A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Four

[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 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

 

Elrond always found himself thankful that Fëanor’s visits to Imloth Ningloron were rare. He had been quiet and withdrawn through much of that first summer after his return from Mandos, but that could now be safely attributed to—well, to having just come from Mandos, to adjusting to life again on top of reconciling with his brother and facing some of the lasting consequences of his actions after the Darkening. He was well settled into life now, and Elrond found him a very impressive person—and also one very aware of his own talents, and so self assured that it bordered on arrogance. 

It probably had been arrogance, once, but Elrond did not think it was quite that bad now. Still, Fëanor remained unused to being seriously argued with, and Elrond often found himself arguing with him, which was often exhausting—especially if it was the sort of spirited debate that Fëanor seemed to think was fun, at least when he won, but which Elrond hated. However confident he was in himself, Fëanor still had much to catch up on and to learn, for the world had changed many times over during his time in Mandos. It seemed to frustrate him greatly whenever that lack of knowledge tripped him up. 

On this visit he’d wanted less to consult Elrond’s library than Elrond himself, concerning his sons; he was determined to leave them be, but that did not seem to extend to a willingness to remain ignorant of all their doings. Elrond had not even known they’d all gone off somewhere, and wasn’t sure why Fëanor had been so surprised. He had said himself it was sudden and apparently unplanned. They had all visited Imloth Ningloron a great deal since Maglor had left for Lórien, and Elrond was glad to have come to know them, but that certainly did not mean he was privy to all their plans or secrets.

After bidding Fëanor farewell, Elrond retreated to the apple orchard, wishing for solitude and quiet and also room to walk and to breathe. He hadn’t been there even ten minutes, though, before Maglor appeared, with such a smile on his face as Elrond had never seen before. It was never possible to guess how long someone might need to stay in Lórien, but Elrond had been prepared to wait far longer than only a few decades. The scars were still there, of course, but the shadows in Maglor’s eyes were gone, and they shone with Treelight brighter than Elrond had ever seen in him. Maglor even spoke of his father with ease, with a rueful smile rather than the tight, pained look that had always accompanied Fëanor’s name before. He did flex his scarred hand as though it pained him, and though Elrond knew it was foolish to expect every old wound to have been entirely healed, he still didn’t like to see it—but even that was easy to set aside in the face of Maglor’s easy laughter and bright smiles, and the way he held himself—so differently than he had in all the time that Elrond had known him from Beleriand onward; it was as though some great weight had been lifted off of him. 

Back at the house Maglor kissed Elrond’s temple before heading off to his room to change out of his traveling clothes—and probably not to emerge until supper time, if Daeron was waiting for him. Elrond went in search of Celebrían, and found her bringing a platter of pastries filled with peaches and drizzled with honey out onto the large veranda that overlooked the duckpond and the vegetable garden. “Maglor found you?” she asked.

“He did.” Elrond kissed her. “And he’s brought all his brothers back with him, he says.”

“Yes, they’re all gathering outside. Maedhros is here too, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“He’s very different than he was when we last met. No more wallowing in old miseries for him! It was a great relief to see.”

Maedhros was not outside when Elrond followed Celebrían onto the veranda. Curufin was, and the twins followed just behind Elrond and Celebrían. Calissë and Náriel were, of course, out by the pond. Caranthir was with them, crouched by Náriel as Calissë tossed treats out to the ducks and the fish. After greeting Elrond, Amras went to join Caranthir and the girls by the water, and Amrod sat cross-legged on the ground by Curufin’s feet. “So your sudden and mysterious journey was to Lórien?” Celebrían said as she set the platter down. “How did you know it was time?”

“You’ll have to ask Celegorm, for it was he that came to collect all of us,” said Amrod as he picked up a pastry. “Maybe Huan could tell. Neither Maglor nor Maedhros had sent any messages, though, if that’s what you mean. They were very surprised to see us!”

“As we were surprised to see all of you!” Celebrían laughed as she sat down. “I confess when we heard you’d left I was a little worried, recalling the last time you all set off together.”

“That was quite different,” Amrod said. “If something had happened, we wouldn’t have taken Curvo’s girls.”

