A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter One

[starspray]

Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: T
Characters: Sons of Feanor, Elrond, Feanor, Daeron, various others
Warnings: n/a
Summary: After years in Lórien, Maglor and Maedhros are ready to return to their family and to make something new with their lives--but to move forward, all of Fëanor's sons must decide how, or if, they can ever reconcile with their father.
Note: This fic is a direct sequel to High in the Clean Blue Air.

Prologue / Next Chapter

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes…
- “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver

- -

 

Valinor
Fourth Age 175

 

Maglor woke to warm sunshine on his face and the smell of flowers all around him. When he opened his eyes it was to blue skies peering through the canopy of the towering beeches of Lórien, high overhead, and to red and white poppies bobbing in the breeze closer at hand, with queen’s lace swaying alongside them. He liked queen’s lace—in his youth it had been called Queen Míriel’s lace; in Beleriand it had been Queen Melian’s; in the Shire he had heard it named for Queen Fíriel. Perhaps somewhere, he thought idly, watching a butterfly alight on one delicate umbel, it was now named for Queen Undómiel. 

Arwen would have laughed at such a thought. Maglor sighed and let his eyes fall shut again. It was years and years now since she had passed beyond the Circles of the World, and he had come West, following Elladan and Elrohir and the promise he had made to Elrond. He did not know how long precisely—in the Gardens of Lórien it was impossible to count the seasons, let alone the years. It had been long enough for the weight of that grief to lift, though, at least a little. 

Long enough for many such weights to lift—or at least for Maglor to learn how to carry them. Many old wounds had been reopened upon his coming to Valinor, to find not only all of his brothers returned before him but his father too. He had seen Fëanor only once, and it had not gone well. He had met his brothers again not long afterward, all of them fleeing Tirion and its surrounding countryside as far as the shores of Ekkaia. That had gone better—not by very much, but at least well enough that Maglor had agreed to go back home with them all, to his mother’s house. 

So much about that summer had been so very hard, had been painful in ways both expected and not. He had not come to Valinor expecting to need to seek Estë’s help—nor had he wanted to. He had just wanted to see Elrond again, and to settle into his and Celebrían’s little realm of Imloth Ningloron as he had settled in Rivendell before. It hadn’t been enough, in the end, and so here he was, drowsing amid Irmo’s poppies and feeling more like himself than he had in centuries. He’d forgotten what it was to be himself, without the burden of all the years and all the shadows and all the blood weighing him down like chains; all of that was something he could carry now tucked into a corner of his heart where it would not trouble him. It would always be there, alongside the grief that accompanied it, but it would not be forever at the forefront of his mind. His voice no longer tried to turn every song he sang into a lament. 

Scuffling in the grass heralded the arrival of the hedgehogs. Maglor had brought one with him to Lórien, a companion found on the road to Ekkaia—one of two companions, really, for he had met Daeron even before Leicheg. Much about that summer had been hard, but falling back into friendship and then into love with Daeron had been so easy, as easy as playing the notes of the scale upon his harp, easy as breathing. Daeron had not come to Lórien, but had returned to Thingol’s realm and his own people. Leicheg had come, and had lived a very long life for a hedgehog, but of course even in Lórien hedgehogs did not live forever—although it seemed that cats might, for Maglor had brought Pídhres too, who had been a stubborn kitten when he brought her aboard the ship at Mithlond, and who had since grown into a sleek young cat, and then seemed to grow no older. Maglor had caught her once in the arms of Estë herself; Estë had laughed softly, winked at him, and kissed the top of Pídhres’ grey head before setting her down and dissolving into a burst of flower petals to flutter away on the breeze. But like the cats of Rivendell, Leicheg’s descendants had decided to keep him, and now three of them scurried out of the flowers to climb up onto his chest. Pídhres followed, licking her rough tongue across his cheeks and nose. “Good morning,” he murmured, reaching up to scratch her ears without opening his eyes again. 

“Are you awake, Cáno?” Maedhros appeared above him, his shadow blocking the sunshine for a moment.

“Mm. No.” He felt very comfortable, and like he could fall back asleep with ease—maybe he would. It had been a long time since his dreams had been troubled by darkness or cold, but he still marveled at it a little every time he woke up feeling refreshed rather than afraid. It still felt like a luxury to fall into sleep without fearing that the past would reach out to grasp at him.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to eat all the raspberries myself.”

