starspray | High in the Clean Blue Air

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

“Ammë, you didn’t.” Celegorm dropped a blueberry back onto his plate to cover his face instead; the blueberry rolled off the plate and to the floor, where Huan immediately claimed it for his own. Maedhros sighed, and pushed his own bowl away.

“All right then, Tyelkormo, tell me how to talk to him about my concerns—very reasonable ones, I think—without him running away!”

“Choose another concern!” Celegorm said. “The last thing you need to worry about is Daeron.”

“Have you paid any attention to your brother at all in the weeks you tell me you have been together?” Nerdanel demanded.

“Yes,” Maedhros interjected before Celegorm could speak and make things worse. “Of course we paid attention, Ammë. Enough to know that he was much more at ease in Daeron’s company before he met with us at Ekkaia. Daeron is the only reason he’s here with us at all.”

“You should have heard them singing, before they knew we were there,” Celegorm said.

The trouble, Maedhros thought as he watched his mother glare at them, was that time did not pass the same way in Valinor as it did in Middle-earth. Valinor, even under the Sun and Moon, was timeless. The seasons passed but other things—the land, the people—changed only slowly, if they changed at all; it was too easy to feel as though you had only blinked and then find that centuries had passed you by. Maglor was two hundred years out of Dol Guldur now, and in Imladris far away that was a long time, to grow and heal and find peace again. And he had. The memories were close to the surface at the moment, but so were memories of thousands of years ago, all of them dredged up and tangled together because both they and their father had intruded on the peace he’d fought so hard to carve out for himself. They hadn’t meant to, but that didn’t change the result. Of course he was unhappy and off balance. Of course old wounds had reopened. It was like picking at a scab and being surprised when blood welled up out of it.

“What are you saying, then?” Nerdanel asked.

“That he’s had a rather trying journey back,” said Celegorm, “because we’re all idiots and already made the mistakes you’re making now. Also, he fell into a river and nearly drowned, but quite frankly I think he’d prefer the river to dealing with any of us.”

Nerdanel pinched the bridge of her nose, and leaned on the back of a chair with her other hand, arm rigid. “Enlighten me with your wisdom, then. What mistakes am I making?” she asked, voice full of irony.

“Ammë,” Maedhros protested.

“You’re just seeing the scars,” Celegorm said. “You aren’t seeing him.”

“Of course I’m seeing him, he’s—”

“No, you’re not,” Celegorm interrupted. “If you were you wouldn’t be warning him away from Daeron. You’d see how strong he is.”

“Daeron makes him happy, Ammë,” Maedhros said quietly.

“Of course I know how strong he is. He is here, isn’t he? I believe that he believes it when he tells me he’s found joy again after his wounding, but I begin to wonder if it’s really true. Those cries last night did not come from his cat causing trouble. He should be in Lórien,” Nerdanel said. “I know you might not think so, Maitimo, because your judgment is also not—”

“Then don’t trust my judgment,” said Maedhros. “If he needed Estë’s help so desperately, he would be in Lórien now instead of here. Elrond would have seen to it—Elrond would have brought him west a hundred years ago, rather than leaving him behind in Middle-earth. He told me that himself when I went to Imloth Ningloron this spring.”

“Elrond,” Nerdanel said, “is said to be wise, but I wonder if his wisdom does not fail him where your brother is concerned. Macalaurë took him as a child—”

Maedhros rose. “Stop it, Ammë,” he said, more sharply than he’d intended. “Attacking the Havens was the worst thing we ever did, Maglor and Ambarussa and I. There is no disputing that, and Elrond has not forgotten it. But afterward Maglor did nothing but love those boys. He cherished them, and when it was time he sent them away to Gil-galad who could protect them better, even though he broke his own heart in doing so. He loves Elrond still—that is the only reason he came west at all—and Elrond, who does not love blindly or carelessly, loves him.”

“And,” Celegorm added quietly, “so does Daeron, and I don’t think Daeron does anything carelessly. You don’t need to warn Macalaurë to be careful. He’s already had his heart broken, and Daeron had nothing to do with it.”

“We all saw to that,” Maedhros said.

Nerdanel looked suddenly very tired and very sad. “Macalaurë said that, too,” she said, “that all of you broke his heart six times over.”

