A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Forty Nine

[starspray]

Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: T
Characters: Sons of Feanor, Elrond, Feanor, Daeron, various others
Warnings: n/a
Summary: After years in Lórien, Maglor and Maedhros are ready to return to their family and to make something new with their lives--but to move forward, all of Fëanor's sons must decide how, or if, they can ever reconcile with their father.
Note: This fic is a direct sequel to High in the Clean Blue Air. 

Prologue / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

 

The day after his brothers’ arrival, Maglor spent the morning in the library. It was cozier in many ways than the library in Taur-en-Gellam, with fewer secluded nooks and corners—though there were some, for those who liked to tuck themselves away to read—and with many more windows, all looking out over gardens and meadows and streams. It was familiar and comforting, very like the library in Rivendell. He wrote to Galadriel (with greetings to his second-favorite cousin Finrod), and enclosed a copy of his song.

Afterward, he took the other clean copy he had made and went to find Maedhros, who was outside on the veranda with Calissë and Náriel and the hedgehogs. “Uncle Cáno!” Náriel threw herself onto Maglor’s lap as he sat down beside Maedhros. “Are you really going to take Calissë all the way to Ekkaia next? I want to come too!”

“Calissë is telling tales,” Maglor said.

“You said,” Calissë began hotly.

“I said you would have to wait a few years, and that you have to wait for your parents’ permission,” Maglor said. “Besides, I’ve had enough of travel for the time being, and I won’t be budging from this valley until you’re both of age at least. Maybe not even for a hundred years.”

“Oh that’s not fair!” Calissë protested. “You’ve got to come to Tirion sometimes!”

“Why should I, when you can all come visit me instead?”

“But you’ve got to come see the new baby!” Náriel said.

“All right,” Maglor allowed, “maybe I’ll make an exception for the new baby.”

“And the feast next year,” Maedhros said.

“Ugh, fine, and the feast. But that’s it!”

Maedhros went on, “And there’s—”

“No!” Maglor interrupted, as the girls giggled. “More than two exceptions and they stop being exceptions!”

Rundamírë came to call the girls in to wash up for lunch, and once they were alone Maglor handed Maedhros the song. “Here. You can scribble in the margins all you like; I’ll be marking it up myself later.”

“All right. You’re not really going to refuse to leave here are you?”

“No, I was teasing. But I am going to be very happy not to have to go anywhere for a while. Daeron wants to sleep for a hundred years after the feast, and that sounds like a very good idea to me.”

Maedhros glanced at him, smile fading. “I thought you said you were all right,” he said.

“I am. I’m not unhappy or haunted or anything else you’re worried about. I’m just tired.”

“I don’t think they should have asked this song of you so soon after we came back from Lórien,” Maedhros said after a moment. “You’ve been doing too much too fast. Ever since you came west, really—going all the way to Ekkaia, and then…”

“We spent decades in Lórien, remember?”

“And at least two thirds of that was not restful at all,” Maedhros said. He hooked his arm around Maglor’s shoulders and pulled him over. “Please take care, Cáno.”

“I’ve done all the hardest parts, aside from actually singing the song,” said Maglor. He rested his head on Maedhros’ shoulder, and watched the hedgehogs dart by through the grass all in a line. “I’m going to set the song aside until you and Galadriel and Finrod have had a chance to look at this draft. Then I’ll start rewriting it. It’s the words that will give me trouble—the music itself is exactly what I want it to be.”

Erestor came out then. “Maglor, I just remembered—a chest came for you from Tirion last summer when you were away. I put it aside at the time; do you want it taken to your room?”

“A chest from Tirion?” Maglor repeated. “From who?”

“I think it came from your father,” Erestor said. “That’s why I did not put it in your room straight away.”

“Oh. No, it’s all right, it can go to my room. Thank you, Erestor.”

“What’s Atar sending you?” Maedhros asked.

“I don’t know. Something from the old house, maybe?”

“All of that went to Curvo and then to me.”

Maglor shrugged. “Just a guess. I have no idea what else it could be.”

After lunch, Maglor went upstairs. Maedhros followed, and so did Calissë and Náriel when they heard Maglor utter the words “mystery chest.” Erestor had placed it near the foot of the bed. It was plain and sturdy, clearly old, with small signs for preservation and protection carved all around it. “What’s in it?” Calissë asked, climbing onto the bed to peer down at it. Náriel scrambled up after her.

“I don’t know,” Maglor said. “That’s why it’s a mystery.” There was a bit of paper sticking out of the lid, and he tugged it free to find a folded up note. It was in Fëanor’s writing.

