A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Forty Two

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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

 

The journey to Avallónë was quick and uneventful. Maedhros had left Nerdanel’s house before dawn, and reached the docks of Alqualondë just in time to miss one of the late afternoon ferries that went back and forth from the island. He kept his hood up, glad of the chill in the air that let him hide his distinctive hair and his face; maybe no one would be unkind, but they would certainly stare, and he didn’t want to deal with that, not traveling alone.

When he finally made it to Eressëa he found the weather already much warmer, and Elrond and one of his sons waiting in the harbor. It was still hard to tell Elladan and Elrohir apart at a glance, though up close it was made easier by a small scar through Elrohir’s eyebrow. In this case, it was Elladan who awaited him, and who cheerfully informed Maedhros that he had lost him one of his favorite armbands. As Maedhros tried to figure out how to respond Elrond rolled his eyes. “My sons like to place bets on you and your brother,” he said. “Elladan did not think you would accept my invitation.”

“What do they bet on about Maglor?” Maedhros asked.

“We haven’t made any bets about Maglor since we sailed west!” Elladan protested. “Not since we left the ship, anyway. And that one was whether he’d ever notice the way Daeron kept looking at him when he thought no one else was watching. I won that one,” he added, as they turned down a quiet street.

“Does Maglor know you were…?”

“Oh yes. We told him when he and Daeron returned from Ekkaia. He was horrified, and Daeron thought it was very funny.”

“And what did you win?” Maedhros asked.

Elladan grinned at him. “The armband that I have to give back now.”

Elrond and Celebrían’s house in Avallónë was very unlike the large and rambling house in Imloth Inglorion. It was stately, made of pale stone, and with more contained gardens surrounding it. Roses twined around the pillars at the front. Celebrían greeted Maedhros with a kiss on both his cheeks, and apologized for her sons’ antics. Elrohir was nowhere to be seen, but Maedhros could imagine he and Elladan laughing over the armband that had probably been passed back and forth between them for years and years by now.

Upstairs, Elrond nodded to the room just across the hall from the one prepared for Maedhros. “That’s Maglor’s room,” he said, “though of course right now it’s empty. How was he, when you last saw him?”

“Very cheerful,” said Maedhros. “He and Daeron took Calissë with them to Taur-en-Gellam. I was surprised by how much happier he seemed after coming back from Formenos.”

“Would you ever go back there yourself?” Elrond asked. They stepped into Maedhros room; it was similar in style to the rooms of Imloth Ningloron, open and airy, with windows looking out toward Avallónë, one partly blocked by one of the tall trees in the garden. The rugs on the floor were all in shades of green; there was no hearth, but none would be needed. Even in winter, the power of Uinen kept Alqualondë and Eressëa warm. The only chill came from the breezes through the Calacirya.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Maedhros dropped his bags onto the floor by the bed. “What did you think of it?”

“Fingolfin has called it lonely, and I think that’s accurate,” said Elrond. “It’s beautiful—the lake, I mean, and Finwë’s grave all covered in flowers. I had thought perhaps it might be like other graves I have made or visited, but it wasn’t.”

“Because it should not exist,” Maedhros said. “Not here.”

“Yes. It is a grief that should have an end, and yet it doesn’t.”

“Do you really think this song will work?” Maedhros asked, looking from one of the watercolor paintings on the wall to Elrond, who stood with a thoughtful expression near the door. “Do you think the Valar will listen?”

“I cannot see what is to come,” said Elrond after a moment. “But Maglor feels strongly that he must write it and that he must sing it, and I believe that whatever comes of it, it’s an important thing to have been done—if that makes sense.”

“I’m not sure that I understand,” said Maedhros.

“When the Fellowship was broken, above Rauros,” Elrond said, “Aragorn made the decision not to go after Frodo, but to instead pursue the Uruk-hai that had taken Merry and Pippin. He and Legolas and Gimli made their chase across the Emyn Muil and the plains of Rohan—and they did not find their friends. But in the attempt they were brought to exactly the place that they needed to be in order to reunite with Gandalf, and to meet Éomer. It was the right choice, not to abandon their friends, even though they failed. The stakes now are not so high—Finwë is not suffering in Mandos, I don’t think, and if Maglor’s song fails to move the Valar it only means that nothing changes. But the choice to try is never wrong. Sometimes it is more important than success or failure. To try to destroy the Ring was worth it, and would have been worth trying even if it had failed, because to do nothing was to guarantee defeat.”

