A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Fifty One

[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

 

Any conversation between Fëanor and Maedhros was never going to go well, but Maglor hadn’t expected anything like this. It had taken him several seconds too long to realize what it was that Maedhros was actually saying and what it meant—several seconds longer than Celegorm, which had made things just that much worse. And now he would have to deal with both Celegorm and Curufin when he went back to the house to find Elrond. Better him than Maedhros—but he still didn’t want to do it.

At the same time, he did not think Maedhros should be left alone. Maglor watched him disappear around a few trees and wished, desperately, that Daeron were there. Daeron wouldn’t be able to do anything to fix it any more than Maglor could, but at least he would have been someone Maglor could lean on, who would not be angry with him about all of this—someone who would help him instead, who could find Elrond and shut Celegorm down while Maglor at least made sure Maedhros wasn’t going to flee the valley entirely. But he wasn’t there, and wishing for him wasn’t going to change anything. Maglor wished anyway.

“Canafinwë,” Fëanor said after a few moments. “Are you all right?”

He’d expected questions, but not that one. Maglor pressed his hands to his face and tried to remember how to breathe. “I have to find Elrond,” he said into his palms. Elrond would know how to talk Maedhros down and what to do about the false memories, how to untangle them and at least recognize them for what they were if they couldn’t be cut out or ignored entirely. Maglor lowered his hands. “There are many things you never said, Atar,” he said without looking at Fëanor, “that still echo in our minds in your voice—the worst thoughts we’ve had of ourselves, our darkest doubts and fears. We didn’t need Morgoth for that; we just needed the memory of your anger. Maedhros’ memory of Losgar is more than that, and it’s not your fault, but you made it very easy for Morgoth to put such a thing into his mind. I know you regret everything that happened then, and I know you are trying to be better, but you should remember that.”

“Cáno—”

“You should avoid the house for a little while. I don’t know what Celegorm is going to do.” Maglor left without waiting for an answer, keeping his pace deliberate until he was out of Fëanor’s sight—then he broke into a run, flying back down the paths past the pond, over the little bridges that criss-crossed the streams. He slowed before he reached the veranda where he saw Celegorm pacing like a caged animal, and took a moment to catch his breath before stepping around the lilac bushes. Curufin was there too, leaning against the wall and studying the flagstones at his feet. Huan lay nearby in the clover, watching both of them with his keen dark eyes. He lifted his head as Maglor approached, whining softly, and Maglor paused to scratch him behind the ears before heading up the steps.

Maglor had expected something unpleasant, but he wasn’t prepared for Celegorm to lunge forward and slam him back against the wall not far from where Curufin stood. His head smacked against the rough stones with a sharp burst of pain. “You had better have a damn good explanation for what you did out there, Maglor,” Celegorm said, teeth bared, face white with fury. “Defending him after he—”

“Let me go.” Maglor shoved at Celegorm’s chest, but Celegorm just pushed him back against the wall, ignoring Huan’s low warning growl behind him.

“Where is Maedhros? If you left him out there alone with—”

Maglor did not have time for this. He kicked out, hooking his leg around Celegorm’s knees to knock him off balance and lunged forward as he fell, slamming him down onto the flagstones hard enough to drive the air out of his lungs. As Celegorm choked and gasped, Maglor knelt with his knee on his chest and yanked his head back by the hair until their gazes met. “Do not,” Maglor snarled, “question my loyalty to Maedhros. Ever. I am trying to help him, and if you aren’t going to help me, you can get out of my way!”

“What is going on?” Celebrían had come outside, and stood in the doorway looking on in alarm. “Maglor—”

Maglor rose to his feet, already feeling a twinge in his shoulders from the bruises forming there. “Where is Elrond?” he asked Celebrían.

“Working upstairs. But what—”

“Will you send someone for him, please? I need his help.”

“Is someone hurt?” Celebrían asked.

“Yes, but the wounds are old ones. I’m sorry, I can’t explain more right now.”

Celebrían looked unhappy about this, lips pursed and brow furrowed, but she disappeared inside. Caranthir and Ambarussa took her place a few seconds later. “What’s going on?” Caranthir asked as Celegorm sat up, still breathing hard. Huan stepped up to sniff at Celegorm’s hair. “Tyelko, what happened to you?”

