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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 / Next Chapter
Elemmírë put out her call for all the singers and musicians of the Eldar early in April, to come to the place on the western plains where the great feast would be held. The feast itself would begin the week before Midsummer, and would last the rest of the season. As Maglor packed his things he felt both excited and increasingly nervous—though less so than before he’d written to Fingon and Finrod about the three of them singing for Finwë together. They had written back immediately to agree.
There would still be other songs he would be asked to sing alone—the Noldolantë was likely to be one—but Maglor thought that if he could get through a song in rehearsal, in front of all of Valinor’s best musicians, he could probably do it again later.
“We’ll see you later this summer then,” Nerdanel said as she kissed Maglor and then Daeron goodbye. “Be safe!”
“Don’t get lost,” said Celegorm. “Or fall into any rivers.”
“Very funny,” Maglor said, as Nerdanel smacked Celegorm lightly on the arm. “You should remember that Daeron and I met no problems on our travels until we joined all of you.”
“And we met no troubles until we joined you,” Celegorm replied.
“The River Incident was a lot of unlikely things happening all at once,” Caranthir said, “and anyway no one’s going that far west. I’ve seen the maps; the journey should be easy.”
“Unlikely things do seem to happen to the lot of you with distressing frequency,” said Nerdanel, but she was smiling as she shook her head. “Give Atarinkë and his family my love when you see them—and your other brothers. Tell them we’ll be in Tirion in a few weeks.”
“We will,” said Maglor. “See you at the feast!”
As they turned toward Tirion Daeron said, “I strongly suspect that when we next see Caranthir and Lisgalen, they’ll be married.”
“You think so?”
“I asked Lisgalen about when they intended to finally run off, and they just smiled rather mysteriously.”
“That could mean anything,” Maglor laughed. “They could run off after the feast.”
“Yes, but that wouldn’t let them take advantage of a big party already being planned.”
“It’s just as likely they’ll try to avoid a big party altogether,” said Maglor. “Caranthir told me they don’t want to make a big deal out of it. I know he was worried about our mother’s reaction to an elopement, but by now I think she’ll just be happy that they’ve finally done it.”
“Too bad Lisgalen is probably the one that made the rings, so we can’t be nosy and go ask anyone else pointed questions about it.”
“Careful,” said Maglor, “or you’ll just invite everyone to start asking pointed questions about us.”
“Oh, they already do,” Daeron laughed. “I always tell them maybe someday, but there’s no reason to hurry.”
They came to Curufin’s house before lunch, and found Maedhros and the twins there. “Rundamírë is napping,” Amras told them, “and Tyelpë took Curvo out to the market with the girls. He’s a little…”
“He needed to leave the house,” Maedhros said before Amras could finish less diplomatically. The babies were all on a blanket on the floor, squirming and giggling as Amrod made faces at them. “How’s everything at home?”
“Fine,” said Maglor. “Ammë sends her love. How’s everything here—aside from Curvo wanting to climb the walls?”
“Nicer now that everyone’s starting to get ready to leave,” said Amrod. “How long are you two staying?”
“Just a few days, until all the other Noldorin musicians are ready to leave,” said Maglor. “I think we’re waiting for the parties from Alqualondë and Avallónë, and we’ll all travel together. Are Fingon and Finrod still around?”
“At Fingon’s house, most likely,” said Maedhros. “They’re hiding from responsibility, Finrod says.”
“Oh good. I’ll go bother them later.” Maglor sat down beside Maedhros and reached for the nearest baby. “Have we settled on which names we’re using yet?”
“Alassië, Nityanandë, and Meneltir,” said Amras. “That’s Nityanandë you’ve got.”
“Yes, I know.” They were easy to tell apart, the triplets, not least because Nityanandë sported fine silver hair and Meneltir’s was reddish brown. Alassië was dark-haired, but whether it would lighten remained to be seen, just as it was possible that Meneltir’s would darken. “I wonder why Rundamírë chose the name Nityanandë,” Maglor remarked. He kissed the tip of her nose, and she cooed, kicking her feet.
“It sounds to me as though you have at least one more student in your future,” Daeron said. He curled up on the chair just behind Maglor, Pídhres joining him.
“Or maybe not, if she grows up to be contrary,” said Amras cheerfully. He tickled Meneltir to make him squirm and giggle. “These are children of the House of Finwë, you know—of the House of Fëanor. And let’s not forget how strong-willed Rundamírë is.”
“Gandalf said Calissë would be a force to be reckoned with when she grows up,” said Maglor, just as the front door opened and Calissë herself returned a few steps ahead of Curufin.
