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

Once he parted from Elrond and satisfied himself that the girls were with Maedhros and not likely to fall into the pond—it was both surprising and not, how those old habits of worry had resurfaced, even knowing there was nothing in Valinor that could ever compare to the dangers of Beleriand during the War of Wrath—Maglor wandered away to the workshops, to reacquaint himself with wood and clay and to see what had changed there and what hadn’t. He greeted old friends and laughed at the renewed jokes about Pídhres and Huan, both of whom appeared at various times to check on him as he wandered through the valley. It was high summer and the gardens were flourishing, the orchards and fields overflowing with peaches and strawberries. The new orchard was for oranges, though the trees were too young yet to bear much fruit. Celebrían had planted a lemon tree near her herb garden, too, and was talking of mangoes.

As he wandered the garden paths he hummed to himself, and when he returned to the fishpond he found Maedhros still there, alone now with his sketchbook. Maglor crossed the wooden bridge to join him. “You spoke to Elrond this morning,” he said, sitting and leaning against Maedhros’ shoulder to peer down at the page, which sported a few studies of the fish swimming about below, and one quick sketch of Náriel, still rough and lacking detail.

“I’m sure he told you all about it.”

“No, we were distracted by Náriel and Calissë. I was worried about Náriel falling into the water, and Elrond was trying to tell me not to.”

“Náriel tells me she is an excellent swimmer,” Maedhros said.

“Well yes, she would. I think I said the same thing at her age, right before I fell into a lake and nearly drowned myself before Uncle Linquendil fished me out. But…?”

“It went well, as you must have guessed.” Maedhros leaned his head against Maglor’s. “It’s still surprising to me how kind he is.”

“He’s always been that way.” Elrond hated it when Maglor tried to downplay his own influence on Elrond’s life, but truly, Elrond and Elros both had been kindhearted and good from the start—kind as summer, had been Bilbo’s phrase for Elrond—and that had nothing to do with Maglor and everything to do with them. “He told me that he is glad you’re here.”

“That’s very kind of him, since it sounds like all our other brothers have been making nuisances of themselves ever since we left.”

Maglor laughed. “That makes me happy, too—to have everyone I love getting to know one another, to have you all like each other. What did you talk about with Elrond?”

“Fear, and regrets. He apologized to me, which would be ridiculous even if he had done something wrong.” Maedhros put his arm around Maglor and kissed the top of his head. “I think only you could’ve raised him the way you did and managed to shield him so well from anything that might turn him bitter.”

“I don’t know about that. He endured much after we parted.”

“But he met it all with the skills you taught him,” Maedhros said, as implacable as Elrond himself on the subject.

“I just loved them,” Maglor said quietly. He spared a moment to wish again that Elros could have had this chance, too—to meet Maedhros once more, to see him as he really was rather than what the Oath and years of torment and centuries of war had made him. He wished, too, that Arwen could have met Maedhros, as Elladan and Elrohir soon would. The closest she or any of her children had come was riding with Maglor up the coast north of Lindon, within sight of Himling Isle, where the towers of Himring still stood, mist-wreathed, only slowly succumbing to the ravages of time. Maybe someone had gone out to the island since, but Maglor never had. It would have hurt too much, to see that familiar place so changed, to walk the old halls that his brother had built loved and to see them crumbling and pitted, overgrown with moss and vines.

“Did your hand hurt, when we saw Atar yesterday?” Maedhros asked after they sat for a little while in comfortable silence, listening to the water and the other sounds of the valley—laughter and singing, and the ringing of hammers, and the birds in the trees. Somewhere in the distance Huan barked.

“Yes. Did yours?”

Maedhros sighed. “As though I were holding a Silmaril again. I thought it would be different, but it wasn’t.” Maglor reached for his hand, turning it over. The scar pattern there had faded again, almost invisible unless you knew what to look for. Maglor’s own scars had also lost the pain and last bit of lingering tenderness overnight. “I thought I’d be able to just…see him in company the way Ambarussa do. Be polite but nothing more. I don’t think I can.”

“Maybe it’ll be easier next time,” Maglor said, though he had his own doubts. They were the only two of their brothers to have touched the Silmarils, after everything. The only ones who followed the Oath to the very end—the end of it, the end of the world, long after they’d lost or tried to bury any love they might still have harbored for their father. Maglor had wept many bitter tears over it in Lórien, and Nienna had consoled him but had been unable to offer any real guidance. He knew that he should try to find a way to forgive his father. He’d once thought he’d never be able to forgive Maedhros for what had happened at the end—for having had to watch as he disappeared into the fire, and then to find his own way, somehow, through the breaking and drowning lands and then through the long years afterward. He had, though, and here they were, both of them so greatly changed, but learning all over again how to be brothers, how to find their way back to the closeness they’d once shared.

