A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Fifty Eight

[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 had arrived at Fingon’s house not knowing what exactly it was that he needed, except to be away from his father and his brothers. He still wasn’t sure, but between them Fingon and Finrod had decided that what Maedhros needed was reassurance about the rest of his memory. They spent hours reminiscing about both their youth in Valinor and about Beleriand, about the Mereth Aderthad and other meetings between the three of them or each of them in pairs. Maedhros heard for the first time Finrod’s perspective on Fingon’s sudden departure and then their unexpected return from Thangorodrim.

“Do you remember my coming to see you, in those early days?” Finrod asked. They sat on a balcony overlooking the gardens behind the house. The sun was bright and warm, though the breeze out of the north held a chill, and smelled faintly of rain.

“No,” Maedhros said. “I don’t remember much from those first few weeks at all.”

“I didn’t think so,” said Finrod with a small, rueful smile. “When you were awake, which wasn’t often, you were delirious with pain and fear. It was terrible to witness.”

“What I don’t remember doesn’t really bother me,” Maedhros said after a few minutes of silence. “I’ve always had gaps in my memory from Angband, and from the time directly afterward.”

“Has anything we’ve spoken of contradicted what you do remember?”

“No.” Maedhros sighed. “Elrond already assured me that there isn’t anything else there that’s false.”

“But you still have difficulty believing it.” Finrod stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankle, slouching in his seat with a sigh of his own. “Alas, there are no songs to cure that kind of uncertainty. If there were, Elrond would have sung them already.”

“Elrond has done more than enough.”

“Is there anything in particular that you fear isn’t real?”

“No. I just—I was so certain, and I was so wrong.”

“None of this means your judgment is flawed—in general, I mean,” said Finrod.

“There are hundreds of reasons to believe my judgment flawed,” Maedhros said. Finrod kicked his ankle lightly. “Am I wrong?”

“Yes. Have you written to Maglor?”

“Yes.” It hadn’t been a very long letter. Maedhros didn’t really know what to say beyond an assurance that he’d made it to Fingon’s house in one piece. He did need to apologize again—Maglor hadn’t deserved to have Maedhros snap at him any more than he’d deserved whatever Celegorm had done afterward—but that was something that needed to be done in person. He also had no idea what had happened after he’d left Imloth Ningloron, and was half-afraid to ask. So he hadn’t asked, and…

“Maglor has written back!” Fingon announced as he came out onto the balcony. “And even better, Celebrimbor brought the letter. And a hedgehog. What are we supposed to feed this thing, Russo?”

“Nothing,” Celebrimbor said as he followed Fingon, and sat down between Finrod and Maedhros. He had Aechen in his hands, and as soon as he could wiggle free, Aechen scrambled from Celebrimbor’s lap to Maedhros’, purring when Maedhros covered him with his hand so he didn’t fall off. “He’ll forage around in your gardens and eat all the grubs and things. At any rate, I didn’t need to worry about feeding him on my way here.”

“Oh, well that’s all right then.” Fingon sat down too. “The letters are in your room,” he said to Maedhros.

“Maglor also sent along your sketchbook,” Celebrimbor added.

“Thank you,” Maedhros said.

“What sort of chaos did you leave behind, then?” Finrod asked, voicing the question Maedhros wanted to ask but didn’t quite have the courage to.

“No chaos at all,” Celebrimbor said. “It’s been very quiet. If you want chaos, go to Tirion.”

“No thank you!” said Finrod, laughing. “But I thought Maglor and Celegorm had come to blows. Or has that all been resolved?”

“They did, and it has,” said Celebrimbor. “I wasn’t there when it happened, but I think Celegorm was angry because Maglor was refusing to explain what was going on—at least, he wouldn’t explain before he’d found Elrond. Now that the dust has settled a bit, everyone’s fine. I was more worried about what I’d find here,” he added, “especially once I heard that you were invited, Felagund.”

“Don’t worry,” Fingon laughed, “no one’s gotten messily drunk yet.”

“And no one is going to,” Maedhros added.

