starspray | A Hundred Miles Through the Desert

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 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

There was no hurry to be anywhere, so they broke camp late and stopped early each afternoon. After they stopped the day after Maglor had discovered Caranthir’s silver engagement ring, he pulled Caranthir away from the camp to sit by the river, hidden from the others by a patch of tall reeds and cattails. “I didn’t ruin any surprises or secrets, did I?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No, you didn’t.” Caranthir smiled at him, suddenly looking mischievous. “I was going to say something earlier, except no one noticed all the way to Lórien, so I thought I’d see how long it took, and then laugh at everyone for being so blind.” Maglor laughed. “But of course I wasn’t going to get married without you and Nelyo there.”

“I was only teasing. I know you wouldn’t.” Maglor hugged him. “I’ve missed you, Moryo.”

“It’ll be your turn next, you know,” Caranthir said as he leaned against Maglor.

“My turn for what?”

“I’ve been getting questions for years about when Lisgalen and I were going to wed. Next it will be you and Daeron.”

“Me and Daeron! That’s a little hasty, don’t you think?”

Caranthir rolled his eyes. “After several thousand years, of course you wouldn’t want to be hasty.”

“Most of those years were spend thousands of miles apart.” For most of those years, Daeron had hated him—and Maglor had deserved it. All that lay behind them now, but they had still been apart far longer than they had ever been together, even after coming to Valinor. Caranthir was only teasing, of course, but really Maglor and Daeron had only had a handful of years together, between the few weeks of the Mereth Aderthad and the few years after they’d come to Valinor and before Maglor had gone to Lórien. “There’s no hurry—not for us. Daeron says you’ve all halfway adopted him in my absence anyway.”

“He came to Tirion a few years after you left, and looked so lonely, like a lost kitten, that we had to do something.” Caranthir lifted his head off Maglor’s shoulder. “Well, that’s not wholly fair. He was a sad lost kitten with claws, and he did not hesitate to use them against Atar. Did he tell you about it?”

“He said they don’t get along, but nothing more—we’ll speak of it later. I don’t really care what Atar thinks, except that it might make things harder for Curvo.”

“I think Atar is trying very hard not to make it difficult for Curvo,” said Caranthir, “but the girls are old enough now to notice, and…that’s hard. They’re far too young to be told—well, anything. They only know our father as their doting grandfather—and he does dote on them, just like he did Tyelpë before everything went wrong.”

“Are you still angry?” Maglor asked quietly.

“I don’t know. Mostly I try not to think about him, and mostly I succeed.” Caranthir looked away, out over the river. Dragonflies buzzed through the nearby reeds, and a handful of frogs were croaking at one another somewhere out of sight. “He has kept his promise, though. Not to seek us out if we don’t want him to. That’s…something, anyway. I know Nelyo was worried about it.”

Worried was an understatement, Maglor thought. Maedhros had been so very afraid, more afraid than even he himself had realized until they’d gotten to Lórien, far away from their father and any chance of him appearing unexpectedly. Fëanor had turned his rage on Maedhros after Losgar, and though Maedhros had not quailed outwardly then, it had left its mark—and surely the Enemy had used it, in Angband, the same way Sauron had used all of their faces in one way or another against Maglor in Dol Guldur. Some of that fear lingered even still, tangled up in hurt and the tattered remains of love that Maedhros still harbored for him, all of it barbed and thorny and painful. Estë and Nienna and Irmo—even they could not heal everything. There would always be scars, and some things had to be faced head on, at their source, before they could be entirely set aside.

After some days more the lands began to look familiar again. They were nearing Imloth Ningloron, and it was hard not to charge ahead of everyone else, down into the wide stream-filled valley to find Elrond. Maglor missed him as much as he had missed his brothers and Daeron—and he missed the twins, too, and Celebrían, and the house itself and all the flowers and the orchards. Lórien was lovely and the journey had been wonderful, but he was ready to be at home.

As they neared the fork in the road Maglor gave into his impatience and rode ahead. Daeron kept pace, and the others laughed. “Shall we ride into the valley singing, or would you like to surprise him?” Daeron asked.

