A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Fifty Four

[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 took the long way to Fingon’s house, skirting far afield of Tirion—and of his own home. He did not want to run into either his grandparents or his mother by chance. All of even Elrond’s skill couldn’t stop his mind from racing in circles, trying to find other things he had long thought were true that might not be, fearful that those things would not be the terrible memories but the good ones.

He discovered two days into the journey that he’d forgotten his sketchbook. It didn’t make much of a difference, really, because he wasn’t sure he actually wanted to try to draw anything, but it still felt like a blow—just one more thing on top of everything else. He sat by a stream, arms folded over his knees, while his horse rested and grazed, and watched the sunlight dance over the water, and thought of different waters lit only by the stars and by flames. When he closed his eyes the memories of Losgar were all wrong, strange and disjointed, pieces missing. He didn’t know anymore if they had always been that way or if they were just fracturing now under the weight of this new knowledge.

For six thousand years and more he’d believed that the last time his father spoke to him—beyond snapping orders or his dying demand that they swear the Oath once more—that Fëanor had disowned him and wished him dead and out of the way in one breath. Every failure, every defeat—that was what had echoed through the back of his mind, that it would have been better for everyone if he had either fallen at Alqualondë or been burned with the ships. Maedhros couldn’t remember anymore if he had thought of it when he’d at last taken up a Silmaril, but he thought that he must have. He’d stopped thinking at all afterward.

When his father had found him in the woods and Maedhros had burst into uncontrollable tears, Fëanor had just come to kneel beside him and hold him—just like he’d done when Maedhros had been young, in exactly the way Maedhros had been missing and wishing that he could ask for. He was warm and strong, with calloused hands and the smell of the forge, of fire and hot metal, always hovering faintly around him. His dark hair swung forward as he bent his head, blocking out the rest of the world. Maedhros pressed his face into Fëanor’s shoulder and realized that he felt safe, in a way he’d never expected to feel safe again, and that just made him cry harder, his whole body shaking with it.

“I’m sorry, Maedhros,” Fëanor said, very quietly, one hand resting on the back of Maedhros’ head. “I’m so sorry—for all of it. I never wanted this. I love you so much; I wish I could take all this from you, I wish I knew how to fix it. I’m so sorry that I can’t.”

Elrond had found them not long afterward. Now it was days later and Maedhros’ head had yet to stop aching dully. He felt hungover and wrung out, though he was clearheaded enough now to worry properly about his brothers. Maglor and Celegorm had come to blows over this, and whatever Elrond said, Maedhros should have tried to do something before he left. He just didn’t know what to say to any of them. He didn’t think he could bear the worry they wouldn’t be able to hide, or how to tell them there wasn’t anything they could do to help, when that was all they would want to do. At least he should have left a message with Elrond, but he hadn’t known what to say and every moment of delay had felt like broken glass grinding under his skin. He’d needed to be moving.

The stream at his feet blurred, and Maedhros ducked his face into his arm, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn’t move when he heard a familiar voice humming a walking song, and the sound of a walking stick keeping time on the turf. “Ah, fancy meeting you out here!” Gandalf settled himself onto the grass beside Maedhros without bothering to ask if he would be welcome.

“Mithrandir,” Maedhros said without lifting his head. “What do you want?”

“Can I not stop to say hello to a friend?”

Maedhros swallowed a sigh, and then said, “Is that what we are?”

“Well, we have many friends in common, which is good enough in the Shire and therefore good enough for me.”

“Neither of us are hobbits,” Maedhros said, feeling as though someone should occasionally point out to Gandalf that he was not actually in the Shire anymore.

“Alas, we are not. Still, I think we could all stand to be a little more like hobbits,” said Gandalf, unfazed. Maedhros heard a bit of rustling, and then smelled pipe weed. He finally raised his head, and found Gandalf sitting beside him puffing on his pipe, apparently with no intention of moving on any time soon. “A very simple folk, hobbits,” Gandalf went on. “Very silly, often absurd, but with a great deal of courage and care hidden under the surface—even at times from themselves. Thorin said it very well: if more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world—as hobbits do—except perhaps a certain Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, but even her tastes ran toward silver spoons rather than dragon gold.”