“Hullo, Cáno, Daeron,” said Curufin. “What did I just hear about Gandalf and Calissë?”
“They were conspiring last summer in Imloth Ningloron,” said Maglor.
“Oh no,” said Curufin. Calissë giggled and ran to hug Maglor and then Daeron. “Calissë, what—”
“It’s not bad!” she cried. “And it’s a surprise! But Uncle Cáno knows what it is.”
“I do?” Maglor said, startled.
“Oh no,” Curufin repeated. “Cáno—”
“You’ll find out this summer, Atya, you just have to be patient like you keep telling me,” Calissë said. She threw her arms around Maglor’s neck again and whispered in his ear, “Remember you said I should ask Gandalf about fireworks?”
“Oh,” Maglor whispered back, unable to hide his grin. “I do remember.”
“It’s going to scare everybody.”
“It will certainly cause a stir.”
“Cáno,” Curufin said when Calissë ran off again. “Now you’re conspiring—”
“I am not, but it’s fine, Curvo, really. I would tell you if she was up to something she shouldn’t be.”
Celebrimbor and Náriel arrived then, seeming to be conspiring themselves if the way they were both laughing was any indication. Náriel ran to greet Maglor and Daeron as soon as Celebrimbor set her down, but she returned to him very quickly and they disappeared into the workshop together.
Curufin sat down in between Amrod and Maedhros to pick up Alassië. “What Cáno was actually saying was that Mithrandir thinks Calissë will be a force to be reckoned with when she’s older,” Maedhros said.
“Oh, well, I could’ve told you that,” Curufin said. “But it feels worrisome when Mithrandir says it.”
“I promise Calissë isn’t going to get up to any mischief this summer,” said Maglor.
“Because she’s already done her part of it, I assume,” Curufin said. “And I’d bet anything it was inspired by one of your stories.”
“Oh yes, you guessed it,” said Maglor as Daeron laughed. “She asked Gandalf to help her find a talking fox and a talking beaver. Next thing you know she’ll be going off to find a fairy husband like the Took and his fairy wife long ago—”
“You’re awful,” Curufin said when he could get the words out through laughter. “What in the world are you talking about, a fairy wife—”
“Didn’t you know? That’s why the Tooks were thought to be so strange and adventurous. Bilbo insisted it was absolutely true, though I don’t see how he would know. It was long before his time.”
“Taking ideas from Elu Thingol maybe,” said Amrod. “A hobbit-ish version of that story.”
Curufin spluttered a little. “Don’t you dare put that thought in Calissë’s head, Ambarussa—”
“Calissë thinks kissing is the most disgusting thing in the world,” Daeron cut in. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about for a very long time in that quarter, Curufin.”
“Maybe ever,” said Maedhros. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about kissing either—oh must you?” he protested as Daeron tugged Maglor’s head back by his hair so he could plant a firm kiss on his lips.
“You kiss people all the time, Nelyo,” Amrod said.
“Not on the mouth.”
The next afternoon Maglor went to Fingon’s house, finding him and Finrod in the garden surrounded by tulips and hyacinths. “Do you really want us all three to sing your song at the feast?” Fingon asked as Maglor joined them.
Maglor waited until a servant came out with a tea tray and left again before he said, “Yes. I’m still feeling nervous about getting up in front of a crowd, and it’s always easier for me these days if I’m not singing alone. And—well, I wrote it but it’s not really my song. It was never meant to be. I didn’t write it to be performed as a group, but it shouldn’t be hard to make adjustments.”
“It isn’t,” said Finrod. “I got a copy of my own and have already started. I’ll go get it.”
As Finrod disappeared inside Fingon said, “You can’t be suggesting that you’ll have no solo performances this summer.”
“I’m sure I’ll be asked to sing the Noldolantë as part of Elemmírë’s song cycle,” said Maglor, “and maybe some other things. I am nervous about that, and—well, there’s a small chance I’ll get there and be unable to make myself get on the stage at all.”
Fingon frowned at him. He had his hair loose and unadorned, so he looked more like Finwë than usual. “You said you were fine.”
“I am,” Maglor said. “When I first went to Rivendell I couldn’t so much as touch a harp for months. And then I played very rarely, and only in my own room with the doors and windows all shut so no one could hear. It wasn’t until Bilbo came to live there that I started playing in the Hall of Fire, and even then it was years before I could sing in front of people. I felt awful when I came back from the Máhanaxar, but it wasn’t anything like that.” It was always hard to tell in the moment, but with distance he could see it. In Rivendell he hadn’t had words for it—would never have been able to speak of it as he had to Daeron while in the midst of the worst feelings. Before he had gone to Lórien and learned how, he would not have been able to speak of it to Fingon, either, even when he was feeling well.