“That’s also what Maglor said,” said Celebrimbor.

“Different circumstances, different needs,” Finrod said, waving a hand. “I have a few bottles just in case, but Russandol is no fun.”

“I’ll get as drunk as you like next year at the feast,” said Maedhros, “when we’re all going to be happy about it.”

“That’s a dangerous promise,” Fingon said as Finrod laughed.

Eventually, Finrod and Fingon left Celebrimbor and Maedhros alone. “How is it really?” Maedhros asked.

“Just as I said. The worst that’s happened is that Náriel and Calissë got into a fight over kitten names. Pídhres is expecting—I’m sure Maglor wrote to you all about it. He also asked me to bring Aechen to you when I told him I was coming here. I hope that’s all right.”

“Yes, of course.” Maedhros glanced down at Aechen, who had curled up and gone to sleep on his lap. “Why are you here, Tyelpë? It can’t only be because you wanted to make sure Finrod wasn’t causing mischief.”

“I wanted to make sure you were all right.” Celebrimbor hesitated for a moment, his expression very grave. “I know what it’s like to have things put into your head. I don’t have them anymore and no longer remember what they were—Mandos took pity on me and took them away—but I still remember the horror of it. Of knowing there were things in my head that seemed so real when I knew they weren’t.”

The thought of one of the Valar—even Námo, even Estë—putting things in or taking things out of his head made Maedhros feel ill. “I don’t think I want that.”

“Of course not,” said Celebrimbor. “I wouldn’t either, now, but I was already such a broken mess that it was a relief rather than another violation, when Námo took the false visions away in Mandos. You know Maglor too—”

“Yes, I know. The difference is that he’s known all along there are false things in his mind.”

“I don’t know if Sauron was not as subtle then because he was too weak for it or because he just didn’t care,” Celebrimbor said. “I did just want you to know that you aren’t alone.”

“Thank you, Tyelpë,” Maedhros said. He put his arm around Celebrimbor’s shoulders and kissed his forehead. “But I wish that I was. I wish you hadn’t had to—”

“But I did, and I came back from it. Same as you did. And—Grandfather is still at Imloth Ningloron too. I don’t think he’ll return to Tirion until my parents do.”

“So…this didn’t—I mean, if Celegorm was angry enough to—”

“He isn’t angry now. I promise, Uncle, this hasn’t ruined anything. Really, it’s done the opposite, especially since everyone knows that Grandfather was with you the whole time Elrond was. I brought a letter from Grandfather too. He’s worried. And…” Celebrimbor drew back a little to look Maedhros in the face. It was hard to look anyone in the eye for long, for reasons Maedhros didn’t really understand himself, but somehow it was easier to meet Celebrimbor’s gaze just then. “Do you think you’ll be able to come to Tirion this winter—when the baby is born? My father has been counting on you being there, because you weren’t able to be present for Náriel or Calissë.”

“I’ll be there,” Maedhros said. “I won’t miss that, Tyelpë, I promise.”

“Good.”

Celebrimbor only stayed a few days, saying he was wanted to put out fires in Tirion. During those few days he rarely left Maedhros’ side, and seemed to be watching him closely. Whatever he saw seemed to reassure him—and Maedhros felt reassured in turn himself, as he watched Celebrimbor canter away down the lane. He felt shaky and off balance still, but it had been easy to promise that he would be in Tirion that winter, and it was growing easier by the day to turn his thoughts away from the past and keep them in the present. It helped to have his sketchbook, and it helped even more to know that he hadn’t left his family as fractured as he had feared. Maybe now he’d stop having nightmares about it. It helped, too, that letters and messy but bright and colorful paintings from Calissë and Náriel arrived an hour after Celebrimbor departed.

There was only so long he could say there in Fingon’s country house, though. Fingon was also wanted in Tirion—and that was where Gil-galad and Gilheneth were, and all the excitement of planning for the next year. When Maedhros ventured to say so, Fingon shrugged. “Of course I want to be with my family,” he said, “but you are my family too. Besides, you said you don’t want to go home to your mother—and I don’t blame you—and Tirion will be even more overwhelming than usual. Where else might you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” Maedhros said.