“I think I’d like to surprise him,” Maglor said with a grin, “if he really isn’t expecting me. I’d like to…” The road turning off into Imloth Ningloron came into view, and there was a party coming up from it, turning north toward Tirion. It was not a large party, but Maglor recognized his father’s banner, and a moment later Fëanor himself, turning to look at them. At the sight of his face the scars on Maglor’s right hand erupted, and he couldn’t stop himself hissing at the sudden, shocking pain of it, bringing his hand to his chest as he bit back a curse. He watched his father come to a stop, and behind him he heard Calissë exclaim in delight as the rest of their own party caught up and she saw her grandfather’s banner. She charged past Maglor and Daeron on her pony, and Fëanor dropped to the ground to scoop her up into his arms, laughing.

The sound of his laughter made something ache somewhere in Maglor’s chest, and he looked away. Daeron reached out for his hand, turning it carefully to reveal the scars, usually pale, gone pink and inflamed. Maedhros rode up on Maglor’s other side, his jaw set in that way that suggested he was going to do what he had to, regardless of how he felt. There was a hint of the Lord of Himring in him, as hard and impenetrable as those high walls had been, that Maglor had not seen in a very long time. If his own hand hurt, for it held the memory of the same scar that Maglor bore, he gave no sign.

Calissë, back on her pony, seemed to be insisting that Fëanor come back with her to greet everyone else, and of course there was no refusing her. Maglor turned his hand to grasp Daeron’s, needing that reassurance in spite of the tenderness in his palm, but he put on a smile for Calissë’s sake, and out of the corner of his eye watched Maedhros do the same. The rest of their brothers had caught up fully by then, Curufin trotting a little ahead with Náriel, who was also delighted to meet her grandfather so unexpectedly. “Does he often come to Imloth Ningloron?” Maedhros asked as Caranthir halted beside them, on Maedhros’ other side; Fëanor swung himself into his own saddle to trot down the road to them, following in Calissë’s wake.

“No,” Caranthir said. “He does not leave Tirion much, except sometimes to visit Valmar or Avallónë.”

“Well met, my Lord Fëanor,” Daeron said as Fëanor reached them, bright and cheerful, in the way that some poisonous insects were bright and colorful. Maglor saw Fëanor look at their joined hands and then away, something going tight in his jaw for a moment. Maglor tightened his grip and Daeron squeezed back.

“You see?” Calissë was saying, all beaming smiles and excitement. “We went to Lórien to fetch back Uncles Nelyo and Cáno to surprise everyone!”

“It is indeed a surprise,” Fëanor said, with a smile for Calissë, though it didn’t reach his eyes as he looked and Maglor and at Maedhros, and their brothers around and behind them.

“Atar,” Maglor and Maedhros said, inclining their heads just slightly, only enough to be polite; the rest of their brothers echoed them. “What brings you to Imloth Ningloron?” Maglor asked. It was hard to keep his voice even, let alone cheerful, but he tried.

“When one has a question of lore, one goes to the greatest loremaster of the age,” Fëanor said. He spoke lightly; he sounded almost like himself, the Fëanor of old that Maglor still loved and missed. He looked between Maglor and Maedhros, but his gaze lingered on Maglor, on the scars on his face and the strands of white in his hair—precisely the sort of staring that Maglor had once tried to hide from, and which he found he still intensely disliked. “Did you find what you sought in Estë’s gardens?”

“We did,” Maedhros said, his voice even. Maglor did not reach for his hand, because that would betray something neither of them wanted to show their father, but he wanted to. Maedhros’ horse shifted under him and shook her head a little.

“I’m glad of it,” Fëanor said. “I will not keep you longer from—”

“Won’t you come back to Imloth Ningloron with us, Grandfather?” Calissë asked.

“No, not today I’m afraid,” Fëanor said, smiling at her. “I am already late returning to Tirion. You’ll have to tell me all about your adventures when you return yourselves.” He kissed both Náriel and Calissë farewell, and murmured something to Curufin, resting a hand on his shoulder for a moment, before leaving at a canter, waving over his shoulder at the rest of them, his small party falling in behind him, riding away up the road toward Tirion. Only then did Maglor look at Maedhros, who shook his head minutely.

