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

Having spoken to his brothers, Maglor went in search of Míriel, and found her in the large workroom where the looms were, alongside baskets of wool and linen and other materials to be spun into yarns and threads, and sewing supplies and tables for cutting the fabric, and many comfortable places to sit and spin or sew. It was a large room with many windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, letting in the bright summer sunshine. Indis was there too; they both sat by one of the windows, Indis with a spindle and Míriel sewing some large panel of intricate embroidery, the threads all shimmering silk and silver against the dark fabric. “Good afternoon, Macalaurë!” Míriel said, smiling at him as he paused in the doorway. “Were you looking for us?”

“I was.” He’d thought to seek them out separately, but maybe it made more sense to speak to them together: Míriel and Indis, the two who knew and loved Finwë best, each in her own way.

“Come sit,” Indis said. Her smile was warm; it was strange to see them sitting there together. Maglor had heard it said many times that Indis was as unlike Míriel as could be, but he thought that could not possibly be true. They sat together as though they had been the dearest of friends all their lives—for all he knew, they had been. Maglor was realizing he did not know very much about any of his grandparents’ lives before they came to Valinor. He joined them by the window, sitting on the wide sill where he could cross his legs. “We missed you yesterday. Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Maglor said. Most people would of course be assuming he had been the one suffering from dark dreams or just a low mood—it had happened often enough before, that he’d retreated to his room for a day or several—and he didn’t mind. “I have been thinking about the song that you asked me to write. Will you speak to me of Finwë?”

“Gladly,” said Míriel. She paused in her stitching to take his hand. “What would you ask us?”

“The same question I will ask everyone: what is it you wish to hear put into song about him?”

He did not expect an immediate answer, and did not receive one. Indis pursed her lips thoughtfully as her spindle spun, her fingers pinching the wool with easy precision to form soft and fine thread. Míriel squeezed Maglor’s hand before picking up her needle again. “The Statute, we have always thought, was unfair,” Indis said at last. “Finwë was not the first of the Eldar to lose a spouse, or to find love again afterward, though he was the first to do so after we knew more of Mandos, and the nature of death for the Eldar. We would never have gone through with our marriage, though, if Míriel had given any hint of wishing to return to life, then or in the future.”

“I truly did not think I ever would,” Míriel said. “Nor did Finwë, when he came to the Halls and insisted that I be released in his stead.” Maglor couldn’t stop himself shuddering. “There are some even now who doubt that he loved both of us, Indis and me, in equal measure—but he did. Not in the same way, for we are not the same, but the love was no less strong. That is what I wish to hear sung of him—the way he loved with all of himself, whether we speak of his wives or his children or his people. It was love that spurred him to come here with Ingwë and Elwë, and love that burned so brightly in him when he came back to speak to us of these lands, of the safety to be found here, of all the fears we would leave behind in the dark.”

“We were estranged at the time of his death,” Indis said quietly. “The strife between your father and Nolofinwë—the strife between all of the Noldor as they broke into factions—it was too much for me to bear, knowing there were so many that blamed me. I still loved him, though. That has never changed, and I know that he loved me. Had things happened otherwise, we would have returned to one another in time. We thought that we would—that we had time, even to cool such a temper as Fëanáro’s.”

They’d all thought they had time, right up until time ran out. Maglor drew his knee up to his chest and looped his arms around it. “Why did he go with us to Formenos?” he asked.

“You remember what Fëanáro was like then,” Indis said, sighing. “Finwë feared for him, feared what he might do in such isolation with nothing to counter whatever thoughts and fears were building in his mind even after the deceits of Melkor were revealed. For my part, I wanted Fëanáro far away from my children—but I did not want to see him destroy himself, either. Neither of us thought that exile was the right course. There was no good choice; Finwë would be seen as rejecting one of his sons no matter what he did, and I cannot deny that Nolofinwë was hurt by it, even though I spoke to him at length, and I think he did understand. Lalwen was far less understanding; Arafinwë and Findis—well, they kept their thoughts to themselves, and had always tried to stay out of all the strife. But if anyone could have gotten through to Fëanáro, we were sure that it was his father, given enough time. The Valar, of course, had other ideas, though any parent could have told them that such a forced meeting would come to naught.”

