A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Fifty Two

[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

 

Maedhros was not hard to find—and neither, it turned out, was Fëanor. Elrond found them together in the woods just past the valley under a tall and ancient pine, Maedhros weeping into Fëanor’s arms as Fëanor spoke quietly to him, stroking his hair with one hand as the other held him close. That was a good sign, Elrond thought. As he knelt before them he saw Aechen curled up on Maedhros’ lap. “Maedhros?” he said, as gently as he could. “Will you let me help?”

“Can you?” Maedhros asked after a moment, without lifting his head. “I don’t—if it’s all just false—”

“If all your memories were false ones, it would have been noticed much sooner than this. I can at least help to trace the source of this one, and—”

“Is that not already known?” Fëanor asked, a hard note in his voice. Elrond took no offense; it wasn't directed at him.

“Maglor’s guesses are good ones, but still only that: guesses,” Elrond said. “Many terrible things happened in very quick succession, and that can muddy the keenest of memories even without outside influence—and even elven memory is fallible.” Fëanor frowned but did not argue. “Maedhros,” Elrond added, “I promise this will not hurt.”

Maedhros hesitated a few moments longer, and then held out his hand. Elrond took it in both of his, careful of the tender and inflamed skin on the palm, and began to chant in a low voice, drawing up his power for ease and comfort, so that Maedhros might relax, and for seeking the truth that lay hidden in the tangled threads of his memories.

It was not an easy task, or a quick one, but even Fëanor showed remarkable patience, sitting in silence and doing nothing more than stroking Maedhros’ hair as Maedhros slowly, reluctantly, opened the most painful parts of his mind to Elrond, bit by bit. Even Nienna had not been trusted with much of what Elrond was now able to see. He went carefully, setting aside his own feelings, chasing the thread of the false memory that had started all of this. It might be forever impossible to trace the exact moment of inception, but Elrond got close enough, and was able to show Maedhros how a stray despairing thought, a brief wish that he had not lived to come to Angband, a thought not connected to Fëanor at all, had been caught and twisted and tangled up with others, mingling fear and memory until they were indistinguishable, until they were built into images and sounds, a nightmare made almost real. The Enemy had had no small hand in that, but it was not as Maedhros had clearly feared—that Morgoth had simply invented and placed a memory fully formed into his mind. It was more subtle than that, all the more insidious for it, for it was clear to Elrond that it had been done over many months, perhaps even years.

By the time Elrond finished several hours had passed, and Maedhros was pale and shivering, still with his head resting on Fëanor’s shoulder, but his tears had ceased to fall. The sun was high in the sky, but under the trees the air still clung to winter’s chill. “Your mind has always been your own,” Elrond told him. “There are no other falsehoods lying undiscovered—and there will never be any more, because he is gone—he is gone, and you are here.”

“I never wanted to be,” Maedhros said faintly. “I never wanted to come back—”

“Maedhros—”

“If I hadn’t—”

“Maedhros.” Elrond squeezed his hand. “You know you don’t mean that. Come back to the house; Maglor is worried for you.”

“I don’t—” Maedhros closed his eyes and shook his head. This, more than anything else, worried Elrond. That Maedhros would not want to see Maglor was unthinkable. Or maybe it wasn’t Maglor that he wished to avoid, since when he finally spoke again he whispered, “Celegorm was furious.”

“I doubt he is still. Maglor has seen to that.”

“What happened?” Fëanor asked.

“Nothing worse than a few bruises,” Elrond said, hoping it was true since he hadn’t had a chance to really examine either Maglor or Celegorm. Maedhros still winced, and Fëanor’s frown deepened. “Maedhros, please come back to the house. I am speaking as a healer: you need to lie down—in a proper bed, not on pine needles. We will meet no one between here and your room if you do not wish to.” Maedhros sighed, but nodded.

“Elrond, can we have just a moment?” Fëanor said as he helped Maedhros to his feet.

“Of course.” Elrond stepped away as Fëanor turned to Maedhros, speaking in a low voice, hands on his arms. Maedhros listened in silence, head bowed so that strands of his hair fell forward, loosened from its braid, to hide his face. Elrond did not think it was purposeful, the way Maglor had once habitually hidden behind his hair, but he still did not like it. Something bumped into Elrond’s foot, and he looked down to see Aechen sniffing at him. He knelt to pick him up, running his fingers over his spines as Aechen purred softly.

Finally, Fëanor and Maedhros joined him. Maedhros was still subdued and pale, but he seemed calmer, and did not try to draw away from the hand that Fëanor kept on his back. As Elrond had promised, they met no one either outside or in the house. “You should try to rest,” Elrond told Maedhros at the door of his room. “I can give you something to ensure there are no dreams.”