“We died, Ammë,” Celegorm said, dropping his gaze back to his plate. He fed another blueberry to Huan. “We died and we left him, every one of us—and in spite of all of that, in spite of our doing a remarkably poor job of welcoming him back, he’s still here. Just—just let him be. Please. Also, I already tried to talk to Daeron—because I am, as mentioned, an idiot—so you don’t have to try to warn him off, either. And you shouldn’t, because it would just upset Cáno even more.”

“Daeron doesn’t need any warnings, anyway,” Maedhros said, and he left the room, fetching his now-dried sketchbook from the kitchen and retreating back to his own studio. It felt odd to think of it as a studio, and as his own space, but not in a bad way. He set the sketchbook down on the drawing table there, in front of the wide window already letting in the bright golden summer sunshine, and looked to the shelves of paints and pigments.

He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. He would try, because he had promised Curufin, but not today. His thoughts were all charcoal-black and jagged, and if he was to try to draw anything it would only be worth tossing into the fire. Maedhros leaned against the table and looked out of the window, at the flowers and the sculptures. A bird was singing in the hawthorn tree. It had been a bright day like this, he thought, when he’d looked into the palantír. He had just come to his mother’s house from Mandos, burning up inside and not understanding why he’d been thrown out when so many others had been permitted to stay, off balance and missing all of his brothers but Maglor most of all—because he knew where the others were, knew they were safe, at least, in death.

Maedhros sat down and let his head rest on his arms. It wasn’t worth thinking about anymore—Maglor had long ago left that place; he was safe, he was nearby—but Maedhros still hadn’t learned how to stop his thoughts once they started circling around things he couldn’t change and couldn’t have stopped. Except that if he had been stronger or smarter or more—

“Hey.” Someone tapped the top of his head, and Maedhros lifted his gaze to find Amras leaning through the window. “No brooding, remember?” He had clover woven into his braids, which were fastened at the ends with beads that clicked together when he moved.

“That was on the trip,” Maedhros said. “We’re home now, so I can brood as much as I want.”

“Come on, Nelyo.” Amras reached through the window again to tug on a strand of Maedhros’ hair that had fallen forward over his eyes. “We didn’t go all the way to Ekkaia and back just to have nothing change.”

“Things have changed,” Maedhros said. “I’m brooding out here, and not in my bedroom.”

“Come help us air out the tent and things instead.”

Maedhros sighed. “Are you going to leave me alone if I say no?”

“Of course not! You’re not supposed to be the oldest anymore, remember?”

“That still doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, it does.” Amras grinned at him. “It means we get to boss you around for your own good, while you go along with it ungracefully but knowing it’s all for the best. You’ve done it to us all our lives, so it’s only fair that we get our turn now.”

He sighed and got to his feet. “Fine.”

Maglor did not reappear that day, and Daeron too had disappeared to do whatever it was he did when alone; it wasn’t until late that Maedhros heard the two of them return, going straight to their bedroom. By that time the rest of them had also retreated to their own rooms, even if they weren’t yet sleeping; Maedhros and Curufin were both awake still, each with a book, lounging on Maedhros’ bed in companionable silence. Maedhros had grabbed his at random from the shelf downstairs; it was on the process of making dyes for fabric, and Caranthir had made so many scathing notes in the margins that Maedhros had started to wonder why he didn’t just write a book of his own.

“Tyelko told me about Cáno’s fight with Ammë,” Curufin said, as faint laughter came through the wall. It sounded like Maglor’s voice. It seemed he was always laughing when alone with Daeron. The rest of them were lucky to get a smile. “She didn’t do that when I went back to Arimeldë.”

“Ammë already knew her, as she doesn’t know Daeron; and I think it’s because you were going back,” Maedhros said. He remembered little of Curufin’s first forays back into Rundamírë’s life. He had never been Curufin’s favored confidant—and he would have been the last one Curufin would have turned to upon his return. He did remember, though, seeing Curufin often unhappy but with that determined set to his jaw that meant he intended to try again, whatever it was that had gone wrong.

“Yes, but she wasn’t nearly as forgiving in the beginning as Daeron seems to be.” Curufin thought for a moment, and then added a little ruefully, “Maybe Ammë wasn’t worried about my heart getting broken because I’d already broken Arimeldë’s, and I deserved whatever she threw at me.”

Maedhros glanced at his right arm, at the new scars and at the end where there should have been a scar, rather than smooth skin. “Do you ever miss your scars?” he asked.