Maglor did not remember Finwë making much headway in all the time they were at Formenos—but whatever discussions or arguments he and Fëanor were having then, they had been private. Maglor had spent most of his time trying to keep his brothers’ spirits up, with less and less success as time went on.

“It was in large part for Fëanáro’s sake that Finwë wished to wed again,” Indis said after a few moments. Her spindle kept spinning, slowly filling. “Did he ever speak to you of his own youth, by Cuiviénen?”

“He taught us some things his grandfather had taught him,” Maglor said. “And he told stories that I don’t think that I really believe anymore.”

Indis and Míriel exchanged smiles, small ones. “I’m sure most of them were true, or mostly true,” Míriel said, “but there is much he would not have told you. To love so freely and so deeply is to open yourself to great grief, and Finwë carried that in abundance.” Indis nodded agreement. “Yet for Finwë, the nearer the grief the harder it was to speak of. He told me once that it was not a matter of wanting to share or not—the words stuck in his throat and just would not come. I think Fëanáro suffers the same affliction—and perhaps you do as well, to some extent, since you say you have struggled to write any songs for your grief.”

“I’ve written many songs of grief,” said Maglor, “but it is true that they have all been either for our people as a whole, or just…grief itself. I still don’t know if I will be able to find words for this song.”

“Thank you, though, for trying,” Indis said. “It means a great deal, even if you can never finish the song.”

“What happened at Cuiviénen?” he asked. “To Grandfather’s family?”

“His grandfather was taken by the Enemy, or by his servants,” Míriel said. “As were his father, and his brothers. So many were taken…I do not think there were any among the Tatyar who chose to follow Finwë who had not lost someone. I lost my aunt and my grandmother. Finwë’s mother took another husband after his father vanished, and he had sisters too that he loved dearly—but they all chose to remain. There were many such partings, full of bitter grief.”

“I didn't know any of that,” Maglor said. He wondered if his great-grandmother yet lived, if his great-aunts did—if Daeron might have met them in his own travels among the Avari of the far east. He wondered if he might have found them himself, if he had dared to make the journey. Finwë had greatly desired a large family—and he had gotten it, for a little while. Maglor had never thought to wonder why, before.

“I left behind a brother and a sister,” Míriel said. “I think of them often, but it is difficult to speak of them. We all parted believing it would be forever, and that is hard indeed.”

Maglor did know that kind of grief—of partings with no hope of reunion. His thoughts went to Elros, and he turned his gaze from his grandmother to the window. The room where they sat was on an upper floor of the house, and the windows gave a wide view of the valley. He glimpsed a pair of figures coming back from the wooded hills through the flowering meadows, recognizable even at a distance as Caranthir and Daeron. Closer at hand, Maedhros sat in the grass with hedgehogs crawling over his legs as Náriel spun in circles as fast as she could before collapsing onto Lisgalen’s lap, giggling with the thrill of dizziness. That sight brought to mind Arwen and Aragorn’s children; once upon a time their daughter Gilraen had played that exact same game, the way all small children did, and it had been Maglor who caught her when she stumbled over the carpet afterward.

“Has this helped you?” Indis asked after a little while in which all three of them sat lost in their thoughts.

With effort, Maglor turned his thoughts away from Minas Tirith far away. “Yes,” he said. “I think I know what the heart of the song will be, now.” He rose and smiled at them both. ‘Thank you.”

He returned to his room to write down some of his thoughts before he forgot the precise shape of them. There was nothing yet of words or rhymes or even of melody, but he thought he had the first inklings of the thread that would bind all the parts of it together. As he finished the last bit of his notes, Daeron came in, looking thoughtful and neither happy nor unhappy. “Is everything all right?” Maglor asked.

“I thought I would be able to think more clearly of my parents today, but I find my mind just going in circles.” Daeron set his flute down and then dropped onto Maglor’s lap. “Am I interrupting?”

