A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Fifty Six

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

Prologue / Previous Chapter

 

The highest roof commanded a wide view of all the valley of Imloth Ningloron. It was shallow and bowl-shaped, and the only trees were the ones that Celebrían had planted; beyond the gardens it was all meadow flowers and grass, green and gold and fragrant under the clear spring sky. Close at hand Celegorm could see Náriel playing with Huan under the watchful eyes of Rundamírë and Celebrían. Earlier he had seen Maglor wander out of the wood shop and away out of sight into the shrubs, and in the other direction he had seen Gandalf arrive, coming on foot with his staff and his ridiculous hat.

He did not notice his father return to the house until he appeared suddenly on the roof himself, sitting beside Celegorm by the chimney without a word, resting his arms on his knees, just close enough to reach for. He had smudges of sawdust on his pants, and strands of hair were coming loose of the plain braid keeping it out of his face. “I thought you were leaving us all alone,” Celegorm said without looking at him, hating the way his muscles all seized up.

“Is that still what you need from me, Tyelko?” Fëanor asked quietly.

Celegorm wanted to snap back that he didn’t need or want anything from Fëanor, but he bit his tongue until it hurt. “I don’t know,” he said instead. “…I also thought you didn’t like heights.”

“I don’t,” Fëanor said. Celegorm could hear the thin thread of tension in his voice, and when he glanced toward him he saw Fëanor looking toward the edge of the roof, though it was fairly far away and the slope was shallow. Celegorm remembered, suddenly and vividly, the many occasions where he’d been snatched away from a high window or the edge of something, hoisted up into his father’s arms and held far more tightly than necessary as Fëanor scolded him for carelessness. Sometimes he’d done it on purpose when he knew Fëanor was watching, because even a scolding was worth getting to be held by his father for a little while, and in those days all he’d had to do was wrap his arms around Fëanor’s neck and say something silly to get him to forget why he was upset in the first place.

He bit his tongue again, because he was not going to start crying over memories of being scolded. Instead he leaned back against the sun warmed bricks of the chimney, and turned his gaze back out over the valley. Fëanor had followed him up there, so Fëanor could start the conversation. It wasn’t going to go any better than the attempt with Maedhros, but at least there were no false memories standing between them.

Finally, Fëanor said, “Do you still want to hit me?”

Celegorm looked at him, wary. “Why?”

“I keep offering, and no one’s taken me up on it—except Findis, though she didn’t wait for the offer.”

“I heard.”

“I’m sure you did. Lindir was singing about it just yesterday.”

If Celegorm hit Fëanor he’d do a lot more damage than just a black eye and some muddy clothes. He looked away again. “I don’t want to hit you,” he said. “I was—I misunderstood.”

“You wanted to defend your brother.”

“It was too late for that,” Celegorm said. “The damage was done—and he didn’t deserve it. Any of it. From you or from—”

“No, he didn’t,” Fëanor said. “None of you did.”

“I deserved everything I got in the end,” Celegorm snapped.

“You did not deserve to be forced away from the life you were making for yourself here just because I disapproved,” Fëanor said, still not looking at Celegorm, but away toward the road, “or to go into exile—either to Formenos or to Middle-earth—solely because I demanded it. You did not deserve any of the fury I threw at you in those days, Tyelko. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not like it was a surprise,” Celegorm said. “I already knew you didn’t—”

Fëanor looked at him then, brow furrowed. “Knew I didn’t, what?” His gaze dropped from Celegorm’s face to where he’d started twisting his hair around his fingers without realizing it. He made himself stop. “Tyelko—”

He wasn’t going to cry. He was not going to cry. But he couldn’t stop the words from spilling out, or the way that his throat grew tight and his eyes burned. “I look too much like her and I am too much like you but not in any of the right ways so of course you never liked—”

“Turcafinwë.” Fëanor turned so that he was kneeling beside Celegorm, and reached out to take Celegorm’s face in his hands. His thumbs wiped away tears that had started to escape despite Celegorm’s best efforts. Fëanor’s own eyes were over-bright. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “It’s not true, Tyelko. I love you so much—if I did not show it as I should, that is no fault of yours. My grief was my own to manage; I failed to keep it from spilling over onto you, and I am so sorry.”