“What will the point be now, though, if it doesn’t change anything?” Maedhros asked. “All that will come of it is heartache, especially for Maglor.”

“But not to try guarantees failure, that Finwë will never be released,” Elrond said. “As I said, I cannot see what will happen. My feelings are not quite as strong as foresight, but they do not feel like only my own desire for Maglor’s success. All I can say is that it is important. It’s never wrong to care, and it’s never wrong to hope. Gandalf once said that despair is for those who see the end beyond all doubt—and we do not. We could not then, and we cannot now.”

He was right, but Maedhros wasn’t sure he could make himself hope for anything—especially not something like this.

Maedhros did not find himself alone with Elrond again for some days. In the meantime he was shown around Avallónë by the twins—including the square that held the monument to all the Edain, all the great heroes and figures, from Barahir to Hador to Elros. Maedhros would not have recognized Elros at all, were it not for his statue’s prominent position amongst the others, and the way that Elladan pointed him out. Once, Elrond and Elros had been as alike in face and stature as Elladan and Elrohir were. Kingship seemed to have changed Elros, and Maedhros hoped that he had not always been so stern. He wished, too, that he’d had a chance to make things right with Elros the way he was now able to with Elrond. But Elros had lived his life and died long, long before Maedhros had returned from Mandos, and he would probably not have welcomed Maedhros into his kingdom anyway.

When they returned to the house they found Idril and Tuor there. Maedhros had not seen Idril since before Turgon had vanished with his people to Gondolin—he thought perhaps the last time had been at the Mereth Aderthad, actually. Tuor he had never met at all. Both Idril and Tuor were wary of Maedhros in the beginning, which was only to be expected, but when Elrond casually reminded Tuor that Maedhros had known both Húrin and Huor, particularly in the lead-up to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, his distrust evaporated in the face of a chance to learn more about the family he had never known.

After Idril and Tuor left in the evening, Maedhros opened his sketchbook. “What are you drawing?” Celebrían asked, sitting beside him to offer a glass of mulled wine.

“Huor,” Maedhros said as he took the glass. “And perhaps Húrin.”

“Ah. For Tuor?” Celebrían smiled at him. “That’s kind of you.”

Maedhros managed a smile, and didn’t reply. It was the least he could do, really—nothing could make up for all the harm he’d done, but at least he could do this. He had not known Huor well, but he remembered him clearly, and especially the way he had told anyone and everyone he spoke to that his beautiful Rían was expecting, and that he was going to be a father. Maedhros could draw that particular brilliant smile that he had worn whenever he spoke of his child, and he could draw Húrin too, with a similar look whenever he spoke of Túrin. Not Rían, who he had never met, nor Morwen who he had seen only once at a distance, but at least he could give Tuor something. Huor had loved him so fiercely before he was ever born—and Huor had died, because the plans Maedhros had been foremost in making had failed, because he had failed to come to the field in time, because the House of Hador had been drawn into the Doom of the Noldor. Fingon had died too, alongside so many others, but Fingon had come back, and neither Húrin nor Huor ever would.

Tuor and Idril came back a few days later for lunch, and after Celebrían and Elrond walked off with Idril to show her something in the garden, Maedhros brought out his sketches, carefully cut out of his sketchbook and tucked into a folder, and handed them to Tuor. “I thought you might like these.”

“What are they?” Tuor took the folder curiously, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes as he did so. He had streaks of grey in his hair and laugh lines around his eyes, though it seemed that he had stopped aging sometime not long after he had come to Valinor. Maedhros wasn’t sure if the Gift of Men had been taken from him entirely, or if he was given the same grace that the Men of Númenor had once had, and had just never yet decided it was time. Maedhros certainly wasn’t going to ask. He leaned back in his seat as Tuor opened the folder, and averted his gaze when Tuor inhaled sharply. They sat in silence for some time as Tuor looked through the pages—at Huor and Húrin and at the other patriarchs and members of the House of Hador that Maedhros had known or remembered well enough to sketch.

Finally, Tuor said, quietly and hoarsely, “Thank you.”

“I never met your mother,” Maedhros said, keeping his gaze on a seagull pecking around a path just off the veranda where they sat, “though I knew others of the House of Bëor—Ladros was not so far from Himring.”

“Did you ever meet Beren?”

“A few times, in his youth—all before the Dagor Bragollach.” Maedhros glanced over at Tuor then. “Huor was thrilled to become a father. He spoke of you often and with great joy. In those days we all hoped that the battle would go our way—many were certain that it would, that our plans were sure to succeed. I don’t know if Huor was one of them, but he certainly had hope.”