Maedhros grimaced and did not look at Fëanor when he said softly, “Please.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, then.”

Downstairs Elrond found Celebrían having already brewed exactly what Elrond had wanted; the room smelled of athelas and lavender. “How is he?” she asked as she poured it into a flask to take upstairs.

“I’ve helped him to untangle the false memory’s origins, which I think will help a great deal once he has had a chance to think clearly about it. And Fëanor is with him, which I think has done even more good.”

“Oh, good—at least this hasn’t caused a permanent rupture. Elladan and I bullied Maglor into resting in his room; I think Caranthir is with him. He’s explained as much as he can to the rest of his brothers, but I’m sure they’ll all have questions for you as well. I have not seen Celegorm, though I’m sure he’s quite sore by now. Maglor was not gentle with him—it was rather alarming, actually.”

Elrond sighed. “I’ll try to find Celegorm and have a word with him eventually, but I believe he tends to withdraw when upset—and I doubt he is angry anymore.”

“I hope not,” said Celebrían, frowning as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Or else I will be the one losing my temper.”

“How badly was Maglor hurt?”

“I never like to see anyone struck in the head, but he only smacked it against the wall and no damage was done—you know how such things can bleed. I sang the worst of the pain away, and he should take it easy for a few days, but it’s no more than a tender lump at the back of his head now. It isn’t the physical harm that I’m most worried about—I’m having him rest at least until this evening more because he seemed so overwhelmed than because he’s injured. The knock on the head is just a very convenient excuse to make his brothers leave him be. Are you sure there is no way we can send word to Daeron? He should be here.”

“He would not arrive until long after it’s all calmed down anyway,” said Elrond, “and Maglor would insist that we not try to reach him.”

“Of course he would. That is why I am not asking him—besides, even after all of this calms down, the effects will linger.”

“I’m afraid we’ll just have to wait until Daeron returns on his own. He’s busy enough, and has enough of his own worries. Sending word to him when he is unable to return quickly wouldn’t do anyone any good.”

Celebrían sighed. “Well, at least I can make sure the cooks know to make all of Maglor’s favorite foods over the next few days, and the boys will make sure he doesn’t try to overdo anything. Is there anything more I can do for Maedhros?”

“I don’t know. I’ll tell you more about it after I make sure he is resting.”

Upstairs, Elrond found Maedhros alone in his room, sitting by the window with his head against the frame. Aechen was on his lap again. “What did you mean by a few bruises?” he asked as Elrond sat with him on the window seat. “Who hit who?”

“Celegorm and Maglor hit each other, but they’ll be fine, and there’s nothing you need to do about it.”

“But if it’s because—”

“I don’t know the exact cause of the fight, but I can say with certainty that it is not your fault.”

“But—”

“Maedhros.” Elrond placed his hand on Maedhros’ arm, felt him trembling ever so slightly. “You’ve had a very terrible shock today, coming on the heels of weeks of anxiety, and then you had to sit through hours of me sifting through some of your very worst memories. What you need now is rest and quiet. Your brothers are responsible for themselves. Nothing that has happened is your fault.”

“I know, but—” Maedhros covered his eyes with his hand. “This should be a good thing, shouldn’t it? That the worst thing my father ever said to me—that he never said it at all?”

“Of course,” said Elrond, “but a shock is still a shock, when it upends something you have felt to be true for so long, and especially when it calls other things into question. You will feel better about it when you’ve had more time now that you know there is nothing else lurking in your memory. And—truly, Maedhros, if there were anything more serious to worry about, it would have been noticed long ago. I am sure of it.”

“Maybe,” Maedhros said softly. “But then—the Enemy didn’t need to play any other tricks, did he? I did his bidding in the end without him ever having to lift a finger, all the while—”

“Maedhros, stop. You spent so many years already dwelling on this and accomplished nothing except to cause yourself pain. You do not need to do it all over again. When you’ve rested and can think more clearly, you’ll find that you do not want to do it all again.” Elrond held out the flask, and after a moment Maedhros took it. “This will help you sleep—without any dreams, good or bad, since you probably don’t want anyone singing at you again today. When you wake, everything will seem brighter.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then come find me. And—you know you do not have to stay here, don’t you? You can leave if you think you need the distance.”

“I can’t go home,” Maedhros said. “I can’t—I don’t want my mother to—”

“What of Fingon?”