“No.”

“Good.” Daeron kissed him and then pressed his face into Maglor’s shoulder. “Your cat followed me out into the woods, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Did you ask her?”

“If I had she wouldn’t have done it.” Maglor wrapped his arms around Daeron’s waist and kissed his temple. “Is this your poor mood still lingering?”

“I don’t know,” Daeron sighed. “I’m too old for this. Maybe that’s the problem. I’m old and tired and in all probability and against all common sense my parents will be expecting a child, and—”

“I think this is your poor mood lingering,” Maglor said. “Put them out of your mind, Daeron. When you do meet at last, I’m sure it will go far better than you currently imagine. My meeting with my own mother did, you remember?”

“Not the one with your father.”

“You can’t compare your father to mine. If nothing else, you can be sure it will go better than that.”

“Caranthir said that, too.”

“Sometimes even little brothers can be wise. Come on.” Maglor got up, keeping a hold of Daeron, who yelped and clutched at his shoulders as he was lifted so abruptly. Maglor tossed him onto the bed and then sprawled across the blankets beside him. “I think,” he said, “you needed two lazy days instead of just one.”

“Is this wisdom you found in Lórien?” Daeron asked, smiling at him. “When in doubt, take a nap?”

“Oh yes.” Maglor kissed him, and Daeron sighed into his mouth, melting onto the bed as he relaxed. “Anything will seem better after a long enough sleep.”

“Mm.” Daeron slid his hands into Maglor’s hair, loosening the braids. “Or you could find other ways to distract me.”

“I could.” Maglor trailed kisses down Daeron’s jaw, but just as he reached down to grasp at the hem of Daeron’s tunic the door opened, and a pair of small footsteps darted inside, and after a moment they heard giggling from under the bed. Daeron sighed, and Maglor raised his head. “Or maybe not. We really need to start locking the door.”

“That’s my fault, I’m afraid,” Daeron murmured.

Maglor sat up and leaned over to peer under the bed. “All right, what game is it this time?” he asked.

“Trying to avoid learning to read,” said Rundamírë from the doorway. “I’m sorry, Macalaurë, Daeron. Náriel, Calissë, come on now.”

“Why in the world would you not want to learn to read?” Daeron asked, propping himself up on his elbows as Maglor reached under the bed, only to have the girls scoot back out of reach.

“It’s boring!” Calissë said. “And we aren’t at home, we’re on an adventure!”

“The adventure ended when you arrived in Imloth Ningloron,” said Rundamírë, sounding amused.

“What if I promised to tell you the story about the wizard and the dragon later, if you go listen to your ammë?” Maglor asked them.

“Is it a true story?” Calissë asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Of course it is! And if you don’t believe me you can ask Gimli or Legolas.”

“You could ask Gandalf, too,” said Daeron, “whenever he next turns up, since he is the wizard in question.”

Exciting stories were apparently the best way to bribe both Náriel and Calissë into doing anything; they at last crawled out from under the bed. Maglor sat up, pushing his hair back out of his face. “Thank you!” said Rundamírë, smiling at him as she held out her hands for her daughters. “Don’t forget, Daeron, you promised me you would teach them your cirth after they mastered tengwar.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” said Daeron.

“There’s more?” Calissë exclaimed, horrified, as Rundamírë led her away. Maglor got up to shut the door—and lock it properly.

“I think,” Daeron said as Maglor rejoined him on the bed, “that Calissë rather doubts your tale of the enchantress.”

“She’s very clever. As soon as she realizes that reading is not nearly as boring as it seems, she’ll discover that book of hobbit tales and figure out exactly what I was doing.” Maglor lay down and pulled Daeron with him. “And I’m sure she’ll come to scold me for it, and I will insist until the end of time that every word is true, and it will become a very silly and tired joke between us.” It would be one of many such jokes, he hoped, and he was a little surprised at how easy it was to imagine. It had not been so very long ago that thinking beyond the next week or even the next day was nearly impossible, let alone with enthusiasm.