Fëanor, though. That felt different. That hurt went even deeper—but at least it wasn’t one he had to bear alone.

When they left the pond to walk back to the house the hedgehogs came scurrying out of the grass. Aechen went to Maedhros, who scooped him up and nestled him in the crook of his right arm. Leicheg had always liked to be carried like that, too. The other two followed along at Maglor’s heels, vanishing into the flowers and then reappearing a few minutes later as they went. They came to a wide open space in the garden near the house, and found Celebrían just arriving there as well—and not alone. “Galadriel!” Maglor exclaimed. He sprang forward to embrace her. “Did you just arrive?”

“I did,” Galadriel said, laughing. “Huan came so suddenly to drag Daeron away that I suspected it must be because you had returned, or were about to.”

“And you were right, as usual,” Maglor said. Galadriel smiled at him, catching and holding his gaze. Whatever she saw there made her smile even more. “It’s good to see you again,” he said.

“And you, Macalaurë. And you, Maitimo,” Galadriel added, turning to Maedhros, who inclined his head in greeting. “Is that a hedgehog?”

“Oh yes,” Maglor said. “There are three of them now. I don’t know where Annem and Aegthil have gotten to, but Aechen is particularly fond of Maedhros.”

“For reasons that remain mysterious,” Maedhros said, with a small smile. He did not quite meet Galadriel’s gaze, but Maglor hadn’t really expected him to.

“Oh hello, Galadriel!” Daeron appeared then, coming up from another one of the many garden paths. “Good morning, Celebrían,” he added.

“Good morning!” Celebrían said. “Breakfast is inside for anyone who is hungry, though I’m afraid we haven’t anything on the table suitable for hedgehogs.”

“I think Aechen has had his fill of breakfast already,” Maedhros said. He smiled at Daeron and followed Celebrían inside.

“How much of a stir did Huan cause?” Daeron asked once they were alone with Galadriel. “I was rather distracted, trying to keep him from ripping my favorite robes.”

“Not much, really,” Galadriel said, laughing. “Everyone thinks you’ve just gone haring off into the wild again with Maglor’s brothers again. We all just shook our heads and laughed at you, and some bets were made on when you would be back.”

“Betting on me! I’ll have to write to Beleg to find out when it would be the funniest time for me to return.”

“But gone haring off again?” Maglor said. “Has that happened often since I’ve been away?”

“No, but they weren’t entirely wrong this time,” Daeron said, laughing. “Though when I leave to visit your brothers I don’t usually do so in the middle of a banquet—I may be somewhat lacking yet in manners, but I’m not that rude.”

“I’m not sure the road to Lórien really counts as the wild,” Maglor said. “What’s the latest gossip from Tirion, Galadriel? What is Finrod doing these days?”

“Finrod has been on Tol Eressëa these last few years,” Galadriel said. “Tirion is quiet, but Daeron has been making a name for himself among the loremasters, and causing something of a stir.”

“I was a loremaster in Doriath long before most of them were born,” Daeron said.

“Of course,” Galadriel said with a smile, “but I was referring to your refusal to use the tengwar in any of your writings.”

“I think it’s good for the Noldor to have to translate another’s alphabet, and remember that they are not the pinnacle of all learning,” Daeron said airily, “and anyway I don’t only use my cirth. There are several Elvish alphabets and modes of writing that were developed in the east that predate even my own, and I have written several treatises on them in the last decade, since none of those who use them have come into the West.”

Maglor couldn’t help but smile. “And it is coincidence, of course, that you have done so much work in a field bound to interest my father, in a mode of writing that he had no part in creating.”

“I had no idea when I began that work that your father had any particular interest in it,” Daeron said. “Anyway, it doesn’t hurt anyone and I’ve heard no complaints, and it should not be surprising.” He slipped his arm around Maglor’s waist and leaned against him. “I use my letters because I made them and I like them best.”

“And if you can spite Fëanor, all the better?” Galadriel asked, amused. “I admit I am a little surprised, Daeron. I didn’t realize you had exchanged more than a handful of greetings.”

“It took very little more than that for Fëanor to take a rather decided dislike to me, and I am afraid the feeling is mutual. But what of your decided dislike of Fëanor, Galadriel? As I recall it was rather famous.”