“He’s—no, he’s with Gil-galad in Tirion, and I can’t—”

“You would drop everything if he needed you, would you not?” Elrond asked. “He will do the same without hesitation. You could also return to Eressëa, if you do not wish to stay with anyone else in particular. Our house is always open to you, and no one there will bother you if you wish to be left alone.”

Maedhros looked down at the flask in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the irises etched into it. “I think I will go to Fingon,” he said after a moment. “I need…I don’t know what I need. But I don’t think I can bear to stay here, or go to Tirion.”

“I’ll send word ahead. It won’t matter if you reach his house in the country before he does.” Elrond rose, and paused to rest his hand on Maedhros’ shoulder. “Please try to get some rest.”

“Thank you,” Maedhros said without lifting his head. “And—Elrond.” He reached up to catch Elrond’s hand before he could pull away. “You shouldn’t have had to see any of that. What’s in my head. I’m sorry.”

“You need not apologize. I’m no stranger to such things.”

Elrond left Maedhros’ room and went to check on Maglor, finding him sound asleep with Caranthir sitting beside him with a book, absently petting Pídhres. He glanced up when the door opened. “Is Maedhros…?”

“He needs time, but he will be all right. Do you need anything?”

“No. Thank you, Elrond.”

Fëanor had disappeared, likely retreated to his own room or perhaps out to the forges. Elrond did not try to seek him out. He did not see Celegorm either, though he found the twins and Curufin speaking quietly together with Rundamírë. After assuring them too that Maedhros would be all right, Elrond retreated back to his own private study to seek a few moments of peace for himself. As he sat down, rubbing his temples, Erestor came in with a tea tray, and poured a cup before Elrond could decide whether to send him away. “Long day?”

“It could have been worse.”

“Could have been better, too.”

They drank their tea quietly for a while, until Erestor began talking of the spring planting, filling the silence with calm normalcy until Elrond felt a little less like the walls were closing in around him. He’d spoken the truth when he told Maedhros he was no stranger to the horrors of the Enemy, but it was one thing to remain calm in front of someone who needed that from him, and another to stop himself from dwelling on those horrors when alone. It was one thing to know what the Enemy was capable of, and another to know with certainty just what had happened to someone he cared for.

Finally, Erestor said, “Do you think he came too soon from Lórien?”

“No, though it might be true that Nienna could help him more, or better, than I can.”

“I am not convinced that even now Maedhros trusts the Valar enough for them to help as fully as they could,” said Erestor, “and neither am I convinced that their help is always what is needed. They had the right idea in sending the wizards as they did, cloaked and restricted. It was when he sought to wield more power more openly that Saruman fell.”

“Perhaps,” said Elrond. “But Nienna knows grief and pain.”

“There is only so much even Nienna’s tears can do,” said Erestor, “and even Estë cannot erase all scars.”

“Should I be more worried about you than I have been, Erestor?”

Erestor smiled. “No. My griefs have been no heavier than anyone else’s.”

“That’s heavy enough.”

“Believe me, Elrond, I am the last person you need worry about—I only mean to say that the Valar are great and powerful and I suppose they mean well, but even the kindest of them cannot ever fully know what lies in an elvish heart, and no healer can tend to a wound they do not know exists—or that the patient doesn’t know exists. I think Maedhros is better served by seeking help from those he knows without a doubt that he can trust.”

“To that end, he is going to seek out Fingon—tomorrow, most likely. I need to write a quick note so that Fingon can return to his home to meet him.”

“Good. If you write it now I can see it sent out within the hour.”

Elrond scribbled a quick note with as brief an explanation as he could manage. Erestor took it, and when left alone again Elrond let himself slouch in his seat and rub his hands over his face. Even in Valinor, even more than a century into the Fourth Age of the Sun, the marrings of the Enemy echoed through them all. Hopefully this echo would be one of the last, he thought as he turned his gaze to the window, which was open to let in the cool breeze and the scent of lilacs and niphredil. He thought of the quiet peace of the lake beside Formenos, and the flowers that bloomed upon the grave and grew between the cracks in the stones, and he thought also of the statue of a king that Frodo and Sam had come upon in Ithilien, broken but still crowned with small white flowers. They cannot conquer for ever! Frodo had said, and Elrond wished he knew how to take that hope and turn it into something he could hand to Maedhros that would actually be helpful, that he could believe.