“Raspberries!” Maglor opened his eyes. “Why didn’t you say so before?” He held out his hand and Maedhros, laughing, pulled him up. The hedgehogs went tumbling into the grass. 

As Maedhros hauled Maglor to his feet, a noise on the wind made them both pause. “Was that music?” Maedhros asked. 

“A flute, perhaps?” Maglor said. They both listened, but did not hear it again. Perhaps it did not matter. Maglor often heard voices somewhere out of sight, singing or laughing, though he’d never heard instruments before, except his own harp. Lórien was never empty, but it was rare to meet anyone else. He had even gone long stretches of time without being able to find Maedhros. 

“It isn’t only raspberries I found,” Maedhros said, leading Maglor over to a picnic basket, filled with bowls of fruit and flasks of a drink Maglor could not name, but which tasted clean and clear as spring water, while bringing new strength and warmth to one’s limbs. It was always to be found somewhere nearby after he woke from dark dreams. Those were rare, these days, and promised to grow even rarer in the future, though they would never go away entirely. Estë described them as scars; his spirit was healing, but it would always be marked by what had happened to him, what he had done, just as his body bore the scars of battles and torment—just as Maedhros, even returned from Mandos into a body made new, was still missing his right hand, and bore the memory of burns on his palm from the Silmaril. The important thing, though, was that even when the dreams did return, the lingering dark moods that used to follow would trouble him no longer. They would be like any other bad dream, easier now to forget about in the light of day. 

Maglor took a handful of raspberries from the bowl, savoring the sun-warmed sweetness of them. “What’s that over there?” he asked, seeing something else resting on the grass nearby.

“Saddle bags,” Maedhros said. “Ours.” 

“Oh.” Maglor lowered his hand. They had been speaking lately of leaving Lórien, both of them feeling as though they were ready to return to the outside world—to their brothers and friends and kin. It seemed that Estë agreed. “I suppose today is the day, then.” Maedhros smiled and nodded. He was still often somber and grave, but when they had first come to Lórien he had been almost incapable of laughter, hardly able to smile. He had been filled with dread at their father’s return to life and to Tirion, which lay so close to their mother’s house and their grandfather Mahtan’s estate, where Maehdros had lived since his own return from Mandos. “Where will we go, when we leave?” Maglor asked.

“Do you not want to return to Imloth Ningloron?” Maedhros asked. 

“Certainly. But do you want to go there?”

Maedhros picked up a strawberry, but didn’t take a bite. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I cannot and do not want to continue as I have been. I owe Elrond, at least, another apology.”

“He might not agree.”

“Then thanks, at least. I would have come here regardless, because it was you that asked me, but—it was his words that made me understand what was wrong, and if I had come here without that…I don’t think it would have made any difference. He did not have to do me that kindness.”

There had never been much love between Maedhros and Elrond—and Elros, when he had lived—and it had grieved Maglor for a long time. It had been Maedhros that had held himself apart, sinking ever deeper into despair and desperation as the War of Wrath raged in the north, and the Oath grew heavier and heavier, and the dangers of Beleriand increased. Since his return from Mandos and Elrond’s coming West, the pattern had held. Elrond would not intrude where he felt he was not wanted, and Maedhros had withdrawn from nearly everyone, save their mother and Caranthir.

Until Fëanor had come. 

They had not spoken of their father in a long time, though of course they had spoken of everything else. So much lay between them, good and bad, and with the help of Nienna they’d had many difficult conversations—many arguments—and shed many tears over the course of their stay in Lórien. It was known as a place of rest, but such healing was not always restful—and even when it was, the dreams Irmo sent were not always soothing. They were both better for it, stronger, but Maglor did not feel very differently about Fëanor now than he had when he had left Imloth Ningloron on that fateful journey to Ekkaia—except that he did not think he was afraid anymore. Not of Fëanor, and not of losing his temper either. He had no desire to see his father, but he would not flinch, he thought, from any chance meeting. 

“Are you afraid, still?” he asked quietly. 

Maedhros did not have to ask what he meant. “Yes,” he said, equally quietly. “But…it is not the sort of fear that will keep me up at night, as it did before. I feel stronger now.”

“Good.”

“If I do meet him, though…I hope I will not be alone. I do not want to do that again.”

“Nor do I.”

They finished breakfast and gathered up their things, finding the saddle bags neatly packed with clean clothes and their cloaks. Maglor had his harp in its case, and a larger basket to replace the one that had once carried Leicheg. “All three of them are coming along, then?” Maedhros said, amused, as Maglor set the basket down to call the hedgehogs to it. They all came scurrying out of the grass and into the basket without any fuss. Pídhres jumped up onto Maglor’s shoulder as he straightened. 