“They insisted on coming on an adventure,” Curufin said with a smile, “and a trip to Lórien is as safe an adventure as I can think of. Arimeldë was very happy to have the house to herself for a few weeks, but she will come meet us here after I’ve written to tell her we’re back. Tyelpë may come too, if his work allows.”

“They are both more than welcome of course,” Elrond said. “The journey was good?”

“It was excellent,” said Amrod. 

Celegorm and Maedhros came to join them then. Elrond rose to greet them, hiding his sudden apprehension behind a smile. He’d seen and spoken to Maedhros only once since he had come to Valinor, just before Maglor had arrived, and it had not been a pleasant visit for either of them. Maedhros had been wrapped in misery and guilt and all sorts of other things, hardly changed from the person Elrond had known in Beleriand, and Elrond himself had been mourning both Arwen and Aragorn, worrying about his sons and about Maglor. That visit had ended with the news of Fëanor’s imminent return, and it had not been long afterward that they’d heard that Maedhros and all his brothers had left their mothers house for the western wilderness. 

Now, Maedhros seemed almost like a different person. He was still quiet, but he smiled when his brothers spoke to him, and the fire of his spirit had been banked. Even his voice seemed different, no longer weighed down by fear and grief and pain; he seemed younger, brighter, and much more like the Maedhros so many had spoken of, rather than the one that Elrond had known as a child. He held himself less tightly, his limbs looser and his shoulders relaxed. When Calissë and Náriel returned to join them, Náriel climbed onto his lap without hesitation, and Maedhros put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head, every inch a doting uncle. 

He still didn’t quite look Elrond in the eye, though. Much still lay between them, but it could be sorted out later; it was not the sort of conversation, or series of conversations, to be had in front of others, especially young children. Elrond did not say more to Maedhros beyond a greeting. “Where is Maglor?” someone asked after a little while. 

“With Daeron, I think,” Elrond said. 

“We won’t see them again until dinner, I’m sure,” Celebrían said. “How long do you intend to stay? I hope at least until Elladan and Elrohir return.”

“We’ll stay as long as you’ll have us,” said Amras, reaching for a pastry over Amrod’s shoulder, “and eat all of your peaches. I don’t think any of us have any pressing matters awaiting us.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Caranthir. “You just go off and sit in the woods.”

“We follow Vána’s teachings,” Amrod said.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Dinnertime came around, and as predicted that was when Maglor and Daeron reappeared. Maglor was still not in the habit of dressing in finery—many centuries of lonely wandering with no thought to his looks made returning to jewels and fine robes a struggle, sometimes—but he had ribbons in his braids that evening, and small silver and sapphire rings in his ears. His brothers teased him a little, but he laughed at them right back. Dinner was always a merry and busy meal in Imloth Ningloron, though it was quieter that evening than usual; many had gone traveling that summer, or were away on errands to Tirion or Alqualondë or Tol Eressëa. After dinner, as the stars came out, there was as always call for music—and especially for Maglor’s music. He had been missed by everyone in the valley, and he obliged with a brilliant smile, singing with Daeron and with Lindir, and others, and alone. Elrond’s own harp was also brought out, and the two of them sang together, songs that Maglor had taught Elrond as a child, and songs that Elrond had taught him in return upon his coming to Rivendell. 

It was a lovely evening—merry and joyful and starlit. After nearly everyone drifted away to their beds, or to other parts of the valley, Maglor lingered, sitting by Elrond and playing quiet and simple melodies on his harp. “I missed this,” he murmured. “Singing with everyone.”

“Does it still worry you, playing in front of others?”

“Certainly not here. I think it won’t be something I seek out again—performing before a larger audience, I mean—but it doesn’t frighten me as it did. I won’t refuse if I am asked.” Maglor smiled a little crookedly. “Which is just as well, since I hear that there is some great feast being planned, and that I’m sure to be called upon for it. Another Mereth Aderthad, one of my brothers called it, though I can’t imagine why Ingwë would take an interest in such a thing only now.”

“I don’t know either,” Elrond said. “I think plans are being laid for some sort of great celebration of something, but the particulars haven’t been shared with anyone here. For my part, I am very happy to let all the great kings and princes make their plans without me.” That made Maglor laugh. “I had quite enough of plans and schemes in Middle-earth.”