“Not really. I missed my callouses more; trying to work was miserable until they formed again. The scars would’ve just horrified Ammë and Arimeldë.”

“But instead everyone thinks you should be…unchanged. Or changed back.”

“No, not everyone.” Curufin glanced at him. “Just people like Ammë, who never went to Middle-earth. And Arimeldë, I suppose—but she’s always known me better than anyone, and doesn’t need the visible reminders to understand the changes, at least since she’s stopped being furious with me. Almost everyone in Tirion and on Tol Eressëa understands, since most of them have been to Middle-earth, however they came back again. Which you would know if you ever came to visit.”

“Tirion makes me feel like I can’t breathe,” said Maedhros. Even emptied as it was, with so many of the Noldor gone away to dwell with Turgon or Finrod’s brothers or in another of the myriad little realms and small cities that had cropped up over the last few thousand years, it felt crowded and close, familiar and strange in equal measure. It was worse on days of celebration or festivity, when visitors descended from all over and it seemed almost as full again as it had been long ago before the Darkening. And, soon enough, Fëanor would be there. Maedhros couldn’t risk seeing him. Curufin’s house was in the same quarter as all of their old followers, where all the metalworkers and gem makers had gathered, and that was surely where Fëanor would spend most of his time even if he didn’t choose to live there himself. Fingon’s house was in a different part of the city, but it was close to the palace—where Fëanor was also bound to spend time. The thought of running into his father by accident made Maedhros feel almost ill. “I’m not just thinking about me, though,” he said. “I’m thinking about—all of us really, but mostly Cáno.” Maedhros didn’t know if Maglor would rid himself of all of his scars if he could, if he thought it would be better for those like Nerdanel or their grandparents to see his face unchanged. It seemed there was no good way to come back, with or without scars—there would always be those who would not understand one way or the other.

“He’s going to be living in Imloth Ningloron. I saw plenty of people there with scars of their own. Even Lady Celebrían—she can hide hers, but I’ve heard the stories.”

“I know, I just…” Maedhros remembered Maglor saying, softly and hesitantly, that he wanted to see their mother. How nervous he had been as they approached the house, pale and holding himself in that rigid way that meant he was trying to stop himself from trembling. How it had seemed to go so well in the beginning—there had been tears, but they hadn’t been bad. “I wouldn’t have thought Ammë would speak so thoughtlessly, or to fail to see past the scars to see the healing.”

“Ammë is never thoughtless,” said Curufin. He frowned down at his book as he thought, rubbing his thumb over the corner of a page. “But even we have struggled, haven’t we? And we know how strong he’s always been, we know what healing looks like after that kind of suffering. Ammë has never seen it before. She only has the memory of what he was before we left, and whatever she saw in the palantír. She’s not wrong to worry about him, because he’s not as fully healed as he wishes we all believed, but…Tyelko was right too. Daeron is the last thing she needs to worry about. Did Cáno fall in love with him at the Mereth Aderthad?”

“I don’t know,” Maedhros said. “If he didn’t, he came dangerously close.”

“He hid it very well.”

“I think he hid a lot of things well, even from himself. He used to say he could do anything in front of an audience.” Even pretend that nothing was wrong—for years, centuries.

“I don’t think that’s true anymore,” Curufin said quietly. “I think the idea of an audience scares him, now. Even if it’s just us.”

“Sauron used the symbol of an eye for a reason,” Maedhros said, equally quiet. “And he had it trained upon Maglor for a very long time. I don’t blame him for wanting to hide.”

The next day Maedhros slept late. His dreams had been quiet, but he woke up still feeling tired, as though all the exhaustion of the journey was only just catching up to him. He made his way downstairs and outside, wanting to be away from walls and roofs, and found most of his brothers in the front garden, either repairing damage to their tack or traveling supplies that had been put off until the journey’s end, or just lying in the shade. Maglor sat on the grass with Pídhres in his lap, making a face at Daeron, who had put his flute to his lips and was playing a bright trilling series of notes.

“I said no birds!” Maglor protested as a dozen of them immediately came to flutter around him. He grabbed Pídhres as they settled on top of his head and on his shoulders; he was laughing as his kitten squirmed and yowled. Daeron kept playing and the birds burst into a cheeping, chirping chorus. “I told you Pídhres would just try to eat them—”

“Go on then, Cáno, give us a song!” said Amras. “You have a whole chorus to accompany you!”

