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starsprayRating: 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
“A letter for you,” Nerdanel announced, coming around into the garden where Maedhros was sitting under the hawthorn tree with Elessúrë, who seemed determined to make up for earlier reticence on both their parts. It was nice, getting to know him as an adult, though Maedhros often still thought of the small child he’d once been, and regretted not being able to see him grow. “A shame to see that Macalaurë is no more regular with his correspondence than he ever was,” Nerdanel added as she handed Maedhros the folded up letter.
“He’s got other things to be writing,” Maedhros said, “and it hasn’t been that long. But is there nothing from Findekáno?” Fingon wrote much more often, though his letters were always short, and Maedhros had been expecting something from him for several days now.
“No, that’s the only letter for you.” Nerdanel left them to return to her workshop, where she had three projects in various stages of completion, all with recipients that she claimed were growing impatient.
Elessúrë pushed a strand of hair out of his face. “Why the frown?” he asked. “Is no letter from your cousin cause for worry?”
“That’s just what my face does,” Maedhros said as he broke the seal on the letter. “I’m not worried—just a little surprised. Midsummer is approaching and I was meant to go to Tirion with Findekáno and his wife for it.”
“Lossenyellë and I are going to stay with Súriellë, if you would like to join us,” said Elessúrë. “I don’t think you’ve met her wife yet? We’ll probably spend the holiday with Curufinwë and his family; there’s always something fun happening in Tirion this time of year.”
“I would like that, if I don’t hear from Findekáno.”
Maglor’s letter was not very long, compared to others he had written in the past. He shared some bits of amusing news and asked after Aechen and Nerdanel and Maedhros’ paintings, and then wrote a little of Elemmírë’s visit, and of the part she had asked him and Daeron to play in the upcoming gathering that Ingwë was planning. And then he wrote:
Aunt Findis came with Elemmírë, and she’s spoken to both me and Tyelko about our father. It feels a little as though she came to scold us into going to Tirion to see him, like we’re petulant children, and neither Tyelko nor I reacted very well—though she has since apologized, and I think I was able to help her understand a little of why we feel the way we do. As I told Daeron, I am glad that he has someone willing to speak for him—and I do not believe that he asked her to come, or even that he knows why she did—but Tyelko took it worse than I did. He isn’t angry anymore, not anything like he used to be, but I think he’s very afraid that whatever conversation he might try to have with Atar will turn into a fight. You remember how it was before we went to Formenos? I’m keeping an eye on him and so is Huan, and he has a mockingbird with a broken wing to tend to, so don’t worry too much. I write this mostly to warn you that Findis might try to come scold you too on her way back to Tirion; she and Elemmírë are leaving in a day or two, for both are wanted in Tirion and Valmar for the holiday.
And speaking of the holiday—I know Fingon and Gilheneth intended to drag you into Tirion for it, but those plans have been abandoned. Don’t be too annoyed with Fingon for not writing you himself, though! Word came from Lórien that they are wanted there, and they were gone within half an hour. Gil-galad is returned, and Elrond tells me Gilheneth’s plans have always been to take him to their home north of the city, I suppose because it’s quiet and private. I don’t know Gil-galad at all, so I can’t predict whether those plans will hold now that he is really here, but regardless you shouldn’t expect to hear from Fingon for some time.
For myself, I’ve had something of a breakthrough with the song, and have written many lines and the main melody over the last few days. I haven’t written so much so swiftly in a very long time, and it feels wonderful, in spite of the subject matter and the expectations laid on it. Daeron and I will be coming to Tirion after Midsummer, so look for us then! Elrond will be with us, since he goes so rarely to Tirion himself. I’m quite looking forward to the trip—it will be much shorter than either of the last journeys I made, and much more comfortable, at least.
I miss you, of course. Tyelko sends his love and says he hopes you aren’t spending too much time brooding. Give Ammë our greetings and our love please, and our grandparents and Ambarussa and whatever cousins might be about. Which reminds me—Elemmírë tells me that Elessúrë’s son is one of her students, and that he is very talented. If Elessúrë is willing to hear it, please tell him how proud I am of Vindimórë.
“It seems I’ll be going to Tirion with you after all,” Maedhros said as he finished reading the letter. He also shared the last part of it with Elessúrë, who smiled.
“Vindimórë is very excited about the coming gathering,” he said. “He says Elemmírë is planning something magnificent.”