Cáno, Ambarussa and I found this not long after you and I spoke; usually I give such boxes to Curvo for you all to sort through in your own time, but I think there is no doubt that you will want to keep these. And—this is not for your song, but just for you: my father told me many times that he treasured the time spent with you in his workshop, teaching you and working alongside you. He loved you so much, I hope you remember that.

He folded the note back up and slipped it into his pocket before opening the chest. The contents were shocking but not wholly surprising. Maglor pressed a hand over his mouth at the sight of them, dozens of wooden horses, carefully and cleverly carved, of sizes ranging from no larger than his thumb to almost as large as Pídhres, in all different shades of brown, from cherry to white oak to mahogany to ebony. Once they had sat on a long shelf in his bedroom, all in a row. He reached for one of them with his other hand, and turned it over to see on its belly the very simple and stylized etching of the Two Trees, branches entwined, that had been Finwë’s personal mark.

“Did you make these, Uncle Cáno?” Náriel asked. “They look like the one you made last summer!” She pointed to the horse Maglor had carved the summer before where it sat on his desk, one leg lifted as though it might start prancing across the scattering of papers there.

“I didn’t,” Maglor said when he could make his tongue work. His voice sounded odd even to his own ears. “My grandfather made them.”

“Grandfather Mahtan?”

“No. Finwë.” Maglor set the horse back down carefully, and glanced at Maedhros, who also stared at the horses in astonishment, his eyes bright with sudden unshed tears. Maglor carefully closed the chest as Calissë slid off of the bed to come wrap her arms around his neck, clearly remembering what he had told her of Finwë. Maglor kissed the top of her head, and then she went to hug Maedhros, who scooped her up and kissed her all over her face until they were both laughing instead.

“Who’s Finwë?” Náriel asked.

“Grandfather Fëanáro’s father,” said Calissë. “Uncle Cáno told me all about him, but you weren’t there.”

“That’s not fair! I wanna hear about Grandfather Finwë!”

“I can tell you all about him right now,” said Maglor as he rose and picked her up off the bed, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “I have lots of stories no one has heard yet, that I learned in Taur-en-Gellam.”

He left the chest of horses where it was, and led the way back downstairs. Fëanor had been right—Maglor was very happy to have those horses back, and he would decide what exactly he wanted to do with them later, after he could sit and cry over them for a while. He had been full of thoughts of Finwë, and memories, and fragile hopes, but having again things that Finwë had made with his own hands felt so very different somehow.

Downstairs they found that Caranthir had just arrived. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said to Maglor, embracing him tightly. “I needed an excuse to get out of Tirion.”

“What’s happening in Tirion?”

“It’s just very busy with preparations for the upcoming feast,” said Curufin as he lifted Náriel onto his hip. “I’m surprised they all let Tyelpë escape.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving,” Celebrimbor laughed. “I just left a note. The rest of you are lucky—you don’t have to do anything except attend the feast.”

“Well that’s not true,” Maglor said. “The final preparations and rehearsals for those of us providing all the music and entertainment will be even more chaotic than whatever you’re all doing now, I promise you that.”

“At least you won’t be the one in charge, unless Elemmírë has asked more of you than you’ve said,” said Celegorm.

“She hasn’t, and I am very glad that I’ll be taking directions instead of giving them.”

Caranthir did not ask about Daeron, or about what happened in Taur-en-Gellam beyond the usual expected questions of what Thingol's court was like. Everyone was interested in the stories about Finwë that he had learned; Maglor told the funniest ones, and the ones he could turn into something exciting rather than frightening, for Calissë and Náriel’s sakes. Elladan and Elrohir joined them too, both of them as eager as the girls to learn all about Finwë.

Halfway through Maglor’s retelling of Finwë and Ingwë and Thingol's coming to Valinor for the first time, told with new details that Ingwë and Thingol had shared with him, a robin fluttered through the window to land on Curufin’s head, pecking at his hair and tugging on a few strands. Maglor held out his hand with a whistle and the bird hopped onto his fingers. “Can you talk to birds like Uncle Tyelko?” Náriel asked.

“A bit. I know shorebirds better than songbirds,” Maglor said, as he carefully freed the small bit of paper from the robin’s leg. “Thank you,” he told it, and it cheeped cheerfully at him before flying away out of the window. “Do they always send birds to you specifically, Curvo?”

“Yes,” Curufin sighed as he rubbed the top of his head. “What does the note say?”

“They’re preparing to come down from the mountain, and intend to come here first,” said Maglor, squinting at the tiny scribbles. “Doesn’t say when to expect them, though.”

“Of course not,” said Caranthir.

“And Fëanor is still with them?” Elladan asked.