Maglor couldn’t do this. He felt like he was drowning, sinking a little more every time someone new appeared to question him. “I don’t have time to explain right now,” he said. The longer Maedhros was left alone the worse it would be—and Maglor didn’t even know what to do except to ask for Elrond’s help. He was no healer, and he had no songs for this—and now his head and shoulders hurt on top of everything else. Not to mention, he had no idea what his father was going to do next.

“Is it Atar?” Caranthir asked.

“No.”

“Yes,” Curufin said at the same time. “Maglor—”

“Do not argue with me, Curufinwë,” Maglor snapped as Elrond stepped outside. “I said I would explain, and I will, just not now—and the longer you delay me here the longer you’ll have to wait!”

“What happened?” Elrond asked, looking cautiously between Maglor and his brothers.

“Please come with me,” Maglor said. “Maedhros needs to speak with you.”

“Of course.” Elrond fell into step with Maglor without any further questions until they were back out in the gardens, out of sight of the house. Then he dropped back a step and said sharply, “Maglor, you’re bleeding.”

Maglor lifted a hand to the back of his head, and his fingers came away tacky with drying blood. At the same time he became aware of how some of it had dripped down the back of his neck under his hair. Of course. “I’ll be fine.”

“But what—”

“Maedhros has been carrying a memory of Losgar for six thousand years that never happened.”

Elrond caught up again in an instant. “Tell me.”

Maglor explained as best he could, though he had no answers for any of the questions that Elrond asked—but they were questions that meant Elrond understood the problem and seemed already to know how he might help, which was enough to make Maglor want to start crying out of sheer relief. There might not be any fixing it, not really, but there would be ways to deal with it.

“Where is Maedhros now, do you think?” Elrond asked finally, as they reached the oak tree where the confrontation had taken place. Fëanor was no longer there, and it was still very quiet.

“He stormed off that way,” Maglor said, pointing ahead of them, “but I don’t know where he was headed. I’m not sure he knew. I don’t know where my father has gone either.”

“I can find Maedhros,” said Elrond. He put a hand on Maglor’s arm; there were smudges of ink on his fingertips. “Don’t worry about Fëanor, either. Go back to the house and find Celebrían or Elladan. Have them look at your head.”

“It just looks worse than—”

“For me. Please. I don’t think Maedhros will want to see you right now.”

“I don’t think he wants to see anyone, but—”

“I know what I’m doing, Maglor. Trust me, and please go see Celebrían—before you try to deal with the rest of your brothers.” Elrond searched Maglor’s face, and apparently did not like what he found there. “This is not your fault, you know.”

“I should have known there was something more at work. That something wasn’t right.”

“How could you, if Maedhros never spoke of it? What’s happening now is no one’s fault—except for your injuries, which are most definitely Celegorm’s fault.”

“I’m—”

“Please don’t try to say you’re fine when we both know it isn’t true.”

“I will be, eventually,” Maglor said, because that had always been true before, and it was worth at least reminding himself. “I’ll manage—myself and my brothers. I’ve done it before under worse circumstances.” He kissed Elrond’s temple. “Thank you.”

“There is a reason I wanted everyone to be here when this meeting took place,” Elrond said, “though I did not expect things to go wrong in quite this way.”

“No, neither did I.”

They parted, and Maglor debated for a little while as he walked back to the house whether to try to find Fëanor or not. He decided against it; he needed to make sure no one else would come to blows over this, and the only way to do that was to talk to all of his brothers as soon as possible. His headache grew worse with each step now that there was nothing else to distract him, throbbing at the back of his skull and behind his eyes. Around him the valley was full of birdsong and distant laughter, as its other residents went about their day unburdened by the horrors of the past. Nightingales sang in the hedgerows, and the breeze brought the smell of apple and peach blossoms down from the orchards, alongside the newer smell of the pears that Celebrían had most recently planted. When Maglor reached the house again he found Elladan waiting to drag him inside and down the hall to the large and airy room where the infrequent injuries of Imloth Ningloron were tended. The sunshine streamed through the wide windows, and the air smelled of herbs and fresh athelas. Celebrían was already there, and stepped up behind Maglor as Elladan sat him down. “Let me see,” she said briskly as she parted Maglor’s hair with gentle fingers. “It’s already stopped bleeding, at least. How badly does it hurt?”