Fingon was still frowning. “If you had waited to seek an audience—”
“I wanted to get that over with before this feast, and ideally before Curvo’s babies were born—I knew I would need time to recover afterward, but I didn’t want to have it still hanging over me to overshadow everything else that’s happening.”
“Especially since it was a secret, I suppose?” Fingon asked. Maglor shrugged. “Have you heard anything?”
“No. I had intended to ask my grandmother for news, but she did not come to Tirion this winter when we expected her.”
“What, not to see the babies?”
“No. I can only guess she hasn’t sent any messages to my father either, or else he would have at least told Curvo.”
“That’s…worrying,” Fingon said after a moment. “She so rarely comes to Tirion, but she did not miss Calissë or Náriel’s births, and I remember hearing that she was very excited to learn about the triplets. And she’s sent no word to you either?”
“No, only a note right afterward to thank me for doing it.”
“And we’ve heard nothing from Indis, either—but I can only assume Valmar is as busy as Tirion has been, if not more so.”
Finrod returned then with another bound copy of the song and a few sheets of paper on which he had written down his ideas. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Maglor, about the melody—especially in the later verses. Where did you come up with it?”
“Oh, I didn’t. All the waters of the world hold an echo of the Great Music—but not every stream carries the same strains. That is the music I heard in Ekkaia—or it is as close as I can render it for my harp, anyway.”
“Don’t be modest,” said Fingon. “We all know it is very close indeed. No wonder you made the sky itself weep when you played it.” When Maglor looked at him he grinned. “That’s how your father put it. Do you know he’s very proud of you?” Maglor felt his cheeks go pink, and he looked away. “He and Russo have been spending a lot of time together over the last few weeks too.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
“We’re all glad,” said Finrod. “What do you think of this?” He slid one of the papers over to Maglor, who picked it up, glad to turn the conversation back toward music. Neither Finrod nor Fingon would agree to singing it without Maglor, though. “You’re very good at underestimating yourself,” Finrod informed him, gesturing with a bit of pastry and dropping crumbs over the table. “Either this song is performed by you alone or by all three of us—it wouldn’t be right for just Findekáno and me to do it.”
“Well, this will be the last time I perform it at all,” said Maglor. “I don’t think I’ll have the heart for it again. So if anyone ever wants it sung it will be up to you or someone else.”
“That’s fine,” said Fingon, smiling at him, “but this summer? All three of us—all three of our Houses. I’m glad you thought of it.”
“I didn’t. I was just going to ask Finrod to sing it for me if I couldn’t—it was Maedhros who suggested all three of us.”
“Then I’m glad he thought of it,” said Fingon. “Almost I wish it had been thought of before you sang it the first time, since you say it’s easier for you if you aren’t alone.”
“No,” said Finrod, shaking his head—his tone changing as his words took on sudden weight. “No, that singing was for Maglor alone. He carried the grief for all of us for so long—it was his to release there in the Máhanaxar. Our voices would have served only as distractions.” Maglor blinked. He hadn't thought of that performance as releasing anything—he’d thought that sense of a weight having lifted off of him had just been relief that it was over. Then Finrod smiled and the moment passed. “But now that’s done, and you do not have to carry the burden alone any longer.”
Maglor stayed for dinner, when Aredhel and Maeglin joined them. “Hello, Macalaurë!” said Aredhel brightly. “Did anyone come back to Tirion with you?”
“Only Daeron. Carnistir and Tyelkormo will come to Tirion with our mother at the latest, when everyone is preparing to leave for the feast.”
“Ah, then I’ll likely miss them. I’m leaving tomorrow to join the hunt. I tried to convince Tyelko to come too, but to no avail.”
Maeglin shook his head when Maglor glanced at him. “I’m no hunter,” he said. “I’ll be traveling with Tyelpë and his family.”
“And I, of course, have to travel with my father and make sure I have my best circlets packed and all of that nonsense,” Fingon sighed.
“How terrible for you,” Finrod said without an ounce of pity. He would be leaving with Maglor in the coming days, having also been recruited by Elemmírë for her great song cycle. “Dressing up in all that finery, traveling in leisure and luxury as the Crown Prince of the Noldor—and have I ever told you how happy I was to cede that title to you? Nearly as happy as my father was to toss the crown at yours.”
“Did he really toss it?” Maglor asked.
“No, but it was rather unceremonious,” said Fingon. “I think he left an hour after the coronation.”
“Oh, don’t exaggerate,” said Finrod. “It was three hours.”
“Has he been back since?” Maglor asked.