Maedhros leaned against the doorway as Maglor stuck his tongue out at Amras before obliging, bursting into a very silly song about a blackbird and a lark and a nest full of eggs, all the while trying with increasing difficulty to keep Pídhres from going after the birds. By the end of the song everyone was laughing, and the birds finally flew away. Pídhres darted after them and scurried up the nearest tree. Maedhros heard the swish of skirts behind him, and turned to see Nerdanel also watching the scene, misty-eyed and wistful. When Maedhros glanced back outside, Daeron had draped himself across Maglor’s lap, and Maglor had his fingers tangled in his hair, his expression soft and so deeply fond, even through laughter, that Maedhros had to look away again. “All right,” Nerdanel said softly, reaching for Maedhros’ hand. “I see what you meant.” He put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

Huan trotted around the corner of the house, Celegorm just behind him, and stopped, lifting his head to look toward the road. Maedhros, remembering the last time he had done so, followed his gaze. A large party was coming up from the south, banners waving. “Is that Grandfather Finwë’s banner?” Amras asked, startled.

“Yes,” said Maedhros. It had caught his eye, too—for it was the largest, and at the head of the party. Behind it and smaller, lower, were the banners of their own house and Fingolfin’s, and Finarfin’s, and those of Findis and Lalwen too, in such a display such as had not been seen since the days before the unrest in Tirion long ago. Fingolfin had displayed the banner of Finwë at the Mereth Aderthad, a symbol of the reconciliation of all their houses, but not before or after.

The party did not slow down, but Maedhros imagined he could feel Fëanor’s gaze turning toward them; there was nothing between the house and the road to hide them from view. He looked to Maglor, who sat very still, watching the horses go by; all traces of his smile, all hint of laughter, had vanished. Daeron sat up, and Maedhros could see Maglor gripping his hand with white knuckles. They all stiffened when a rider dropped out of the party to come cantering down the road toward Nerdanel’s house, but it was clear a second later that it wasn’t Fëanor. “That’s Tyelpë,” said Curufin, getting to his feet.

“Who’s that coming behind him?” asked Amrod. “Finrod?”

“No, that’s Galadriel,” said Maglor. He released Daeron’s hand to get to his feet, his whole face lighting up at the sight of their cousin. Maedhros glanced over at Celegorm, who looked as bewildered as Maedhros felt. Maglor had never been close to Galadriel before—none of them had been, she being much younger even than Ambarussa, and with the rifts growing ever wider between their father and his brothers as she had come into adulthood—and not shy about voicing her own dislike of Fëanor. Maedhros was surprised to see her in the same company returning to Tirion, let alone breaking away to come to see them.

Celebrimbor swung out of the saddle into Curufin’s arms, and Galadriel bestowed a sun-bright smile upon them all as she rode up a second later, sparkling in white and with a circlet of silver and diamond resting on her hair. When she dismounted, though, she went straight to Maglor. He greeted her with a smile and an embrace—and of all people, Maedhros would have thought it was Galadriel’s gaze Maglor would avoid at any cost. It was she who was known to look into the hearts of others whether they would or no, to see whatever was there, good or ill. Maglor, though, met her with delight, pushing his hair out of his face rather than letting it fall forward. Galadriel spoke to him too quietly for Maedhros to hear from where he stood, but whatever she said made Maglor laugh.

She left him then to come and greet Nerdanel. “I’m sorry to come without warning, Aunt,” she said, kissing Nerdanel’s cheek as she took her hands. “I only wanted to see for myself that Macalaurë has returned in one piece.”

“It wasn’t for lack of trying,” Nerdanel said, a little wryly. “But you are always welcome, Galadriel.”

“I cannot stay, for I will be wanted in Tirion alongside my husband.” Galadriel looked at Maedhros, and smiled at him. “You’re looking well, Cousin.”

“As are you,” Maedhros said, inclining his head. He did avoid her gaze. It was not a comfortable thing, to have Galadriel’s full attention. He had heard it said once that the two greatest of the Noldor were his father, and Galadriel—and he thought that Galadriel had long ago surpassed Fëanor in both power and in wisdom. He did not care to have her looking into his own heart and mind, especially as she still had so little reason to have any affection for their family, let alone him.

