![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
starsprayRating: 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
When Maglor finished the second draft and read it over to himself, chanting some passages aloud to make sure it all sounded right, he found himself almost entirely satisfied with it. He’d expected it to take many, many drafts—but he thought now that he might have it finished much sooner than he’d hoped. He made a clean copy of it and gave it to Fëanor before fleeing to the wood shop to work on the cradle. Calissë came out to help him, full of excitement over not one but three new baby brothers or sisters.
By this time spring had settled fully over the valley; the gardens were all in bloom and the birds were busy with their nests and their eggs. The nights remained cool but they were no longer cold. It was a beautiful spring, and summer promised more of the same. The mallorn tree was resplendent, crowned in gold, the breeze carrying its sweet smell all across the valley. Maedhros had written, as well as Fingon—both letters full of assurances that though Maedhros was still struggling at the moment, he would be in Tirion by wintertime. Maedhros had thanked Maglor for sending his sketchbook, and for sending Aechen. Fingon told Maglor that Maedhros would be going with Finrod to Alqualondë for the summer. It’s a matter, I think, of rebuilding confidence in himself, Fingon wrote. He hasn’t had much of it anyway ever since he returned from Mandos, and what he did have has been badly shaken—but now he knows he can build up from solid stone rather than shifting sand. I won’t say don’t worry, because you will regardless, but he won’t be doing it alone. I think it will do him a great deal of good to speak with our uncle, and to spend some time with our cousins there—as long as Galadriel doesn’t do or say anything alarming, which I suppose is always a risk.
Maglor was allowing Calissë to help draw out the stars he intended to carve into the cradle’s sides, while telling her stories about her favorite constellations, when Celebrían came looking for them. “Maglor, Pídhres has had her kittens.”
“Kittens!” Calissë cried, jumping to her feet. “Can we go see them? Please?”
“Yes, of course—but just to see them,” Maglor said. “Thank you, Celebrían. Calissë, help me tidy up first.”
Celebrían waited for them, and fell into step beside Maglor as Calissë raced ahead to find Náriel. “Are you all right?” she asked, slipping her arm through his. “You seemed uneasy at breakfast.”
“I’m closer to finishing my song than I had thought,” Maglor said, “and I gave the latest draft to my father the other day to read.”
“Ah, I see. Are you happy with what you’ve written?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well, at least you’ll be able to set it aside soon, and not think of it at all until next year,” Celebrían said. “Good morning, Gandalf! Don’t tell me you’re leaving us!”
They came upon Gandalf bending down to listen as Calissë whispered something to him. He whispered something back that made her giggle and then dart away down the path, and his eyes were twinkling as he straightened, hat and staff in hand. “Your niece will be a force to be reckoned with, when she grows up,” he said to Maglor. And to Celebrían he added, “I am leaving, yes—I cannot promise to see you again before the year is out, but I will certainly see you next summer!”
“Are you going to bring fireworks to the feast?” Maglor asked.
Gandalf laughed. “Of course! Good luck with your songwriting, Maglor. I’m looking forward to hearing it.”
After they left Gandalf, they came upon Celegorm near the stables, also preparing to leave. “Where are you going?” Maglor asked.
“Hunting.” Celegorm grinned when Maglor frowned at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before summer’s out.”
“That’s still a long time—”
“I’m hunting something very particular.” Celegorm embraced Maglor, holding on surprisingly tightly. “I made Ambarussa promise to keep an eye on you while I’m gone.”
“I don’t need keeping an eye on,” Maglor said. “You do remember that I’m older than all of you?” Huan came trotting out as Celegorm released him, and licked up the side of Maglor’s face. Celebrían laughed at them before bidding Celegorm farewell and going on inside. “Tyelko, what’s really going on?”
“Nothing,” Celegorm said. “There’s just something I have to do. Don’t worry about me.”
“How am I not supposed to worry when you won’t tell me—” Maglor broke off when Celegorm’s gaze shifted behind him and he tensed slightly. He turned to see Fëanor paused near the entrance to the courtyard, and then looked back at Celegorm. “Tyelko?”
“I’ll be back soon, Cáno. I promise.”