Maedhros felt suddenly very tired. “Thorin does not sound like a hobbit’s name,” he said. It was a familiar name, but he wasn’t able to place it at the moment. His mind was too full of other things.

Gandalf chuckled. “Because it isn’t one. Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain, of the line of Durin. He was slain in the Battle of Five Armies, after having very nearly succumbed entirely to the dragon sickness.”

“If you want to make a point, please just say it plainly,” Maedhros said.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Gandalf replied. He blew a smoke ring and watched it drift up and away on the soft breeze. “Thorin was quite cruel to Bilbo before the battle, though Bilbo had indeed stolen the Arkenstone. Honestly, they took him on as a burglar and should not have been surprised when he did a bit of burgling! Still, Bilbo handed it over to Bard and Thranduil in the end, so they might use it to avert an all-out battle. If he picked it up at first for selfish reasons, he soon changed his mind.”

“It didn’t work, though—trying to avoid a fight.”

“Well no, but the goblins coming down out of the Misty Mountains at least got everyone on the same side. It’s a good thing I was there, or else they might not have noticed until too late. But Thorin realized his errors in the end, and before he died he made peace with Bilbo, and they parted as friends. Poor Bilbo was inconsolable for some time afterward—he was a very kindly soul, Bilbo Baggins. It’s too bad you never met him. He was very fond of Maglor.”

“All right,” Maedhros said after a moment, because he was certain that Gandalf had not only wanted to reminisce about dwarves and hobbits, “what comparison are you making between me and Thorin Oakenshield?”

“None at all. If I were to make any comparisons to you in this tale, it would be to Bilbo. You also have a kind heart. The Arkenstone was not, you know, a Silmaril, but when it was first discovered there were a few murmurings among the Wise, and then a quiet sigh of relief after I went to take a peek at it.”

Maedhros sighed. “I don’t need your reassurances about my father.”

“Don’t you?”

“That isn’t why I left Imloth Ningloron.”

Gandalf blew another smoke ring and waited. Maedhros said nothing more; he was not particularly inclined to confide in Gandalf, not when he wasn’t even sure what he would be able to make himself tell Fingon. He turned his gaze back to the water, listening to the sound of it as it flowed down its stony bed. He could sometimes hear tiny snatches of the Music that still echoed in all the waters, but nothing like what Maglor could hear. He kept meaning to ask Maglor how he’d learned to listen for it, but never seemed to remember except when Maglor wasn’t there. “Were you there when Dol Guldur fell?” he asked finally.

“Which time?”

“Either one, I suppose.”

“I was there when we drove the Necromancer out—that was the same year of Bilbo’s adventure and the slaying of Smaug, and so I had to leave very quickly afterward to make it to the Lonely Mountain in time. I was quite busy in the south, of course, when it was overthrown for good later during the War of the Ring.”

“Then…do you know what—”

He didn’t even know what he was trying to ask. He just had the image of Maglor’s face in his mind, pale enough that the scars there stood out lividly, as he tried to explain himself without actually revealing anything. What I know is what happened to me, he had said, and Maedhros hadn’t stopped to wonder what that meant. To wonder what exactly was in Maglor’s mind that wasn’t true but couldn’t be forgotten, that he had hinted at once or twice, the things that had not been left behind in Lórien any more than Maedhros’ own worst thoughts and memories—true and false—had.

“I cannot speak to what precisely was done to your brother,” Gandalf said after a moment. He lowered his pipe and turned to regard Maedhros with dark eyes, unusually serious. “I was not there when he was brought out, and though I entered into Dol Guldur many years before we finally moved against it, I did not find him. I tried to find anyone that I might bring out with me, but in the end I lingered too long with Thráin and was hardly able to escape myself. Poor Thráin—I did not even realize who he was until later, when I had an opportunity to more closely examine the map that he gave me. He did not even remember his own name.”

“Maglor has spoken of…” Maedhros hesitated, but both Maglor and Elrond trusted Gandalf—and however odd he was, he was kind, and wise. “Of things put into his mind that he knows are false, but cannot rid himself of.”