“Come to Alqualondë with me,” said Finrod. “My parents’ house is more than big enough—you don’t have to see anyone there if you don’t want to, and it isn’t in the city proper so there’s no noise or crowds. And remember I said it might help you to speak to my father, anyway?”

“I feel very differently about my father now than I did when we spoke of that,” said Maedhros, and marveled a little to hear himself say so. It had felt so impossible, then, to imagine being able to do anything more than grit his teeth through any kind of situation where he was thrust into the same company as Fëanor. Now—he wasn’t eager to see him again, but for very different reasons. He wasn’t eager to see anyone until he felt at home again in his own skin, and he didn’t know how long that would take.

“It still won’t hurt,” said Fingon, “and it’s just through the Calacirya. When I get fed up with things in Tirion—as I know that I will—maybe I’ll bring Gilheneth and Gil-galad to visit and we can spend a day picnicking on the beach—away from Tirion and out of Finarfin’s hair. Neither of you have seen Gil-galad yet—Finrod, you haven’t ever met him at all, have you?”

“I have,” said Finrod with a small smile. “I only made it to Hithlum once in between his birth and the Bragollach, right after he was born.” Then he lightened his tone as he added, “I’m sure this next meeting will be much more enjoyable for everyone, since he must be far too old by now to try to eat a handful of my hair and then to wail inconsolably when denied the rest.” Fingon laughed. “Well come on then. Let’s go riding—it’s a beautiful day for it, and for forgetting all about our various responsibilities awaiting us in Tirion and elsewhere!”

It was very late by the time Maedhros made it back to his room. Aechen was curled up in his basket by the hearth, and Maedhros sat down on the rug beside him to finally open up the letters from Imloth Ningloron. Calissë and Náriel had written all about the kitten they had been promised, and had painted the hedgehogs and the flowers in Celebrían’s gardens. Celegorm had written, his letter full of apologies and promises that he and Maglor were fine, and also that he and all the rest of their brothers were prepared to do whatever Maedhros needed, whenever he needed them. There was a note from Elrond, equally full of reassurances, and a letter from Maglor that was long and rambling, with the same reassurances as well as silly bits of gossip from the valley and snatches of verse and little doodles of Pídhres and the hedgehogs, in addition to the same news Celebrimbor had brought about the impending kittens and Calissë and Náriel’s excitement.

Near the end he wrote more seriously: If I know you, Nelyo—and I do—you’ll be making yourself even more miserable trying to think of how to apologize to me again. Please don’t. I can’t even tell you that you’re already forgiven because there is nothing to forgive. Hopefully this letter will help you stop worrying about the rest of us. Celegorm and I are fine—he’s been trying to teach himself to spin yarn rather than knit with it, with minimal success. It’s a little awkward with Atya still here, but only Celegorm and Caranthir are still really avoiding him, for reasons of their own that have nothing to do with you. You shouldn’t worry about me, either. I’m all right. I haven’t been sleeping very well, but it will pass. That’s the most important thing, you know—it will all pass. Old scars flare up sometimes but they don’t always ache. We’ve spoken before of lancing infected wounds so they can heal properly, and I think that’s what you’re doing right now. It hurts, of course, but soon enough it won’t anymore. Arda is marred, and there is no escaping that, but there are still bluebirds singing in the trees. There is still music and sunshine and rainbows, and spring flowers coming after snow melt, and silly cats, and little brothers who won’t leave you alone because they love you too much to believe you when you say you’re fine even if it’s true.

Maedhros set Maglor’s letter aside with a sigh. He knew Maglor was right—and he didn’t even really know what was wrong with him, except what Elrond had said about shock. Every thought he had had about his father had been upended, and what he had thought must be the foundation for whatever might be built between them going forward had been revealed to be sand, washed away in an instant—but it felt like solid ground should be easier to find now. It was still true that Fëanor’s words had cut deep—but the truth of it was so much easier to forgive than the lie had been. Anything was easier to forgive than that.