“All right, just—be safe?”
“I will!” Celegorm leaped into the saddle and took off at a canter. Huan licked Maglor again and bounded away after him with a single loud bark of farewell.
Fëanor stepped up beside Maglor as Celegorm disappeared down the road, heading north. Maglor said, “I don’t suppose you know where he’s going.”
“No. But he seemed in high spirits.”
“I suppose.” He had been more cheerful than Maedhros, at least, and Maglor couldn’t think of anything that had happened in the last day or so that would send Celegorm fleeing into the wilds for unhappy reasons. Swallowing a sigh, Maglor turned to Fëanor. “Pídhres just had her kittens. Want to see them?”
They found Calissë and Náriel outside of Maglor’s bedroom, giggling and unable to stay still. “You have to be quiet and calm,” Maglor told them before he opened the door. Calissë immediately grabbed Náriel’s shoulders to stop her from bouncing up and down. “No trying to pet them either. They’re much too small, and Pídhres will be very protective. I don’t want either of you getting scratched.”
“Yes, Uncle Cáno,” Calissë and Náriel chorused. Maglor caught Fëanor’s eye, both of them fighting grins, and then he opened the door.
Pídhres was in the bed that Celebrían had helped Maglor prepare for her, tucked near the hearth and full of soft blankets, busily grooming the two small kittens greedily nursing, a pair of tiny white shapes small enough to fit easily into Maglor’s palm. One was entirely white; the other was nearly so, except for little black feet and spots on its ears. “Only two?” Náriel asked, peering around Calissë’s arm at them. “They’re tiny!”
“It’s only her first litter, that’s why,” said Maglor as he crouched beside the basket. “Hello, mistress,” he said when Pídhres meowed at him. “Yes, very well done.”
“When will they be big enough to play with?” Calissë asked.
“Probably not until you’ve gone home, I’m afraid,” said Maglor. “But I’ll bring the one you pick with me when I come visit later this year.”
“You don’t have to choose now,” Fëanor said after a few minutes when it seemed like the girls might start arguing over it. “Let the poor things at least open their eyes first.”
“Come on,” Maglor said, scooping Náriel up into his arms as Fëanor picked up Calissë. “You can come visit them every day until you go home, but for now let’s let them be.”
They found Curufin downstairs with Rundamírë. “The kittens were born!” Calissë told them, wiggling in Fëanor’s arms until he set her down. “Did you see them yet? They’re so tiny!”
“Yes, babies are usually quite small,” Curufin laughed as Calissë clambered onto his lap. “How many are there?”
“Just two,” said Maglor as he sat down beside Curufin. Fëanor sat on his other side. “By the way, do you know where Tyelko’s gone?”
“No idea,” Curufin said, lying so smoothly that Maglor might have believed him, if he didn’t also notice how Curufin did not look directly at him as he spoke, or if he had not been expecting such a lie. “Don’t worry about it. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”
“Yes, he said that, but—”
Rundamírë interrupted, then, asking more questions about the kittens. There was no chance of getting answers when both Curufin and his wife were working together to steer the conversation, so Maglor gave up. He caught Fëanor’s eye and found him smiling, amused and fond.
Curufin and his family stayed a week after the kittens were born, just long enough for Calissë and Náriel to—after much bickering—agree that they would like the solid white kitten, and for them to decide that the most suitable name was Lossë. “What are you going to name the other one?” Náriel asked Maglor.
“I don’t know yet.” Maglor kissed her cheeks. “I’ll tell you when I see you in a few months. Or, maybe I’ll write about it, if you send me letters first.”
“Oh, do I have to?”
“If you want to know all about the kittens, yes.”
Fëanor made known his plans to leave with Curufin and his family, and the evening before their departure he brought the draft of the song to Maglor where he was working in the library. It was marked up in various places with Fëanor’s bold hand, with comments or suggestions for changes. “What did you think?” Maglor asked as he took the papers.
“It’s wonderful, Cáno. I knew it would be.” Fëanor leaned down to kiss the top of Maglor’s head. “You know that you’re good at this. Why are you so worried?”