“She’s asked Macalaurë and Daeron to help in the planning,” Maedhros said.
“Good. Vindimórë has been very disappointed to have missed out on getting to know Macalaurë—he would have been his first choice for teacher, even over Elemmírë, though I told him that Elemmírë was the one who taught Macalaurë in the first place.”
“There is much, I think, Macalaurë could teach that Elemmírë cannot,” Maedhros said. “As far as I know, he’s taken very few students over the years—only family, really. Elrond and Elros, and then Elrond’s grandchildren.” He didn’t know if Maglor would have been able to take on any students before going to Lórien, but he might be more willing now. “What does your daughter do these days?”
“Isilmiel followed Vindimórë to Valmar for a while, but she’s lately returned home and trying to decide between other apprenticeships. Aunt Nerdanel told me once that you never picked any one thing to focus on, and I think Isilmiel will be rather like that.”
“I enjoyed it, learning a little bit of everything that I could,” Maedhros said. “It all helped me greatly later.”
“But now you’re focused on painting? I suppose there are things you can’t do anymore…”
“I’m somewhat limited,” Maedhros agreed, “but we’ll see what happens. Maybe something else will catch my fancy, but painting is a challenge that I’m enjoying.”
“Why challenging? You learned long ago, did you not?”
“Not with my left hand.” When Elessúrë grimaced, Maedhros added, “It really doesn’t bother me.”
“It doesn’t—well, isn’t it just a horrible memory?”
“All that came before is, of course, but I lost my hand when Findekáno rescued me—that’s one of the best things that ever happened to me. Even at my worst I never regretted that, and I’ve never regretted returning to life without it. Some things change you, irrevocably, and thus the spirit is reflected in the body.” Maedhros grinned and added, “If I had come back with both hands I think I’d forget more than half the time anyway.” That got Elessúrë to laugh. “Don’t worry about bringing up the past, Elessúrë. There are things I don’t wish to speak of, but not because it pains me.”
“Yes, I know, it’s to protect me, even though I don’t need protecting.”
“I have six baby brothers, and you are my baby cousin—of course I wish to protect you.”
Elessúrë rolled his eyes, but he kept smiling. “I’m not a baby, Russandol. I’m married with grown children of my own.”
“And I still remember how you also used to chew on Macalaurë’s jewelry, and so you’ll always be my baby cousin, no matter how old you get.”
After Elessúrë left to return to Mahtan’s forges, Maedhros went to share bits of Maglor’s letter with Nerdanel. She was distracted by work, though, so he left her to it and took his sketchbook out to the willow trees by the river. It was quiet there, peaceful, and he settled in among the roots of his favorite willow, which greeted him with a soft rustling of its branches, leaves all quivering. Aechen followed him out, and flopped down in the grass by his feet as he flipped open his sketchbook. Maedhros drew Aechen, and then drew his view of the willow leaves hanging out over the water. Then he turned the page and started a sketch out of his memories. He did not do that often lately, but this was a happier memory—an image of Gil-galad as a child, hair in messy braids and with missing teeth and scraped up knees, so much like Fingon at that same age. Maedhros had not seen Gil-galad after the Dagor Bragollach, had never seen him as an adult. He was glad of it, glad that he had not been there in Sirion. What Gil-galad might have to say to him now, Maedhros did not know, but he was happy for Fingon and Gilheneth’s sake that he’d returned at last. As cheerful as they both were as a general rule, the shape of his absence followed both of them like a shadow.
He spent a few hours like that, sketching and letting his mind go quiet. From the outside, he knew, he probably looked as though he were unhappy, but he felt as at peace as he had on such afternoons in Lórien when he’d been left entirely alone, to wander the pathways or to sit under a tree or beside a pond listening to the water and to the birds singing, or to sleep the golden hours away.
Aechen finally roused, and sniffed at Maedhros’ ankle before climbing up onto his legs. Maedhros scooped him up before he could lose his balance and go tumbling into the river. “Ready to go home?” he asked. “Come on, then.”
As he stepped out from under the willow tree, a large shadow passed overhead. Maedhros looked up to see a large white bird glide out over the river and then wheel around. He stopped walking, and watched as it soared down to alight in the grass ahead of him, transforming in an instant to a woman, clad in silver-grey, her dark hair falling loose over her shoulders.