Galadriel returned to speak a little more to Maglor, with less laughter this time but with the kind of easy affection on display between them that, Maedhros realized only on seeing it, Maglor still lacked with the rest of them. Then she departed, calling a cheerful farewell to them all over her shoulder before breaking into a gallop, her long golden hair streaming behind her, gleaming in the sunshine.

“Are you not also going to Tirion, Tyelpë?” asked Celegorm.

“Certainly not!” Celebrimbor said cheerfully. “There’s going to be all kinds of politics, and I had my fill of that sort of thing long ago. Fingolfin will just have to wait a little longer for the last two windows of his council chamber.” He came around to greet them all one by one. “I want to hear all about your journey.”

“It wasn’t that exciting,” said Celegorm.

“Except for the river,” Amrod said.

“What river?” Celebrimbor

“Everyone is fine,” Maedhros said, glaring at Amrod.

“Well that’s not reassuring,” said Celebrimbor, only looking more alarmed. “What happened?”

Maedhros glanced toward Maglor, but he had disappeared. Daeron stood under the tree that Pídhres had climbed earlier, laughing at something. An acorn flew down from the branches to hit him in the forehead, which made him yelp and then laugh harder.

“There was an incident with a flash flood and a particularly stupid hill cat,” said Celegorm breezily. Celebrimbor’s eyes went wide, and Maedhros pinched the bridge of his nose. “Really, though, everyone is fine and we’ve all already scolded Nelyo about it.”

“Everything you say just makes it worse without actually telling me what happened,” Celebrimbor said. “I hate it when you do that.” Celegorm grinned and mussed his hair, as he had long ago when Celebrimbor had been young; Celebrimbor protested, also as he had then, batting his hand away, and both Celegorm and Curufin laughed.

“The hill cat tried to jump Cáno, but Nelyo got in the way,” Curufin said, taking pity on his son, “and got knocked into the river. Cáno tried to pull him out, and a flash flood took them both. They really are both all right. Daeron knows a great many healing songs.”

Across the way, Maglor dropped back out of the tree, kitten in hand and leaves in his hair. Maedhros ducked back inside before Celebrimbor could add his voice to the established chorus of scolds. He wanted to go back to bed, even though he’d only just gotten up. As he put the kettle on and got down his own favorite tea—a mild, sweet herbal blend that Caranthir made—he listened to the rise and fall of voices outside, laughing and speaking by turns, affectionate and amused and so normal. As though Fëanor had not just ridden by, as though he wouldn’t be half an hour’s ride away in Tirion from now on.

It had been foolish, really, to expect to be able to withstand having him so close, to know that he could just appear at any moment the way he already had by the river, no matter what anyone said. Maedhros stared into his empty cup as he waited for the water to boil, unsure if he hated himself or Fëanor more for how brittle and afraid he felt in that moment.

Pídhres came charging in through the kitchen, appearing so suddenly that Maedhros jerked and knocked the cup to the floor, where it shattered. He cursed, and grabbed Pídhres by the scruff of her neck before she could cut herself on the shards. Maglor appeared a moment later, looking alarmed. “Did she…?”

“She just startled me.” Maedhros held her out, and Maglor skirted around the mess to take her. She squirmed in his hands, meowing loudly as though in protest of how she had been handled, and Maedhros knelt to start gathering the broken pieces.

“Don’t throw it out,” Maglor said. He moved to toss Pídhres into the back garden out of an open window before picking up a broom for the tiniest shards. “I can put it back together.”

“The way that Mithrandir told us about?” asked Maedhros.

Maglor paused. “What?”

“We met him on the road. The day before Midsummer.”

“Yes, I know. Caranthir mentioned it. But he spoke to you about pottery?”

“About the way some Avari use gold to put it back together, the way you fixed that cup that Tyelpë brought to Ammë. Mithrandir called it advice.”

They finished cleaning up the mess in silence. Maedhros put the big broken pieces on the table as the kettle started to sing. Maglor finished sweeping, and turned to pick up one of the pieces, turning it over in his fingers carefully, as he watched Maedhros finish making the tea. Once it was steeping he said, “That is true, what he said about the Avari—one of them taught me how, when I came to Imladris. Her name was Ifreth. I don’t know if she ever came west or if she went back east to seek who remained of her own people once it was safe; she liked to be mysterious about her comings and goings.” He set the piece down. “What did Gandalf say to you about it?”