Maglor had thought he had been doing a better job of hiding his growing anxiety. He wanted, suddenly, to tell Fëanor everything—all of it, of the Valar and of his hopes and fears and doubts—but whatever this was that was growing between them, this new peace and hope for something even better, felt far too fragile to risk it. Fëanor seemed fragile, as strange as it was, and Maglor couldn’t risk breaking his heart all over again when it became clear that the Valar would not listen. So instead he just said, “It’s important. And it isn’t writing the song, really. It’s just—singing it, after it’s done. I don’t—I can’t—” He knew it was such a fundamental change from who he’d once been, and he didn’t really know how to explain it—and a part of him was still afraid that Fëanor would just see it as weakness, something to criticize, something that would make him take back the words of quiet pride he’d spoken in Tirion. Maglor did know better, but he didn’t think he could bear it if that small frightened part of him was right.
“Does it frighten you?” Fëanor asked softly, as he sat down in the chair beside Maglor’s, as though he’d guessed his thoughts and wanted to dispel them immediately. “Elrond told me it did—years ago—but you’ve been performing for everyone here for weeks.”
“It’s different here. I know everyone, and they know me. It doesn’t feel like I’m performing, not like when I get up on a stage. No one is watching me.”
“Will you tell me why?” Fëanor placed his hand over Maglor’s on the table, steady and calm and warm. In Maglor’s nightmares for years he had burned, bright and hot, the way he had before his death—the way that Sauron had. He didn’t burn that way now. Amrod had spoken of him smothering his own fire; it seemed to Maglor that it was only banked, coals burning low but not really in danger of going out. “I’ve heard of it from Elrond, and I have looked into the palantír, but I would also hear it from you if you are willing to tell me.”
Maglor kept his gaze on Fëanor’s hand, on the traces of soot under his fingernails—so many things were different now but that was one thing that would never change—and still didn’t know what to say. “When I said I wanted you to look into the palantír, I didn’t mean that,” he said finally.
“You had to know that I would.”
“I thought Curvo would tell you not to.”
“He did. So did Ambarussa. I looked anyway. I could not save you from the road I doomed you to walk, and so the least that I can do now is bear witness. You wanted my understanding. Please, help me understand.”
Maglor turned his hand so he could hold onto his father’s. Fëanor’s grip was firm and unyielding. It was very quiet in the library; most of the household was in bed. Lately Maglor had grown accustomed to hearing Nallámo singing at night, the way mockingbirds sometimes did, but he had flown away after Celegorm, and the only sounds from outside were the crickets and the first frogs emerging from their winter’s slumber by the fishpond. If he was going to say anything, it would have to be now. Better to know for sure one way or another how Fëanor would react to it. He already knew all the ugly details, even if he couldn’t quite understand the invisible scars that still lingered. “It was my voice in his service that—that the Necromancer wanted,” he whispered finally. “He would not let his servants injure my hands or my tongue. I wasn’t going to—for a long time I told myself I wouldn’t let him break me, but I wasn’t strong enough, and…without even meaning to, I forgot everything I knew about music, in the dark after he—” He gestured at his mouth with his other hand. Even now it was hard to say the words, to talk of stitches and needles. “And then—then the White Council came, but—he just slipped away, and it was only a handful of years before he declared himself openly again in Mordor. I used to dream of the Eye. He wasn’t always looking for me, but I knew that he wanted to find me again. That he would, when he came to his full power.”
“You did not think the West would have the victory?” Fëanor asked softly.
“No, I didn’t. I was too afraid, and I’ve never been able to hold onto the kind of hope that Elrond can,” Maglor said. “I don’t…I don’t know how to explain what it feels like, to be under the Eye. All I wanted to do was hide, for such a long time. I don’t much, anymore. I’m not always afraid—I performed for Thingol’s court all winter, both alone and with others, and it got easier every time—but I can’t enjoy it like I once did. And…at the feast next year, all of the Eldar in Aman will be there. It will be the largest audience I’ve ever sung before. I can do it, and I know that I won’t regret it afterward, but I also know it will be hard.”
He didn’t even want to think about how he would feel after he went before the Valar. He was afraid of that, whatever he might tell his brothers. If the undivided attention of Sauron had been terrible, what would all the Valar at once be like?