“A few times, but only after he could be sure no one would come to him with complaints about Fingolfin doing things differently,” said Finrod. “You know how everyone hates change. And of course he’ll be coming to the feast this summer. I think he’s even looking forward to it. I know my mother is.”
The next morning Maglor and Daeron took Calissë and Náriel out to a nearby park so they could run around without getting under anyone’s feet. It wasn’t very long before Fëanor happened to come walking through the same park. He bent down to catch the girls when they ran to him, scooping them up and spinning in a circle to make them shriek and giggle before he set them down again. “Good morning, Atya,” Maglor said when he approached them as Calissë dragged Náriel off to look at some caterpillars.
“Good morning, Cáno, Daeron.”
They talked a little of upcoming travel plans before Daeron asked Fëanor something about the last letter he’d written, and then Maglor was left to listen as the conversation took a turn toward the linguistic. It had something to do with Westron, which Daeron spoke fluently but had not studied as deeply as other tongues in the east. It wasn’t the first time Maglor had witnessed his father and Daeron speak together, of course, but every other time they’d been surrounded by others, and their words had been limited mostly to greetings and farewells and pleasantries, never about anything really animating. Now Maglor could watch both of their eyes light up with interest and see the first stones of foundation laid for what might become real friendship.
He stopped listening after a very short while—he spoke Westron even more fluently than Daeron, but had never given more thought to the shape of it than what words made for a good song—and glanced over to where Calissë and Náriel were investigating some mushrooms that covered a nearby tree stump. He thought about going to make sure they weren’t planning on bringing any home, but then Daeron said his name. “Sorry, what?”
“Your father wants to know about the differences between the dialects spoken in the Shire and in Gondor,” Daeron said. “But I’ve never visited the Shire and only passed through the north of Gondor—not long enough to learn as much as I would like.”
“Elrond would be a better one to ask than me, but I think hobbits trace many of their words back to the language of the Éothéod—the ancestors of the Rohirrim who dwelled in the Anduin Vale to the north—as well as to Adûnaic and Sindarin. I think even the word hobbit goes back to their northern roots. They also have some names and sayings unique to the Shire that go back to its founding under Arnor’s authority—things like when the king comes again, to suggest that something is very unlikely to ever happen, or Queen Fíriel’s Lace, that we call Queen’s Lace or Queen Míriel’s Lace.”
“Who was Fíriel?” Fëanor asked.
“Fíriel of Gondor—I think she married Arvedui, the last king of Arthedain, but my knowledge of the latter days of the Kingdom of Arnor is a bit scattered. I wasn’t even in Eriador for it.”
“Funny though how everyone has had the same idea for that flower, though we chose different queens,” said Daeron. “In Eglador it was Queen Melian’s, and still is in Taur-en-Gellam. I assume after Elessar came to the throne the saying until the king comes again fell out of fashion.”
“I’m sure some old gaffers still used it for a while, only to have it turn into a joke by the younger generations.”
“Did you spend much time there, in the Shire?” Fëanor asked.
“Yes I did—I visited Sam at Bag End often after Frodo set sail, and Merry and Pippin in Crickhollow and later in Tuckborough and Brandy Hall. I never got to know Frodo as well as the others—Sam and Merry and Pippin, I mean. There just wasn’t time in between the end of the war and his departure from the Havens.” He had known all about Frodo, of course, long before he ever came to Rivendell. Bilbo had loved to talk of his nephew, but that wasn’t quite the same thing.
“I wish, again, that I’d come west sooner,” Daeron said. “I’ve never met any hobbits, and they sound delightful.”
“You would have gotten along terrifyingly well with Bilbo,” Maglor said.
“Tyelpë told me once it was a shame that I never got to meet Bilbo—or rather, that Bilbo never got to meet me,” Fëanor said. “He seemed to think it would have been very funny, and I’m sure I wasn’t supposed to take it as a compliment.”
“It would have been,” Maglor said. “Bilbo was never one to mince words, and by the time he came here he’d long given up on being impressed by anyone—let alone all the greatest figures of ages past.”
“Did you know him well?” Fëanor asked.
“Oh yes. He came to live in Rivendell for many years, and when Bilbo Baggins decides that you are going to be his friend, you don’t really have much say in the matter. He and Elrond were also very dear friends. Some of the songs I’ll sing this summer are Bilbo’s—he did translations of many of our songs into Shire Westron, and also wrote his own versions of some of them. I think I’ll ask Elladan and Elrohir to sing the one about Eärendil.”
“Which one is that?” Daeron asked.
“Eärendil was a mariner, that tarried in Arvernien—that one.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard that.”