“I think Aechen will be following you home,” Maglor replied, laughing. 

“I haven’t the first idea how to care for a hedgehog,” Maedhros protested, but not very strongly. 

“Neither did I, when Huan brought Leicheg to me. I’ve found they mostly take care of themselves.” 

As though summoned by the speaking of his name, they came upon Huan himself before long, splashing in one of the many streams that flowed through Lórien, as they began walking down the first path that they found. The nature of Lórien was such that any path would take them wherever they needed to go; Maglor had long ago gotten hopelessly lost, but he had also never worried about it. 

“Huan!” Maglor exclaimed, as the great hound bounded out of the water, barking a greeting. Pídhres made a disgruntled noise and shoved her nose into Maglor’s ear as Huan greeted them with enthusiastic kisses. Pídhres hissed at him and jumped from Maglor’s shoulder to Maedhros’. “What are you doing here?”

After he sniffed them thoroughly—including the hedgehogs—Huan turned and trotted away down the path, glancing back over his shoulder with that familiar expectant look. “Someone’s come to fetch us home,” Maedhros said. “Tyelko must be here somewhere.”

“Better not keep him waiting, then. Oh stop it, Pídhres,” Maglor added as Pídhres voiced her discontent. Maedhros picked her off his shoulder to hand her back to Maglor. Celegorm had sent Huan to keep an eye on Maglor upon his first coming to Valinor, and Pídhres had never been happy about it. She was not fond of sharing, except with the hedgehogs. “We’re coming, Huan!”

Huan led them through the winding pathways, past berry brambles and honeysuckle thickets, through flowering glades where bright golden sunbeams pierced through the canopy overhead, and alongside the many little streams and rivers and ponds that populated Lórien. None of it was particularly familiar to Maglor, but after a while he heard the flute music again, more than just a snatch on the breeze this time, and the sound of it made him come to a halt. “Cáno?” Maedhros glanced back at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Maglor said. “It’s just—that sounds like—” Huan barked, and the flute cut off abruptly. 

“Come on.” Maedhros grabbed his hand and pulled him along down the path, both of them quickening their pace now, until the trees opened up into a wide meadow filled with flowers, bright yellow celandine and dandelions and sweet-scented pale chamomile mingling with cornflowers and irises. On the other side of it was a larger party than Maglor had ever seen in Lórien—five figures sitting in the grass. No, seven figures, he realized, for there was a pair of children with them. Huan barked again, and they all looked up. “It seems everyone has come to fetch us home,” Maedhros said, laughing, as all their brothers scrambled to their feet.

“Nelyo!” Celegorm was the fastest, and he lunged at Maedhros, nearly knocking both of them to the ground. “Did you just laugh?”

“Cáno!” Caranthir reached them on Celegorm’s heels to throw his arms around Maglor, who dropped the hedgehogs in their basket just in time. “Did you find what you needed?” Caranthir asked him, voice muffled by cloth and hair where he had his face pressed into Maglor’s shoulder. Maglor could feel something damp soaking into his shirt. 

“We did,” he said, tightening his own grip around Caranthir. “I promise, we did.”

The twins came to them next, and Curufin just behind them, and for several minutes everything was confusion, a tangle of limbs and hair and laughter and tears—a much merrier meeting than Maglor’s first reunion with them, far away on the shores of Ekkaia. There had been very little laughter then, and none at all from Maedhros. Now he laughed so much more freely, and Maglor could see the astonishment in all their brothers’ faces. They, too, were brighter than when Maglor and Maedhros had left them, more at home in themselves and with each other. The years, it seemed, had been kind to them all.

Then suddenly there were two new voices joining the chorus, a pair of young girls demanding to be picked up and introduced to their uncles. Curufin and Celegorm obliged, laughing. “Nelyo, Cáno, these are my daughters, your nieces,” Curufin said. “Calissë is the elder, and Náriel the younger.”

“Nieces!” Maglor exclaimed. He held out his hands to clasp their small ones, and as the girls giggled he kissed their cheeks. They looked like Curufin, with dark hair and grey eyes, but Náriel had her mother’s sharp features and Calissë the freckles that ran in Nerdanel’s family. “This is the best surprise! I am so glad to meet you.” Maedhros echoed him, and also kissed the top of Curufin’s head. Maglor hadn’t seen Curufin smile so freely since Celebrimbor had been small. 