Before Calissë or Náriel could ask any of the questions that Maglor could tell were swirling in their heads, he urged his own horse forward, calling out as brightly as he could, “Well, come on then! No reason to tarry when we’re practically on Elrond’s doorstep!” Fëanor was not quite out of sight, and Maglor caught a glimpse of him looking back over his shoulder before he turned away himself, down the long gentle road into Imloth Ningloron. It was a wide valley, as unlike Rivendell at first glance as it was possible to be, bowl-shaped and shallow. The Pelóri rose up behind it, with the forested foothills closer at hand, dark with thick and tall pine trees. Many streams and little rivers flowed out of those hills into the valley, watering the irises for which it had been named, and all the other flowers and trees that Celebrían had planted there. The house was large and open, with a scattering of workshops beyond it, and beyond them lay Celebrían’s orchards—peaches and apples, beside a wide field for strawberries, and another where blueberry bushes were all laden with fruit. It was peach season now, and Maglor could see figures moving about beneath the trees, singing harvest songs. The sight of it made it immediately easier to breathe; the pain in his hand ebbed away, almost as though it had never been.

It was much the same as when he had left it, except that there were the beginnings of a new orchard on the other side of the peaches. Maglor swiftly outpaced the others, cantering into the courtyard before the main entrance. The doors opened and Celebrían emerged, ready to greet the newcomers. She stopped short, though, upon seeing him. “Maglor!” she cried.

“Celebrían!” he replied, laughing as he jumped out of the saddle as she hurried down the steps to embrace him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got all my brothers with me.”

“Of course I don’t mind! Oh, it’s so good to see you!” She kissed his cheeks, and took his face in her hands to look more closely at him, just as Daeron had—as many would. “Lórien was good to you, I see.” Her smile was knowing; she had spent many years there herself, long ago. “But I won’t keep you—Elrond is out in the apple orchard. Elladan and Elrohir are not here, though, but they’ll come back as soon as I write to tell them you’re home.”

“Thank you.” Maglor kissed her cheek. “I’m so very glad to be back.”

“Go on, go to Elrond! I’ll make sure your things get where they need to go.”

“I have three hedgehogs as well as my cat, this time!” Maglor called over his shoulder as he left the courtyard. Celebrían’s silver-bright laughter followed him, and once he was past the hedges he broke into a run, flying down the familiar paths, past the lilacs and the vegetable garden, past the workshops and forges, over little bridges and past the ponds, where ducks quacked at him and friends called out surprised and delighted greetings. Maglor waved but did not slow, not until he reached the apple orchard. It was quiet there and cool in the shade, the fruits all still small and round and green. He paused to catch his breath, inhaling deeply the scents of earth and leaf and grass, before passing farther under the trees. It was a good place to come to seek solitude and quiet—there were many such places in Imloth Ningloron, but the orchards gave the illusion of retreating to a small forest without having to cross the whole of the valley to the pine woods in the hills.

He saw Elrond before Elrond saw him, walking slowly with his hands clasped behind his back, apparently deep in thought. He was clad in soft blue robes, and his hair was loose, held out of his face only by a few small braids joined together behind his head with silver clips. “Elrond!” Maglor called, and watched him halt and spin around, eyes wide.

“Maglor?” Elrond gasped, and then they were both running. Maglor caught Elrond up in his arms. Tears stung his eyes. Now he was home. “When did you arrive?” Elrond asked. “We had no idea—”

“Only just now. My brothers and Daeron all came to fetch us from Lórien, but of course they did not bother telling anyone where they went.” Maglor drew back to let Elrond look at him properly. Whatever he saw brought tears to his own eyes. “Of course,” Maglor added, wishing for laughter and not tears, “that means you have all eight of us in addition to Curvo’s daughters now as house guests.” Elrond laughed, and threw his arms again around Maglor. “And three hedgehogs, a cat, and Huan,” Maglor added.

“You could bring an oliphaunt with you and I wouldn’t mind,” Elrond said, voice slightly muffled where his face was pressed into the crook of Maglor’s neck. “Oh, I missed you.”

“I missed you,” Maglor said softly, “so very, very much. I’m so glad to be home.”