He picked up his father’s letter next. It was much shorter than Maglor’s, and mostly a repetition of what he’d said already in person. If I had known of this when we first met when I returned, I would have gone about everything so differently, Fëanor wrote. I know there is no way I could have known, but I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m so sorry. No wonder you did not want to hear anything I had to say. But please know that now when I say that you are my son, there are no demands or expectations attached, and I mean only that I love you, that I will always love you, just as much now and in the future as when I first held you in my arms the day you were born—and that I am so proud of you, of your strength and your endurance and your determination, of the way you clawed yourself back out of the darkest pits of despair to find joy under the sun again, so many times over. There is no doubt in my mind that you will do it again now. Whatever you need from me—my presence or my distance, my words or my silence, or anything in between—you only have to ask.

As Maedhros folded his father’s letter up again, Fingon came into the room. He was as insistent as Maedhros’ brothers on braiding his hair for him, even though Maedhros could manage well enough at least at night when it didn’t matter if it was uneven or too loose. “Good letters?” he asked as he picked up the comb.

“Yes.”

“Maglor wrote to me too—to get the truth of how you’re doing, since he knows he won’t get the full picture from you.”

“What will you tell him?”

“That he doesn’t need to be as worried as he is, though I know it won’t really work.” Fingon worked out a few tangles from the ends of Maedhros’ hair. “You’re already far more cheerful than you were when you arrived.”

“I don’t know why I was so upset,” Maedhros said after a moment. “Elrond said it was because it was a shock, but—I don’t know. Finding out one of the worst things to happen to me didn’t happen at all should be a good thing.”

“Well, there’s that part,” said Fingon, “and then there’s the part where such a thing was put into your mind, and so subtly that you never even noticed. That part is, frankly, terrifying, and I do understand how it called everything else into question. Have we helped to quell some of those fears, Finrod and I?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And you know, Russo, that such a thing won’t ever happen again.”

“I do know.”

“And that it happened in the first place has nothing to do with how strong of mind or will you are or were. When it comes down to it—he was a Vala, and you were only an Elf. It was terribly arrogant of all of us to believe we could defeat him alone, really. But that doesn’t mean you have to go all the way in the other direction and believe yourself entirely helpless.”

“It’s not that I feel helpless exactly, it’s…it feels as though I’ve already given all that I have and there’s nothing else left.”

“That sounds like the way you spoke before you went to Lórien.”

“I don’t think I mean it in quite the same way now.”

“How do you mean it?”

Maedhros didn’t answer immediately. He picked up his sketchbook and flipped through the first few pages, all flowers and trees and seashells. “There’s more of this in my head now than—this.” He turned to the last page, where he’d drawn his father, in the last most vivid memories Maedhros had of him before his death—the images were real, at least, even if the words weren’t. “This isn't ever going to go away, but it’s not all there is now.”

“Is that the kind of thing you used to draw?” Fingon asked, having paused in his combing to look over Maedhros’ shoulder. “When you wouldn’t show anyone?”

“Those were worse.” Maedhros tore the page out and crumpled it into a ball to toss onto the hearth. The flames licked at it, slowly at first until it caught all at once. “I think what I mean is that…once, I was a prince—”

“You still are,” Fingon said.

“—and then I was a soldier—and then I wasn’t anything, and now I’m not sure what I am except that I can’t be any of that anymore. I can’t put on pretty clothes and jewels and smile my way through even a single day at your father’s court, and I don’t have it in me to lead armies or plan battles. I don’t know what I am now, except just…myself.”

“It doesn’t matter if you can’t do any of those things,” said Fingon, “because no one will ask it of you. Though for what it’s worth I think you could survive a day at my father’s court. It’s not that bad, however much I like to complain about it.”

“I could survive it,” Maedhros said, “the same way Maglor can survive an evening of performance in front of that same court—it’s just not that easy anymore.”

“I know Maglor doesn’t perform much anymore,” Fingon said, “but I didn’t realize he disliked it.”

“It used to frighten him. Badly. He still doesn’t like to be seen—to be stared at.”