“He continues to avoid me, for the most part,” Galadriel said. “For myself, I long outgrew such things. I won’t pursue a friendship, but I will not turn him away either, if he wishes to speak to me. But what of you, Maglor? What are your feelings, having now been to Lórien?”

“Much as they were before,” Maglor said, “though I think I spent all my anger the first time we spoke. I hear he does not often leave Tirion, and as I have no plans to be there much, I think I can survive the occasional meeting.”

“You’ve no wish for reconciliation?”

“Maybe when seeing him does not make my scars burn.” That made Galadriel frown, but it was as good an answer as Maglor had. Daeron slipped his hand into Maglor’s, his fingers rubbing over the scars there, as though to soothe any lingering ache.

“Does it hurt Maedhros too?” Galadriel asked softly.

“Yes. Worse than me, I think.” As he spoke Maglor felt Daeron’s arm tighten a little around him. Galadriel sighed. “Mandos can work wonders, it seems, but it cannot entirely remake a person. My father is still himself, must still have a temper, and his pride.”

“He has it under control now, at least as far as I have seen or heard,” Galadriel said.

“He and Curufin fight, at times,” Daeron murmured. “Curufin says sometimes it is ugly—but they have reconciled afterward, each time, and it seems to only bring them closer. Curufin remains hopeful.”

“Even so. It’s best…it’s best is our father continues to keep his distance, as he promised he would, and for us to keep ours.”

It was something he still needed to speak to Curufin about. Maglor did not begrudge Curufin his own desires, or his love for their father. How could he? It grieved him, though, that they were all so divided. Ambarussa seemed entirely ambivalent; Celegorm was still resentful, even if he was somehow quieter and calmer about it. Caranthir was more difficult to read, but he could hold a grudge longer than any of them.

He did not get a chance to speak to Curufin, for several more days. The girls made it hard to get him alone, and there were many demands on Maglor too as he found his way back into the rhythms of life in Imloth Ningloron, as one who lived there rather than as a guest. Finally, though, Maglor was able to catch him in a moment when Náriel and Calissë were entranced by a story Daeron was telling, and no one else wanted either of them for anything. “Curvo, can we speak?” he asked.

“Of course. Is something the matter?”

“I don’t know.” Maglor put an arm around Curufin’s shoulders as they walked outside. “Come this way, where it’s quiet.”

Celegorm and Maedhros came upon them just outside the memorial garden. “Is something wrong?” Celegorm asked, looking between them.

“I just want to speak of Atar,” Maglor said.

“Alone, or…?”

“No, just away from small ears.” Maglor opened the gate, but found his brothers hesitant to enter. “What’s the matter? Surely you’ve seen this place before.”

“But can we…?” Curufin asked. “Isn’t it meant for—”

“It’s quiet and private,” Maglor said. “Come on. It isn’t haunted.” He slipped inside, and shut the gate with a soft click behind them. “I came here once with Galadriel to talk about all of you. No one will care if we talk about our father here, least of all the hobbits.” The garden had been first made when Bilbo had died, laburnums and snapdragons planted over his grave, and a mallorn tree beside it. Frodo and Sam had followed in their own time, and a small memorial to Merry and Pippin had been erected between their graves, Frodo’s covered in soft blue forget-me-nots, and Sam’s shaded by a rose bush grown from a cutting he had brought all the way from Bag End, sweet-smelling and pink.

“You spoke of us with Galadriel?” Celegorm said, startled, as Maglor went to the new memorial that had been made in his absence. It was a relief carving of two silhouettes in pale granite, easily recognizable even at a glance, with names carved neatly beneath them. Arwen and Estel—this place was not for kings and queens or princes or lords, but for dear friends and loved ones; there was no need for any title or regal epessë here.

“Yes,” Maglor murmured, as he ran his fingers lightly over the names. He turned to the statue of Gilraen beside it, brushing the fingers of her outstretched too in silent greeting. “As I said, it’s quiet. I was trying then to decide whether I wanted to go to see you.” He looked over his shoulder at the three of them, standing near the gate still. Maedhros was looking at Gilraen’s statue, an unreadable look on his face. “Then Atar arrived that afternoon and—well, that rather decided my course for me. Come sit.”

Curufin paused by Gilraen’s statue, peering into her face. “Who was she?” he asked. “She seems familiar.”

“Gilraen,” Maglor said as he sat on the bench under the mallorn tree, on the opposite side from the graves. Sam’s rosebush had grown, and Frodo’s soft blue forget-me-nots swayed in the gentle breeze between it and the laburnums that covered Bilbo’s grave. “She was Aragorn’s mother, and descended herself from the royal line of Arnor. You might see something of Elrond in her; she was Elros’ many times great-granddaughter.”