“Badly,” Maglor admitted, “but I probably had a headache coming on anyway.”

“I can imagine,” said Celebrían. “I could tell something was the matter in the valley even before your brothers came back glowering like storm clouds. Elladan, the tea should be ready. It just needs a bit of honey.” She hummed a gentle song as she pressed her fingers against Maglor’s scalp. The throbbing eased a little, especially the stinging pain of the cut itself, and Maglor obediently sipped at the slightly-bitter brew that Elladan handed him.

“Is there anything else we should be preparing?” Elladan asked as he took the empty cup away a few minutes later. “Anything for Maedhros?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Where are my brothers?”

“I suspect they are upstairs waiting for you,” Celebrían said, “but you don’t need to be dealing with them. You should wash your hair and then lie down—draw the curtains and rest in the dark and quiet at least until dinner. You did not hit your head as hard as I thought at first, but you’ll feel better for the rest.”

“I do need to deal with them,” Maglor sighed. If he didn’t, things would only get worse. “I promised an explanation, and I need to give it to them before they—I don’t know what they’ll do.”

“What is the matter?” Elladan asked. “Also, did you eat anything this morning?”

“The Enemy’s lies. The Valar in Lórien weren’t going to go digging around in Maedhros’ memories without this leave, so…”

“Ah, I see,” Celebrían murmured. She stepped away to wash her hands. “We have dealt with such things before, though after all this time there may be no getting rid of it—but at least the truth is known, and now real healing can begin.”

“I know.”

“Here, eat a few bites of this before you go face your brothers.” Elladan handed Maglor a piece of lembas. “Once you’re done with them you can bathe and rest, and Elrohir and I will make sure no one bothers you.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said as he took the lembas.

“You don’t need to thank us,” Celebrían said, coming to kiss his temple. “Just tell me if I need to throw someone out. I will not hesitate.”

“I don’t want—”

“This is your home, and with Elrond busy I can take sides as I choose—and you know that if it comes to it we will both always stand with you. If your brothers won’t be reasonable, I will toss them out by their ears and send them home to Nerdanel.”

Oh no. Maglor hadn’t even thought of Nerdanel. He set the lembas down and covered his face again. “My mother cannot learn of this yet.”

“You’ve got time,” Elladan said, resting his hand on Maglor’s shoulder. “I don’t think anything is as dire as you feel it is, and I’m sure you’ll feel the same once your head stops aching.”

It had felt dire enough even before he’d hit his head. “Maybe.”

Once he had eaten enough of the lembas to satisfy Elladan and Celebrían, Elladan went with him upstairs, insisting that Maglor not face the rest of his brothers alone—especially if Celegorm was still in a volatile mood. As predicted, all of his brothers had gathered in Maglor’s bedroom. Maglor ignored all of them at first and went to his wardrobe to strip off his shirt. Under other circumstances he would have waited, even though a little blood had dried on it and itched the back of his neck, but at the moment it seemed like an important bit of theater—showing his scars as a pointed reminder that he knew better than they did what he was talking about when it came to the devices of the Enemy. They didn’t have to know the brand on his chest felt more tender than it had in years, or that his lips stung with the memory of needles. “Cáno, you’re bleeding!” Amras exclaimed, startled at the sight of blood on his collar.

“Not anymore.” Maglor took out a robe and shrugged into it. Then he turned around, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the wardrobe. He knew how this had to go—he would have to roll over and through whatever objections and arguments they might have and just say what he needed to say. He’d done it before, but it would be easier now if Celegorm hadn’t slammed him against a wall. He could feel the headache coming back as he took a breath. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “I’m going to explain what I know, which isn’t much, and then you’re all going to leave—and you’re going to leave me and Maedhros and Atar alone until Elrond says otherwise.” He paused for the expected burst of objections and protestations, but though Celegorm was scowling he was also staring at the floor, and though Curufin was white-faced he too remained silent. Caranthir and the twins just looked worried and confused, which at least meant that neither Curufin nor Celegorm had told them anything. Elladan leaned against the wall by the door, quiet and watchful. “We all know that Atar turned on Maedhros after the ships burned,” Maglor said after another moment of silence. “He was furious that Maedhros had spoken against it and then refused to take part. None of you were there to hear what he said, but I was. It was all awful, of course, but none of it was anything he hadn’t said before to others.” Celegorm stirred, but Maglor pressed on. “Maedhros, however, remembers Atar saying that he should have been left to burn with the ships.”