“Uncle Nelyo, why have you only got one hand?” Náriel asked.

“Náriel,” Curufin began, alarmed. 

“I lost it,” Maedhros said.

“But how?”

“I was stuck in a very frightening and uncomfortable place,” Maedhros said, “and my cousin Findekáno had to come rescue me—and I lost my hand in the process. But it’s all right; I can do almost everything just as well with my other hand. There have been many songs made of it since, for Findekáno was very valiant, and I’m sure you’ll hear them when you’re older.”

“All of the best stories are ones we have to wait to hear until we’re older,” Calissë said, sticking her lip out in a pout that was so like Celebrimbor’s at that age that Maglor couldn’t help but laugh. “But could not Lady Estë help you get your hand back?”

“That’s enough, Calissë,” Curufin said. “We talked about this.”

“It’s all right,” Maedhros said. 

“It’s rude,” Curufin retorted. Maglor laughed again and covered his mouth when Curufin glared at him. “The two of you are supposed to be the good influences, to make up for Tyelko and Ambarussa!”

“I am an excellent influence,” Celegorm protested. “Aren’t I, girls?”

“The best!” Náriel agreed immediately. 

“Ammë says you’re terrible,” Calissë said, “and Atya says Ammë is always right.” Then she exclaimed, over everyone’s laughter and Celegorm’s mock-indignant sputtering, “Are those hedgehogs?” 

“Cáno, you have more?” laughed Amras as the three of hedgehogs came back out of the grass to sniff around their feet now that the chaos of their reunion had passed. The girls squirmed until they were let down to see them up close.

“Aechen, Annem, and Aegthil,” Maglor said.

“No Leicheg?” asked Caranthir. 

“Hedgehogs don’t live for fifty years, Moryo,” said Celegorm. 

“Neither do cats, and yet here is Pídhres,” Caranthir retorted, gesturing toward Maglor’s shoulder. Pídhres meowed. 

“Has it been that long?” Maglor asked, lifting a hand to pet her. “What else have we missed?”

“Not very much,” said Amrod. He took Maglor’s arm and Amras grabbed Maedhros’ as they made their way back across the meadow. Caranthir remained at Maglor’s other side. Amrod went on, “Except there’s been some talk of another Mereth Aderthad, or something like it. King Ingwë heard the idea and thinks it would be a fine excuse to bring all of the Eldalië together—the Noldor, the Vanyar, and the Teleri, and all the Avari who’ve made their way here too, if someone can convince them. It’s been rather long in the planning, though.”

“They’ve been waiting for Cáno,” said Curufin, “that’s why.”

“For me?” 

“They can’t have only two of the three greatest singers there to perform,” Caranthir said, “obviously.”

“But you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Celegorm added quickly, with a worried glance at Maglor. 

“And if Ingwë doesn’t wish to take your no for an answer,” Amras added, “we can just ask Elrond for help. No one will argue if he says no.”

Maglor hadn’t even thought about performing since he’d come to Lórien. He’d once loved it, had thrived on it. That had all changed after he’d wandered too close to Mirkwood and fallen into the clutches of the Necromancer. 

Now, though… 

“Maybe,” he said. If he were to perform with Daeron and Elemmírë, it would not be so bad. He could feel a knot forming in his stomach at the thought of standing up before such an audience as all the kindreds of the Eldar gathered together, not to mention the Valar—but if he would not be alone, it would surely be different. “If—” 

There it was again, the sound of a flute, so lovely it made the breath catch in his throat. Maglor turned toward it without thinking. “Go on, then,” said Amrod, laughing as he and Caranthir pushed Maglor in that direction, Amrod snatching Pídhres off his shoulder in spite of her yowls of protest. “Just don’t get lost!”

“It’s very hard to get truly lost here,” Maedhros said as Maglor left them, following the sound of the flute. The song was unfamiliar but the playing wasn’t. He quickened his pace, passing out of the meadow and back under the cool shade of the trees. 