Tuor traced the edges of Huor’s smile on the page, laid out on the small table between their seats. “I know many stories of him from his youth, from the year he spent in Gondolin,” he said after a little while, “but all Turgon could tell me of him as an adult was their last meeting near the Fens of Serech—of my father’s last words, that a star would rise from his house and Turgon’s. I always knew that meant Eärendil, though I did not realize it would be quite so literal.” He shifted the pages until Húrin’s portrait lay on top. “Did you know that he sought Gondolin again—before he died, he tried to find it. I never knew until much later that the eagles brought word of it to Turgon, and Turgon—” Tuor covered his mouth with a hand, blinking a few times. “He refused to let him in.”

“Did he ever say why?”

“I have never asked him. I learned of it only after Gondolin’s fall—I can’t remember now who told me, and maybe it isn’t even true; there were all kinds of stories and rumors being spread, then. There was an insinuation that Morgoth was watching and that it was Húrin, still under his curse, that first drew Morgoth’s eye to those mountains. I don’t know if that’s true either. I do know that if Turgon had just listened to me, we would all have been away from there, all have been safe by Sirion or at some other stronghold, perhaps more easily found, and my uncle could have…” Tuor shook his head. “Gondolin was wonderful. It was beautiful, it was safe…and we had a chance to leave it that way, before disaster struck.”

Maedhros thought of Maeglin with his haunted eyes and the way he’d pulled the hood of his cloak up to hide his face when leaving Nerdanel’s house. He wondered if Idril and Tuor knew yet that Maeglin had returned from Mandos, but it wasn’t his place to ask, or to share that news if they hadn’t yet heard. “Turgon has many regrets,” he said instead.

“I know. I can forgive most of them—but I don’t know if I want to hear his reasoning for his rejection of my uncle, after everything…after the Fens of Serech. Even if that story isn’t true, I don’t know how to ask.” Tuor traced his fingers lightly over the waves of Húrin’s hair. “I saw my cousin once,” he murmured after a few minutes. “Near the Pools of Ivrin—defiled by then, after Glaurung. Voronwë and I were passing them and…he came up from the south, alone, calling for Finduilas. He stopped by the pools and we heard him cry out in despair—for Beleg, and Gwindor, and Finduilas again. I didn’t know any of those names. I had no idea who he was, but later I heard the tales and…and I realized that that had been my cousin, Túrin Turambar. It was the closest I ever came to any of my family, and I had no idea. He never saw me at all.”

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros said softly.

“I’ve never been able to listen to the whole of the Narn i Chîn Húrin.”

“There are many tales I can’t bear to listen to either,” Maedhros said. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to listen to the whole of the song my brother is currently writing.”

“The one about King Finwë?”

“Yes.”

“Idril can’t wait to hear it sung. When do you think he will have it finished?”

“He hopes to perform it at the great feast of Ingwë’s,” Maedhros said. “Will you go?”

“Everyone is going,” Tuor said. He slid the drawings back into their folder, as Celebrían’s laughter reached them from down the garden, joined with Idril’s. “Would you…would you tell me something of my kin of the House of Bëor, if I came back to ask?”

“Of course,” Maedhros said, “though my cousins would be better.”

“I’ve heard all that Finrod can tell me, and Angrod,” said Tuor. “Maybe you won’t have anything precisely new, but it’s a different perspective.”

“I’ll be here all winter,” Maedhros said. “You can come ask me anything you want—about Ladros or Dorthonion, or about anything else.”

Tuor met his gaze, his own eyes holding something like a challenge. “Anything?” he repeated.

“Anything.”

Idril and Celebrían returned then, and Elrond reappeared a minute later. Tuor tucked the drawings away, and the rest of the visit was spent speculating about Ingwë’s feast.

The next day Maedhros received a letter from Maglor, describing Taur-en-Gellam and Daeron’s students, and Calissë’s little adventures as she made new friends and charmed all the lords and ladies at Thingol’s court. He spoke of the cold, and of a grove of mallorn trees that grew near the forest city, and how lovely they were in wintertime. I find myself missing the one at home in Imloth Ningloron, though, Maglor wrote, and missing Imloth Ningloron in general. This place is lovely and Elu Thingol has been more than welcoming—and I learned many stories of Finwë that I can’t wait to share with you—but I’ll be glad when spring comes. Calissë might not be; she’s made so many friends, it’s truly wonderful to see. It hasn’t yet snowed but when it does I am imagining them all building snow-fortresses and having snowball fights, and ambushing unsuspecting passers-by, the same way Estel used to. Maybe I’ve been missing Rivendell lately, too. I definitely miss you. I should be working right now, but I can’t concentrate on the song so I’m writing this letter instead. I was very glad to hear that you’re spending the winter with Elrond on Eressëa; I’m sure it will be much more peaceful than whatever is going on at Ammë’s house or in Tirion.