“I imagine such things cling like nightmares,” Gandalf said. “The sort that linger even after waking. Thráin was driven mad in Dol Guldur, and he was not the only one. Is such a thing troubling either of you now? I would have thought Lord Irmo able to help rid you of them—or at least to make it easier to ignore them.”

“He did. For Maglor, anyway. There are things I had not shared with anyone. Even the Valar.” Especially the Valar. He had considered what lay between himself and his father his own to deal with, and nothing they could do anything about, even if he did want them to. He had not dwelled much upon Angband either while in Lórien, though Nienna had pressed him, very gently, about it. It had been what happened later that haunted him more. He had thought that the scars left by Angband were just that—scars, marks that were there but which no longer hurt. It was just, he had thought, pain—pain he’d survived and had put behind him. He hadn’t been entirely wrong—it was just pain—he had just been wrong about his own strength.

“I am sorry,” Gandalf said.

“For what?”

“Not for anything I have done personally, but we Ainur have made so many mistakes, and you Children have paid the price for them. It is unlikely any of the Valar will ever apologize to you, though you should know they do feel the same regret in their own way—but someone should, and it might as well be me. At least I am in a better position than Manwë to understand what it means when we speak of your suffering.”

Maedhros looked away. “I don’t—I don’t think I want any apologies.”

“Well, I’ve given you one anyway. Do with it what you will.”

Speaking of the Valar, though… “Do you know what my brother has been doing?”

“This song he is writing? It’s no secret. I have chatted about it a bit with Míriel—and so I know also for whom he first intends to sing it. That is, I gather, something of a secret, but you needn’t worry about me. I’m very good at secrets.”

“Will it work?”

Gandalf snorted, and took a deep draw of his pipe and blew another handful of smoke rings to float out over the water before dissolving in the breeze. “Just because I know some thoughts of the Valar does not mean I know them all. I am sure that Elrond has told you more than once that it is never wrong to hope, and he is right. I will say also that the sorrow and the grief of the Noldor is not unknown to the Valar, but there is often a difference between knowing and understanding, and great works of art and of beauty are things that bridge that gap—and your brother is one of the greatest singers and songwriters alive. Whatever comes of it, the Valar will not come away unmoved.”

It was nothing Elrond or Daeron hadn’t already said, but Maedhros thought it might mean more coming from someone like Gandalf. “Will you tell that to Maglor?”

“If he asks. Are all your brothers and your father still at Imloth Ningloron?”

“Yes.”

Gandalf chuckled. “Then perhaps I will make my way there, see what’s what. If your father’s feeling prickly, I can let him growl at me a bit and give everyone a bit of a break.”

Maedhros knew he was meant to either laugh or be reassured, but did neither. “I don’t think you will find my father eager for any arguments.” Celegorm might be another matter—and he would do more than growl. “Please do not try to start any.”

“I have never started a fight on purpose in my life.” Gandalf’s eyebrows shot up as he put on an affronted air. “Don’t you worry about what lies behind you, Maedhros.” He got to his feet with a grunt, and picked up his staff. As he tucked his pipe away he said, “Where is it you are going? I hope not out into the wilds again—not alone.”

“I am going to visit one of my cousins,” said Maedhros.

“Ah, very good. Do tell Fingon I said hello.”

As Gandalf turned to go, Maedhros said, “Mithrandir.”

“Yes?”

“If you really want to meddle—go find Daeron and tell him to hurry home. Maglor needs him.”

“Me, meddle?” Gandalf chuckled, eyes twinkling. “Perish the thought!” He set off, humming his walking song again. Maedhros sighed and leaned back in the grass, watching until he was out of sight. Maglor liked Gandalf, but Maedhros found him incomprehensible, even for one of the Maiar.

Maedhros went on himself after a little while, making his way back to the roads just north of Tirion, and passing through woods where snowdrifts lingered and the only green to be found was on the dark pine boughs and groves of holly. When he rode up the lane to Fingon’s house with its stately pillars, built in a style Maedhros had never seen anywhere else but knew had been popular in Lindon across the Sea, Fingon was waiting for him. Before Maedhros could say anything Fingon said, “Don’t even think about apologizing. You look awful,” and put an arm around Maedhros to usher him into the house. “Gilheneth stayed in Tirion, so it’s only the two of us until Finrod gets here.”