“Not such merry ones, though,” Maglor said.

“The merry ones are worse, for then everyone feels free to argue about every little detail.”

“Instead of just listening to you as they should,” Maglor teased. He tugged on one of Elrond’s braids as he spoke, the way he often did with Elladan or Elrohir. “Whatever they’re planning, I'm curious but quite content to only go where I’m instructed and sing whatever they wish of me.”

“You and Daeron and Elemmírë will be much in demand, I think,” Elrond said. “You know your father will also be in the middle of it.”

“Of course he will. I can face him without flinching, at least in company.”

“Your feelings haven’t changed, though?”

Maglor shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think about it much anymore—or at least I hadn’t until we left Lórien—but there are things even Estë and Nienna cannot mend, and I suppose whatever lies between my father and me is one of them.”

“And Maedhros?”

“The same. He…” Maglor lowered his voice, “The tales all speak of how he stood aside at Losgar, but they do not tell what our father said to him afterward. It was ugly—as ugly as anything he’d ever said to Fingolfin. Maedhros met him earlier today and remained steady enough, but I have not yet had the chance to speak with him about it.” Maglor glanced across the hall to where Maedhros sat, Caranthir on one side of him and Celegorm the other, all three of them laughing at something Lindir was saying. “Have you spoken to him?”

“Not yet. You’ve only all just arrived.” Elrond leaned against Maglor. “There’s no hurry.”

“No, of course not.” 

“I’d never seen you with all of your brothers until today. I’m very glad they’re all here with you. Especially Maedhros.”

“I am too,” Maglor said. “He has been apprehensive about seeing you again. You never did tell me what you quarreled about when he was last here.”

“I don’t know if quarrel is the right word. It was not a good time for either of us, and we both said some unkind things.” The past had been a heavy thing on both of their hearts then, though Elrond knew how to carry it a little better than Maedhros had—and he’d had Celebrían to help him. Maedhros, at that time, hadn’t had anyone. He allowed himself no one, until his brothers had all taken him away west. “I told Celebrimbor once that I wished I could have known the Maedhros he and others spoke of so fondly.”

“You can, now,” Maglor said softly. “He isn’t the same—that’s impossible—but he’s so much more like himself now than he was in all the time you knew him both here and in Beleriand.”

“I’m glad of it,” Elrond said. He knew it had both grieved and worried Maglor that Maedhros had held himself apart when Elrond and Elros had been young. They’d been afraid of him from the start, and unlike Maglor he had done very little to quell those fears. Only time, and seeing the closeness that he and Maglor still shared then in spite of everything, had eased those fears. It was impossible to like someone who made it difficult on purpose, but Elrond hoped now that they could leave all of that behind them where it belonged. 

He woke early the next morning, and ventured out into the gardens. Gentle mists hovered over the waters, tinged golden by the rising sun, glowing among the blooming water lilies. As he passed over one of the many bridges that spanned the various ponds, Elrond saw Maedhros was awake also, seated in one of the gazebos built in the middle of the water, with a book of some kind on his knee and a pencil in his hand. He lifted his head as Elrond approached, and straightened. “I don’t mean to disturb you,” Elrond said, pausing by the gazebo. 

“You aren’t,” Maedhros said. There was a pause, somewhat uncomfortable, in which Elrond tried to think of something to say. Finally Maedhros spoke again. “This valley is beautiful. I don’t think I said that to you before.”

“Celebrían built it, and planted the gardens,” Elrond said. “Your grandmother helped, I think.” He stepped into the gazebo. “I was glad to hear that you went to Lórien with Maglor. I wasn’t sure you would, having refused for so long.”

Maedhros looked away, out over the water. Birds were singing in the bushes and grass along the banks. “I never thought it would help,” he said, “though I couldn’t explain why. You understood, though, even when I didn’t.”

“I should have seen it sooner,” Elrond said, “but I did not look. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I wouldn’t have listened. I still don’t understand how, though—we only spoke once, and I don’t think either of us were in the mood to understand the other, then.”