“Amras doesn’t say, but that seems like a safe assumption.” Maglor did not look at either Celegorm or Maedhros, instead handing the note over to Curufin. “Elrond and Celebrían are to return home soon too, aren’t they?”

“Yes, very soon,” said Elrohir.

A little later, before dinner, Maglor caught Maedhros alone in his room. “Maedhros,” he began.

“I’m not going to run away just because Atar is coming.”

“What are you going to do?”

Maedhros sighed, and set his comb down. Maglor stepped forward to part his hair for braiding. In the mirror, Maedhros looked tired. “I suppose I’m going to have to speak to him,” he said after a few moments.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I—” He stopped abruptly, blinking rapidly. Maglor said nothing, just continued braiding, a simple single plait. “I do miss him,” Maedhros said finally. “I thought for a while I hated him, but I don’t, I just…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Maedhros,” Maglor said. He tied off the braid and leaned forward to wrap his arms around Maedhros’ shoulders. “Are you afraid?”

“No. At least, I don’t think I am. I just—I can’t forgive him like you couldn’t forgive me. The difference is that I don’t know if I want to, and I don’t think I can know until I do speak to him, and it’s…”

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I don’t think I want anyone else to hear,” Maedhros said.

“It’s Losgar that still troubles you most, isn’t it?” Maglor asked. “I was there too. I know what he said.” Fëanor’s words had been ugly, though even Maglor hadn’t realized then just how deeply they had cut into Maedhros’ heart. Then later Angband and Thangorodrim had overshadowed everything else, and Maedhros had grimly and firmly refused to speak any more of Fëanor or of the past, especially after he surrendered the crown to Fingolfin. Maglor had followed his lead without question—he probably would have avoided speaking of it anyway, the way he’d avoided all such things in those days, the way they all had. “At least I will be nearby. Within earshot, probably busy trying to convince Celegorm to leave you alone.”

“I hate that it’s necessary,” Maedhros whispered. “He’s our father.”

“We all do.”

“And I know it’s me that’s holding Tyelko and Moryo back, because they think—I don’t know, that I shouldn’t be the only one—”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Maglor said. “I think that’s just what they tell themselves, because they’re also afraid. If I didn’t have this song to write, you know, I’d be avoiding him too.”

“But you don’t regret it. Speaking to him.”

“No, I don’t. Do you want to go down to dinner or eat up here?”

“I’ll go down—trying to avoid anyone is worse than useless.” Maedhros sighed. “Well, Elrond is getting his wish. He wanted this meeting to take place here, and to be nearby when it did.”

“Did you want to do it elsewhere?”

“I hadn’t thought about it, really.”

Maedhros put on a cheerful face at dinner, but he slipped away early afterward. Maglor didn't follow, and shook his head when he caught Celegorm’s eye and could tell he was thinking about it. Instead, Celegorm followed Maglor when the household all broke up to go to bed. “I don’t think Nelyo should be left alone,” he began as soon as they were in Maglor’s room. “If he’s—”

“Let him be. Sometimes people need to be alone with their thoughts. Besides, I think Aechen’s with him.” The hedgehogs were asleep, but only Aegthil and Annem had come to Maglor’s room. Outside, Maglor could hear Nallámo singing in one of the lilac bushes. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Celegorm crossed his arms, but didn’t quite meet Maglor’s gaze. “I’ll hide away in the woods or something while he’s here.”

“Tyelko.”

“It’s—he doesn’t really want to see me—”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Why would he want to see me? I’m not—I never was—”

“I don’t think that’s really true.” Maglor turned away to strip off his tunic to start changing for bed, and heard Celegorm make a small pained noise at the sight of his back. “You’ve seen them before, Tyelko.”

“Doesn’t make it easier to see them again. Estë couldn't get rid of them? Even the—on your chest?”

“None of them hurt anymore. That’s enough for me.” Maglor pulled on a nightshirt, since the evenings were still quite cool, and glanced at Celegorm. “Are you the one that doesn’t want to be alone tonight?” he asked. Celegorm shrugged, which was answer enough. “Sleep in here, then. Huan can come too as long as he doesn’t mind Pídhres hissing at him a little bit.”

“But if you—”

“Come on, don’t be stupid.”

Celegorm left, but returned a few minutes later in his own nightclothes to sprawl across the bed beside Maglor and Pídhres. Huan followed, and lumbered up onto the bed to shove Celegorm even closer to Maglor so he could lie down, a large and soft and warm presence. Pídhres, predictably, hissed and moved to Maglor’s other side. “Were those stories true, the ones you told about Finwë?” Celegorm asked after a little while.

“Yes. I wouldn’t make up stories about him. I left some details out because of the girls, but I didn’t invent anything.”