“But isn’t Finrod with—”

“Yes, but Aegnor is fine. You aren’t.”

“Did Elrond tell you—?”

“Only that you need space and someone to talk to who isn’t one of your brothers, because you spoke to your father and it went poorly. But all that can wait until Finrod arrives in a day or two. I doubt you’ll want to repeat the story.”

“Probably not. It’s…no one did anything, except I think Celegorm and Maglor got into a fight afterward, and—”

“Really?” Fingon’s eyebrows rose. “How bad of a fight?”

“Elrond tried to downplay it, but I didn’t…I didn’t see either of them before I left.” Maedhros knew as he said it that his not speaking to Maglor would alarm Fingon, and he was right; he could see it on his face. “I just…”

“We’ll talk about it all later,” Fingon said. “In the meantime, you can get changed and come listen to me talk about everything you don’t care about that’s going on in Tirion.”

Maedhros thought that he should probably argue with that—he did care about many of the things happening in Tirion, even if he didn’t want to be involved—but he knew if he tried it wouldn’t be convincing. Instead he just did as he was told, dropping his bags by the bed in the room set aside as his but which he had rarely used before now. When he went back downstairs he found Fingon in one of the cozier parlors with a fire going and tea already poured. As he sat down Maedhros said, “Tell me about Gil-galad?” and watched Fingon’s face light up.

It was very quiet there, with just the two of them rattling around the house, which had been built with the idea of large parties and many visitors in mind. Fingon dragged Maedhros outside to walk through the woods and the gardens, and filled the silences with recent gossip and reminisces of long ago. Maedhros heard all about what Gil-galad had been up to, and about how tense the meeting between Turgon and Maeglin had been when it finally took place. There was no anger, just a great deal of lingering hurt and betrayal on one side and bone-deep guilt on the other—and Aredhel more or less caught in the middle.

“Has Idril heard yet that Maeglin is returned?” Maedhros asked.

“Yes. Eärendil has too, though I don’t know what either of them said about it. My parents, though, were very firm in welcoming Maeglin to Tirion—and Gil-galad’s embracing of him as a cousin carries even more weight among those who remember Middle-earth. Alastoron will be a different story, I think, should Maeglin ever make his way there.”

“Do you think he will?”

Fingon shrugged. “I doubt it, especially since the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were also very happy to welcome him, especially with all the work being done to prepare for Ingwë’s feast. He’ll be comfortable enough in Tirion, I think.”

“Celebrimbor’s regard also carries weight.”

“Yes. He and Gil-galad joining forces are rather formidable. Celebrimbor just cheerfully pretends not to understand anyone’s objections and then ignores them, and Gil-galad was High King for so long that even as happy as he is now to not wear the crown he still assumes that his word will be obeyed without question. For the most part he’s right, too, and when someone does try to argue he has a look that he gives them—honestly it’s not unlike some of the looks your father used to give people who annoyed him.”

“Elrond says he looks shockingly like Finwë.”

Fingon laughed a little. “Yes, he does. That also discourages anyone from arguing with him. And then of course there’s Elrond himself, who has quite casually let it be known that Maeglin is welcome to visit Imloth Ningloron any time he likes, and no one is going to try to gainsay Elrond and Celebrían.”

“Won’t that put him at odds with his parents?”

Fingon shrugged. “Elrond doesn’t seem to think so, and when I say no one will gainsay Elrond, I also mean myself.”

“Because he’s the baby of the family.”

Fingon laughed again. “Yes, there’s that too, though Celebrían’s more likely to leverage that than he is—and that sort of thing won’t matter to Eärendil or Elwing. And I do understand, and so does Maeglin. He’s been continually shocked by his overall reception, to the point that I think it’s almost a relief when he meets someone who greets him as he thinks he should be greeted. Which is distressing in its own way.”

Maeglin had not been quite so overwhelmed when Maedhros had last seen him—but then, he’d been among very different company. “How is Turukáno?”