Maedhros did not have to think hard to remember; the conversation had stuck in his mind. “Everything has a history, he said, and the breaking,” he nudged the broken cup handle with his finger, “the breaking is a part of it. He said the way the Avari repair things with gold highlights the breaks and turns it into something lovely by the end.”

“It is lovely,” said Maglor, “if you do it right.”

“Not everything can be fixed, though,” Maedhros said.

Maglor didn’t look at him. “It’s a long process,” he said after a few moments, speaking very quietly, “and it’s—it’s not complicated but it’s a lot of work, and you have to be very careful in the beginning, because the pieces are always a little jagged and sharp, and you’ve got to file them down a little, to smooth everything out so it fits together again, and there might be gaps and chips that need to be filled in.”

“Maglor…”

“It’s worth it, though, and this cup can certainly be repaired. I’m glad that I learned.” Maglor did look up at him then, and abandoned the safety of broken pottery. “I can’t see a way forward,” he said, meeting Maedhros’ gaze. His own was bleak; it reminded Maedhros of that afternoon by Ekkaia under the pale cloudy sky, when the color seemed to have been leached out of all the world. “I hear what everyone is saying to me, but they weren’t there.”

“I know.”

“I hear what you say to me, but Maedhros, I don’t know how to trust you anymore.”

“Maglor—you don’t have to—I’m not asking you to—”

“I know. I haven’t thanked you for that.”

Maedhros shook his head. “I don’t have the right to ask anything of—of anyone, but you least of all.”

Maglor dropped his gaze again. Maedhros turned to take down two new cups from the shelf, and poured the tea, hearing the quiet clink of ceramic behind him. While his back was turned Maglor said, very softly, “I miss you, Nelyo.”

They all used each other’s various names interchangeably in conversation, drifting from nickname to mother-name to their Sindarin names without rhyme or reason except what felt right in the moment. Maglor had fallen back into the same habit—except with Maedhros. He hadn’t used anything but Maedhros until that moment, and now—

Maedhros didn’t know what it meant. The old nickname, the father-name that he couldn’t bear to hear anymore except in that form and only from his brothers—so intimate a name, tied up in their childhood and all the things only the seven of them shared.

“I miss you too, Cáno,” he said into the mugs. But when he turned around Maglor was gone, along with the broken cup.

Feeling off balance, Maedhros took his tea and escaped again out to his painting studio. Even if he never picked up a brush, he thought he would always be grateful for Celegorm and Curufin for asking their mother to arrange this—a small, bright space that he could retreat to when he couldn’t just go back to bed. He sat at the drawing table and rubbed his hand over his face. A knock at the door did not surprise him, exactly, but he wished whoever it was had waited even just a few minutes longer. “It’s open.”

Celebrimbor entered. “Hello, Uncle,” he said, bending over to wrap his arms around Maedhros’ shoulders. “How are you?”

Maedhros gripped one of Celebrimbor’s arms for a moment. “Well enough. Don’t you start worrying.”

“Too late, but I won’t worry about the cat incident if you really are all right.”

“I have a few new scars, that’s all. They’re no worse than any I had before.”

Celebrimbor pulled another stool over to sit at the table by him. “Can I speak to you of Grandfather? I promise I don’t want to convince you of anything, or—”

“You can speak of him, Tyelpë. I survived seeing him; I can hear him spoken of.”

“It doesn’t…I mean, it doesn’t upset you that I’ve just spent all summer with him?”

Maedhros sighed. “No, of course not. It doesn’t upset me either that your father wants to see him. I know you both feel caught in the middle, and I wish it weren’t so.”

“I don’t, exactly,” said Celebrimbor. “It’s different for me, I know. I just don’t want you to think I am trying to push you toward a reunion you don’t want. I’m really not. I just…think that you should know what he’s like now. What he came back for, and what he plans to do.”

“I would like to know the latter,” Maedhros admitted.

“He isn’t going to come back here. He’s going to stay in Tirion; I think he originally intended to go back to Formenos, but that was when he thought Fingolfin would not welcome him. He doesn’t—you know by now he doesn’t want the crown, don’t you? Nor the Silmaril.”

“What does he want?”

“He asked to come out of Mandos because he saw Maglor was coming west,” Celebrimbor said quietly. “He just wants to be here, where you can go to him if you want to, instead of being locked away in Mandos out of reach the way that Finwë is, and Míriel was. He came back because he loves you, all of you, and Grandmother.”