Daeron would tell him to just focus on the song—one line at a time, just finish writing it, and then worry about what came next. For the most part that was what Maglor had been doing, but every time he finished a section he imagined singing the words in the Máhanaxar, and fear slid down his spine like freezing raindrops.
“How did you come to that place to begin with?” Fëanor asked. “Or rather—I know how, but what made you strike north?”
“Oh, that.” Maglor could look up then, and smile a little. “I wanted to see if I could find the source of the Anduin—there was no real reason except curiosity, and it’s not like I had anything else to do. I’d heard of the Necromancer, but only vague rumors, and I didn’t think his reach would extend all the way to the river. And I did go back and finish that journey later,” he added. “I followed it all the way from its mouth in Gondor to its headwaters in the Grey Mountains—to a lake filled with snow melt. It was beautiful. I saw many beautiful things and places—it wasn’t all misery, whatever the stories say.”
“But it was lonely,” Fëanor said.
“Yes, it was. But for most of that time I didn’t really mind it. Lonely places are often the most beautiful. Like—like that window that you made for me. I haven’t thanked you yet—”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it. That stretch of shore was, for a long time, where I felt the most at home, and I still miss it. Everyone hates it when I say things like that, but it’s true.”
“What everyone hates, I think, is the reminder that you had no real home to return to during those wanderings. Not like you had here, when you were young and prone to striking off alone.”
“I’m home now. And—aside from everything that’s happened lately, I’m very happy.”
Fëanor searched his face, his own expression a mask of concern. “Are you really?” he asked. “You don’t regret coming west?”
“No. I might not have come if I hadn’t promised Elrond—but now that I’m here, I don’t regret it at all. I’ll always miss Middle-earth, but I don’t want to stop missing it either. It’s still a part of who I am, and I don’t regret going there or staying as long as I did. I was happy—I hope you looked for that, too. In Rivendell, and in Minas Tirith, and in Annúminas when it was rebuilt—I was happy.”
“Yes, I saw that.” Fëanor squeezed his hand, and rose, bending once more to kiss Maglor’s forehead. “Your song and your performance are going to be amazing, Canafinwë.”
When Maglor made his way to his own room he found Caranthir in his bed with a book. Pídhres and her kittens were asleep by the hearth, and the hedgehogs were curled up in their basket. “I don’t actually need to be constantly watched, you know,” Maglor said as he went to change. “I haven’t had a nightmare in weeks.”
“Of course not,” Caranthir said, turning the page in his book. “You’re going to try to tell me you aren’t upset about something?”
“I’ll tell you what’s bothering me if you do the same,” Maglor said. He twisted his hair into a braid, and slipped beneath the blankets. “Or if you tell me where Tyelko’s gone.”
“How am I supposed to know where he went?” Caranthir said. He set the book aside and turned out the light. In the dark they both shifted around, getting comfortable. The curtains were mostly drawn, and only a sliver of moonlight came through the gap. On the hearth the fire burned low and warm. Finally, Caranthir said quietly, “I meant to speak to him while he was here.”
“You still can,” Maglor said.
“No, they’re leaving in the morning, and I don’t—I want to do it in the sunlight. I just…don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“It won’t go as badly as it did for Maedhros, you know.”
“I know.” Caranthir’s face was hidden in the shadows under the blankets. “I just…”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t think I’m afraid. I think—I’m just starting to hope it will go differently than I know it will, and…”
“I think all of us have believed it would go one way, and then it went another,” said Maglor. “If not now, then when?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to stay here until you go to Tirion, and then…I’ll seek him out then. It won’t be hard to find him; he’ll be in the thick of it all with Curvo and Tyelpë.”
“Has he tried to seek you out, the way he did Celegorm?”
“No, but I don’t want him to. I need—I need to be the one to go to him.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not going to go as badly as you think, Moryo.” Maglor reached for Caranthir’s hand. “If nothing else, he will listen—the way he didn’t, before.”
“That doesn’t mean he’ll like what he hears. I’m still angry.”
“Maybe not. And maybe you’ll like what you hear more than you think you will.”