After only a few minutes he spotted a dark figure ahead, seated on one of the enormous roots raised up out of the ground at the base of one of the towering trees, with purple flowers in his hair and a flute in his hands, his long pale fingers dancing over it as he played an intricate melody that brought to mind birdsong in the early dawn and water flowing over smooth stones. For a moment Maglor just watched him play, listening to the music, as new and as familiar as springtime—for it was impossible not to; the forest had all fallen silent around him, as though the trees themselves were listening—and drinking in the sight of him. There would be time to both listen and to make music together soon enough, though, and the moment Maglor stepped forward, out of one of the deeper shadows, Daeron saw him and abandoned the song in an instant, throwing himself off the tree roots, hitting the ground already running. “Maglor!” They were of a height but Daeron was smaller, more slender, and Maglor caught him up in his arms, spinning with the momentum of it so they didn’t go tumbling into the leaves. Daeron wrapped his arms around Maglor and kissed him so deeply he thought he’d drown in it. When they parted they were both breathless, both with tears on their faces. Daeron kept his arms around Maglor’s neck. “I’ve missed you,” he said. 

“I missed you, too,” Maglor replied. They had exchanged a handful of short notes over his time in Lórien, whenever Maglor could find a bird willing to carry a bit of paper for him, but it wasn’t enough. He tightened his arms around Daeron, burying his face in his hair at the crook of his neck. “I missed you so much.”

“I found it much harder than I thought to be patient,” Daeron said. He pulled back just enough to take Maglor’s face in his hands to look into his eyes, searching for old shadows. His own eyes were dark as the midnight sky, lit with ancient starlight; Maglor thought he could drown in them, too. “Oh,” he breathed, “there you are, beloved.” Maglor smiled at him, and Daeron kissed him again. “The light in your eyes is back.”

“The shadows aren’t all gone,” Maglor said. “They never will be—but I can live with them now. The past doesn’t feel so heavy.”

“You’re ready to leave this place?” Daeron asked. “Your brothers all seem to think so. They sent Huan to fetch me in the middle of a banquet in Taur-en-Gellam—” 

Maglor laughed. “Oh no—”

“—but if you aren’t yet ready—”

“I am ready.” Maglor kissed him again; he never wanted to stop. “I don’t think Lórien would have let you all find us if we weren’t. Have you been often with my brothers since I left?”

“Oh yes. Your mother has practically adopted me. She and Caranthir built a new addition onto their house so everyone can stay there more comfortably, and the room meant for you has been called Daeron’s room, more often than not.” Daeron smiled when Maglor laughed again. “They really do all feel like my brothers too, now, and not only because we all missed you.”

“I’m glad. I’m so glad.”

“I met your father, though—he isn’t nearly as fond of me as your brothers, or your mother.”

“Oh no—what did he say?”

“It doesn’t much matter. I can tell you of it later—it was years ago now, anyway.” Daeron sighed and tightened his arms around Maglor, pressing his face into his hair. Maglor did the same, and they stood for several minutes like that, finally together again and not needing words to fill the silence. Daeron was warm, smelling of flowers, his hair softer than silk against Maglor’s face. “We should return to the others,” he said finally, voice slightly muffled, “before I lose all restraint—and then it will surely be one of your nieces who comes looking for us, and Curufin will never forgive me.” He did not move, though. 

Maglor laughed softly—it felt so good to laugh with Daeron again—and tightened his arms round him, but Daeron was proved right a few seconds later when both Calissë and Náriel came around the tree roots behind them. “Daeron!” Náriel exclaimed, darting forward to fling herself into his arms. Calissë was just behind her, and Maglor scooped her up, settling her on his hip; it was as easy and natural as it had been long ago when Celebrimbor had been small—and later, Elrond and Elros. “Atya said no one is supposed to wander off!”

“I think he was talking about you,” Daeron said, “and yet here you are!”

“We weren’t wandering!” Náriel protested. “We were looking for you!”

“We were just coming back.” Daeron shifted Náriel in his arms so he could reach for Maglor’s hand, sliding their fingers together. 

“Have you been crying? What’s the matter?” Náriel wiped at Daeron’s face with her small hands, making him laugh again. “I thought everyone was happy to see Uncles Cáno and Nelyo.”

“I am happy,” Daeron said. “That’s why I have been crying.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Calissë protested, as she wiped at Maglor’s own damp cheeks.

“Tears are not always sad,” Maglor said. He was done crying for the moment, but he could feel the tears still behind his eyes, waiting to escape. He would gladly take these joyful tears over the countless bitter ones he had shed over the centuries. “Sometimes one’s heart can feel so full that it overflows—and tears are the only way it can. Tears and laughter.”

“Or song,” Daeron said. 

“I do not think there is any song that could contain the joy I feel right now,” Maglor said.

Daeron squeezed his hand. “We’ll have to write one, then.”