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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
Amrod sat on a low wall, kicking his heels against the stones, and watched a group of craftsmen armed with ropes and a dozen different ideas argue about how best to raise a newly-completed statue. It was very large and very heavy, being made of bronze, and Amrod was curious to see what it actually was since it was still covered in an even bigger tarp.
“How big is too big, I wonder,” said Amras beside him. “At some point someone will try to create something that’s too big to move out of the workshop, and then what’s the point?”
“You’d make it in pieces then,” said Amrod, “and put them together where it’s to be displayed. Ammë does that a lot. Is that a person or a tree, do you think?”
“A person,” Amras said.
“You could make something as big as you wanted and still be able to move it if you used the right materials,” said Celegorm on Amrod’s other side. He’d arrived in Tirion unexpectedly that morning, apparently having decided on a whim not to stay with Nerdanel as previously planned. He leaned against the wall, but wasn’t watching the craftsmen. Instead his gaze was on Nallámo as he pecked around the ground with a small flock of pigeons. “If it’s something light—”
“At some point it must get too unwieldy,” said Amras. “And if it’s to be displayed outside you need something sturdy enough for it. A paper sculpture won’t hold up the way bronze will. If this statue is a person, who do you think it is?”
“One of the Valar, probably,” said Amrod.
Celegorm whistled and held out his hand, and Nallámo flew up to his fingers. “I always thought Ammë’s smallest sculptures were her best,” he said with a thoughtful look on his face. “With all the same details and everything, but in miniature.”
“Do you remember those butterflies she made out of marble a few years ago? The wings were almost translucent,” said Amras. “And they still looked like they’d start flapping them at any moment. What did she do with them?”
“They were for Eärwen,” said Amrod. “What are you thinking, Tyelko?”
“Hm?” Celegorm looked up. “Nothing. I just had an idea.”
“Are you going to share?”
“Not yet.” Celegorm stroked Nallámo's feathers as the craftsmen finally started hauling the statue up into place. Others stopped to watch—it was always exciting when a new artwork was unveiled, regardless of the fact that it was nearly a daily occurrence in Tirion—and after much yelling and many straining muscles, the statue was hoisted upright and slid into place, only wobbling a little alarmingly for a second before settling. “Do we know who made that?”
“One of Grandfather Mahtan’s students,” said Amras.
The cloth came down at last, revealing a gleaming bronze statue of Aulë, hammer in hand, anvil at his side. “Huh,” said Amrod, tilting his head a little as he looked at it.
“What?” said Celegorm. “It’s just Aulë—the least surprising statue they could’ve unveiled, really.”
“Looks more like Gimli than like Aulë.”
“Maybe that’s just how Aulë chooses to look these days,” said Amras. It was widely known just how delighted Aulë had been when Gimli had come to Valinor. Amrod suspected that, more than any intervention on the part of Gandalf or Galadriel, was what had allowed it in the first place. “Oh look, there’s Atya and Cáno.” Amras straightened his spine and lifted his hand to wave at them. Daeron was with them too of course; Fëanor had Náriel on his shoulders, and Maglor was carrying Calissë, though he set her down so she could run over to Celegorm. “Aren’t you two supposed to be leaving soon?” Amras asked Maglor and Daeron when they caught up.
“Tomorrow or the next day, I think,” said Maglor as he reached up to pick Pídhres off of his shoulders, holding her very firmly as she fixed her gaze on Nallámo. “We’re still waiting on everyone from Avallónë.” He glanced toward the statue. “That’s nice.”
“Just what this city needed too,” Daeron said, “another statue of Aulë.” Amrod and Amras laughed, and even Fëanor grinned. “Though this statue is much nicer than the monstrosity that was there before.”
“That was something experimental, I think,” said Amras.
“It was,” said Fëanor, “and it was widely agreed that the experiment failed. I think it’s being melted down for something more traditional—and easier on the eyes.”
“Tyelko, watch your bird!” Maglor exclaimed suddenly as Pídhres started squirming. “Pídhres, for goodness’ sake—” She leaped free, and Nallámo flew off just in time for Celegorm to end up with an armful of cat. “I don’t know what’s the matter with her today. First the squirrel, now Nallámo…”
“Ow,” Celegorm said, lifting Pídhres by the scruff of her neck, unsticking her claws from his shirt. “You can’t keep calling Huan a menace when your cat’s like this, Maglor.”
“Huan knows what he’s done,” Maglor said as he took Pídhres back. She squirmed and meowed. “Oh, stop. You know you’ll never catch him. I don’t know why you bother trying.”
Someone came to summon Fëanor back to the palace before they returned to Curufin’s house. It was only because he was standing next to him that Amrod noticed how Celegorm relaxed once Fëanor had gone. Amrod said nothing then, but later he followed Celegorm into Curufin’s workshop—empty for the moment—where he pulled out a block of clay. “Are things still bad between you and Atya?”
“No.” Celegorm grunted as he lifted the clay onto a workbench. “It’s just—I don’t know. I don’t know how to talk to him anymore. I don’t know how any of the rest of you do it.”
“Mostly we don’t talk about the past,” said Amrod, “but Amras and I know it’s different for us.”
