A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Fifty Seven

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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 / Next Chapter

 

Maglor hadn’t actually expected Celegorm to turn up at the dinner table—but he did, sliding into the seat beside Maglor not long after the meal began. “I know you didn’t like the green, but pink is an interesting choice,” Maglor said, reaching out to hold up the end of one of his braids, the strands stuck together with paint.

Celegorm made a face. “The girls wanted to paint hedgehogs to send to Nelyo. Náriel is very enthusiastic.”

“How did the paintings turn out?”

“Well, Calissë’s looks kind of like a hedgehog. They also both wrote him letters.” Celegorm glanced at Maglor. “I thought it would help. Maybe.”

“It can’t hurt,” said Maglor. “You should write to him too.”

“I did. It’ll get sent tomorrow with the girls’ letters.” Celegorm wrapped a strand of hair around a finger, his gaze drifting down the table to where Fëanor was seated in between Curufin and Calissë, who had a smudge of paint on the bridge of her nose that Fëanor seemed to be teasing her about. “Curvo’s worried about Moryo,” Celegorm said in a low voice after a minute.

“Any particular reason?” Maglor asked.

“Just…he’s been quieter than usual since…everything happened. And he knows about what happened on the roof.” Celegorm kept his voice low, like he didn’t want anyone else to know about it. He also dropped his gaze on his plate. Maglor glanced toward Fëanor again, but he seemed determined to pretend absolutely nothing was wrong. Curufin caught Maglor’s gaze, though, and he seemed tense.

“Is it just Moryo that has Curvo worried?” Maglor asked as he snagged a roll from a basket being passed down the table. At the head of the hall, Gandalf burst into laughter at something Elrond said, the kind of laughter that lifted the spirits of everyone who heard it.

“As far as I know, aside from Nelyo. And me, probably.”

“Well, that goes without saying.” Maglor looked around, but Caranthir hadn’t come to dinner. That wasn’t in itself entirely unusual. He was more likely to turn up in spite of Fëanor’s presence than Celegorm was, but not by much. “We’ll track Moryo down after dinner and bring him to my room,” he said finally. “If he doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but it sounds like neither of you should be left alone with your thoughts today.”

“Neither should you,” Celegorm said.

Maglor never should have admitted to the nightmares. He didn’t argue, but made sure Celegorm saw him roll his eyes. It would be nice not to wake up in an empty bed, though—the nightmares always seemed worse when he was alone. It made him miss Daeron more and more, though he wasn’t about to admit to that. There wasn’t anything anyone could do to fix that absence; Daeron was where he needed to be, and he would return when he had finished his errands, and that was that. Maglor hadn’t expected his absence to hurt as sharply as a knife wound—and it hadn’t, really, until everything had gone wrong with Maedhros.

After the meal, Maglor made some excuse to Lindir when asked to join in making music for some impromptu dancing, and slipped out of the hall after Celegorm. They went to Caranthir’s room, and found him there with a book and Annem curled up on his lap. “I’m fine,” he said as soon as they came into the room.

“You’re an awful liar,” said Celegorm as he went to pick up the hedgehog. “Isn’t he, Annem?”

“I will push you out of this window—”

“No you won’t.” Maglor hauled him up by the arm. “You’re spending the night with us in my room. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but if Maedhros and I aren’t allowed to brood, neither are you.” He smiled when Caranthir scowled at him. “Annoying, isn’t it? Come on.”

“I wasn’t brooding,” Caranthir said as he let Maglor pull him down the hall to his own room. “I was reading.”

“You were reading that same book three days ago,” Celegorm said. “The same page, even.”

“How would you even—”

“Don’t make me knock your heads together,” said Maglor as he opened his bedroom door. “Where’s Aegthil?”