“But isn’t he going to be performing next year?” Fingon asked as he began to braid Maedhros’ hair, fingers moving swiftly. “Why agree if it frightens him?”

“It used to frighten him,” Maedhros repeated. “He says it doesn’t anymore. He just doesn’t enjoy it like he used to, though he says it’s much easier when he isn’t singing alone.”

“Does Elemmírë know this?”

“I don’t know, but Daeron does.”

“Hm.” Fingon sat back on his heels, and tied off the end of Maedhros’ braid. “But he sings all the time in front of everyone at Imloth Ningloron.”

“That’s very different from getting up on a stage. Most of the time he isn’t singing alone. And he knows everyone in Imloth Ningloron, and they all know him. It’s strangers he doesn’t like.”

“That’s true, I suppose. Well—I think you’ll have to make your way to Tirion sometime to be Prince Maedhros for a day, but it can be later rather than sooner. If you can repair things with your father it will be easier.”

“Perhaps,” Maedhros said, earning himself a light smack on the shoulder as Fingon came around to sit facing him rather than kneel behind him. “I do think it’s possible now, though—to fix things with my father. I just…don’t know where to start.”

“Amrod and Amras started by just showing up one afternoon and deciding they were going to help clear out your old house, and I don’t think they really gave him any choice in the matter.”

“Amrod and Amras don’t usually give anyone a choice, when they decide to do something,” said Maedhros. “They don’t usually give warnings, either.”

Fingon grinned. “I know. Curufin is always complaining about it—but he’s also always fighting a smile when he does. But what I meant was—oh, I don’t know. I know it’s always going to be more complicated for you, but it’s complicated for my father too, and for our aunts, and they seem to be able to set that aside most of the time. You have to talk about all of the hard things eventually, but you don’t have to do it all at once. You can have dinner together and talk about nothing except the weather and the food and your painting and his forging or whatever it is he’s doing these days.”

“It’s just…there’s so much to—”

“And you have time, Russo—time and hope. You can take it one step at a time, and they do not have to be big steps. I think you’ve already taken the biggest ones, really. And the stakes now are not so high. The stars will not fall from the sky if you fight with your father again, or if your next meetings are few and far between.”

Maedhros took a breath, and let it out slowly. The crumpled up drawing in the fire was now reduced to fine grey ash, falling through the grate. “You’re right,” he said.

“Of course I’m right.”

“Is that what you’re doing with Gil-galad?”

“More or less, though it helps that he was as happy to see me as I was to see him. Of course there are complicated things under the surface, but we haven’t really spoken of them yet, because we don’t have to yet. Someday when we both feel as though we know one another as we should, we’ll talk about the past.” Fingon’s smile was small and tinged with regret and old grief. “There’s no getting back the time we lost, and no changing the fact that he came into his inheritance far, far too early—all we can do is keep moving forward. Same as we all did in Beleriand, only now it’s both harder and easier because there is nothing to fight except each other.”

They stayed up very late, talking of the past and of their tentative hopes for the future. Well, Maedhros’ hopes were tentative—Fingon grasped at hope with both hands, as he always had. They fell asleep sprawled across the bed, like they had on silver Treelit nights long ago, when sleep caught and dragged them down before they ran out of things to talk about.

Maedhros’ dreams had been awful for weeks, and that night was no different. They were fire and shadow, nebulous and strange and terrifying. The details slipped away immediately as he gasped himself awake, dawn’s pale light peeking through the curtains. For a little while he lay and watched the light grow, and then he got up to get dressed, moving quietly so as not to wake Fingon. Aechen roused, and Maedhros picked him up to carry him downstairs and outside. He vanished into the dewy grass, and Maedhros sat on the steps of the veranda, elbow on his knee and chin on his hand. At the edge of the woods beyond the gardens a deer paused to look at him before going back to her grazing.

Finrod joined him after a little while, sitting down beside Maedhros with a yawn, and then slumping over against his shoulder. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“That my brothers were right.”

“Which brothers, and about what?”