“Really? Lindir sings it all the time.” As Maglor spoke Pídhres jumped down from his shoulders and took off into a stand of trees. Movement near the roots suggested that she’d spotted a squirrel. “Oh, not again—”
“I’ll watch the girls,” Daeron said, laughing. “You’d better go too, Fëanor, in case Pídhres gets herself stuck again and someone needs to be boosted up into the high branches.”
It took some time before Maglor tracked Pídhres down, high up in a maple tree crying to be rescued. “I see how she got her name,” said Fëanor as they stood under the branches looking up at her.
“At the time it was just because she liked to climb me,” said Maglor. “With all the times I’ve had to climb something after her, though, I think I might deserve an epessë for it.” He eyed the lowest branch, and then jumped up to grab it, swinging for a few seconds to adjust his grip before hoisting himself up. He reached Pídhres with little trouble, but then on the way back down he chose the wrong branch to put his weight on and it snapped. He lost his grip and fell with a yelp—only to be caught by Fëanor, who staggered back a few steps with a grunt. Pídhres jumped from Maglor to the ground with a yowl.
“Are you all right?” Fëanor asked as he set Maglor on his feet.
“Yes. Thank you.” Maglor turned to glare at Pídhres, who meowed at him and then came to twine about his legs as though she were entirely innocent in the whole affair. “One of these days I’m just going to leave you up there,” he told her. She purred, both of them knowing that that was a lie. Fëanor glanced toward the tree branches again, and Maglor remembered belatedly how much he didn’t like heights. “I’m all right, really,” he said. “I would’ve been even if you hadn’t caught me.”
Fëanor smiled at him. “I know,” he said.
As they turned back to join Daeron and the girls Maglor said, his thoughts turning back toward hobbits, “I do wish you had gotten to meet Frodo, Atya. He and I spoke of you once, in Minas Tirith.”
“Of me?”
“I tried to apologize to him on Tyelpë’s behalf, because I knew Tyelpë would have felt terrible if he knew what Frodo had had to endure because of the Rings he had helped to make. Frodo refused to accept it—and then he turned it all around on me, saying that he and Sam would have never survived the journey into Mordor without the star-glass that Galadriel made for him. And that star-glass held the light of Eärendil’s star, which is the Silmaril that you made—and, so he said, he owed all three of you thanks for it, and if I was going to try to apologize on Tyelpë’s behalf, would I accept his thanks on yours.” Maglor glanced at Fëanor and smiled at the stunned expression on his face. “It shocked me, too. I did, though—accept his thanks. I couldn’t really refuse—and now I’ve passed it on to you.”
Fëanor opened his mouth and then closed it again. After a moment he cleared his throat and said, “I’m not used to thinking of the Silmarils as something good, anymore. They’re just—the source of my deepest regrets.”
“Their making wasn’t a bad thing,” Maglor said quietly. “They were always beautiful, and Eärendil’s star is still a symbol of hope for many.”
“Was it ever that for you?”
“No. But I haven’t been very good at holding onto hope in a very long time—not since…oh I don’t know when. I’m starting to learn how, again, but it’s hard.” It had really been since the Dagor Bragollach, he thought. The Nirnaeth Arnoediad had been the final straw, but the Gap had been utterly lost when the dragons came, and only a handful of Maglor’s people had made it out. He’d failed and his people had died, and even in the lead-up to what became the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, he hadn’t really been able to believe—as Fingon had with such confidence, as Maedhros had dared to—that they would see victory. When Eärendil’s star had first risen over the western horizon, Maglor hadn’t known what to think. Then the last shreds of any hope he’d had left—for himself, for anything—had been thrown into the Sea with his own Silmaril. “But that doesn’t take away from what it means to others. Especially to Frodo and Sam.”
As they left the trees to rejoin Daeron, Náriel came running over to show them a pretty stone she had found. When they turned back toward home a little while later, Calissë pulled on Maglor’s sleeve until he picked her up. “Is it still complicated?” she whispered in his ear once he had her settled on his hip.
“Yes,” he said, and laughed a little when she sighed.
“That’s what Atya said too. Why’s it still, if you aren’t angry anymore?”
“Our whole family is always going to be rather complicated, I’m afraid—it’s too big not to be. But you are right, no one’s angry anymore, so it’s easier.” Ahead of them, Fëanor lifted Náriel onto his shoulders so she could pick a few blossoms from a flowering tree. In that moment it was easier than ever to grasp at real hope—that things would continue to get easier, that they might even get a little less complicated in time. That they really were all finally putting the darkest parts of the past where it belonged so they could step forward, out of the shadows into the sunlight.