Celegorm rested his head on his arms, watching Maglor from behind a thin curtain of silver hair. “You really don’t mind me sleeping here?”

“It was my idea, wasn’t it?” Maglor reached out to push Celegorm’s hair away. “Tell me what’s troubling you. Besides Maedhros. We’re all worried about Maedhros.”

“I don’t know.” Celegorm reached out in his turn, taking Maglor’s hand, his fingers rubbing over the scars on his palm. “I’m worried about you too. You said you’re tired.”

“That’s easily fixed.”

“I know. Still. You only just got back from Lórien, and you haven’t stopped moving since.”

“Have you and Maedhros been talking about me? I’m stopping now. How’s your hunt for a craft going?”

“I’m still doing carving. I like it better than knitting, but I like that I can knit while thinking about something else, or talk to people and do something with my hands at the same time. Sometimes I join Grandfather Mahtan in his forges, but I’m not sure I like it any better than I used to.”

“That’s all right,” said Maglor. “But you like carving—I’m glad.”

“So is Ammë.”

“Do you still go out into the wilds, though? You can do that without being a hunter.”

“I go out foraging sometimes,” Celegorm said. “There isn’t the same thrill as a real hunt, but I’ve found that I like going more slowly, looking at things more closely. Listening to what the animals all have to say. Caranthir comes too once in a while, and it’s—it’s nice. And it’s nice to go out by myself. It’s quiet. Peaceful.”

“I’m glad,” Maglor said again, softly, squeezing Celegorm’s hand.

They spoke for a while longer, of different things, of the past and of the present, of Finwë, of their cousins and their brothers, jumping from topic to topic like they used to as children when one of them would sneak into the other’s room at night to share secrets and to stay up far too late. The moon shone into the room now rather than the silver light of Telperion, but it still felt cozy and familiar, and when Maglor drifted off to sleep it was with the thought that he was so very, very glad that his brother was there beside him.

He woke early in the morning with Huan sprawled across both his legs and Celegorm’s, so that Maglor had lost feeling in one of his feet. He kicked at Huan until he moved enough that Maglor could slip out of bed. The hedgehogs were stirring, and when he opened the door for them they scurried out into the hall, joined by Aechen a moment later. Maglor glanced up to see Maedhros in his own doorway. “All right?” Maglor asked.

Maedhros smiled at him; he looked tired but not unhappy. “Fine.”

Once dressed, Maglor realized that he didn’t know what to do with himself. The song wasn’t finished, but he couldn’t really work on it until he heard back from Finrod and Galadriel, or at least Maedhros—and more likely all of his brothers, if they ended up passing the song between them before giving it back. After thinking for a moment, he went to his desk, and opened the bottom drawer. “Cáno…?” Celegorm yawned from the bed. “Ow, Huan. I can’t feel my legs.”

“Your dog is a menace,” Maglor said as he lifted a few odds and ends to find the roll of leather at the bottom, with the sets of tools inside that Fëanor had made. He drew them out and set them on the desk. “Want to throw clay with me after breakfast?” He hadn’t done anything with clay in months, and he suddenly missed it terribly.

“I assume that doesn’t mean what I think it means.”

“Almost certainly.”

“All right.”

They spent the morning together working clay; Celegorm took to it more readily than he had to anything else he’d tried, and by the time Caranthir came looking for them, Maglor had shaped a small vase, and Celegorm a simple bowl. No one spoke of Fëanor, or of Finwë—not that day, or the days following.

Some days after Caranthir arrived, Elrond and Celebrían returned home. Maglor was with Gimli, chatting about the differences between Dwarf- and Elf-made harps when they heard the commotion outside, and Maglor reached the entryway just as Elrond stepped inside. It felt, somehow, like much longer than only since the summer before that Maglor had last seen him. Elrond seemed to be thinking the same, by the way he held on tightly when embracing Maglor. “I missed you,” he said. “How was Taur-en-Gellam?”

“Very nice, but I’m glad to be home. How were your own travels?”

“The same,” Elrond said, smiling a little ruefully. “I’m also very glad to be at home—but it was nice to spend the winter in Avallónë.”

“Maedhros said so too.”

“Is he here? I was told to expect all your brothers.”

“Yes, they’re all here but Ambarussa. Has Gil-galad made his way yet to Tirion?”

“Oh yes, but I can’t say for certain how it’s all going beyond ‘exciting’. We avoided the city coming back through the Calacirya, or else we would have surely been delayed another six months or so. I have letters for you from Finrod and Galadriel, by the way—and Finarfin, and one from Aegnor.”

“Aegnor?”