Fingon shrugged. “He’ll come around, I think. He loved Maeglin for so long—and he loves him still—and those wounds run deep. Everyone just needs time, and—well, we have time in abundance.”

That was true, but it did not feel true. Maedhros knew he wasn’t the only one who thought so—or else no one would feel the need to be always pointing it out. None of them would ever again fully trust that they really did have as much time as they wanted or needed. Not after the Darkening. Not after the Bragollach. Maedhros supposed also that what he needed was time, but he didn’t know what to do with that time. His dreams were all filled with fire and darkness—sometimes Losgar, but more often Angband, in a way that hadn’t troubled him since the immediate aftermath of his rescue. He had boxed it all up and locked it away in a corner of his mind and there it had stayed until now, except for a brief time in Lórien at Nienna’s insistence, something he never wanted to touch or think about, a burden he had thought that he did not need anyone’s help to learn to carry, because he’d been carrying it for so long that he hardly felt the weight anymore.

Except now the box had toppled over and spilled, and it was the only weight he could feel. Whenever he closed his eyes he was back there. Calling upon the Valar was probably what he should do, he thought as he gazed out of the window at the rain sliding gently down the glass, but he didn’t think he could bear it. Not even Nienna with her knowing eyes and cleansing tears.

Finrod arrived that evening, damp and unusually serious. “This is cozy,” he remarked as he sat down by the fire, crowding against Maedhros on the sofa. “We haven’t met like this in far too long—just the three of us, I mean, with no one else around liable to interrupt at any moment. What’s the occasion?”

“Russandol has spoken with his father,” Fingon said after a moment when Maedhros couldn’t make his tongue work. “It didn’t go very well.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Maedhros said, dropping his gaze to the carpet.

“I expected the first part, but not the second,” Finrod said. “Whose fault was it? Did Celegorm do something foolish?”

Maedhros sighed. “No. Or—he didn’t do anything to our father, or in front of me. He tried, but Huan stopped him.”

“He just picked a fight with Maglor later,” Fingon said. “If Elrond had to try to downplay it I’m assuming it came to blows.”

Finrod’s eyebrows shot up. “Give me a moment, then.” He rose and went to fetch a decanter of wine and some glasses from the sideboard. “Something to ease the way first.”

“I’m not getting drunk with you,” Maedhros said. “I know how you dragged Maglor and Tyelpë out into the woods that one time—”

“Oh no,” said Finrod, laughing as he sat down. “This stuff isn’t nearly strong enough for that. I have a few bottles I brought myself, in case such an occasion is called for, but we’ll see how it goes tonight first.”

“No, Felagund.”

Finrod just smiled and poured the wine. Maedhros took only a few small sips of his. No amount of wine would make speaking of this easy, and he was struggling to keep control of himself as it was. He kept his gaze lowered and, slowly, haltingly, described that awful early morning meeting, from Huan dragging Fëanor out to the oak tree, to Maedhros storming away. His cousins listened in silence, and when Maedhros finished Finrod took a large gulp of wine.

“You said that he was angry, after the ship burning,” Fingon said after a moment. “I did not realize he had been that angry.”

“He wasn’t,” Maedhros said, setting his glass aside so he could pinch the bridge of his nose. “That’s the point. He never…”

“He was angry enough that the false memory wasn’t obvious,” said Fingon. “What did he actually say?”

“That he should’ve left me behind with you. That’s what Maglor said—I still don’t remember it.”

“I don’t think he expected us to actually try to cross the Helcaraxë,” Finrod said as he poured himself some more wine. “Not after he rejected the idea himself. So, really, leaving you behind would have been the opposite of desiring your death.”

“Don’t try to turn it into a kind thought,” said Fingon, rolling his eyes.

“Of course it wasn’t kind, but it was a different flavor of cruelty. You know, I’m starting to think this occasion does call for some stronger stuff.”

“I’m not—”

“Do you really want to talk about Angband while sober?”

“I don’t want to talk about Angband at all,” Maedhros said. “Angband isn’t the—”

“Of course it’s the problem,” Fingon said.