They did not immediately leave the orchard. Instead they sat under one of the trees to talk a while. Elrond asked about Lórien, and Maglor told him some of it. Much that had happened he didn’t think he could speak of yet, if he ever could to someone other than Maedhros—and there were some things even Maedhros would never know. He and Elrond had once spoken of healing, in this very orchard, and while Elrond had spoken of festering wounds needing to be lanced before proper healing could begin, Maglor had talked of bones needing to be rebroken after having not been set correctly—or at all—the first time. His experience of Lórien had been much like that. It had hurt at first, and for a long time, but he felt that he had come out of it stronger as a result. Elrond did not ask more than he was willing to share, and he had plenty of small pieces of news of his own to share, bits of gossip and funny stories from the valley, and from Tirion.

“Your brothers have all been frequent guests,” Elrond said. “I’ve been very glad to get to know them over these last few decades—and Lady Nerdanel, too.”

“I’m glad too,” Maglor said. “Maedhros wishes to speak with you sometime. I don’t know about what.”

“I very much want to speak with him, too,” Elrond said. “I’ve long wished that I had made more of an effort to reach out to him before.”

“I don’t think he would have appreciated it much, if you had,” Maglor said. “But Lórien helped him as much as it helped me. Maybe even more. We saw our father on the road, as we arrived.” He flexed his scarred hand without thinking, and saw Elrond frown at it.

“He came ostensibly to consult my library, but I think he really just wanted to know if I knew where all your brothers had gone. Since I didn’t know they had gone anywhere in the first place, he left rather disappointed.”

“Have you seen much of my father?”

“Not really. He writes sometimes—that’s usually how he asks questions of lore and such things—and I’ve seen him in Tirion a few times, but Celebrían and I have done very little traveling since you left. Elladan and Elrohir have done more—they’re getting to know Turgon, now, in Alastoron.”

“Has Elladan gotten to go sailing with Eärendil yet?”

Elrond smiled. “He has, and is already looking forward to doing it again. Elrohir thinks he’s mad.” Maglor laughed. “How did it go, though? Seeing your father?”

“Calissë and Náriel were there, so we all had to put on smiles,” said Maglor. “It’s…it was both harder and easier than I thought. He did not linger, or try to speak much to us—but I’m sure the girls could feel the tension, and I don’t know how Curvo is going to explain to them. They’re too young to know the full truth.”

“I’m not sure there is a good way to explain, even when they are older,” Elrond said. “In some ways that is a blessing—that they will never know that kind of grief—but in other ways it is a whole new sort of grief.”

“I wish that he didn’t have to explain at all.” Maglor looked away through the trees. He glimpsed Huan sniffing around a few rows over, and after a few minutes more Pídhres appeared, jumping onto Elrond’s lap to sniff at his hands and purr when he pet her. “I think Estë did something to Pídhres. I’m told it’s been fifty years or so since we went away, and that’s far longer than a cat should live.”

Elrond laughed quietly. “I know better than to question such things—of the Valar, or of cats.” He scratched Pídhres behind the ears. “Do you have an immortal hedgehog, too?”

“No. Leicheg also lived longer than a hedgehog should, I suspect, but I think hedgehogs take a different view of that sort of thing to cats. I do have three of her little ones, though. There’s a dozen others that wandered off into Lórien over the years, but Aechen, Annem, and Aegthil refused to be left behind. Aechen is particularly attached to Maedhros.”

“Speaking of your brother, we should not linger too long. I’m being a terrible host.” Elrond made no move to get up.

“Celebrían is making up for it, I’m sure. Anyway, you don’t have to stand on ceremony with any of my brothers.” Maglor held out his arms and Elrond leaned against him. “Have I mentioned how much I missed you?”

They lingered under the apple trees until Huan came to shove his nose into their faces. Elrond laughed as he got to his feet; Pídhres hissed at Huan and jumped into Maglor’s arms. “Very well, Huan, we’re coming.”