“Yes, he said he didn’t want to be left out of your grand project even though he likely won’t see you in person until the feast next year.”

“How is he?”

“He seems happy,” Elrond said, “though a little more overwhelmed than Gil-galad. I still don’t know which is more normal.”

“It probably varies wildly,” said Maglor.

“I want to hear all about your winter, though,” said Elrond. “But later.”

Later turned out to be the next afternoon, when Elrond found Maglor in the library curled up with a book by a window. “No writing today?” Elrond asked as he picked up Pídhres from the neighboring chair so he could sit down. She rubbed her head against his chin and purred happily.

“I have a full draft complete, and it’s making its way through my brothers at the moment,” said Maglor, “as well as the copy I sent to Finrod and Galadriel, which probably arrived after you left. I want to see what they all have to say before I start picking it apart and rewriting things.”

“Are you satisfied with it thus far?”

“I think so. The music is just what I want it to be. I won’t be changing much of that, no matter what Finrod says.”

Elrond smiled, but only briefly. “And Daeron…?”

Maglor closed his book, sighing. “He feels as though everyone expects him to be far more willing than he is to open up to his family. It makes him feel as though every move he makes is the wrong one—and that brought back old and painful memories from Doriath.”

“Of Lúthien?”

“Yes. His brother tried to ask about that, understandably, and I think it was all just suddenly too much.”

“So—what, he lost his temper at you?”

“I was there,” Maglor said, shrugging a shoulder. “He wanted to pick a fight because he wanted to be hurt, not because he wanted to hurt me. We talked about it later, and he apologized—you don’t have to keep worrying.”

“All right,” Elrond said. “Though for what it’s worth, I don’t think Daeron is at fault for what happened in Doriath, certainly not more than anyone else who was there.”

“He says that he knew even at the time that he was making mistakes.”

“Maybe. Looking back it’s always easy to say who should have done what, but in the moment I doubt it was so clear. But, perhaps, Daeron was meant to do as he did, since it is clear that the Silmaril was meant to come into the hands of Lúthien, and eventually to my mother.”

“Maybe,” said Maglor. “For myself, I try not to think about it very much these days.”

“Was it terribly awkward there?”

“No, only a little in the beginning. Daeron’s family are wonderful—his aunt and uncle, I mean.”

“Not his parents?”

“I like Simpalírë,” said Maglor. “I knew him a little back when we were both much younger, though I never made the connection to Daeron. I’m not sure what I think of their parents, and I think they’re not sure what they think of me.”

“Celebrían invited them to Avallónë often last fall,” Elrond said with a small smile, “and it just so happened that you came up often enough in conversation that we could sing your praises at every opportunity.”

“Mostly it’s the Great Journey that’s the sticking point. That Daeron never came west when they think he should have.”

“All children do things their parents wouldn’t approve of,” Elrond said.

“As I told Calissë, family is complicated.”

“Someone should remind Daeron that at least his family isn’t as complicated as the House of Finwë,” Elrond said.

“No family is as complicated as the House of Finwë,” Maglor said, making a face so Elrond would laugh. “It’s terrible. And I had to have a conversation about with Calissë, which I still haven’t told Curvo about. I should, before she repeats something I said out of context and makes him think I sang her to sleep every night with the Noldolantë or something.”

“I doubt he would think that.”

“Maybe not, but sometimes children can say very alarming things. You and Elros used to do it all the time.”

“Yes, I know. We had to amuse ourselves somehow.” Before Maglor could decide whether he thought Elrond was joking or not, Elrond asked, “Have you heard anything from Ambarussa and your father?”

“Yes, we’re expecting them to turn up sometime in the near future, but you know how Ambarussa are.”

“I did tell Maedhros I hoped he would choose to meet with your father again here. I’m glad that I came home first.”

“Yes, he told me.”

“He also told me that it’s Losgar that troubles him still. Do you know what was said?”

“Yes. Our father didn’t say anything worse than what he’d said already to others—but that was to others, never to any of us. Never to Maedhros.”

“Yet Maedhros knows that he needn’t fear such words now.”

“No,” Maglor sighed. “But…our father changed once, and then changed again in Mandos. I would be lying if I tried to say that I don’t also fear seeing yet another change for the worse in him, even though I know it’s almost certain not to happen.”

“What will you do if time does not ease that fear?” Elrond asked.

“I don’t know. I can live with fear.” He’d lived with it far longer than he had without it, lurking in the back of his mind alongside those other dark thoughts that could be buried but never fully banished. These days it was rarely overwhelming; it was something he could carry, the same as he carried his other scars. Sometimes he thought that he wouldn’t know what to do without it. “I just don’t know if Maedhros can.”