“What?” chorused the twins.

“Atar never said that, or anything like it,” Maglor said. “Atar said he should have left Maedhros behind in Araman with Fingolfin—which is bad enough, and I am not trying to say it wasn’t. As far as I can tell, this is the only truly false memory that Maedhros has, and I am certain that the seeds of it were planted by the Enemy. In Angband. It doesn’t really matter how or when or why at this point. Elrond is with Maedhros now—he knows better than I do how to help him. Does anyone have any questions that aren’t just thinly veiled accusations?” As he finished speaking Maglor shot Celegorm and Curufin a glare; Celegorm did not raise his head, and shifted his weight a little from one foot to the other. Curufin didn’t move at all.

“Is…is Maedhros all right?” Amrod asked.

“No,” Maglor said, “but as I said, Elrond is with him.”

“You spent all that time in Lórien, though,” Caranthir said. “How did…how was this not discovered then?”

“Maedhros never spoke of Losgar to anyone, not even Nienna—not even me. I never pushed him to because I never suspected his memory of it differed so drastically from mine.”

“Where is Atya?” Amras asked.

“I told him to keep away from the house for a while,” Maglor said. “I don’t know where he’s gone. But he did nothing wrong today. That is not me defending him over Maedhros, that is the truth.”

“No, he just did everything wrong six thousand years ago,” Celegorm muttered.

“So did we, and worse,” Maglor said. No one replied. “He has to live with what he did the same way we have to live with ourselves. Things were getting better, and they still can, unless we want to let the Enemy have yet another victory over us.” It all came back to the Enemy in the end, to him and his lies—back to the unrest in Tirion, back to the Dark Rider and his fell servants on the shores of Cuiviénen, and all the disagreements about what should have been done that still colored what people said and did now. Maglor was so tired of it—so tired of strife and of fear and of heartache. “If no one else has anything to say, I’ve been ordered to wash the blood out of my hair and to lie down in a dark room until this evening.” Celegorm’s head jerked up, but Maglor didn’t meet his gaze. He found suddenly that he was very angry with Celegorm, close to furious, and if he wasn’t left alone very soon he would probably lose his temper—and then Celebrían would have broken windows or worse to deal with. When no one spoke after a few seconds he said, “Fine. You can leave now.”

“Maglor,” Celegorm began.

“If you do not leave right now, Celegorm, I will do something we will both regret.” Maglor wasn’t sure what his face looked like, but Celegorm fled. Curufin slipped out behind him, looking as though he wanted to say something but not quite daring to. Ambarussa both stepped forward to embrace Maglor, tightly but briefly, before also leaving. Caranthir lingered. “Caranthir, I told you—”

“Let me help you wash your hair,” Caranthir said. “You’ve got bruises all over your shoulders that are going to be getting stiff soon.”

Maglor’s burgeoning temper guttered out like a dying candle. “I…all right.” He glanced at Elladan, who nodded and followed after Ambarussa.

Caranthir was gentle but efficient in washing the blood out of Maglor’s hair. Neither of them spoke until they were back in Maglor’s room and Caranthir was seated behind him on the bed with a comb. “You’re really certain that it’s a false memory planted by the Enemy,” he said after a while.

“I am.”

“It couldn’t just be…I don’t know, just jumbled up and confused memories? It was all so terrible, and so many things happened so fast—”

“No. Maybe it started out that way, but it seems to be very clear in his mind now, and I don’t know how that would happen without the Enemy doing something, even if he did not just somehow plant it there in its entirety. Maedhros didn’t believe me when I tried to tell him it wasn’t real.”