Back at the house, Maglor left Elrond and made his way to his own room, eager to be in a space of his own again, and to change into clean clothes and brush the dust of the road out of his hair. He found Daeron there, playing the harp that Maglor had left behind. He’d carved it, and the smaller one he took traveling, out of driftwood collected from the shores of Middle-earth. He loved working with wood, and driftwood most of all, twisted and smoothed and discolored as it was in so many interesting ways. The rest of the room was much as he had left it, if a little tidier, and with a few more personal touches of Daeron’s. The sight of them made him smile. “There you are,” Daeron said, smiling himself as he rose from the harp. “You found Elrond?”

“I did.” Maglor dropped Pídhres onto the bed, though she immediately jumped off and vanished, heading off to reacquaint herself with the house, and then sank down onto it himself, falling back with a sigh. “Oh, I’ve missed a proper bed.”

“No mattresses in Lórien, then?” Daeron asked, amused.

“There were bowers filled with blankets and pillows and things, if we wanted them, but none of them were my own bed. Come here.” Maglor held out his arms, and Daeron joined him. “You weren’t there, either.”

“I’ve had the luxury of proper beds, but I have found them uncomfortably big and empty, since you left,” Daeron said. He smiled, but it was wistful. “I missed you terribly.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No! Don’t apologize.” Daeron kissed him. “You needed to go, and I’m glad you did. Seeing you again now—it is worth all the years of empty beds.”

“Will you tell me what you said to my father? Caranthir said you had words, and I saw how he looked at you on the road.” Maglor brushed a few strands of dark hair out of Daeron’s face.

“He seemed rather insulted on your behalf by my own reputation, and then I think I confused him greatly by saying that I did not care about such things. He also told me that he had seen my face in Mandos upon that tapestry that showed our leaving Middle-earth.”

“I remember you wondered about that,” Maglor said. Fëanor had written to him of it; he hadn’t thought about that letter in years. It would still be tucked into a drawer at the bottom of his desk, just across the room, full of sentiments Maglor still didn’t know if he really believed or not.

“That was our first meeting, at the start of that year’s Midwinter festivities—and it was among company, so we were both on our best behavior. Our second meeting was the day before I left Tirion again; we had no audience then, and he…” Daeron stopped, a frown passing over his face—the first bit of real anger that Maglor had ever seen in him. “He objected to my wearing the pendant you gave me. I suppose he could tell at a glance it was your work. He accused me of being a stranger to you and thus unworthy of such a token, simply because I had admitted our friendship in Middle-earth had been short-lived and then only lately renewed. That was far more offensive than anything he might have said about my talents or my music, and I spoke harsh words in return—pointing out that I was far less a stranger to you than he was, and it was by his own doing. I did not linger to hear what he might have said in reply.”

“It isn’t your fault if the truth sounds harsh,” Maglor said.

“Well, I did certainly did not go out of my way to try to soften it. I suppose it was all coming from a place of care,” Daeron said. “And Curufin had told him nothing—he didn’t think you would wish for him to share such things with your father—which I am sure was frustrating.”

“I wouldn’t have, then. I don’t think I care so much now—I’ll have to tell Curvo that, so he doesn’t keep feeling caught in the middle. My father, though, lost the right to question to whom I give my heart long ago,” Maglor said softly. He did wonder whether it really was from a place of concern, or if it was only a matter of pride that made him object to Daeron, one who had the audacity to claim—as Fëanor would surely see it—to be mightier than any of his sons in anything, or for one of the Moriquendi to surpass a Noldo. He doubted whether his father’s pride had really been so dampened even by such a long stay in Mandos, whatever he had said and done immediately upon his release. “I’m sorry, though. You should not have had to face his scorn alone.”

“I am more than equal to it,” Daeron said, smiling at him. “I know my own power and my own skills, and I have my own pride. Your father doesn’t frighten me. We’ve met many times since, always in company, and it usually goes about as well as it did earlier today.”

“As long as you aren’t bothered, then, I won’t be either.”

“It only bothers me insofar as it might make things harder for you. You’ve seen him once, though,” Daeron said. “It can only be easier from here—and I am not going anywhere, beloved.” He kissed Maglor again, more deeply, and murmured against his lips, “And now let us put all such things out of our minds, since there’s no longer any fear of our privacy being invaded…” Maglor laughed and pulled him closer.