“I saw him downstairs with Elrohir,” said Celegorm. He held the door open for Pídhres to dart inside, soon followed by Huan. When Huan sprawled out by the hearth, Celegorm joined him. Caranthir hesitated near the door until Maglor sat down at his harp, and then came to sit beside him on the floor, resting his head against Maglor’s leg. Maglor ran his fingers over the strings, choosing old favorites from their youth that he could play without thinking. Annem curled up with Pídhres in the basket, both of them purring contentedly. “Did you eat dinner, Moryo?” Celegorm asked.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You shouldn’t—”

“Tyelko,” Maglor said warningly. Then to Caranthir, “I have some lembas somewhere in my desk, if you change your mind.” Caranthir didn’t answer, just turned to hide his face against Maglor’s leg as he wrapped his arms around his knees. Maglor shifted the song to something very soft, not quite a lullaby. Celegorm started talking about the paintings he’d helped Náriel and Calissë with that afternoon, turning the whole thing into a very silly and ridiculous story. Caranthir didn’t laugh or lift his head, but he slowly relaxed until he wasn’t holding himself so rigidly.

Finally, once Celegorm had finished, Caranthir said, “I should have realized something was wrong ages ago.”

“Everything was wrong,” Celegorm said. “How were you supposed to pick out this one problem underneath all the rest of it?”

“I was right there, for years. I was—”

“Moryo.” Maglor dropped a hand to Caranthir’s head. “Don’t do this to yourself. Even the Valar in Lórien did not realize there was something wrong. How could they, if Maedhros would not let them see it? How could we, if he would not speak of it?”

“I could’ve looked through his sketchbooks.”

“That would’ve just made him hide them better,” said Celegorm. “But even if you did find out about—what he thought happened at Losgar, how would you have known it wasn’t real?”

“I probably would’ve found out pretty quick when I did something stupid about it,” Caranthir muttered.

“For the best that you didn’t find out, then,” said Maglor. “But it’s out in the open now—better late than never—and the best thing we can do is just give him space.”

“What are we supposed to tell Ammë?”

“Nothing,” Maglor said. “This isn’t ours to tell, it’s Nelyo’s. We can’t hide that something is wrong, but it’s not our place to tell her the whole story, not when we don’t know all of it ourselves.”

“Is there anything you haven’t shared that’s likely to erupt like this?” Celegorm asked.

“Me?” Maglor shook his head. “No, nothing like this.”

“You did say that Sauron put things into your head,” Caranthir said quietly.

“He wasn’t nearly as subtle as this,” said Maglor. “The worst was—” His fingers slipped on the harp strings, and he pressed his hands to them to still the discordant jumble of notes. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Caranthir raised his head. “Well, now you have to tell us. What happened?”

“It’s nothing that’s going to—”

“It still bothers you, obviously—”

“Of course it does. All of it will always bother me. It’s just easier now not to get lost in it.”

“Except you have been, lately,” Celegorm said. One of Huan’s ears twitched as he also looked at Maglor with a vaguely accusatory expression. “You said you’ve been having nightmares.”

“I still don’t know why that’s surprising—that everything with Maedhros has brought it back up,” Maglor said, trying to sound annoyed but knowing he fell short. He didn’t feel annoyed, he just felt tired. His dreams the night before had been a jumble of dark and cold things that he didn’t really remember. The glimpse of Daeron just before waking in the morning had been a relief, even though it had also made the bed feel bigger and emptier than ever. At least he’d gotten to see him smiling. He played the scales over his harp before letting his hands fall to his lap.

“How often do you have nightmares, these days?” Caranthir asked.

“Not often at all, except since Maedhros left. And I barely remember them after I wake up in the morning, which very different from how they used to be.”

“Do you feel cold?” Celegorm asked.

“It passes.”

“That’s not no.”

“The weather is getting warmer. That will help.”