“Ambarussa. They were talking last year about—something about going into the woods and being able to leave everything else behind, because the trees don’t care what your name is or who you’ve been. How freeing it is.”

“There is something oddly comforting in that,” Finrod said. “All the things that seem so terribly big to us are really so small, just a raindrop in the ocean. I feel that way looking up at the stars, especially after I’ve been listening to Eärendil talk of his voyages. But just because our woes are small does not mean they are unimportant.”

“No, but they are not as important as our pride might make us believe,” said Maedhros. He watched the deer slowly move from one patch of grass to another.

“Does this mean you’re going to go off and live in the woods like the twins?”

Maedhros managed a smile. “No.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to go hunting every time I wanted to talk to you.” Finrod yawned again, and they sat in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the birds in the trees, and watching the deer as she grazed quietly. Finally, Finrod spoke again. “For what it’s worth, the jokes about getting everyone drunk are just jokes—so you can be annoyed with me instead of upset about other things. Anyway, the last time I did it, it was for purely selfish reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“I wanted to get drunk and miserable and didn’t want to do it alone, and—well, your brother and nephew are the ones most familiar with the particular shape of the shadows that had come back to haunt me, and there’s something to be said for speaking aloud certain things you’d never say while sober. I will of course supply all the alcohol you want if you do decide to get drunk and miserable, because it is rather cathartic, but only if that’s really what you want.”

“Did it help?” Maedhros asked.

“Yes, but it’s only the sort of thing I’d indulge in once every century or so. It’s much more fun to get just drunk enough to sing stupid songs all night and laugh at everything—as I fully intend to do with you next year at the feast as you promised. The hangovers aren’t as bad, either.”

The deer wandered away into the woods and out of sight. A squirrel darted down a tree to dig into the ground at its base. Maedhros had been looking forward to the upcoming feast, to the parties and the songs and the laughter, but that had been before, when he’d felt himself on firm if not entirely pleasant ground. “I’m starting to wonder if I should even go,” he said.

“It’s still more than a year away, Russo. A lot can happen in a year.”

“That’s rather the problem.”

“I know it’s easy to see trouble looming around every corner once you’ve been taken off guard—but nothing terrible is going to happen. At worst our siblings or cousins will squabble over something, but that’s a thing as inevitable as the sunrise.”

“I’m going to have to tell my mother what happened,” Maedhros said. The squirrel found what it had been looking for and scurried back up the tree. Nearer at hand, Aechen sniffed through a patch of elanor. “It’s—I’ve tried so hard to keep the worst of it all from her.”

“Must you tell her all the ugly details?”

“I don’t know how to explain it without them.”

“I’m sorry. I would help if I could. But perhaps it would be better if you saw your father again first—that way you’ll know where you stand with each other and can reassure Nerdanel accordingly. Of course, if you don’t want to see him…”

“I think I do,” Maedhros said. “I think you’re right. I just—I don’t know what’s between the two of them, and if there’s anything to salvage I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You were worried about the same thing for your brothers, and that proved unnecessary,” Finrod said. “But regardless, your parents aren’t your responsibility.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? You don’t have to be the linchpin holding your family together—that isn’t how it’s supposed to work.”

“How do you talk about it with your mother?”

“I don’t, mostly—for the same reasons you don’t want to. But she’s heard of it all from others, and I’m sure that if you asked, you’d find that Aunt Nerdanel also knows more than you think. Of course we wish they could remain blissfully ignorant of it, but that’s both unrealistic and, I think, a disservice to them, to underestimate their strength.”

“My mother is one of the strongest people I’ve ever known,” Maedhros said. “I’m just—I’ve caused so much pain. I don’t want to cause any more. Especially not for her. I know there’s no easy answer, except to just—tell her the truth, or as much of it as I can make myself say out loud. I just don’t want to.”

“At least you only have to do it once. And by this time next year, all of this will be a memory. You’ll have a new niece or nephew to dote on, and we’ll all be preparing for the splendors of Ingwë’s feast, with all its games and dances. There is joy on the horizon, within your grasp. You just have to reach for it.”