Caranthir was silent for a few minutes. As he parted Maglor’s hair he asked quietly, “Is that what happened to you?”

Maglor closed his eyes. “Close enough. I don’t—I don’t think I have any false memories like this one, though I suppose if I do I wouldn’t know it. Just…things got twisted up and distorted and I don’t always know which nightmares came out of my own mind and which were put there by someone else. That is something I spoke to Nienna about, but I already knew it was a problem when I went to Lórien. It doesn’t much matter now, really, because now that’s all they are—nightmares.”

“Is that why you were afraid to come to us when you arrived here? Why you thought we’d be angry with you over the Silmarils?”

“Because of the nightmares? Yes, I suppose so.” It was impossible to untangle the sources of all his different fears; there had been so many of them. He had hesitated to seek out his mother because of a false vision given to him by Sauron, but he didn’t know how much of his reluctance to see his brothers had its source in himself and how much had come from Sauron finding the seeds of those doubts and twisting them into something worse.

“I know you’re supposed to lie down and rest,” Caranthir said as he loosely braided Maglor’s hair, “but can I stay? I don’t want you to be alone, especially since Daeron isn’t here.”

“Don’t you have—”

“No. And you don’t want me to go try to talk to Tyelko or Curvo. I’ll just make it worse.”

Maglor sighed. “All right.” He let Caranthir push him gently down onto the pillows before getting up to close the curtains and open the door to let Pídhres in. She jumped onto the bed and curled up by Maglor, who buried his fingers in her fur and closed his eyes. Caranthir settled beside him, sitting up against the headboard. “Talk to me, please?” Maglor said after a few minutes, when his thoughts started circling back around to Maedhros, and worry made his head hurt worse and his stomach churn.

“About what?”

“Anything.”

Caranthir rested a hand on Maglor’s shoulder and started talking quietly about all the preparations for the coming feast, of the things Lisgalen was helping to make for it, and the arguments breaking out over everything—because nothing could be simple among the Noldor, and there were always five opinions on how best to accomplish a task for every three people involved. Maglor stopped listening to the words after a short time and just let the sound of Caranthir’s voice wash over him until sleep took him.

When he woke it was to morning sunshine spilling through the window, and Pídhres shoving her face into his. “Ugh,” he groaned, pushing her away and rolling over. He reached for Daeron, but his hand landed on an empty pillow, and then he remembered that Daeron wasn’t there—and remembered everything that had happened and why he felt so stiff. He opened his eyes, and realized what it meant that it was morning again. He hadn’t meant to sleep so long. Maglor sat up, and saw the three hedgehogs sniffing around the door. He got up to let them out, wincing at the ache in his shoulders, and watched them all scurry away down the hall; Aechen paused by Maedhros’ door to sniff at it before moving on, less quickly than Annem or Aegthil. After a moment of indecision, Maglor went to the door himself. There was no answer to his knock, and when he tried the knob he found it unlocked—and inside the room was empty. The bed did not look as though it had been slept in. He stepped inside, and saw a few signs that Maedhros’ things had been gathered up in haste. His sketchbook had been left behind. Maglor went to pick it up, even though he knew Maedhros wouldn’t want him to. He flipped to the last thing Maedhros had drawn the day before yesterday.

It was, of course, Fëanor, silhouetted against flames behind him, face in shadow but for the pale glint of his eyes. That was at the top of the page; the bottom half was taken up by Fëanor as he died, all jagged black lines and messy shading, not quite as horrible as the reality but still nightmarish.

“Cáno?” Curufin appeared in the doorway. Maglor flipped the sketchbook shut and set it down on the desk. “Maedhros left this morning. He didn’t speak to any of us before he went, but Elrond says he’s gone to Fingon.”

That was probably for the best, but Maglor couldn’t deny that it stung—that Maedhros hadn’t so much as left a note for him. “And Atya?”

“In his room. Ambarussa and I were up late with him last night, and he was with Maedhros when Elrond found them yesterday.”

“Oh. Good.” Maglor paused. “…That is good, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Curufin stepped back as Maglor came out of the room. The door clicking shut behind him sounded terribly final, somehow. “And—Cáno, I’m sorry.”