“Did you know her well?” Curufin came to join them on the bench; Maglor pulled him down between himself and Maedhros; Celegorm sat on the grass at their feet.

“Yes. She was a dear friend. But I want to talk about you, Curvo.”

“Me and Atya, you mean? I’m fine.” Curufin looked surprised. “Really.”

“You said you fought before you left,” Maedhros said quietly. “Do you fight often?”

“No,” Curufin said.

“When you do fight, is it about us?” Maglor asked. “Daeron says at times it it ugly.”

Curufin shook his head. “Only sometimes. He’s—I think he did not expect everyone to stay away, really. I think he thought—he told me that you said, Cáno, the worst thing he’d done was die, and…well, he isn’t dead, now.”

“I did say that,” Maglor said. “And I meant it. That does not mean his mere presence in life again is enough to make up for all the rest.”

“I’ve told him that,” Curufin said. “But it’s—it’s so hard to make someone understand what it was like when they weren’t there. Tyelpë has had the same trouble in trying to speak to him of Middle-earth. It’s the same trouble we’ve all had with Ammë, except Atar believes he does understand because he did cross the Sea.”

“It’s hard, I think, when the person doing the telling has also come back from Mandos,” Celegorm said. He leaned his head against Curufin’s knee. “You don’t have the scars to show him. There’s nothing but your words, and so it only sounds like a story.”

“Elrond has also spoken to him, and he did not come here by way of Mandos,” Curufin said.

“Elrond doesn’t have visible scars, either,” Maglor said, “and I doubt he’s interested in sharing the ones he does have with our father. I have scars, but I don’t…”

“I wouldn’t ask it of you,” Curufin said. He reached for Maglor’s hand, turning it over to reveal the scars. “It hurt again, didn’t it?”

“Lórien healed much, for us,” Maedhros said, “but not everything.” Maglor reached for his hand with the one Curufin wasn’t holding, and Maedhros squeezed his fingers before letting go. “The Silmarils hold the Treelight and the blessings of Varda, but they are still the works of his hands, and…I think that’s what hurts now.”

“Speaking of things he has made, what of the palantíri?” Maglor asked, having a sudden thought. “You all looked for me in one of them, once—into my past. Let Atar look for all of us, let him see all that happened in Beleriand through the stones.” There were nine palantíri in a chest at Nerdanel’s house, the first ones Fëanor had made long ago—attuned to the seven of them and their parents, never showing anything else except with great effort of will. In their youth Fëanor had been endlessly frustrated with his sons’ continual forgetfulness to take at least one when they went traveling, so he and Nerdanel could speak with them at need.

“I hadn't thought of that,” Curufin said, startled. “I don’t…that is asking a lot of him, and he did see much in Mandos—”

“And much of what he saw will have faded away by now,” Celegorm said, “the way it has for all of us. The palantír is a good idea. Let him see what we became, since it’s impossible to explain it to him in words.”

“He might see things we don’t want him to see, though,” Curufin said. “Private things—”

“If it means he understands, after,” Maedhros said softly, “let him see.”

“I’ll suggest it,” Curufin said, but he still sounded doubtful. “It will hurt him, to see it more clearly than in Vairë’s threads.”

“I’m sorry that you’re caught in the middle, Curvo,” Maglor said. He closed his fingers around Curufin’s. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

“He is different,” Curufin said quietly. “He’s—he does love us, all of us. But it’s…me telling you is, I know, the same as trying to tell him what Beleriand was like. He also hates Daeron, which really doesn’t help.”

“Is it because Daeron is the mightier singer?” Maglor asked. “He told me he thought Atar was offended by the distinction given to him over me.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, though maybe that’s part of it. Daeron doesn’t respect him, is I think the problem. Not as your father and not as…himself.”

“Respect is earned,” Celegorm said, “and I don’t think Atar has done anything to earn Daeron’s respect. Don’t worry though, Cáno,” he added, smiling up at Maglor. “Everyone else loves him.”

“That might be part of it too,” Curufin said. “He has to grit his teeth and be polite whenever Daeron comes to Tirion and they end up in company together, but Daeron is so unconcerned with what anyone thinks that he doesn’t have to try very hard to be pleasant. You can only tell that he dislikes Atya if you know him well.”

