if he did not have to. “But I had a war to fight then,” he said, “and people to lead, and brothers to manage. Maglor doesn’t—and he has already received more help than I ever did. Maybe someday they will cease to trouble him altogether. I don’t know. Elrond might be the better one to ask.”

“Did you ever ask for help?” Daeron asked. 

“No. I don’t say I had no help. Fingon helped. Maglor helped. All my brothers did, and my cousins, my uncle, in their own ways, though I never asked for it, and maybe it wasn’t enough. I didn’t know what to ask for, anyway. None of us understood yet what it all meant, or how to heal such wounds. We just—we just kept going.” There had been no other choice. The orcs didn’t care if you were too exhausted from nightmares to grip a sword; the dragons wouldn’t stop just because you were afraid. The Oath cared nothing for grief or pain or guilt. 

“If you had known,” Daeron said after a moment, “what would you have asked for? What would you have wished someone would have done for you?”

Maedhros looked at him. “Exactly what you are doing,” he said.

“Are you saying that because you know it is what I want to hear, or because it is the truth?”

“It’s the truth. I love my brother, Daeron, and I wish that I could help him. Since I can’t, I am very glad that he has you by his side.”

Daeron smiled at him. It softened his dark eyes, brightening the ancient starlight that glimmered in them. “He loves you, too,” he said softly. “Do not despair, Maedhros. I think you will both find joy in one another again.” With that he rose and passed out from under the willow tree, leaving Maedhros alone in the shade. 

He drew his knee up to his chest and rested his arms over it. His eyes stung, but he was so tired of tears. Maedhros closed his eyes instead and listened to his brothers’ voices and to the flowing water beside him. Maglor could hear the Music that made the world in such waters. Maedhros remembered when he’d first learned how, long long ago when they’d still been almost children. He had been so thrilled, even more excited than he’d been after his first performance before Finwë’s court. And he remembered when they had first come upon the River Sirion in Beleriand. Maglor had tilted his head, listening hard as they rode along its banks, and he’d smiled to recognize the Music that he knew so well. Maedhros himself had only ever heard a faint echo of it; nearly everyone could, but it took better ears than his to learn to truly hear the Music in whatever fullness it was preserved in the world’s waters. Sometimes he wished he could hear it, that he might understand better, somehow, the song of his own life.

After a few minutes he felt able to face the rest of the world again, and got up carefully, leaning against the tree for a moment to steady himself, because if Caranthir was not gentle he was right—Maedhros did need more time to rest—and went back to the campsite. 

They stayed by the creek for the better part of two weeks, until both Maedhros’ and Maglor’s bruises started to turn more interesting colors than purple and blue, thanks to the rest and Daeron’s songs, and Maglor’s voice returned to its normal strength. He still spoke little, as though afraid of making it worse again. Maedhros kept his distance, not wanting to make anything else worse; Maglor had been unable to look him in the face since the river. Perhaps Daeron could see a way forward, but Maedhros couldn’t. When Caranthir and Curufin finally admitted that Maedhros was probably not going to suffer more than unusually sore muscles from a full day’s ride, they packed up their things and set off again, heading east across the rolling grasslands. The days were hot and bright, and at first they went slowly, at a leisurely pace. No one wanted to rush, but Maedhros thought they were all ready to be back at home—wherever that was, for each of them.

It was Maglor that started the first race. Caranthir and Curufin had been bickering about something for half an hour when he seemed to grow sick of it, urging his horse into a canter and then a full gallop, racing ahead past Celegorm, hair flying free of its braids like a dark banner behind him. Huan barked and charged after him, and Celegorm, laughing, followed. Ambarussa took off next, but Maedhros remained behind with Curufin and Caranthir. Daeron too kept his pace slow; he had a dreamy, far away look on his face, and Maedhros was not even sure he’d noticed the sudden commotion. The hedgehog peered out of her pouch curiously, nose twitching as she sniffed the air. 

“Well,” Curufin said after a few minutes, “at least he’s feeling better.”

“He and Tyelko will be racing the whole rest of the way home, now,” Caranthir sighed. 

“I hope not,” said Curufin. “At that rate we’ll arrive before his black eye is completely gone, and Ammë will have a lot of questions.”

“She’ll have questions anyway.”

“But not right away—only when she sees Nelyo rolls up his sleeve.”

“The bruises will be gone by the time we reach your mother’s house,” Daeron said. Maybe he wasn’t so unaware after all. “I flatter myself that my songs have been speeding them along their healing.”

“I like your songs better than I like Ambarussa’s healing brews,” said Maedhros. “Don’t look at me like that, Curvo. You haven’t been the one forced to drink them.”

“I drank them plenty in Beleriand.”

“They’re worse now.”

“Oh, stop it,” Caranthir said. “Here’s a thought: what if we arrive home to find Atar there?”

“I doubt we will,” said Curufin. “He’s been at Imloth Ningloron with Fingolfin all summer, hasn’t he? Tyelko spoke to Ammë last night and nothing had changed.”

“He’s got to leave there sometime,” said Caranthir. “Even Elrond’s famous hospitality must have its limits.”

“They’ll go to Tirion, then,” Curufin said. 

“And on the way is Ammë’s house,” said Caranthir. 

“Is this not borrowing trouble?” Daeron asked. 

“Borrowing trouble is Carnistir’s favorite pastime,” said Curufin, and dodged out of the way of a half-hearted swing from Caranthir, moving so that Maedhros was between them.

They caught up to the rest later in the afternoon beside a broad lake, its shores thick with reeds where birds were hidden, and the surface in the middle a smooth mirror of the wide blue sky. They stopped there to make camp; Maglor was flushed and windblown, and looked as though he’d left something behind in the race and was lighter for it. His smile was brighter than Maedhros had yet seen it when he greeted Daeron, and he laughed at whatever Daeron had to say to him. The smile faded a little when Curufin went to speak to him, but then the two of them walked off together, away around the bend in the lake. Maedhros glanced at Celegorm, who shrugged in response. 

Pídhres came to climb up onto Maedhros’ shoulders, purring as she rubbed her face against his. She’d been doing that more and more often of late, and he didn’t quite understand it. He couldn’t find it in himself to complain, though. There was something comforting about a small purring creature tucked up around his neck.

He pulled out his sketchbook as he leaned against his pack while his brothers argued over what to have to eat and whether there might be good fishing in the lake. Without thinking too much about what he was doing, he sketched them as they talked. He hadn’t drawn anything since Ekkaia, and it surprised him a little to find, now that he’d started again, that he’d missed it.