This was not how Celegorm had thought it would go. He’d expected anger, unwillingness to admit fault—on both sides—not tears and apologies. He knew how to do that—how to fight. It would’ve hurt and it wouldn’t have helped anything and it would have probably just made everything worse, but at least he would have known what to say if Fëanor had started to snap at him. He knew the steps to that dance. He did not know this one.

He had not expected Fëanor to seek him out either, and had certainly not expected this meeting to happen on the roof, when Fëanor hated heights and Celegorm was fairly sure that the various routes onto the roof were not well known to those who didn’t live in the valley. He’d found a way up anyway, just because Celegorm was there.

Even before things got bad, Celegorm didn’t think Fëanor would have done that. He would have just stood below and shouted for Celegorm to come down before he fell and broke his neck.

Fëanor let go of Celegorm’s face, dropping his hands to his shoulders instead. “Why the Oath?” Celegorm asked. It was a question he had wished a thousand times that he could ask Fëanor in Beleriand, as it had grown heavier and heavier, tightening like a noose around his neck until he couldn’t think of anything else. He understood wanting to get the Silmarils back, wanting to avenge Finwë—the Valar hadn’t acted and someone had had to—but the Oath…

“I don’t know how best to answer that,” Fëanor said after a long silence. “I suppose wanted to send a message—I saw enemies in nearly everyone in those days—and…in my mind the Silmarils were the most important things I had made, or would ever make. I would have been glad to let Morgoth have them if I could have had my father back, but since I couldn’t have him I would have them. I did not expect to meet my death the way that I did. I don’t think I thought at all about the likelihood of any of you even being hurt. In my pride and—perhaps it was madness, I don’t know—I felt invincible, and thought that surely my sons must be as well.” He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. “I was not invincible. I was arrogant and I was a fool. I regret that oath more than words can say.” Then he leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Celegorm’s forehead. “You were always so wild, Tyelko. You didn’t get that from anyone—that’s all your own. Don’t smother it now.”

He left the roof then. Celegorm watched him walk very carefully to the place where it was easy to drop down to a lower roof and then to a small balcony that led inside. Nallámo flew up to land on Celegorm’s knee. He sang a brief snatch of song and preened a wing. “What do I do now?” Celegorm asked him. Nallámo, of course, had no answers—just a lot of gossip about the sparrows that lived in Celebrían’s gardens. From below Celegorm heard Náriel and Calissë call out to Fëanor to join in one of their games, and a moment later he saw Fëanor following them out onto the lawn. Fëanor glanced up once over his shoulder, but Celegorm wasn’t able to read his expression.

Once Fëanor looked away again Celegorm left the roof, moving more quickly than Fëanor had, swinging down over the eaves and through the window of Maglor’s bedroom. Maglor was not there, of course, but chances were good that he’d return soon. Curufin was busy in the forge, working on some project with Dringil that Celegorm hadn’t really paid attention to the details of, but which seemed to require several pairs of hands. He didn’t know where the twins or Caranthir were, and didn’t want to go look for them. To try to distract himself, he poked through Maglor’s bookcase, and glanced over the incomprehensible scribbles that were supposed to be his newest draft of the song.

When Maglor came into the room, Pídhres in his arms, Celegorm said, “How do you even read your own handwriting?”

“It’s not that bad. What’s wrong?”

Celegorm opened his mouth, but closed it again. It would sound so stupid when he said it out loud. Maglor just went to set Pídhres down on the bed, waiting patiently. Finally, Celegorm asked, “What did you and Atya talk about when you first spoke? I mean, besides Finwë.”

Maglor shrugged. “He apologized,” he said, “and didn’t want me to do the same—”

“What did you have to apologize for?”