“I don’t know how Maedhros is doing it either.”
“You can always ask him,” Amrod pointed out. Celegorm didn’t answer, just sliced off a surprisingly small piece of clay, and started rolling it around on the bench. “What are you making?”
“I like trying out different kinds of things, and sculpting is the most fun so far,” Celegorm said, “but the stone didn’t feel quite right, and I don’t like working metal—never really have. Wood’s fine, but I like how malleable clay is, though I don’t really like the wheel the way Maglor does. So.” He held up the rough ball he’d formed. “Sculpting clay. But small—like we were talking about earlier.”
“Oh.” Amrod leaned his elbows on the bench. “I like that idea. What’s that going to be?”
“Huan maybe—I know what he looks like enough to sculpt from memory. How come you two didn’t go join the hunt for the feast?”
“We want to travel out there with the rest of you,” said Amrod, “and there will be more hunting later, if this is going to last all summer long. Speaking of Huan, where is he? Didn’t he come to Tirion with you?”
“He left for the hunt,” said Celegorm with a small, crooked smile. “Probably he’s joining the Sindarin party.”
Amrod wondered sometimes how Celegorm really felt about sharing Huan with Dior Eluchíl, and Mablung, and the others in Taur-en-Gellam that Huan considered his friends. He seemed at peace with it, perhaps because Dior himself was still determined to be friends with them all, but it was sometimes hard to tell with Celegorm. “Are you all right, Tyelko?”
“Of course I am. Why?”
“Just asking. I think if you want to talk to Atya about anything difficult you should just do it. You know he won’t get angry, so you can just say what you need to say. He will listen.”
“I know.” Celegorm rolled the ball out into an oval shape. “I’ll do it. I will. Maybe sometime this summer if we can get a moment alone.”
“Maybe try before we leave?” Amrod suggested. “Just—this feast is supposed to be a happy time, and it would be better if you didn’t have anything hanging over you during it. Either of you.” When Celegorm didn’t answer, Amrod added, “You don’t have to do it alone if you don’t want to.”
Celegorm grimaced. “I should be able to speak to my own father alone without—”
“You are able, of course,” said Amrod, “but you don’t have to. What’s the point of there being seven of us if we all try to do everything alone all the time?” He straightened as the door opened and Celebrimbor came in, deep in conversation with Maeglin. “Just let me know, all right? Or somebody—doesn’t have to be me.”
“I—all right, I will.”
Amrod returned to the house and found himself presented with Alassië before he made it two steps inside. It was very busy, with Rundamírë and Maluwendë making lists and checking things off as they prepared to start packing for the coming journey. Traveling with five young children—three of whom were still infants—was going to be a challenge, even with so many hands available to help. Amrod bounced Alassië a little as she fussed, until she calmed down and stuck her fingers in her mouth, and then went to join Maedhros, who had the other two sleeping on his chest, and Lossë curled up on his lap. “You won’t be moving for a while,” Amrod said as he sat down next to him.
“It’s not the first time I’ve been trapped like this,” Maedhros said with a grin, “though the cat’s new. How’s Tyelko?”
“I think he’s all right. He’s trying something new with clay. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” said Maedhros, as though it should have been obvious even though they both knew it wasn’t. “What about you?”
Amrod raised his eyebrows. “Me? Of course I’m fine—why would you need to ask?”
“Because no one ever does, and I think you two would be better than any of the rest of us at pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”
“We aren’t pretending, Nelyo. I promise.”
Maglor and Daeron departed the next day, with a very loud and musical party comprised of what seemed like half of Avallónë, Tirion, and Alqualondë. Amrod saw Daeron greet one of the Telerin travelers with cheerful familiarity—they looked so alike that Amrod thought that must be Simpalírë. Maglor waved to them all cheerfully as he rode away with Daeron on one side and Finrod on the other. It was almost possible to believe he hadn’t spent most of the winter holed up inside avoiding other people.
It was still early, so Amrod went with Amras to the old house under the assumption they would find Fëanor there. Celegorm caught up with them after just a few minutes. “You know we’re going to see Atya, don’t you?” Amras asked him.
“Yes.” Celegorm kept his head down, and kicked a stone ahead of them on the street. The brooch he wore to hold his cloak was one Amrod hadn’t seen before; it was round, fashioned in the likeness of a hound racing in front of the full moon, made of mother-of-pearl and silver. As the stone skittered over the cobblestones he said, “I have to talk to him sometime. Might as well be today.”
They came to the house as Fëanor finished making a circuit around the walls, trailing his fingers over the stones as he chanted in a low voice. The air shivered with the power of his words. He reached the end and took a dozen steps back before speaking one final word. For a moment nothing happened, and then all at once the house collapsed in on itself, sending up a plume of dust into the still air. Celegorm made a quiet sound like he’d been punched, and Amrod reached for his hand.
Fëanor hadn’t noticed their presence yet. His shoulders sagged a little, and he dragged a hand over his face as he sighed. Celegorm let go of Amrod’s hand and said, “Atya.” Fëanor started and turned, and Celegorm was already moving. He threw his arms around Fëanor, who caught him with such a look of surprise on his face it might have been comical under other circumstances. Amrod glanced at Amras, and they stepped away out of the gateway. Celegorm wanted them nearby, but that didn’t mean they had to eavesdrop.