“I survived Angband,” Maedhros said. “And I didn’t—afterward, I—”

“You pushed it all down and ignored it, yes,” Fingon said. “You did what you had to do to keep going—same as we all did. But you cannot do that forever, Russo. What was the point of going to Lórien if you weren’t going to try to—”

“Nienna knows all about Angband,” Maedhros said. “I didn’t ignore it in Lórien. Neither she nor Irmo would have let me if I tried. It was my father I didn’t want to—I didn’t need the Valar to tell me things I already knew.”

Neither Finrod nor Fingon looked as though they fully believed him. “All right, then,” said Finrod. “But—did you speak to your father at all after this revelation?”

“A little.” Fëanor had done most of the talking—seeming to want to try to make up for all that he really had said at Losgar by sharing all that he thought of Maedhros now—pride and love and pain and grief all rolled together. It was the first time he had seen his father cry since Finwë’s death. He didn’t want to share that, just because it was private—in a way that felt precious and worth protecting, instead of devastating.

Finrod poked the side of Maedhros’ head after a minute of silence. “Stop brooding and drink your wine,” he said.

“I thought I would escape that word when I left my brothers,” Maedhros muttered as he picked up his drink.

“Oh, we know all about your threats to toss them in the river,” Fingon laughed. “I still correspond regularly with Caranthir, you know. And, fortunately, I don’t have any rivers or ponds here—just streams that are too small to be tossed into. But let’s talk about something at least a little more cheerful. We have all the time in the world to go over what your father said and what you want to do next; we don’t have to do it tonight. How is Maglor’s song coming along?”

“I can answer that!” said Finrod brightly. “He sent a copy of his first complete draft to Galadriel and me in Alqualondë, and Galadriel should have sent it back to him with all our scribbles and notes by now. I want desperately to know where he came up with that melody. It’s positively heartbreaking. The words need quite a bit of work, but I think it’s going to be incredible when it’s done.”

“Why did you get sent a copy and not me?” Fingon demanded.

“He asked us back when he started whether we’d help get it into proper shape when the time came, and we agreed,” said Finrod. “Have you read it, Russo?”

“I have. Not the music, but the words. I’m just glad that he’s done traveling around. He’s exhausted—and Daeron didn’t come back with him.”

“Why not?” Fingon asked.

“Some errand for Elemmírë—preparing for the great feast. She wants singers from all the peoples of the Elves, and Daeron volunteered to go recruiting among the Avari who live in the west.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous,” said Finrod, “but unfortunate timing. When is he supposed to return?” Maedhros shrugged. “You know, after my brothers spoke to Maglor they remarked to me that all of us cousins have not gathered together for any reason since well before the Darkening. Even at the Mereth Aderthad, your brothers were almost all missing. Such a gathering is long overdue.”

“Until a few months ago it would have been impossible, with Aikanáro and Irissë still in the Halls,” said Fingon.

“And now they are back! Before this feast, or maybe sometime during it, we should hold our own reunion—the entire House of Finwë I mean, not only our generation. Our parents and our grandmothers, and our various nieces and nephews—and we can all get together to properly spoil Curufin’s daughters.”

“He and Rundamírë are expecting again,” said Maedhros.

“All the better!”

“It’s a good idea, Findaráto, but I’m not sure it will work out as you imagine,” said Fingon. “There are still—”

“Oh, I know—but that was the case at the first Mereth Aderthad, wasn’t it? That was the whole point of the Mereth Aderthad.”

“A lot of things happened after that,” Maedhros said.

Finrod rolled his eyes. “I am aware—and is that not all the more reason for this? To spend at least one bright summer day all together with no other aim than enjoying each other’s company?”

“Sometime during the feasting would be the best, I think,” Fingon said after a moment’s thought. “Everyone is sure to be there, even your parents, and it will be much easier than trying to gather us all together from one place than from where we’re all usually scattered about.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Finrod.