“For what I said when he first came here. I was angry and…well, I regretted it almost as soon as I left.” Maglor paused. “I did tell him that I don’t think we were wrong to go east. The Oath was a mistake—that cannot be denied—but going east wasn’t. I really do believe that.”

“Even though it isn’t what Grandfather would have wanted?”

“We can’t know what Grandfather would have wanted,” said Maglor quietly.

“Not until you finish your song, anyway.”

“Don’t talk like that, please. And don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing. What’s the matter?”

“Atya came to talk to me.”

Maglor’s eyebrows rose. “Today?”

“On the roof.”

“Atya climbed onto the roof? But he hates heights—I was just talking to Amrod about it a little while ago.”

“I know—but that’s what he did.”

“Come here.” Maglor sat on the bed, and put an arm around Celegorm’s shoulders when he joined him. Pídhres, with her ever-growing belly full of kittens, stretched out on the pillows and yawned. “What did you speak of?”

“He apologized,” Celegorm said, keeping his gaze on his lap. “Not just for—the Oath, and all of it. For other things too.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Atya never says a thing he doesn’t mean.” That had been what had made it so horrible to hear what Maedhros had believed Fëanor had said, why Celegorm hadn’t been able to think past the blinding horror and the rage that came with it—even he hadn’t ever expected anything like that. Hearing the anguish in Maedhros’ voice and then having Maglor refute it had been—Celegorm still didn’t know what he’d been thinking, except for how it suddenly seemed that even Maglor, incomprehensibly, was not on Maedhros’ side and someone needed to be.

“We all know that,” said Maglor now. “I suppose what I meant to ask is, do you trust that he will continue to mean it?”

Fëanor hated heights, but he had climbed to the highest roof in Imloth Ningloron anyway—just to offer to let Celegorm hit him if he still wanted to, and to tell him that he loved him. “I want to,” Celegorm said, “but I don’t…I don’t know where to go from here.”

“I don’t know either,” said Maglor.

“But you have an excuse to keep avoiding him.”

“Not that it’s doing much good, since I spent several hours in his company this afternoon. I’m going to be finished with the song sooner or later, anyway. Sooner, maybe—I came up here because I had an idea about how to fix one passage that has been bothering me.” Maglor rose and went to the desk to scribble down something quickly. “If I can finish before the apple harvest, I’ll have all the autumn and the winter to relax before Elemmírë summons me.”

“What about the Valar?”

“I suppose I’m hoping that finishing the song will mean I can go to them very soon afterward—but of course I can’t know for sure. I would like to just get it over with.”

“Will you tell Atya about it afterward?”

“I don’t know. It might not be possible to keep it a secret once I’ve actually gone before them.” Maglor’s hand shook a little as he finished writing. He set his pen down and turned, leaning back against the desk. “What do you want to do, Tyelko?”

“Run away,” Celegorm admitted after a moment. “I don’t know why.” Ever since he’d returned from Mandos, the impulse to flee had arisen every time something happened. He didn’t know where it came from, except maybe the fact that he couldn’t trust himself—and he’d just proven why all over again lately, hadn’t he? At least alone out in the wild he couldn’t hurt anyone else.

“Run away or run toward something?”

“I don’t have anything to run toward.”

“You could go home. See Ammë.”

Celegorm shook his head. It was tempting, but— “I’d end up telling her what happened between Atya and Nelyo, and I don’t think Nelyo wants that.”

“No, I don’t think he would—not yet,” Maglor agreed. “Aredhel, then?”

“She’s in Tirion, and I don’t really want to go there either.” He hesitated, and then said, “I kind of want to talk to Daeron.” Daeron would make fun of him about it all, but not in a cruel way, and only after listening to whatever it was Celegorm had to say about it, even if it wasn’t anything particularly coherent. He might even have advice to offer afterward. Speaking to Daeron was what had spurred Celegorm to seek out Nienna years before—and he definitely did not regret that, however bad he still was at putting her teachings and counsels into practice.