“It was awful all around. I’m not—it’s not that you were upset or angry, or even angry at me—”

“We should have trusted you,” Curufin said quietly. “Of course you couldn’t explain to us right away, not before Maedhros. Just—I’m sorry. I should’ve talked Celegorm down at the very least.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t left, because Huan is still here, but I haven’t been able to find him.”

Maglor opened his arms, and Curufin stepped into them, burying his face in Maglor’s chest and holding on very tightly. “I’m not upset with you, Curvo,” Maglor said, “and I’m glad you’ve spoken with Atar.”

“He feels awful about it all,” Curufin said without lifting his head.

Small footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Maglor let Curufin go. “I need to go get dressed,” he said. “If there are no fires to put out today, I’ll likely be in the library. Do you know who has the fair copy of my song right now?”

“I do. I’ll bring it to you later.”

“Thank you. Are the girls…?”

“Calissë will figure out that something happened sooner or later, but for now they just know that Maedhros was called away unexpectedly. It’s disappointing but not distressing.”

Maglor escaped back to his own room before Calissë and Náriel reached the top of the stairs. He dressed and carefully combed out his hair, wincing when the comb’s teeth scraped over tender skin. When he looked at himself in the mirror he found his face pale and drawn, tired-looking as though he had not slept nearly a full day and then a full night. The scar on his cheek always seemed more livid when he was unhappy, and Maglor turned away, wishing that he could crawl back into bed to find Daeron waiting for him. He missed him so much it was hard to breathe for a minute.

He went down to be seen eating something for breakfast, though he didn’t feel hungry, lest it get back to Elrond or the twins that he’d skipped another meal, and then he retreated to the library as he had told Curufin that he would. Once there he stared at his scribbled notes for a while without really seeing them; all of his doubts and worries seemed to crowd into his mind again at once, so he couldn’t think clearly about what he needed to—about rhyme and rhythm and how to fix the clumsiest pieces of wording. He sighed and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes and rubbing at his forehead.

When he opened them he found Curufin coming down the room between the shelves, papers in hand. “What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning when he saw Maglor.

“Nothing. Just—finding it hard to concentrate.” Maglor accepted the papers and flipped through them. “No notes from anyone?”

“None of us are songwriters, you know that. But I can already tell it will move everyone who hears it to tears. Even—” Curufin broke off when the door opened and Náriel came charging into the room. “Even the audience you’re worried about,” he finished.

Maglor managed a small smile. “Thank you, Curvo.”

“Atya!” Náriel latched onto Curufin’s leg. “Uncle Cáno said we had to ask you if we could go to Ekkaia or else he couldn’t take us—”

“That is absolutely not what I said,” Maglor said when Curufin turned a frown on him.

“But if Atya does say yes,” Náriel began.

“Atya does not,” Curufin interrupted. “You’re far too young for such a journey, you and Calissë. Nice try, my love, but you aren’t quite clever enough yet to trick us grown-ups.” Náriel stuck her lip out in a pout, and Curufin picked her up to tweak her nose. “Your uncle has work to do now, so we should leave him be. You can come bother him for songs and tales of Ekkaia at lunchtime,” he added, with a pointed look at Maglor.

“I ate breakfast,” Maglor said.

“And you’ll be wanting to eat lunch, even if you lose track of time.”

“Yes, yes.” Maglor waved him away. “I’m not one of your children, Curvo. I’ll be fine.” Curufin stuck his tongue out, making Náriel giggle, before carrying her away to pick out a book of stories to read out in the garden with the hedgehogs and Huan.

Maglor stared at his notes and at his song for a while, and then rose to open the window by the table he had chosen. The air was cool as it flowed in, and he leaned out to whistle a few notes. After a few minutes Nallámo came fluttering up to land on his outstretched hand. “Good morning,” he said, and received a cheerful reply. “Wherever Celegorm is, will you please tell him I’m waiting in the library?” Nallámo lightly nipped at his wrist and then took off, flying away into the garden. Maglor sighed, and drew the window shut again. It was just cold enough that he did not want to feel the draft while he tried to work. But though he remained in the library until Calissë and Náriel came to fetch him for lunch, Celegorm never appeared.