Daeron tucked himself against Maglor’s side with a soft sigh. “I think sleep does sound like a good idea,” he murmured, sounding halfway there already. “Sing something for me?”

“Of course, love.” Maglor tugged the ties out of Daeron’s braids and eased them loose off of his scalp as he hummed a quiet song. Daeron fell asleep quickly, and did not wake until Maglor roused him a few hours later to go down for dinner. “Do you feel better?” Maglor asked as he braided Daeron’s hair back out of his face again.

“I do. Much better.”

“Good.”

The tale of Bilbo’s adventures was far too long for a single evening, but split into parts it made for excellent bedtime stories. Maglor thought Rundamírë might regret that decision after he sang the song about breaking all of Bilbo’s dishes for the girls just before they were meant to fall asleep, but that was his favorite part of being an uncle—indulging in silliness and causing minor problems for Curufin and Rundamírë. He said so when Curufin grumbled about it the next morning, and earned himself a tired and half-hearted glare.

Having spoken to his brothers and to Míriel and Indis, Maglor went next in search of Finrod, and found him with Galadriel in the rose garden. “Will you walk with me?” he asked them.

“Both of us, or just your favorite?” Finrod asked. Galadriel rolled her eyes.

“Both of you,” Maglor said. “Since you are my second-favorite.”

“Oh well, in that case.”

“Is something the matter?” Galadriel asked as she slipped her arm through Maglor’s, and Finrod fell into step on his other side.

“No,” said Maglor. “Do you know that Míriel and Indis have asked me to write a song?”

“No,” said Finrod, sounding surprised. “What sort of song?”

“A song for Finwë.”

The three of them fell silent. The only sounds around them were the faint buzzing of bees, and a bluebird singing to itself just out of sight somewhere nearby. Finally, Galadriel said, “It is long overdue, such a song.”

“I tried to write one of my own once, long ago,” Finrod said, “but I gave up quickly. There were no words.”

“So did I,” Maglor said, “but I think maybe I can do it now. It cannot just be my own song, though. What would you wish to hear sung of him? You do not have to answer now.”

For a few minutes they walked in silence. The bluebird kept singing until it was interrupted by a cacophony of fluttering wings and cheeping as a group of finches burst out of a nearby bush to speed away over their heads. Finally, Galadriel said, “He was so very strong. That is what I remember most clearly.”

“Safe,” Finrod added. “When we were children I can remember no safer feeling than being held by him. When I heard what had happened to him…even more than the Darkening, that was what frightened me most, that even someone such as Finwë could fall thus.”

“I am not sure I can think of more to say,” Galadriel said. “He was safety and strength, and warmth and kindness—if he had a temper, I never saw it, but he was strong-willed and…so very brave. I spent so much of my childhood in Alqualondë, and saw him so much more seldom than the rest of you did. That is what grieves me the most deeply. It just—it did not seem to matter so much then. Oh, it is hard even in plain speech—even after all this time—to try to give voice to such a grief. ”

“Mm,” Maglor hummed agreement. “It may be the hardest song I ever write,” he said.

“Will Daeron help you?” Finrod asked.

“No. He says he will offer an ear if I need one, but that this is not a song for him to take any part in. I might come to one of you if I find myself stuck.” Both Finrod and Galadriel were talented songwriters themselves; in their youth Finrod and Maglor had collaborated on many songs, though none of such importance or such a heavy subject.

“Of course,” said Finrod. “Are you going to go around asking everyone what they want you to include?”

“Yes.”

“Even Fëanor?” Galadriel asked.

“Yes. It would be wrong not to, for many reasons. Don’t look at me like that,” Maglor said, glancing between the two of them and the identical frowns on their faces. “I’ll be fine.”

“Maedhros was not fine, when you saw him when coming here,” Finrod said, “and he said that you were not either.”

“I’m certainly better than I was the first time we met,” said Maglor. “You remember.” They had both been in Imloth Ningloron, and Galadriel had been with Maglor immediately after that first brief encounter, and leading up to what had turned into a confrontation. “I can speak to him of Finwë, and I’m already going to have Celegorm hovering nearby.”