“I’m sorry for that, too,” Elrond said.

“Please don’t. It was wrong of me to come here as I did, at that time. I knew you were grieving.”

“So were you.” Elrond sat down on the bench, leaving a few feet of space between them. “As for how I knew—I realized what the root of the problem must be when Maglor came back here that autumn. We weren’t speaking of you, but of him—of his own fears. I knew the root of them, as did he, and once I made the connection to you it seemed so obvious.” Maglor had been the prisoner of the Necromancer, and Sauron had wielded fear like a blade, wounding with deadly precision and leaving lasting harm. Maedhros had, long ago, been a prisoner of Morgoth—and unlike the Necromancer, Morgoth had been at the height of his powers, though he had not wielded any of his weapons with the same precision. He hadn’t had to. “Of course you would be afraid of the Valar,” Elrond said. “Are they not cut from the same cloth?”

“Estë is as unlike the Enemy as it is possible to be,” Maedhros murmured. “I knew that.” They both knew, though, that fear did not often care about what one knew.

“Námo, perhaps, is not so different though.” Maedhros had held himself apart in Mandos, too, refusing any aid or comfort that was offered to him, until the Valar decided that those halls were not a place he could find healing. They had been right, though perhaps not in the timing of it. 

“In life we only see him as the Doomsman of the Valar. In the Halls I think he is very different, but I wasn’t interested in seeing that, or understanding any of it. I only wanted to be left alone. I didn’t realize then how afraid I still was; I’d thought I left it all behind me.” Maedhros dropped his gaze to the sketchbook on his lap, moving his pencil idly as he shaded in part of what he had been drawing. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I would have gone with Maglor regardless, because it was he who asked, but I don’t think it would have helped if I still hadn’t understood what it was I feared.”

“I’m glad,” Elrond said. “Truly.” Maedhros smiled at him; it was a small smile, but real. “Maglor says you would only have withdrawn if I had sought you out earlier, but I’m sorry I didn’t. If I had known that you’d seen Maglor in the palantír, I would have told you much sooner that he’d been brought out of that place, that he was safe.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Maedhros said. “I spoke of it to no one but Finrod and my mother, and neither of them would betray a confidence. My brothers were furious with me for keeping it from them, but I still think it was the right thing.”

“It was a heavy burden to bear alone,” Elrond said. 

“No heavier than any other I’ve carried.” Maedhros shrugged. “I won’t ever apologize for trying to protect them. It drives them to distraction.”

“I’m sure it does,” Elrond said. He understood that desire, to protect everyone he loved from as much as he could, and he understood too how it felt sometimes to be on the receiving end. “When is it their turn to protect you?”

That made Maedhros laugh. Like his smile it was quiet, but it was no less startling for it. “They told Maglor and me that summer it was their turn to ‘be the oldest.’ Mostly I think it was an excuse to scold us—and maybe we needed the scolding. I did, anyway.” His smile faded away after a few moments, and they sat a little while in silence, listening to the water and to the birds. Someone began work in one of the forges, and to sing in time with the hammer falling upon the anvil. Finally, Maedhros said, “Elrond—at Sirion…”

“You needn’t apologize again. I’ve forgiven you all of it already.”

“I know. Afterward, though—I’m sorry. I know you were afraid of me, you and Elros. I didn’t know how to reassure you, then—and I thought it better if I didn’t, if I kept what distance I could. I was not…”

“I know. I understand, now, and looking back I can remember the ways in which you did care for us. Learning to wield a blade with both hands saved my life later, more than once. You insisted on that, didn’t you?”

“I did tell Maglor it would be best if you learned that way, as many skills as possible. He agreed—I didn’t need to insist.”

“Still. Thank you.” 

Small footsteps heralded Calissë’s arrival. Maedhros’ smile was much brighter as he closed his sketchbook and lifted her onto his lap without hesitation. “Uncle Nelyo, have you seen the fish?”

Elrond left them, Maedhros being appropriately impressed by Calissë’s favorite fish, and Calissë as happy and delighted with her uncle as it was possible for a child to be. Náriel sped past him over the wooden bridge, and he heard Maglor calling after her to slow down, to be careful. “The pond isn’t deep,” Elrond said as Maglor caught up to him.