“I guess I’ll find out. So I told you—you tell me now.”
“It’s nothing new,” Maglor sighed. “Just thinking of the past, and of the future, and how they’re somehow still tangled up in each other. And of the song, and how it’s nearly done, and—what come next.”
Curufin and his family, and Fëanor, departed early the next morning. Maglor kissed his nieces and Rundamírë, and hugged Curufin and promised he would come to Tirion that winter at the very latest. As Caranthir and the twins echoed his promises, Maglor turned to embrace Fëanor. “Take care, Cáno,” Fëanor said into his ear.
“I will. I love you, Atya.”
Fëanor’s arms around him tightened almost painfully. “I love you too.”
It was quiet in Imloth Ningloron after that. The kittens grew swiftly, following at Pídhres’ heels and wrestling with each other, and pouncing on any foot that held still long enough. They pounced on the hedgehogs, too, but learned very quickly how bad of an idea that was. Spring turned to summer, bringing hot days and afternoon rain showers. Maglor hung the shelves he had made over his desk, and arranged all the wooden horses on them; he went riding with Elrond and his sons, and worked clay and wood, and in the evenings he wrote and rewrote the song, incorporating many of Fëanor’s notes and fiddling with tiny details. Maedhros wrote occasionally; Maglor tried to write to him more often.
By the time Midsummer and its celebrations came around it became clear to him that he was practically done with the song, and just delaying writing out the final clean copy.
His less-clean copy he eventually gave to Elrond. “I think it’s nearly done,” he said, “but I don’t know if I’ve just been staring at it for too long or if some parts really do need reworking again.”
“I think you’ve been staring at it too long,” said Elrond. “But once it is done, I hope you’ll give yourself a little time before you take it to Tirion. You hoped to finish by the fall, and we’re still in the middle of July. Can I share this with Celebrían?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You’re done?” said Amrod an hour later, when he and Amras and Caranthir found Maglor out in the garden with the kittens. “Does that mean you can relax now?”
“No,” said Maglor, rolling over onto his stomach to catch Lossë before she could sneak off. “Oh no you don’t, little one. The pond’s right there, and I’m not fishing you out again.” To his brothers he added, “It means I’m going to try to relax and probably fail miserably.”
“That’s why we’re here!” Amras sat down on the blanket beside him and picked up the second kitten. “Have you named this one yet?”
“I’m thinking Aranel.”
“That’s sweet.”
With dark ears and feet and a white coat, Aranel was exactly the reverse of Tári, the first cat that had decided to adopt Maglor when he had arrived in Imladris, still silent and afraid of everything. He had been thinking of Rivendell a great deal lately; sometimes he dreamed of it, of wandering through the gardens or sitting in the Hall of Fire. Sometimes he dreamed that Tári came to join him, curling up to purr on his lap as the flames danced on the hearth. They were nicer dreams by far than what had plagued him in the spring, but he woke from them feeling melancholy and homesick, and he didn’t know why.
“When are you going to take it to Tirion?” Caranthir asked.
“I don’t know. Indis isn’t there, and I don’t really want to go all the way to Valmar. Fingon has promised to write to me when she next visits. He thinks it will be sometime before fall, so I’ll go then. I have to finish the cradle first, anyway.” He had been taking his time with it, carving out the constellations, and flowering vines, enjoying the detailed work that required all of his attention so that his thoughts couldn’t stray to worries old or new.
“Will you stay there, then, until the babies are born?” Amras asked. “That’s what we’re planning to do—staying with Lisgalen and Carnistir this time, since Rundamírë isn’t going to want a very full house.”
“Yes, I think so. I told Curvo I’d stay with them. Have any of you heard from Tyelko?”
“No,” said Amras, but he did not seem worried. “He’s fine, though. Have you heard anything from Daeron?”
“No.”
Caranthir lay down and knocked his shoulder against Maglor’s. “You’re going to be fine,” he said quietly.
Maglor wished he could feel so confident. “Have any of you heard from Ammë?” He’d avoided answering her letters, because she kept asking after Maedhros and he didn’t know what to tell her.