“That,” Finrod said wryly, “is not reassuring.”

“Daeron will also be close,” Maglor said.

“Even less reassuring,” said Finrod.

“Well, I can imagine Curufin will want to be there too,” said Maglor. “Honestly, Felagund, I’m not made of glass. I won’t shatter after one conversation with him, and I do not need an army awaiting me while I speak to him.”

“No, you aren’t,” said Galadriel, who knew what it looked like when Maglor already had shattered. “But it will hurt you.”

“All of these conversations hurt, in their own way,” Maglor said. “And—I don’t know. Maybe it will help to speak to my father of Finwë, instead of—anything else.” And maybe it would not. Maglor had thrown Finwë’s name in Fëanor’s face during that first meeting, and there wasn’t any taking it back, even if he wished to. “At least this meeting will be at a time and place of my own choosing, rather than something that catches me by surprise.”

Finwë would be so grieved to see them all, though, he thought as he parted from Galadriel and Finrod. All Finwë had ever wanted was for everyone to love one another—to be a real family. Maglor had once wondered at it, at Finwë’s stubborn belief that it could be possible for Fëanor to ever grow to love either Indis or his siblings; knowing now that Finwë himself had been a child of such a family, had loved his sisters and, presumably, his stepfather, he understood. Finwë would especially hate to see Fëanor so estranged from his own children, though Maglor thought—hoped—that he would at least understand. He wondered if it would be easier to find a way forward if Finwë were there. Then he wondered what Finwë would say of the Oath, and of what they had all done because of it, and he wanted to weep.

He made his way back out to the woodworking shop to continue carving the horse figure. He took it slowly, and thought of Finwë as he worked, of Finwë’s hands—warm, strong, safe—guiding his as he had first learned the shaping of wood. Finwë had been a very different teacher to Fëanor, patient and easygoing, caring little for anything like perfection. Those lessons had been precious time spent with his busy grandfather, when Finwë had shed the trappings of kingship to be only himself, to tell stories and to teach Maglor songs his own father and grandfather had taught him long ago, in the ancient tongues spoken on the shores of Cuiviénen. Maglor had asked once why Finwë’s family had not come with him to Valinor. Finwë’s smile had faltered, and Maglor had not recognized the look in his eyes then, before he mastered himself and answered—something brief and almost flippant about the Avari and differing desires—before swiftly and firmly changing the subject. Looking back, though—Maglor knew that look now. It was one he’d seen whenever he looked into a mirror for centuries, those shadows of grief mingled with old fears that were so hard to let go. Those shadows were why Finwë had led the Noldor across the whole world, so they could live in a place free from them, so none of them would ever have to know fear again, would ever have to know grief.

Maglor did not want to think that hope foolish, because there was no way anyone could have foreseen the release of Morgoth and his treachery, any more than Míriel’s decline could have been foreseen. But they lived in Arda Marred, even there in Aman, and to live was to know sorrow. Were it otherwise, there would be no need of Nienna’s tears or comforts. He set his tools down for a moment, closing his eyes against the sting of his own tears. He had chosen a quiet and out of the way corner of the workshop, beside a window framed on the outside by ivy and partly shaded by a nearby yew tree, and half-hidden inside by a set of free-standing shelves. The other parts of the workshop were filled with chatter and the sounds of hammering and sawing and sanding, and he listened to the familiar voices, teasing and joking, and missed Finwë’s deep laughter. He missed what Finrod and Galadriel had spoken of, the strength of his embrace and the feeling of safety it promised, both when Maglor had been very small and when he had been grown. Even in Formenos, after Fëanor taught them all what fear was, Finwë had been there to offer comfort, in the form of quiet words, a warm hand on a shoulder, soft promises that this would pass, and they would return home to Tirion, and know peace again someday soon.