“Daeron also said that you don’t talk about me at all,” Maglor said. “Don’t feel that you have to keep doing that. I don’t care anymore what Atar does or doesn’t know—except maybe don’t tell him that our scars hurt.” It felt like a weakness that he did not dare let Fëanor know about. Curufin nodded, and squeezed Maglor’s hand briefly.

“What does Ammë say about all of this?” Maedhros asked.

“We don’t speak much of it,” Curufin said. “She sees and speaks to him, but she’s only a little quicker to forgive than any of you. You remember how they parted. It was very terrible, and she hasn’t forgotten. I don’t know what Atar will have to do to make up for it, if he ever can.”

She might forgive more quickly if the rest of them could, Maglor thought. “I’m sorry, Curvo,” he said again.

“Please don’t be. It isn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry too, but mostly because of the girls,” Celegorm said. “They should not be caught in the middle either.”

Celegorm and Curufin left the garden first. Maglor lingered, because he liked it there, and he suddenly missed Gilraen in particular a great deal. He had never really confided in her, but she had understood much without having to ask. They’d spoken a great deal over the years of grief and pain and other things, she offering him the wisdom of the Dúnedain and he sharing something of what little he had learned for himself.

Maedhros stayed because Maglor did. He watched as Maglor rose to return to the memorial for Arwen and Aragorn. “When I came here before,” he said, “I was surprised to see nothing for Elros. Elrond only said that he has his monument on Tol Eressëa.”

“He does,” Maglor murmured. “I saw it when I was in Avallónë. I think Finrod carved it. Tar-Minyatar, though, looks quite different from our Elros.”

“Why nothing here, though?”

“I don’t think Elrond can bear it. Even this is very new.” Maglor traced the lines of Arwen’s hair with his fingertips. Part of it looked like Elrond’s own work, but it had been finished by other hands. Elladan and Elrohir’s, maybe. Celebrían did not work with stone. He knew that Elrond had made the statue of Gilraen, which was also relatively new. “They looked for us, you know.”

“I know. Elrond told me.”

“I had no idea until I came to Lothlórien and Galadriel told me of it.” Maglor sighed, and turned to go sit on the grass by Bilbo’s grave, between it and the bench where Maedhros still sat. “I had thought I’d come back here with a better idea of what I wanted.”

“I thought so too,” Maedhros said softly. “I hoped…” He looked away, farther into the garden. Other statues and little memorials were scattered throughout the flowers and small bushes, bearing names or symbols or the likenesses of dear friends whose memory was carried still in the hearts of those who lived in Imloth Ningloron. “I should’ve known better than to hope for anything, really. I knew what it felt like to have those kinds of hopes dashed.”

“It’s never wrong to hope,” Maglor said. He himself was still learning how—how to hold onto it again, to really believe that the future would be brighter than the past, that there would be good things that did not have to end, the way everything else had ended. It still felt like such a fragile thing, something he did not dare grasp too eagerly or too hard, lest it slide out of his hands like sand or seawater. He found that he still could not hope for anything at all when it came to Fëanor.

Elladan and Elrohir arrived after another week passed, galloping down the road and leaping out of the saddle almost before their horses had come to a halt. Maglor had heard them coming and come to the courtyard to greet them. “Maglor!” Elladan reached him first, Elrohir only a step behind. “We almost didn’t believe Naneth’s letter!” Elladan said. He pulled back to look Maglor in the face. “Did it help?”

“Yes, of course.” Maglor kissed them both and held them tight for a moment. “I missed you, though, so very much.”

“I hope you’re here to stay, now,” said Elrohir.

“I hope so, too! And next time I get it into my head to wander off across Valinor I’ll be sure to take you both with me.”

“Is Maedhros with you?” Elladan asked.

“All of my brothers are here,” Maglor laughed, “but I do want you to meet Maedhros at last.”

“Is that Pídhres?” Elrohir exclaimed as she came trotting out of the garden. “Hello, little one, I was not expecting you!” He picked her up, laughing. “Lórien was kind to you indeed!”

“Fingon asked us to tell you—to tell Maedhros, really—that he’ll be following as soon as he can get away,” Elladan said to Maglor as they walked into the house. “And I’m sure Finrod will be coming as soon as word reaches him in Avallónë.”

“It should have reached him already, since we’ve already written to our mother there,” Maglor said. “I think she is quite busy, though—and really, there’s no rush. No one is going anywhere.”

“And you’re really all right?” Elrohir asked as Pídhres climbed up onto his shoulders to shove her nose into his ear. “You found what you went looking for in Lórien?”

“Yes, I did, and I am. No matter how many times you ask, Elrohir, the answer won’t change.”