Maglor’s smile was soft and sad. “I do too.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“No. I dreamed of him last night, though. I think he’s enjoying himself—and his brother went with him after all.”

Celegorm blinked. “Do you…dream of each other often?”

“No.” Maglor shook his head. “I dreamed of all of you a few times on the journey west, and Daeron dreamed of me before that, which was why he was on the road when we met in the first place. I haven’t dreamed of him like this before. I don’t know where they come from, these kinds of dreams, except that Irmo must sometimes be feeling particularly kind.” He paused, smile fading, and then added like a confession, “At least it was better than some of the other dreams I’ve been having.”

“Are you having nightmares?” Celegorm asked. Maglor nodded. “About—”

“Is it such a surprise?”

“But you haven’t said anything.”

Maglor shrugged. “Why would I? They’re not like they were before.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.” Maglor turned away to sit down at his desk. “Don’t make me regret telling you.”

Celegorm got up and went to wrap his arms around Maglor from behind, careful of his shoulders and his head. The bruises had faded, but Maglor still seemed oddly fragile sometimes—even though Celegorm knew he was stronger than any of the rest of them. “Sorry,” Celegorm said into his hair.

Maglor rested a hand on Celegorm’s arms, sighing as he leaned his head back against Celegorm’s chest. “I really will be fine,” he said. “The dreams will go away soon enough.”

“Can I sleep in here tonight?”

“Because you’re worried about me or because you don’t want to be alone?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“All right—but only if you come down to dinner this evening, even if Atya’s there.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Celegorm kissed the top of Maglor’s head and let him go. “Just don’t make me talk to him.”

“You’ve spoken once,” Maglor pointed out as Celegorm headed for the door. “It will be easier next time.”

“Maybe.”

Upon leaving Maglor’s room Celegorm went to look for Caranthir, and found him with Amrod and Amras in the library laughing over a book. “Something wrong?” Caranthir asked upon seeing Celegorm.

“Did you know Maglor’s having nightmares again?”

“No,” said the twins as Celegorm sat down between Amras and Caranthir. “What kind of nightmares?”

“The ones you’d expect, probably,” said Caranthir. “I’m not sure what we can do about it.”

“Get word to Daeron and tell him to hurry back,” said Celegorm. “I’ll go myself if I have to.”

“We ask songbirds to carry messages for us all the time,” said Amras, “but I don’t think any of our usual friends will want to go so far. We don’t even know where Daeron is.”

“Or we could not,” said Caranthir, frowning at them. “Maglor won’t thank us for trying to interfere, however much he misses Daeron. You’ve already made him angry once, Tyelko. Maybe wait another year or so before doing it again?”

“If I go and bring Daeron back,” Celegorm said, “Maglor will be too busy being happy to see him to be angry at me over it.”

“What are you trying to run from?” Caranthir asked, frown deepening. Celegorm kept forgetting that he was as perceptive as Curufin. “What happened? You and Maglor didn’t fight again, did you?”

“No!”

“Then what—”

“Leave it, Moryo,” said Amrod. To Celegorm he said, “I’ll see if I can find a bird willing to carry a message that far. Don’t start making plans to leave just yet.”

Caranthir, of course, only left it for as long as the twins were with them. Once Amrod and Amras left the library he turned his frown on Celegorm again. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—ow!” Celegorm swatted at Caranthir’s hand when he flicked the middle of his forehead. “Stop it!”

“If you don’t tell me I’ll just go ask Maglor.”

“Maglor’s working. Stop!” Celegorm grabbed Caranthir’s wrist when he tried to poke him again. “Why are you like this?”

“I wouldn’t be if you’d just tell me what’s going on!”

“Don’t tell me you’re fighting now too,” Curufin said, appearing around a corner of a bookcase looking tired. “I just had to separate Calissë and Náriel; don’t make me send the two of you to your rooms.”