They spoke into the evening about the feast and about Finrod’s still-vague plans for their family’s gathering. Maedhros mostly just listened. He kept thinking of Finwë, and of how his absence would be all the more obvious when the rest of their family all gathered together, and of Maglor’s insistence that he needed to finish the song before the feast. If the Valar did listen, and if it happened in time…

He tried to push the thought away, but it stuck in the back of his mind. It was a better thing to dwell on than his own past, both real and not, but—

“You’re brooding again, Russo,” said Fingon.

“I’m not,” Maedhros said. “I’m listening—”

“Really? What were we talking about, then?”

“Whether Angrod and Caranthir are likely to get into a fistfight—and the answer is no, they aren’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Caranthir isn’t the one whose first impulse is to punch someone when he’s annoyed.”

“No, but Angrod might be,” Finrod said cheerfully. “Oh wait, what if we introduced Edhellos to Lisgalen?”

“There’s an idea,” said Fingon. “I can ask Gilheneth to do it. She already joins Lisgalen and Rundamírë and Daeron whenever we’re in Tirion—to sit in Rundamírë’s garden and laugh at all of us behind our backs over drinks.”

“To commiserate with with one another at having attached themselves to such a chaotic family, you mean,” Finrod laughed. “You might ask her to introduce Rímeril as well. She and Edhellos are already close in friendship, and things might also be a bit tense between Orodreth and Maedhros’ brothers.”

“Is the idea that they can’t get into a fight if their spouses are already friends?” Maedhros asked. “Is that going to work?”

“You tell us,” Fingon laughed. “Are either Curufin or Caranthir likely to get in trouble when they know it will mean they’re sleeping in their workshop? Or in his garden, I suppose, in Caranthir’s case.”

“You say that like he doesn’t fall asleep out there sometimes anyway,” Maedhros said, mostly just to make them laugh; Caranthir never spent the night outside if he didn’t have to, though Maedhros had found him once the summer before napping among the daisies after lunch, with Náriel also sound asleep on his chest. “But I take your point.”

“It will be fine!” said Finrod. “Between the three of us we can wrangle our brothers. I do not include our sisters, because neither Irissë nor Galadriel can be wrangled—but they aren’t likely to make trouble, so it matters little.”

“I’m not so sure about Irissë,” said Maedhros. “You can never be certain what she’ll do. I watched her eat an entire lemon on half a dare last summer.” That made Fingon choke on his wine as Finrod burst into a bright peal of laughter. “But there’s still Maeglin—”

“Oh, that will be all right,” Finrod said. “No one involved there is likely to start throwing punches.”

“Are you sure?”

“Irissë might,” said Fingon, “but he’s already spoken to Turukáno once, and it isn’t as though it will be a small gathering. At worst, perhaps Huan can be persuaded to sit on someone.”

“Huan is more likely to push them together when they don’t want to be,” Maedhros muttered, reaching for his wine glass.

“Then Huan can be responsible for what happens afterward,” said Fingon. “Though I don’t think that particular situation is one that would be improved by that sort of interference.”

“I’m not sure any situation has been improved by Huan’s interference.”

“That’s not true,” said Finrod. “He played no small part in you and Maglor’s coming together again. Even his dragging your father out into the gardens the other morning—it had to happen sometime, and better that it took place there instead of in the middle of my niece’s dining hall with the whole household as an audience.” Maedhros winced. “I know Maglor likes to call him a menace, but really I’m not sure how you’d all get by without him.”

“Right now, I just hope he’s keeping Celegorm from doing something stupid.”

“Don’t worry about your brothers, Russo,” said Finrod. “They wouldn’t dare do anything to disappoint Celebrían. Which is another point in favor of no one causing trouble at our reunion!” he added. “Celebrían will be there and all she’ll have to do is raise an eyebrow and anyone even thinking of starting a fight will suddenly realize what a terrible idea it is.”

Fingon laughed. “And she’ll be flanked by Elladan and Elrohir, who can be as imposing as Gil-galad if they wish.”

“I’m already looking forward to this—even more than the rest of the feast,” said Finrod as he reached for the wine decanter again.

“You haven’t even gotten anyone else to agree to it,” Maedhros pointed out.

“Do you really think they’ll say no? Just wait until I tell Grandmother about it. She and Míriel will be even more excited than I already am—and no one will say no to them!”