The rest of the day passed quietly. Celegorm did not reappear, and neither did Huan; whether that meant he was shut away in his room or he had slipped out into the woods, Elrond could not guess and he did not try to seek him out. Curufin and the twins disappeared with Fëanor that evening. Curufin’s daughters were blissfully unaware of the tension; Elladan and Elrohir had joined forces with Celebrimbor to keep them occupied. Elrond did not see either Maglor or Maedhros until the next morning, when Maedhros slipped away almost without anyone noticing. Elrond was up to see him off only because he’d expected such a departure.

“Fingon will be expecting you,” he said as Maedhros led his horse from the stable.

“Thank you.” Maedhros offered a small smile. “I’m sorry for all of this.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing. It still isn’t your fault. Have you spoken to Maglor?”

Maedhros shook his head, but offered no explanation. He just gripped Elrond’s hand for a moment before mounting his horse and turning away. As soon as he left the courtyard the horse broke into a trot, and then a canter, and then by the time he reached the road he was flat out galloping. Elrond watched until Maedhros vanished from sight, and then turned to go back inside. He found Fëanor near the door. “Where has he gone?” Fëanor asked.

“To Fingon.”

Fëanor breathed a small sigh. “Good.”

“Are you all right?”

“No,” Fëanor said bluntly, “but that doesn’t matter.” He turned to retreat back upstairs before Elrond could protest that it did matter, but Elrond didn’t think he had it in him to argue with Fëanor about anything at the moment, so he let it go and went back to his own bed.

Celebrían rolled over to kiss him as he slipped under the blankets. “Maedhros is gone?” she murmured.

“Yes.”

“He’ll be all right. Fingon will know what to do.”

“I know.” Elrond buried his face in her hair and sighed, reminding himself that whatever happened—it would pass. There would always be scars but they would not always hurt.

They lingered in bed later than they normally did, and by the time he finally made it downstairs Elrond felt steadier and better able to face whatever might erupt next. He saw Maglor at lunchtime, and thought he looked none the worse for wear, all things considered—still worn out, but not in any obvious pain. He still did not see Celegorm anywhere, however, and so after the meal was over Elrond retreated outside and cast out his thought in much the same way he had the day before when seeking Maedhros. Celegorm was either not trying very hard to hide, or had not taken Elrond into account: he was very easy to find, up on the roof. Not the most dignified place, Elrond thought, to assert one’s authority, but he made his way around the house to a trellis near the kitchen garden that few realized went all the way up to a lower roof, from which the rest was easily accessible. He found Celegorm sitting with his back against a chimney and half a dozen songbirds coming and going, eating seeds from his hands; he looked as though he had not slept. His mockingbird perched on his shoulder, preening a wing. “I hope you have not been up here since yesterday,” Elrond said as he sat down facing Celegorm.

“It won’t happen again,” Celegorm said without looking at him, instead keeping his gaze on a small robin perched on his fingers.

“No, it won’t—or you’ll have more to deal with than few bruised ribs. At least, I hope that is the worst you are dealing with now.”

“Not even that,” Celegorm said. “I’m fine.”

“All things considered, I have to say I’m not sure that I believe you.”

“It’s just bruises, and not on the bones. I’m fine.” Celegorm hesitated, and then said, very softly, “I didn’t think I hit him that hard. I didn’t mean to. How is Maglor?”

“Worn out. He slept most of yesterday and the full night, and is working in the library today. You could go ask him yourself.” Celegorm didn’t reply to that. “Maedhros has gone.”

“I know. I saw him leave. Where…?”

“To Fingon. He needs time, but he will be all right.”

Celegorm nodded. The robin on his fingers pecked at him once and then flew away. Celegorm lowered his hands to his lap, still not looking Elrond in the face. “It would be better if I left too,” he said after a moment.

“I don’t think so,” said Elrond. “Not without speaking to Maglor, at least.”

“He’s not going to want to—” Celegorm began, only for Nallámo to peck very hard at his ear. “Ow!”

“I’ve heard of how you used to avoid Curufin whenever possible,” Elrond said as Celegorm rubbed at his ear. “You believed he wouldn’t want to speak to you, either, and you were wrong.”

“That was different.”

“Well, yes—and the difference is that now you should know better than to believe any of your brothers would not want to make things right. And for what it’s worth, all of them are worried for you. More worried than angry.” Elrond watched Celegorm wince, just slightly. “Brothers fight, tempers are lost—it happens. No great harm has been done, and hopefully some lessons have been learned for the next time. Withdrawing will not make it better.” Elrond got to his feet. “You are of course welcome to haunt my roofs however long you like, but you have to come down eventually. Maglor is likely to be in the library the rest of the afternoon.”

“I’m not going to interrupt if he’s work—Nallámo,” Celegorm swatted at Nallámo, who had pecked at his ear again.