All three of them were tired, for varying reasons, and so they did not stay up much longer before piling into Maglor’s bed. He found himself in between Caranthir and Celegorm while they bickered half-heartedly over the pillows. Once they were finally settled, Maglor sighed and closed his eyes, hopeful that his dreams would be quiet that night. He could hear the faint sounds of music from somewhere downstairs, and the various sounds of the household as everyone went about their evenings, whether they were retiring early or staying up late. His thoughts drifted from his brothers to Elrond, who had also seemed tired the last few days even though he insisted that he was fine, and to his father, and then back around to Maedhros…

When he fell asleep, in spite of his hopes he tumbled into nightmares—into orcs with whips and knives, into chains rattling in the dark over freezing stones, into the nightmares that had tormented him in Dol Guldur: of his brothers in their fury and his father’s face with eyes as dark as the Necromancer’s. And then he was caught in the tumult of breaking Beleriand, the world shaking apart around him as in the distance Maedhros turned away, hair shining copper-bright for just a moment in the light of the fire glowing below him—

He woke with a start to darkness so absolute that for a second he thought he’d gone blind. The blankets felt like ropes, and he thrashed against them, unable to take a breath until he finally managed to sit up—and found starlight coming through the window, soft and silver on the rugs and the basket where Pídhres and Annem slept, a strange counterpoint to the dreams still echoing in his ears and the taste of blood and ash in his mouth. Something wet was sliding over his lips, and he clapped a hand over them, unable to suppress the strangled noise that escaped.

“Cáno?” Caranthir was suddenly there, and Maglor jerked away—only to fall against Celegorm, who caught and held him with steady hands.

“It’s all right,” Celegorm said. “It’s just us. You were dreaming, Cáno.”

Caranthir gently tugged Maglor’s hand from his mouth. “It’s tears,” he said softly. “You’re crying, not bleeding.”

“I’m sorry,” Maglor managed to choke out. “I didn’t mean to—”

“This is why we’re here.” Celegorm’s voice rumbled in his chest, against Maglor’s ear. He was very warm. “Come on, lie back down.”

It took some time before the tears stopped. Celegorm and Caranthir talked him quietly through it, Caranthir plastered against his back and Celegorm keeping Maglor’s head tucked under his chin. Finally, Caranthir asked, only a little sarcastically, “Is that one of the ones you don’t remember when you wake up?”

“It will be come morning,” Maglor said into Celegorm’s nightshirt. “But I did think—” His breath hitched. “I thought maybe tonight—with you here, I thought—”

“What was it?” Caranthir asked.

“Please don’t ask me to—”

“Come on, Cáno. You said yourself it was all lies.”

“Not all of it was what he put into my head. Maedhros—”

“Is fine,” Celegorm said, his grip tightening around Maglor until it was almost painful. “He’s fine. It’s Sauron who’s not—he’s gone, Cáno. It’s like you said, it’s all just nightmares now. Even the memories.”

“I know,” Maglor said. “He’s gone, and we’re here—I know that.” His body did not seem to, though. He couldn’t stop shaking, and his chest hurt. “Can you—just talk to me, like you did before?”

“About what?” Caranthir asked.

“Anything.”

Caranthir started talking about his plants—about his favorite flowers and the best ways to tend to them. Celegorm didn’t speak, but he kept rubbing his hand up and down Maglor’s arm, and between the two of them and how warm they both were, Maglor felt his eyelids grow heavy again, and his limbs stopped trembling. It was hard to continue to be frightened when Caranthir was talking of daisies and butterflies, with starlight still shining through the window.

The next thing Maglor knew it was early morning. He didn’t move or open his eyes, not wanting to leave the warmth of his bed or wake fully. Celegorm and Caranthir were still on either side of him, awake and speaking quietly. “—if Ambarussa have had any luck,” Celegorm was saying.

“Maybe go anyway? There’s only so much you can fit in a letter.”

“I was thinking that too.”

“Where’re you going?” Maglor asked, words half-mumbled as he struggled to wake up all the way. He felt weighed down and heavy, still so tired.

“Nowhere yet,” Celegorm said, and kissed Maglor’s forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

“Don’t leave,” Maglor murmured, feeling sleep creep back up, with the nightmare-fear of finding himself alone again, that this was the dream and if he succumbed to sleep here he’d just wake up alone somewhere else—back under Dol Guldur, or on a lonely stretch of shore under a cold and uncaring sky. “Please don’t…”

“No one’s leaving,” Caranthir said, rubbing a hand over Maglor’s back. “Just go back to sleep.”