Maedhros looked down into his mug, at the green-gold tea slowly cooling there. He understood why Fëanor would think like that, but for Maedhros at least it had been easier when he had been out of reach, when he did not have to wonder what his father was doing or thinking or planning, whether he might fall into madness again, whether he might try to take the last Silmaril when Eärendil next came to port after all. He claimed that he wouldn’t, but he had once claimed many things. He had once made many promises—and broke them all, in the end.

Well. If Maglor couldn’t trust what Maedhros said, Maedhros could not trust Fëanor. Not anymore.

“He wrote to you,” Celebrimbor said after a moment of quiet. “To everyone. I have all the letters here. He made gifts, too—small things, and you can accept or refuse them as you wish. He just—he doesn’t quite know any other way to reach out. And it was also my idea, at least in part, so please don’t be too upset with him. Do you want the letter?”

No. He didn’t. But he also knew that not knowing what it said would haunt him as much as everything else. “I’ll take the letter.”

“And the gift?”

“What is it?”

Celebrimbor reached into a satchel that Maedhros hadn’t even noticed he’d brought with him. From it he took, alongside the letter, two jars of shimmering liquid silver—or something very like it. It seemed to shine with a light of its own rather than just reflecting the sunlight through the window—very like the Silmarils in that way, though the effect was different, more delicate—starlight rather than Treelight. “He asked me to show him how to make ithildin,” Celebrimbor said, “when we were talking of Eregion. It’s something I created with Narvi. We used it to mark the doors of Moria.” His smile turned a little crooked. “They lasted until the War of the Ring, those doors. Frodo told me about seeing them, and the trouble Mithrandir had in recalling the password. You might have seen a depiction of them in the dining hall at Imloth Ningloron when you were there.”

“That’s what this is?” Maedhros picked up one of the jars, mesmerized by the way it sparkled.

“It’s not quite the same,” said Celebrimbor. “Ithildin was made with mithril, Moria-silver. It exists here, but it’s even rarer than it was in Middle-earth. We made it first specifically for the doors—dwarf doors that disappear when closed, you know? I never used it in other kinds of painting, though I know others experimented, and it could only be seen under the light of the moon and stars.”

“How did one find the doors in the daytime, then?”

“One didn’t. But until the war came, the doors were almost never shut, anyway. There were some doors in Ost-in-Edhil that were made and marked with it, because the idea of secret doors and passageways was amusing. In the end they were life-saving.” Celebrimbor ran his finger over the lid of the second jar. “This stuff isn’t quite like the ithildin of old, not just because it isn’t made of mithril. It will shine brightest in starlight, but it won’t vanish under the sun, and it was made with other uses in mind, other surfaces than stone.”

“Canvas, you mean,” said Maedhros.

“Yes. Grandmother wrote to me about all this—and so did my mother—and I told Grandfather. I hope you don’t mind. We spoke of you often—all seven of you. He wants so badly to understand.”

“I don’t mind, Tyelpë. You can tell him whatever you like.” There wasn’t much Celebrimbor could tell Fëanor that wasn’t already known, and Fëanor had already seen all there was to see of him. Maedhros set the jar down. “It’s beautiful. I don’t know if I’ll use it, but…but it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“It was his idea,” Celebrimbor said quietly.

“You can tell him that I like it.”

“You do seem better, you know. More—more present, than you were before. Cats and rivers aside, was it a good journey?”

“It was.”

“And you and Maglor…?”

Maedhros looked away, out of the window. “It will take more than a summer of traveling to mend that.”

“Are you both really at odds? I don’t…”

“Not at odds.” That was the worst of it, everyone assuming that they were. “There isn’t anything you or anyone else can do about it, Tyelpë; it’s between us and no one else. I’m sorry.”

Celebrimbor got up and hugged him again, squeezing tight. “It’s a new Age, Uncle. Everyone has come back now. Anything is possible.”

Left alone again, Maedhros stared at the jars, at the way the ithildin inside gently sparkled and glimmered. One of the first things his father had made after his return—and it was in collaboration with another. It was the spirit of Eregion, rather than Formenos. Of Tirion at Valinor’s Noontide, rather than its gloaming. Beauty over weapons. Giving instead of hoarding. It should have been a sign of hope, of a way forward.

Instead it just felt like too little too late.