“That isn’t as reassuring as you think it is,” Maglor said. “I remember pulling you out of plenty of waters we thought were shallow.”

“That was Elros’ fault,” Elrond said.

“What, every time?” Maglor laughed.

“Of course! But really, I know just how deep the water is here—and both Náriel and Calissë learned how to swim in this very pond.” Celebrimbor had taught them, alongside Elladan and Elrohir, while Rundamírë had dragged Curufin away to the workshops so he wouldn’t hover and make anyone else as nervous as he had been. “You don’t have to worry; they’re with Maedhros.”

Náriel and Calissë were both laughing, just out of sight in the gazebo. Maedhros’ deeper voice joined them after a moment. “I know,” Maglor said, glancing toward the sound. “Small children, though—it’s hard not to worry.” His look back at Elrond was soft and fond and a little sad. “Teaching you to swim was necessity, not play.”

“You still made it fun—and we knew a little already.” He’d spent the vast majority of his life dwelling far inland, at the feet of mountains, in river valleys, but Elrond remained a child of the seashore, of sands and foam and waves; one of his clearest childhood memories of his father was learning how to float in the calm waters of Balar, Eärendil’s hands big and steady under his back and his hair shining like gold in the summer sunshine. His most treasured possession from those years was a small box of seashells, somehow rescued in the chaos of Sirion’s burning—he could not remember how. The box was newer than the shells; Elros had made it, as Elrond had made the one he had carried away to Númenor with his half of the shell collection. Elrond didn’t know what had happened to that, whether it had been passed down through Elros’ family, its significance eventually forgotten, perhaps the box itself lost or destroyed. The thought made his heart ache a little, as so many things about Númenor did. “How are you?” he asked Maglor, wanting to think of something else.

“You don’t have to worry anymore either,” Maglor said. “I’m fine, truly. I slept wonderfully last night, and am still very happy to be home.” He embraced Elrond, holding tightly. “I spent too short a time here before I left for Lórien.”

“You went when you needed to,” Elrond said, “and now there can be nothing to call you away again—not for such a long time, anyway.”

“No, nothing,” Maglor agreed.

“You still intend to make your home here?” Elrond asked. It had been Maglor’s plan from the start, but that had been before he’d seen his brothers again, let alone reconciled with Maedhros.

“Yes, of course. In the future I suppose I’ll split much of my time between here and my mother’s house, but I would call this place home as long as you’ll let me.” He smiled to show he was teasing. “I’d apologize, for that means my brothers will all be forever coming and going, but they’ve been doing that in my absence anyway.”

“I’ve been glad of it,” Elrond said, “and I’m glad that Maedhros is here now too.”

“You spoke?”

“A little. It went well.” Elrond put his arm through Maglor’s, and they left the wooden bridge and followed a path that wound around the edge of the pond. “I think what you both really needed was each other, as much as what Lórien could offer.”

Maglor hummed agreement. “I have been thinking of Elros,” he said softly after a few minutes. “I wish he could have met Maedhros—this Maedhros, the one who laughs.”

“Were Elros here,” Elrond said, “he would push Maedhros into the deepest part of the pond. And then he would fish him out, soaking wet and covered in algae and duckweed, and laugh at him.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?” Maglor didn’t laugh, and his smile was small and wistful. “I remember thinking once that he would have pushed me into the Sea, only to drag me back out and yell at me afterward.”

“That was our plan,” Elrond said, and that did get a laugh, small and quiet though it was. The grief of Elros’ absence was familiar and well-worn by now, the edges of it dulled by time; it was easier to laugh about him, to play guessing-games about what he might do if he were to somehow return to them, but the heartache was still there, the shape of his absence one Elrond had had to grow around, like a tree growing around a wound. 

Maedhros’ absence was not a wound that Maglor had ever recovered from before coming west, no matter what he had claimed or even believed. Their reunion had not been a joyous one, both of them still reeling from Fëanor’s return and still aching from their own pasts—but the joy was there now, trust rebuilt and love renewed. There would be no great feast held for it, but Elrond thought that a greater cause for celebration than anything Ingwë might be planning.