Maedhros had gone to Elwing—to apologize, however little it was worth—after his return from Mandos. She had shut the door in his face. Later he had spoken very briefly to Eärendil, but he had been as little inclined to forgive as his wife, though he had been somber and grave rather than angry. He supposed it was ridiculous now to expect to continue to be able to avoid one another. He would be visiting Imloth Ningloron a great deal, and he knew that Elwing also went there frequently, since Elrond was little given to travel.
But that did not explain why she had come there, not to Nerdanel’s house or workshop as he might have expected if she wished to see his mother, but out to the river to see him. Maedhros remained where he was. He had no idea what Elwing wanted, and it seemed wisest to allow her to approach him, however it was she wanted to do it. He watched her shake out her skirts, taking her time, and then walk down the little path through the buttercups and grass. He had to set Aechen down to free his hand to press over his chest as she came near, bowing his head. “Lady Elwing.”
“Lord Maedhros,” she said. Her voice was clear and bright; her face was very like Elrond’s, but with somewhat more delicate features that belied the will of iron he knew lay beneath. Her eyes seemed larger, soft grey but piercing, with a light in them that was not quite Treelight but not quite starlight. “It seems Lórien was kind to you.”
“It was,” Maedhros said. Silence fell between them again, wary and tense. Aechen sniffed around the grass at Maedhros’ feet before disappearing into it. Somewhere across the river a blackbird sang. Maedhros did not know what to say. He’d had words prepared when he had gone to her before, but he couldn’t remember them—and he did not think they would be suitable now, anyway. Too much time had passed, and he was too different. He wondered if Elwing had met his father yet. She now seemed to him as fearless as her son, holding herself with all the steel and grace of a queen—certainly not someone who would quail before Fëanor.
“I have seen a great deal of all your brothers over the last few years,” Elwing said finally, “and I spoke to Maglor upon his coming to Eressëa. It seems wrong that I should continue to avoid you, going forward.”
“It is not my desire to impose on you, lady,” Maedhros said. “I have not forgotten Sirion.”
“Nor have I. But Sirion is gone, and two full Ages of the Sun have passed since. If my father can desire not only peace but friendship with your brother, after they slew one another in Menegroth, it seems the least I can do to make peace with you.”
“I as good as slew you,” Maedhros said.
“No,” Elwing said. “I chose it. As you cast yourself into the flames with a Silmaril, so I cast myself to the waves. It only so happened that my jewel was not destined for the Sea, but for the stars.”
“Then what we have in common is that I drove us both to such a choice,” Maedhros said. He had watched Elwing cast herself into the sea but he had not realized then that it was an act of defiant despair, rather than defiant hope. Such a feeling was one he would not wish upon his worst enemy. “I am so sorry, Lady Elwing.”
“I know.” Elwing stepped forward and held out her hand. Maedhros blinked at it for a moment before reaching back. Her hand was much smaller than his, but her grip was shockingly strong. “I forgive you for it,” she said. “And I thank you for the care you showed my children.”
Maedhros shook his head. “I didn’t—”
“Less than your brother, perhaps, but it was not nothing. I cannot imagine they would have survived the ravages of Beleriand without you, and so I thank you. I am neither my father nor my son, and so I cannot desire friendship—but I do desire peace, and the ability to come together in company without awkwardness.”
“As do I,” Maedhros said. He let his hand drop to his side when Elwing released it. “Thank you.”
“I speak also for Eärendil,” Elwing said, “for he is away. Else he would have come to see you himself.”
“I cannot blame him for staying away from Tirion,” Maedhros said before he could think better of it.
Elwing smiled, more wry than amused. “You speak of your father? He does not frighten us.”
“I cannot imagine much frightens you at all, these days.”
That made her laugh—it was so sudden and bright that Maedhros blinked, “That is true! As Elrond put it once, it is very difficult to feel afraid when all the worst things you can imagine have already happened.” She stepped back. “Farewell, Maedhros, son of Fëanor. I am sure we will meet again soon.”
“Farewell,” Maedhros said, and watched her transform again into a great white bird to soar up and away, back toward the road and then north, toward the Calacirya and her home beyond. He exhaled, and rubbed his hand over his face. Celebrimbor liked to say that anything was possible in this new Age. Apparently he was more right than Maedhros had ever dared to imagine.
It took a little while to find Aechen in the tall grass, and when Maedhros returned home he found Nerdanel emerging from her workshop, covered in stone dust. “Did you come to speak to me earlier, Maitimo?” she asked.