He had not been able to keep those promises, in the end. It had not been his fault, though, and he had meant them—they were not like the promises that Fëanor had once made them and then overwrote with the Oath, breaking all bonds of love and care in one fell swoop. Maglor could remember standing up alongside his brothers to swear after him, hardly knowing what he did, swept up in the fire and fury of his father’s passion, desiring far more to avenge his grandfather than in any desire for the Silmarils. They were beautiful things, but he’d never cared about them for themselves. He had wanted to fight Morgoth, had wanted to rid the world of him as the Valar had not, had wanted to…

Maglor sighed and picked up the horse again. They had all been foolish and foolhardy, too ignorant and too proud to listen to wisdom, and in the end they—he and his brothers—had only made themselves Morgoth’s own tools. It was in spite of them, not because of them, that there had been victory in the end.

Fingon appeared at the window after a while, leaning on the sill, golden rings shining in his ears and on his fingers, though his hair was loose an unadorned. When he forewent the gold ribbons, Maglor thought, he looked very much like Finwë. “I hear you’re writing a lament for our grandfather,” Fingon said.

“I am,” said Maglor. “Or I’m going to. I was going to tell you about it later.”

“To ask me what I want you to include, yes? That’s what Galadriel told me.”

“Yes.” Maglor set his horse down and looked up at Fingon. “Do you have an answer for me?”

“His laughter,” Fingon said immediately. “When I think of Finwë, that is what I choose to remember. Laughter and joy. Does that help?”

Maglor offered a smile. “It does. Thank you.”

Fingon leaned over his crossed arms on the sill, looking down at the carving in Maglor’s hands. “I just recently found some things he had carved for me, put away into a box by my mother after we left.”

“I don’t know what happened to mine,” Maglor said. “They must have gotten packed away too, but it’s been so long…”

“Worth going to look for though, maybe?”

“Maybe.” It would mean going back to the old house in Tirion—but apparently that was being torn down and rebuilt, and who knew what Fëanor had done with everything left inside. Maybe Curufin would know.

“I look forward to hearing this song, whenever you finish it,” Fingon said. “I’m glad you are the one to write it, Maglor.”

“I only hope I can do him justice,” Maglor said.

“You will,” Fingon said, all easy confidence and faith. “Let me know when you intend to go to Tirion, and I’ll tell Turgon to be there. You probably don’t want to go all the way to Alastoron.”

“Thank you.” Maglor paused, and then asked hesitantly, “Who among our family has not yet returned? I know Gil-galad has not, but…”

“Aegnor has not,” said Fingon, his smile fading, “and Irissë has not either—nor Maeglin. They are the only ones, aside from Gil-galad…and of course Finwë himself.”

“It is said Aegnor will never return,” said Maglor.

“The same was said of Fëanor, too,” replied Fingon. “I’ll keep hoping, anyway.” He propped his chin on one hand as he watched Maglor begin to carve the details of the horse’s mane. “Have I told you yet how glad I am you and Maedhros went together to Lórien? I told you that you needed each other.”

“We both knew that already,” Maglor said without lifting his gaze. “I was angry and hurt and…I know that I hurt him, but it’s so…it feels impossible to reach for something when it seems that it will just fade away as soon as you try.” That was what all his nightmares had done, for years upon years. “We’re past it now, but it was hard.”

“Most things worth doing are hard,” Fingon said quietly. Maglor nodded. “What of your father? Maedhros told me of your meeting with him on the road.”

“I don’t know what I want from him,” Maglor said. “I know why Maedhros did what he did, at the end. I know what despair is like. I don’t think my father ever despaired—I don’t understand him at all, and I don’t think he understands me. Not anymore.”

“Worth trying, though, isn’t it? Even only so your hand does not always hurt at the mere sight of him.”

“Maybe.”

Fingon leaned suddenly in through the window, grabbing Maglor’s head to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I’m glad you’re back, Macalaurë. I hope you know we all missed you, all the time you were lost in Middle-earth. There was always someone waiting at the docks in Avallónë to ask for news of you. No one will be unhappy to see you when you appear to ask your questions about Finwë.”