When he woke up properly, he felt much more like himself, like he could leave the horrors of the night behind him where they belonged, the memory of them slipping away along with his half-waking in the early hours. The sun was fully up now, and Pídhres had come to curl up beside him, accepting scratches behind her ears from Celegorm. “Feeling better?” Celegorm asked, looking down at him with a faint frown.

“Yes.” Maglor stretched, and sat up. “I’m—”

“Don’t apologize,” said Caranthir from across the room where he was snooping through Maglor’s desk. “What’s in this box? It’s got the same kind of runes on it that the box with the horses has, but it looks newer.”

“It is newer,” Maglor said when he caught a glimpse of the simple wooden box in Caranthir’s hands. “I made it—oh, I don’t know. A few years after I arrived in Rivendell, when I got good at carving things again. It’s just got letters inside. The ones you and Curvo sent me, Moryo, and a couple of others.”

“What do you need to preserve them like this for?” Caranthir asked, looking startled.

“Because I want to keep them. But it’s a letter from Elros that I made the box for. He wrote it before he left for Númenor; Elrond kept it until I came to Rivendell.” There was a note from Elrond in it too, sent to Lórien not long before Maglor had left it with Elladan and Elrohir to make their way to Rivendell, and a few letters from Arwen and Aragorn and Bilbo from later years—letters of particular significance for one reason or another, that he wanted to keep even if he hardly ever looked at them.

“Oh.” Caranthir set the box down, suddenly handling it very carefully. “Here I was, ready to tease you about whatever letters Daeron writes you.”

“What makes you think I keep those in my desk?” Maglor tried not to think about how welcome such a letter from Daeron would be—Daeron was beyond the reach of regular notes, and would be for the next few months. He rolled out of bed and went to get dressed, aware of his brothers exchanging glances behind his back. “Stop that,” he said as he opened the wardrobe.

“Last night was not a good night,” Celegorm said.

“It’s the first time in years that it’s been that bad. I’ll be fine.” He wasn’t going to be able to concentrate on anything that morning, but it would pass. It was as good an excuse as any to go do some hovering of his own. “Don’t spend all day worrying about me. I’m going to bother Elrond.”

He found Elrond after breakfast in one of the workrooms that overlooked the road to the north. Sunshine filled the space, which smelled of ink and parchment. Elrond was busy with an illuminated manuscript of some kind, carefully applying gold leaf to the border of a page, all intricate vines with tiny yellow elanor blossoms. The text seemed to be part of the Red Book. “That’s beautiful,” Maglor said as he sat down next to the desk.

“Thank you.” Elrond smiled at him, but he looked as tired as Maglor felt. “No songwriting today?”

“Not today. Are you all right?”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’ve gotten a strongly worded letter from my mother about Maeglin, but that wasn’t entirely unexpected.”

“Why would she be upset with you?”

“Because I knew he’d returned, and said nothing while we were together over the winter. It just wasn’t my news to share—and, rather selfishly, I wanted to enjoy that time, especially with my father. I don’t get enough time with him as it is.”

“If that’s selfishness, it’s the most forgivable kind,” Maglor said. “Is he as upset as your mother?”

“He must be—Naneth has no other reason to feel so strongly about Maeglin one way or the other—but I have not heard from him directly. I hope they’ll come around by next summer.”

“It will be such a big gathering—easy enough to avoid uncomfortable encounters,” said Maglor. “And they won’t be the only ones, I’m sure.”

“I rather think that’s the point,” Elrond said, a little wryly. “When the twins were young and fighting, Celebrían would lock them in their room until they worked it out between them. It worked most of the time. I wonder if Ingwë isn’t trying to do something similar—force everyone into one place where there’s no choice except to be polite.”