“What are they fighting over?” Caranthir asked, momentarily distracted.

“Names for the kitten. That isn’t even born yet.” Curufin sighed and sat down on Celegorm’s lap to lean his head on his shoulder. “What’s the matter with you two?”

“Ask him,” said Caranthir, pointing to Celegorm. “He wants to run off to hunt down Daeron.”

“Is Cáno all right?”

“He’s having nightmares,” said Celegorm, “and is still anxious about that stupid song.”

“And there’s something else,” Caranthir said, “but he won’t tell me what it is.”

Celegorm resisted the urge to push Caranthir off of his chair by wrapping his arms around Curufin instead. “Atya came to find me on the roof earlier,” he said, since they’d both find out anyway and it was probably better to just say it and get it over with.

“The roof?” both of them chorused. Curufin sat up to look at Celegorm, wide-eyed. “Please tell me you didn’t shove him off,” he said.

“Of course I didn’t!”

“Did Atya come out of Mandos not afraid of heights anymore, or something?” Caranthir asked Curufin.

“No,” said Curufin. “He hardly ever even comes up to the roof of my house—and we have a fence around it. What did he say, Tyelko?”

“Just—same sort of stuff he wrote, before. It was—”

“If you say it was fine I’ll make sure the dye sticks next time,” Caranthir said.

“It wasn’t awful,” Celegorm said. “It didn’t—I don’t know. It wasn’t what I expected.”

“I have told you he isn’t angry anymore,” Curufin said quietly. “Has he come looking for you, Moryo?”

“No,” said Caranthir. “But he wouldn’t, and I don’t want him to.” He got up before either of them could ask what he meant. “Just don’t run off without telling anyone, Tyelko, all right?”

“Moryo—”

“Let him go,” Curufin said softly as Caranthir strode away. “He’s been trying to work up the nerve to talk to Atya ever since he and Ambarussa arrived. The whole…everything with Maedhros just made it harder. Does it change anything for you? Having spoken to him even a little?”

“I don’t know. I do miss him. I just—I don’t know.”

“Running away won’t change anything.”

“I don’t want to run away. I do want to find Daeron and drag him back here. Ambarussa are going to try to find another way to send a message, but if they can’t, I’m going to go.”

“And it just so happens that going to find Daeron allows you to run away,” Curufin said. “You can’t fool me, Tyelko.”

Celegorm looked away, out of the window that faced toward the road. “I am trying not to run from things,” he said.

“You’re not doing a very good job.”

“Thanks, Curvo. I’m aware.”

Curufin was still frowning at him. “If Ambarussa do manage to get a message to Daeron another way, will you come back to Tirion with me? Arimeldë wants to return home soon. The girls would love it if you came to stay with us.”

“Isn’t Atya going to return with you?”

“He doesn’t live in my house, Tyelko.”

“Is Moryo going back too?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked him. It’s very busy these days, and he doesn’t like it much, but Lisgalen’s in the thick of it.”

“If I don’t go looking for Daeron,” Celegorm said after a minute’s thought, “I’ll stay here. Maglor needs someone keeping an eye on him—”

Curufin rolled his eyes. “Because Elrond and his sons haven’t been keeping an eye on him for decades.”

“You know what I mean.”

“He’s going to be fine, Tyelko.” Curufin reached up to pull on one of Celegorm’s braids. “So are you.”

“And Nelyo?”

“I don’t know about Nelyo. Elrond seems to think he will be, though, and if we can’t trust Elrond’s word on this, who can we trust?”

Celegorm tore his gaze from the window to look at Curufin, at the circles under his eyes. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked. Curufin had been just as angry as Celegorm, in his own way, after that awful confrontation out by the oak tree.

“I don’t know,” Curufin said after a moment. “It was—I didn’t want to believe such a thing of Atya, and I’m glad that it wasn’t true, but—I don’t know. I feel as though we should have noticed that something was wrong. Something more than just…”

“If Cáno never noticed, I don’t know how we could,” Celegorm said.