“He’s trying to distract himself and stop everyone from worrying about him,” said Elrond. “The former isn’t working, and neither is the latter—at least in my case. Both he and I would worry a little less if you did go to interrupt him.”

Elrond retraced his steps, and when he reached the bottom of the trellis he found both sets of twins waiting for him. “Has something happened?”

“Is Tyelko up there?” Amrod asked, nodding toward the roof.

“He is, though I hope not for much longer.”

“We’ll make sure of it,” said Amras as Amrod reached for the trellis.

Once they had vanished onto the roof, Elladan and Elrohir stepped to either side of Elrond, who put his arms around them. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing new,” said Elrohir. “Are you all right, Ada?”

“Yes, I’m fine. It could have all gone much worse.”

“Is this easier or harder than the first summer after we arrived?” Elladan asked.

“Harder in some ways, easier in others,” Elrond said. “And now I think I am going to forget all about it and do something enjoyable. Let’s go riding—where is your mother?”

“With Rundamírë,” said Elrohir, “talking of babies.”

“Then just the three of us. I want to feel the wind on my face.”

They stayed out all afternoon and did not return until the western horizon was red and purple with the last vestiges of sunset. Elrond was windblown and slightly chilled and tired—but in a satisfying, pleasant sort of way. Racing Elladan and Elrohir across the fields had been exactly what he had needed. “Where did you go?” Maglor asked when Elrond sat beside him after dinner in the hall where everyone gathered for songs. Even Fëanor was there. Celegorm, Elrond noticed, was still absent.

“All around the valley and the hills to the south,” said Elrond. “What did you do all day?”

“Stared morosely at bits of paper,” Maglor said cheerfully. “It’s fine—I’ve just hit the part of the process where everything seems terrible and unfixable. Once I make some actual headway on the next draft it will pass and I’ll remember why I like writing songs in the first place.”

“How’s your head?”

“Perfectly fine, as long as you don’t go prodding at it. It’s just bruised.”

“Have you spoken to Celegorm?”

“Not yet.” Maglor strummed his harp, smile fading. “I’m usually the one to apologize first, but I’m not feeling particularly apologetic at the moment.”

“He is,” Elrond said.

“Then he can come find me—I asked Nallámo to tell him where to find me this morning.”

That explained the nips and pecks on the roof, Elrond thought. He said nothing more, though, and just leaned his head on Maglor’s shoulder as he played soft and soothing melodies that wound around the conversation and through the other songs being played without clashing. Maglor leaned back, humming along to his music, wordless and quiet and comfortable.

After a while Maglor asked softly, “How worried should I be about Maedhros, Elrond?”

“He is troubled but no longer panicked,” Elrond said. “I’ve done all I could for him for now; going to Fingon will be helpful, I think—more helpful than staying here. Did he leave no message for you?”

“No, none.”

“I won’t say you shouldn’t worry at all, but the situation is not as dire as it seemed yesterday.”

“That’s what I hoped you would say. Thank you.”

“He spoke again with Fëanor,” Elrond said after a moment. “I found them together after we parted, and Fëanor did not leave his side until we returned to the house so Maedhros could rest.”

“Is that a good thing?” Maglor asked, turning his head slightly as his gaze went to Fëanor, who had Náriel on his lap. Celebrimbor sat beside him holding Calissë, all of them laughing at something.

“Yes,” Elrond said, “a very good thing.”

Maglor sighed softly, and rested his cheek again on Elrond’s hair. “That’s something. I’m glad.”

“You sound tired.”

“I shouldn’t. I slept more than—”

“Uncle Cáno!” Náriel had slipped off of Fëanor’s lap to come tug on Maglor’s sleeve. “Grandfather hasn’t heard the story about the enchantress yet! Will you come tell it, please?”

Maglor smiled at her, but to Elrond it seemed stiff and uncertain. “Oh, I don’t know, Náriel—”

“Please! Tyelpë said he hasn’t heard it either!”

“Oh, well, in that case.” Maglor got to his feet as Elrond straightened. “How can I say no? Come on, Elrond—you’ll be wanted to assure my father and nephew that it’s all true.”

Elrond made a face at him as Náriel turned away, and Maglor’s smile grew a little, softening and turning into something that sat easier on his face. “You’d have me lie to my own guests then—since not a single word of that story is true.”

“Now that is the lie,” Maglor said, laughing softly as he put an arm around Elrond’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Elladan and Elrohir did bring me to Imladris half-frozen, and you did thaw me out again—that’s the most important part of the story.”