“There are worse ideas,” Maglor said. “Not that that’s stopped any of the Noldor before, unfortunately. But if anyone misbehaves, Celebrían can just arch an eyebrow at them—that should quell any upset before it really gets started.” That made Elrond laugh. “What are you working on?”

It was a copy of the Red Book, as it turned out—or a collection of passages from it that Elrond had been thinking of lately, and which he was copying out to turn into a meditation on hope. “Even now, it feels as though everyone needs a reminder once in a while,” Elrond said, “including me. It’s also an excuse to make something fancier than I normally do—to have a bit of fun.”

“Imagine telling that to your twelve-year-old self,” Maglor said, “when you hated me making you practice penmanship.”

“In my defense,” Elrond said, “it seemed very unimportant at the time.”

“Also in your defense, sticks and badly-made charcoal ink don’t make it easy to practice,” Maglor added.

“It is true that I found a whole new appreciation for it when I got to use a real pen and ink for the first time,” Elrond laughed. “Not to mention real parchment.”

The morning passed quickly and cheerfully, and by lunchtime Elrond seemed much lighter. Maglor was aware of all his brothers watching him carefully—because of course Celegorm and Caranthir would have told the rest about his bad night—but he felt better for having made Elrond feel better, and it was easy in the bright spring sunshine to put the past and its shadows behind him where they belonged.

After the meal, Maglor found himself cornered in the garden by Curufin and Rundamírë. “I’m fine,” he said before Curufin could start on him. “I don’t know what Moryo told you—”

“It’s not that,” said Curufin, “though I also don’t believe you.”

“Don’t mind Curufinwë. We have a favor to ask,” Rundamírë said, slipping her arm through Maglor’s as they walked into the garden, past the hyacinths that were starting to fade as spring wound on, and around the new-flowering pink azaleas. “And I know you’re trying to finish this song before summer ends, so don’t feel like you have to say yes.”

“I’ll probably say yes anyway,” said Maglor, “but what is it?”

“Well,” Rundamírë said, “when Tyelpë was born your grandfather made him a cradle. We still have it, and used it for Calissë and for Náriel—but that won’t work this time.”

“Why not?” Maglor asked.

“It’s too small,” said Curufin.

“Too small? How can you—wait.” Maglor looked between them. “I thought all the jokes about twins were just jokes!”

“Yes, well,” said Curufin, sighing, “the joke’s on us, really.”

“It isn’t twins,” Rundamírë said. “I couldn’t really believe it at first, what I was feeling—not one or two little spirits sparking into life, but three. Celebrían tells me it is not unheard of among Men or Halflings.”

“It is unheard of among Elves,” said Curufin a little ruefully.

“So much for not trying to outdo our parents,” said Maglor. He hooked his arm around Curufin’s neck and kissed the top of his head. “So you need a cradle big enough for three babies, assuming they’ll be as temperamental about being separated as Ambarussa were?”

“Yes,” said Rundamírë, “and we would like you to make it for them.”

“Of course I will! Who else knows?”

“Just Elrond and Celebrían at the moment,” said Rundamírë, “so please keep it to yourself for now. My own parents will have a fit if they hear the news from someone else.”

“I haven’t yet told Ammë or Atya either,” said Curufin. “We also need to return to Tirion soon—I’ll tell Ammë then.”

“I hope you won’t leave before the kittens are born,” said Maglor.

“It will be before they’re weaned,” Rundamírë said.

“That’s all right. I can bring the one the girls choose with me when I come to Tirion later this year.”

After Rundamírë left to have tea with Celebrían, Maglor looked at Curufin. “Are you all right, Curvo?”

“I’m worried,” he admitted after a moment, kicking a rock ahead of them down the path. “You remember how hard it was for Ammë, when the twins were born?”

“Yes, but all three of them came through.”

“It was still frightening.”

“It was.” Maglor put his arm around Curufin again. “But maybe it wasn’t quite as frightening as you perceived it to be? You were also very young at the time. Ammë was never alone, and Rundamírë won’t be, either.”

“I know.”