“I did, but you were busy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What did you need?”
“Nothing.” Maedhros bent down to kiss her cheek. “I just wanted to tell you about Macalaurë’s letter. He sends his love and Tyelko’s, and they’re coming to Tirion after Midsummer, before he goes to Taur-en-Gellam. We might also receive a visit from Findis when she comes back in the next few days.”
“Oh, well, Findis is always welcome,” said Nerdanel, who had always gotten along very well with Fëanor’s siblings, especially his sisters. “As long as she doesn’t arrive today—I’m not fit for visitors today. Let me get cleaned up, and we’ll walk over to your grandparents’ for supper.” With just the two of them at home, Ennalótë insisted that they come over for all their meals, particularly since neither Nerdanel nor Maedhros were much inclined to cooking. It was one thing Maedhros struggled to do one-handed, having not had to, for most of his time in Beleriand, and Nerdanel forgot about mealtimes more often than not.
In the past, Maedhros had not enjoyed visiting his grandparents’ house. It was too great a reminder of his childhood and youth, memories all tinged with gold and silver and full of a joy he’d felt forever beyond his reach. Having regained—not the same joy, but something very like it—Maedhros could greet his grandparents with a smile, and sit at their table without feeling horribly out of place and like he just wanted to flee back to his bedroom. Since they had all gotten over the initial rush and welcome of his homecoming, everything now seemed so very normal, and that more than anything made him feel at home in a way he hadn’t, quite, in Imloth Ningloron, even with all of his brothers there.
A few days after Maedhros’ encounter with Elwing, Caranthir returned home. His gardens needed attention, he said, but Maedhros thought he was just glad to escape the city. “How is everyone in Tirion?” Nerdanel asked him.
“Very happy. The twins intend to stay with Curvo until Midsummer, at least. Amras told me they’re returning home for the winter, though. He says they miss the mountains.”
“And the snowdrifts taller than they are,” Maedhros said. Caranthir made a face, and Nerdanel laughed.
There was other gossip to share, and plans for the city’s Midsummer festivities, and talk of who would be there and who would not; Nerdanel had been invited to spend the holiday in Valmar by Indis, but she intended to return home once Maglor and Celegorm came to Tirion. Maedhros thought that Nerdanel was aware that Curufin had taken one of the palantíri, but she said nothing of it, and neither did Caranthir. It was not until the next morning that Maedhros could get Caranthir alone, after Nerdanel had retreated to her workshop and Maedhros followed Caranthir out to the garden.
“How is everyone really?” he asked, sitting on the grass with his legs crossed as Caranthir surveyed the flowerbed he’d chosen to focus on that morning. “Curvo and Ambarussa, I mean. And Tyelpë?”
“Tyelpë’s fine,” Caranthir said as he knelt to start pulling weeds. “Everyone’s fine, really. I haven’t seen Atar, so I don’t really know how he is. Curvo was worried about him most of the winter, but that seems to be passing. He spends most of his time at the old house, clearing out the cellars and storage rooms. Ambarussa have been helping him these last few weeks.”
“So their meeting went well?”
“Seems so.”
“You still don’t want to see him though, do you.”
“If it were just me, no. But I can’t put it off forever, I suppose. I just—the more I think of it, the more I realize it will feel wrong to marry Lisgalen without him there alongside the rest of you, but I still don’t know how not to be angry. Lisgalen keeps saying we should just elope, and I’m starting to agree, even though it will disappoint Ammë. We don’t need any witnesses for the oath-taking, except Eru and the stars. Atar knows about Maglor’s song, by the way. Ambarussa told him so he’d be forewarned before Maglor went to talk to him.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much, apparently. Curvo says he’s often very hard to read, and he hides a great deal, which is very different from before.” Caranthir paused and sat back on his heels. “Curvo says Atar reminds him of you, sometimes—before you went to Lórien.”
Maedhros looked away, over toward the empty patch of dirt where the forge used to be. “I don’t wish that on anyone,” he said.
“I doubt it’s that bad, especially if he’s able to hide it. As far as I know no one else is worried about him.”
“I think Findis is.” Maedhros leaned back on his hand, tilting his head back to watch a small flock of geese fly over them, headed out toward the river. “Maglor wrote to tell me she went to Imloth Ningloron to scold him and Celegorm.”
“Did she shove them into the fishpond?”