“Moryo’s beating himself up over it. He’s lived with Nelyo longest since we all came back.”

“I’m not so sure it was Losgar that was haunting him then,” Celegorm said, thinking of the things Maedhros had said by Ekkaia. That had all been self-recrimination, self-blame, self-loathing. It had been made worse by Fëanor’s return, but it wasn’t until after they’d come back from Ekkaia that Maedhros had really started showing signs of dread. “I think…he went to Lórien and he’s come to terms with the rest of it, same as we all did in Mandos, more or less, so that just…Losgar was what was left.”

“So, not unlike you.” Curufin tugged on one of Celegorm’s braids again. “Did you talk to Atya about this?”

“Sort of. He apologized. I know he meant it.”

“I think…when Atya turned away from you, when you were little, I think it’s kind of like how you were avoiding me after we both came back from Mandos.”

“I was avoiding you because I didn’t want to come in and wreck everything you were making for yourself. You and Rundamírë, and Tyelpë, and—”

“I know. But I wonder if Atya didn’t feel a little bit like that, even if he didn’t realize it. It was said that he was marred, and that’s what killed Míriel.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Of course it is, but it was still said, and…well, we all know how those kinds of things stick, don’t we? Even when we know they’re not true? The thing about Atya is that whatever the feeling is he feels it so much more than most, whether it’s grief or love or anger. I hide in my workshop sometimes when I’m upset for whatever reason, because I don’t want my girls to see. Sometimes Calissë catches me anyway, and it’s only knowing how Atya made you feel that stops me from trying to pretend I don’t hear her when she calls.” Curufin paused, and then said very quietly, “Sometimes I worry that it was a mistake. Having more children. That—that I’m marred and that’s going to hurt them somehow, the way it hurt Tyelpë. But then I can’t imagine what life would be like without them.”

“We’re all marred,” Celegorm said. “Arda’s marred. It’s just—we’re all more than the marring, too.” It was easier, somehow, to believe it when he had to remind someone else rather than just himself. “You’re not going to hurt your girls, Curvo.”

“They’re going to find out about everything we did, you know. Someday. They’ll hear the full tale of the Leithian, they’ll read the history books. Calissë already knows we did bad things even if she doesn’t know how bad or what they were—Cáno had to speak to her about it over the winter.”

“Better him than one of us,” Celegorm said.

“It’s going to have to be me someday. I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“I don’t think that’s something you can plan for.” Celegorm tugged on a strand of Curufin’s hair. “You’re a good father, Curvo.”

“So was our father,” Curufin said softly. “He could be, again. He’s trying—he’s trying so hard, Tyelko.”

“I know.” Fëanor wasn’t the problem, not anymore. Celegorm was the problem. He knew it—he just didn’t know how to fix it. “You said the girls would like it if I came back to Tirion with you. Do you want me to go with you?”

“Of course I do.

“…All right. If I don’t go looking for Daeron, I’ll come home with you—and if I do go, I’ll probably end up bringing him straight to Tirion. If Rundamírë’s all right with it.”

“Why wouldn’t she be? Just make sure Huan stays out of her workroom.” Curufin leaned his head on Celegorm’s shoulder again and sighed. “I’m worried about Moryo,” he said.

“Are things all right with Lisgalen?”

“Oh yes. That’s not what I meant. He just…he never talks about things.”

“He does sometimes,” said Celegorm. “And then he’ll do something like try to dye your hair green afterward.”

“I thought that was because you threw him in the river.”

“Details,” Celegorm said lightly, so Curufin snorted. “If the rest of us will be fine, so will he. If he won’t talk to any of us, he’ll talk to Maglor. And now you should go find your wife and relax. Don’t worry about Náriel or Calissë. I’ll keep them busy until dinner.”

Curufin sighed. “All right. Thank you.” He got to his feet. “Speaking of which, will I see you at dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”