“What do you need from me?” Maglor asked. “Aside from the cradle. I’m very happy to make that.” They came to a stop near the kitchen garden, where several others were singing merry songs of planting and of a bountiful summer to come.

Curufin leaned against Maglor, and said very quietly, “I need both you and Nelyo to be all right.”

“Oh, Curvo.” Maglor hugged him tight. “I’m going to be fine. I promise.”

“And Nelyo?”

“He’s going to be fine, too.” Maglor hoped he sounded more certain than he felt. “I’m sure you’ll know one way or the other sooner than me, once you get back to Tirion and talk to Celebrimbor.”

“I want all of you there when the babies are born,” Curufin said, “but you and Nelyo most of all—and Tyelko—you missed Calissë and Náriel’s births. I know there wasn’t any helping it, but I don’t want you to miss this one.”

“I don’t want to miss it either. I’ll be there, I promise. When Maedhros can think more clearly, he’ll want to be there too.” Maglor tried to brighten his tone as he added, “Come out to the wood shop with me so we can start making plans for this cradle. I have no idea how big it should be, or what will go best in your nursery.”

Their afternoon was spent sketching plans and measuring wood. Curufin’s mood lifted considerably once he had a project in front of him, even if he was only helping to plan for it. By the time Elrond came to find them before dinner Maglor had gotten Curufin to start laughing again, both of their worries not forgotten but easier to set aside. Inside, after Curufin left them to go find Rundamírë, Elrond said, “You didn’t mention that you were having nightmares again.”

“They’ll pass,” Maglor said.

“Are they new, or just old ones come back?”

“Old ones. Last night was worse than usual, and I suspect none of my brothers are going to let me sleep alone until Daeron returns—but I will be all right. I feel fine right now.”

“I believe you,” Elrond said, offering a small smile. “I haven’t been sleeping well either.”

“I’m sorry, Elrond,” Maglor said, reaching for him. Elrond sighed into his shoulder. “I know you’ll say that I shouldn’t apologize, but I am sorry. You shouldn’t also be haunted by our old shadows.”

“They’re the same shadows that haunt us all,” Elrond said. “Play something hopeful after dinner tonight?”

“If you join me.”

It was always wonderful to play music with Elrond. Elladan and Elrohir joined them after a little while too, and by the time Maglor retreated upstairs he was pleasantly tired and still humming one of the last songs they’d sung together, an old favorite from Rivendell in praise of Elbereth’s stars. Then he nearly tripped over Pídhres at the top of the stairs. She meowed at him and trotted away down the hall. “Where are you going?” he asked her. She meowed again. “All right, silly cat, I’m coming.”

She led him all the way across the house to the library, where a lamp was burning in the back of the room. Maglor found Fëanor there in one of the small nooks with a window seat, a book on his lap but his attention on the window beside him, looking out over the starlit gardens and the pond. He was lost enough in his thoughts that he did not seem to notice Maglor’s approach, and started a little when Pídhres pawed at his leg.

It used to be so rare, to find Fëanor in such a quiet moment. Maglor went to pick up Pídhres, and sat down on the floor in her place to lean his head on his father’s lap. “Cáno?” Fëanor’s hand immediately came to rest on Maglor’s hair. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Maglor said, closing his eyes. “I just miss you. What are you reading?”

He heard the pages rustle as Fëanor shifted the book. “A collection of tales from the Shire, as recorded by Thain Peregrin Took,” he said after a moment.

Maglor couldn’t help but smile. “Have you gotten to the one about the enchantress yet?”

“Yes, I have. Is that where your tale came from, or is it the other way around?”

“Oh, that story was generations old before I ever met Pippin,” Maglor said. “It was just the first one I thought of when the girls asked about why my hair looks different, since they didn’t believe Amras when he said I didn’t eat my vegetables.” Fëanor laughed, though it was quiet and brief. Maglor turned so he could look up into his face, finding it partly in shadow cast by the fall of his hair. “I’m almost done with the second full draft of the song,” he said. “Do you want to read it?”

“I’d love to,” Fëanor said.