“She’s worried about Nelyo, and suspicious about how we’re all not talking about him in our letters,” said Amras. “I did tell her that he’s been with Finrod all summer, and I think she’s going to be in Tirion later this year, because everyone’s getting involved in preparations for next year.”
“Even Fingolfin is being dragged into the planning,” Caranthir said. “Fingon told me he’s very grumpy about it, because he did his Mereth Aderthad and doesn’t want to do it again—and apparently Atar’s been teasing him about it, which is the strangest thing I ever read.”
“Atya used to tease people all the time,” said Amras.
“Not Fingolfin.”
“Well, I suppose that’s true.”
Maglor leaned his head on Caranthir’s shoulder as the kittens crawled over one another on the blanket, mewing and batting at each other with their tiny paws. “What are you thinking about now, Cáno?” Amrod asked.
“Grandfather Finwë had brothers.” They’d laughed and teased each other, too, and played games, and grew up under the stars and by the water. Thingol had spoken of them once or twice, but never in much detail, and he had not mentioned their names. Nor had Míriel, or Indis. “I wish we had thought to ask more questions than we did.”
“I don’t think he would have answered them,” Caranthir said.
“Well, we’ll know to ask them when he returns,” said Amras.
“Don’t—” Maglor started.
“Don’t tell me not to believe he will,” Amras interrupted. “Maybe it won’t be directly because of your song, and maybe it won’t be for a long time yet, but he will come back. I really believe that.”
Amrod had been leaning back on his hands, head tilted as he listened to something. “The Music changes, whenever we speak of it,” he said quietly. “In the water, I mean.”
“What?” Maglor lifted his head from Caranthir’s shoulder. “What do you mean?”
“Listen.”
Maglor had been aware of the quiet songs of the ponds and streams of Imloth Ningloron, of course—by now they were as familiar as the river behind Nerdanel’s house, and the river that had flowed through Rivendell. He turned his attention to it more fully, and realized it did sound different. It was brighter, somehow—excited, almost triumphant. That faded after a few moments back into the usual songs, cheerful but calm, but Maglor was left confused and feeling almost shaken. Daeron’s words came back to him then—speaking of hearing shifts in the Music when something important happened, or of gleaning some understanding of what was or what might be from what he could hear. Maglor had learned much from listening to the waters of Middle-earth over many long years, but he had never heard that kind of change, and had never gotten even the slightest hint of the future from it. His gifts did not include such foresight.
“Did you hear something?” Caranthir asked.
“Yes,” Maglor said, “but I don’t know what it means.”
“Something good,” Amrod said.
“We’re all here now because so many impossible things have already happened,” said Amras. “What’s one more to add to the list?”
“None of those impossible things had anything to do with me,” said Maglor.
“Atya’s return had everything to do with you,” said Amrod, and Maglor didn’t know how to answer that. “And if they’ll listen to anyone, Maglor, it’s you.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” Maglor said. “But I’m not—”
“Because it’s true,” said Amrod.
“They might not do anything,” said Caranthir, “but they’ll at least listen. They won’t be able to help it, not when it’s you singing.”
It was not until the start of August that Elrond returned Maglor’s song to him—in a beautifully illuminated copy, with both the words and the music, bound in soft yellow leather. “So you didn’t think it needed more changes?” Maglor managed to say as he took it, opening it carefully to reveal the beautiful calligraphy within.
“It did not,” Elrond said, smiling, “and you knew it. And you can’t rewrite any of it now, or it will be a waste of all our hard work.”
“Of course not,” Maglor said. He kept turning the pages, looking at the writing itself and the illustrations rather than the words. Elrond had missed no detail—and he had not made this by himself. Maglor saw Celebrían’s hand too, and Elladan’s and Elrohir’s. The thought of them all making such a thing for him made his throat go tight, and he had to clear it before he could ask, “But what did you think of it?”
“It is exactly what you set out to write—it is a song befitting Finwë Noldóran, and all of our family, and all of the Noldor. I hope, though, that it is the last such song you will ever write.”
“It will be,” said Maglor, managing a smile as he closed the book, rubbing his thumb over the gold and silver sun-sigil embossed into the cover. “I will write no more laments.”
“Good.”