“I would’ve gotten a lot more letters than just Maglor’s if she did. Do you know what Atar’s looked for in the palantír?”
“No, but I haven’t asked Curvo about it either. I don’t…I appreciate that he is looking, but nothing we spoke about before has changed. What do you plan to do?” Caranthir leaned forward again, picking up his trowel to dig at the roots of a particularly large and prickly weed.
Maedhros watched him until he loosened it enough to be pulled out. Then he said, “I don’t know. It can’t be delayed forever, but I don’t…”
“It could be,” Caranthir said.
“If I knew what I wanted, maybe I’d be able to make up my mind.” Feeling suddenly that there wasn’t anything more to say of Fëanor, he changed the subject. “Have you decided what to plant where the forge was?”
“Not yet. Pears, maybe. Or apricots.”
“I like apricots better than pears.”
Caranthir glanced up with a sudden smile, looking more like himself. “Apricots it is, then.”
Maedhros fetched his sketchbook and settled back down near Caranthir, drawing him among his flowers as he worked. A little bit of tension had come back from Tirion with him, and Maedhros watched it fade away as Caranthir lost himself in tending to his plants—his roses and his lilies, the herbs growing nearest the house—rosemary, sage, chamomile, and others—alongside the plants he used in his dyes, and the wilder flowers that grew in a riot of color all around, clustering at the bases of the statues and sculptures Nerdanel had set out. Violets bloomed purple and blue, and white phlox, and asters and daisies and queen’s lace bobbing in the breeze. Aechen wandered in and out of sight before coming to nap beside Maedhros’ knee.
After a while Caranthir was satisfied with that afternoon’s work, and came to sprawl out in the clover, sweaty and smudged with dirt. “What are you drawing?” he asked.
“You.”
“Oh, don’t. I’m disgusting.”
“Would you rather I do some sort of formal portrait, have you sit for me all decked out in brocades and jewels?” They’d all had to do that at one time or another in their youth, and even those of them that liked dressing up in fine clothes and jewels—Maedhros himself had loved it, then—had found the process tedious and uncomfortable.
“Ugh.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Findis arrived a few days later, as Elemmírë rode on to Tirion and then to Valmar. “Hullo, Aunt Findis,” said Caranthir from where he perched atop a ladder set against the house, shears in hand as he pruned some unruly roses that threatened to overtake one of Nerdanel’s bedroom windows. “We were forewarned of your coming, and no, you can’t scold either of us into going back to Tirion either.”
Maedhros rose from where he’d been playing with Aechen. “We are glad to see you, though,” he said.
“Yes, of course,” Caranthir said, waving a hand before attempting to cut a vine just out of reach and nearly sending himself toppling off the ladder.
Findis had been frowning at Caranthir, but she turned to Maedhros and smiled up at him as she took his hand. “I’m glad to see you looking so bright, Russandol,” she said. “It was not my intention to scold you, whatever tales your brothers have been telling.”
“Good,” said Maedhros, “because neither Moryo nor I want to talk about it, really.”
Findis sighed, and looked down at their joined hands. She turned Maedhros’ palm up, revealing the faint scars there. “This is why, I suppose?”
“Part of it,” Maedhros said. “Whatever Maglor told you, I do not think I have anything to add.”
“Yet he tells me he will speak to your father, and soon.”
“I don’t think he would, if he did not have this song to write,” Maedhros said. “He and I have only just returned from Lórien, Aunt Findis—and Maglor was hardly settled in Valinor at all before we went. Please do not ask more of us than we can give.”
Findis did not stay long, and she did not try to speak to either Maedhros or Caranthir of their father again. She spent much of the visit with Nerdanel, the two of them catching up on gossip and often laughing together. Maedhros thought it likely they also spoke of Fëanor, but they did it out of his hearing, and with that he was more than content. After she left he went back to his paints. Most of what he painted wasn’t anything of substance—just practice in shading and blending and simply in holding the brush in a way that didn’t feel strange or make his fingers cramp. Sometimes Caranthir came to peer through the window and make comments, but mostly the three of them—Nerdanel, Maedhros, and Caranthir—fell into old routines, engaging in their own occupations and needing little in the way of chatter. The difference now was that no one was worried about anyone else. It was comfortable rather than merely quiet. Maedhros would have described it as entirely peaceful, if it weren’t for the constant awareness of who was awaiting him in Tirion.