Usually Maglor’s letters included a message from Daeron, either in his own hand or paraphrased by Maglor, but this one did not mention Daeron’s name at all. When Maglor spoke of his students he only called them the songbirds, rather than Daeron’s songbirds. There was something about the way he wrote of being homesick and looking forward to spring that made Maedhros uneasy. He knew his brother, and he knew what it looked like these days when Maglor wanted to appear happier than he really was—the way he wasn’t very good at it anymore. This letter read more like the one he’d sent Nerdanel upon first arriving in Avallónë, years ago now, than his more recent letters.

He wrote back with a few probing questions, hoping that by the time Maglor received his letter whatever was wrong would have resolved itself. He included a sketch of Elladan and Elrohir and Elrond sitting together on the beach, Elladan and Elrond laughing at some story Elrohir was telling, his arms flung out as he gestured. After a little bit of thought, he wrote a quick letter to Daeron as well. Then he sent both letters and tried not to worry too much. Anyone with eyes could see how deep the love between Maglor and Daeron ran, but Maedhros caught himself thinking more than once of how deep the love between his parents had run, and how that had turned out in the end.

It wasn’t the same thing. He knew that—Maglor and Daeron were not Fëanor and Nerdanel, and they were both aware of those same pitfalls and potential disastrous mistakes. Still. Neither of them were at their best, both of them carrying the weight of expectations neither had asked for. The last thing either of them needed was a fight, especially with each other. Maedhros found himself wondering if perhaps he and Maglor had come too soon from Lórien, or whether they had thrown themselves too quickly back into everything else.

“Maglor has, maybe, with the way he’s been going around to see everyone all at once,” Elrond said when Maedhros ventured to mention it to him. “But you seem to have been taking things slowly enough—a few weeks in Tirion isn’t so very long, and your mother’s house is…” He paused. “Well, I was going to call it quiet, but I’m not sure that suits.”

“It’s mostly quiet,” said Maedhros. “And the noise doesn’t bother me when it’s only my brothers.” It was relaxing in its own way—the noise was more often laughter than anything else, and even when Celegorm and Caranthir did clash it wasn’t over anything serious. Life with as many brothers as Maedhros had was never going to be quiet—except for those last years in Beleriand, when it had been quiet, with no laughter and no bickering, and only tense arguments about what their next move should be.

“But then Aredhel and Maeglin came,” Elrond said. “Even if Aredhel is not a stranger, it has still been a very long time. I hope you don’t feel obligated to do anything here. I invited you because I thought you would appreciate the peace.”

“I feel as though I’ve slept better here than I have in weeks,” Maedhros admitted. “I think the wearying thing has been how they’re all worried about me. I feel fine, but I spent so long saying so when it wasn’t true that no one else believes me now. That’s my own fault, but I can only threaten to throw my brothers in the river so often.”

“Has your hand pained you at all?”

“No.”

“You know you will have days when you aren’t fine,” Elrond said after a moment. “Healing doesn’t work the way we all wish it would—even Lórien cannot rid you of all your scars.”

“I know. Such days don’t last, though, and I know how to deal with them.” Sometimes that meant hiding under his blankets all day instead of getting up and making himself exist in the present, but Elrond didn’t need to know that. Those days were few and far between, and Maedhros wasn’t worried about Angband creeping up on him while he was there on Eressëa. He hadn’t even been feeling anxious about his father.

It was nice, to not have anything at all to worry about, except for whatever was going on with Maglor—and even that, Maedhros was almost entirely confident it would be resolved by the next time Maglor wrote to him.

Elrond said, “Good. I have athelas here too, if you want any. It soothes and calms the mind even when you might not realize you need it; Celebrían often throws a few leaves into the bath.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” When he went to bed, though, Maedhros found that the salt- and rose-scented breeze through the window, and the sound of the waves, was more than enough to relax him and lull him to sleep—and his dreams were quiet, all starlight on clear waters, and music more beautiful than any he had ever heard in waking life, though when he woke it slipped from his mind like sand through his fingers, yet left him feeling rested and more at peace than he had been since leaving the Gardens of Lórien.