“That seems good?” Amras whispered as they leaned against the wall. Amrod could hear Fëanor and Celegorm’s voices, but not the words. They sounded emotional, but not upset or angry.
“Certainly better than exchanging blows,” Amrod said.
By the time Fëanor and Celegorm came out of the gateway they were both dry-eyed, but Celegorm was still rubbing his on his sleeve. “Hullo, Atya,” Amras said. “We didn’t know you were going to do that today.”
Fëanor shrugged, and did not look back toward the rubble that had once been their house. “There was no reason to keep delaying it,” he said. “Part of it fell in yesterday anyway.” He spoke lightly, but there was a look on his face that Amrod had never been able to define, except that it was both complicated and deeply unhappy, and which he hadn’t seen since before they went to the mountains the year before.
“Do you know what you’re going to do with it now?” Celegorm asked.
“Carnistir suggested a garden,” Fëanor said. He put his hands in his pockets. “Maybe next year, after I’ve gotten rid of all the stones and debris, though I’m not much of a gardener. But I’m not doing anything more this year.”
It felt odd to know there wasn’t anything more to be done—the house and gardens were cleared out except for the most stubborn of weeds, and all that remained of it was a pile of broken stone and wood and tile. Amrod looked back at it as the others started to walk away. It was better this way, he knew—there had been no repairing any of it without rebuilding from scratch anyway—but something about it still felt…not wrong, but terribly final. He blinked back tears, and wondered if he could blame it on the dust that had long since settled if anyone noticed.
“Ambarussa, what are you doing?” Amras called.
“Nothing,” he said over his shoulder, taking a few steps backward before turning. He didn’t look back again, and tried to ignore the ache that took up residence somewhere under his ribs.
It didn’t go away, though, no matter what he did to distract himself. That night he gave up and went to Rundamírë’s rooftop garden to sit with it under the stars. Amras followed after a little while. “What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting on the cushions beside Amrod and knocking their shoulders together.
“It hit harder than I thought it would,” Amrod sighed. “Seeing the house just…crumble like that.”
“It’s just a house, you know. Only stones and mortar and wood.”
“It was our home.” Some small childish part of him, Amrod realized, had still thought of it as home, and had still expected it to always be there, even if no one lived there or visited very often, even knowing that Fëanor’s intention from the start had been to do just what he’d done that morning. Seeing it fall like that had been a little like when he and Amras had gone to see the Trees, not long after they’d come back from Mandos. They were still there, but the Light was long gone and they were just blackened and dead. Petrified, Amras had murmured at the time, turned to something like stone through the long years. They’d both wept to see them even at a distance, and they had not gone anywhere near Ezellohar again. The old house was worse, though—because it had been theirs. Where they’d been born, learned to walk and to read, where they’d danced in rainbows cast over the walls of their bedroom by the prisms Curufin had made for them, and where they’d been happiest—before they really knew what it was to be unhappy. There was never any returning to that, but now the very last remnants of that world were gone, and Amrod—he hadn’t expected to feel so crushed by it.
“Ambarussa?” Maedhros came up. “What’s the matter?”
“Atya knocked down the house today,” said Amras.
“Oh,” said Maedhros, and nudged Amras over so he could sit between them. He wrapped an arm around Amrod and kissed the top of his head.
“I know it’s stupid to be so upset,” Amrod muttered, but he leaned against Maedhros anyway, grateful for how big he was and how warm.
“It’s not,” said Maedhros. “We’ve all of us lost too many homes. It isn’t stupid to mourn what we can’t get back.”
“I thought that’s what we were trying to do,” said Amrod. “To get it back.”
“That’s impossible,” Maedhros said softly. “What we’re doing is digging a new foundation so we can build something else. Old things will be a part of it, but it won’t look the same, because we aren’t the same, and the world isn’t the same.”
“I like the way the world is now,” Amrod said, “but I also liked the way it was then.” A few tears slipped free, for the children they’d all once been who had had no idea what they would grow up to face, and do, and become. For the world that was all gold and silver light that hadn’t ever known real darkness, where everything was supposed to last forever—even the house where they had been born and that had watched them all grow up. Even though he knew that even then it wasn’t really true. It would have been replaced eventually, piecemeal, with walls knocked out or built up and painted over with murals, and the roof redone, and the floors retiled whenever their mother had an idea for a new and better design, with brighter colors or clever patterns.
“So did I,” said Maedhros. Amras reached across Maedhros to take Amrod’s hand, saying nothing but not needing to. “We don’t have to leave all of it behind. We can bring the best parts of it with us.”
“I know,” Amrod said.
“Not every part of that world is gone,” Amras said, very softly. “Even some of the Light remains.” He was looking east, to where the Sea was just visible through the Calacirya from where they sat. On the horizon shone Eärendil’s star, very bright that evening.
“We remain,” Maedhros said.
A few weeks later Amrod woke early and slipped out alone. He went back to the old house, and walked around the pile of rubble several times, not sure exactly what he was looking for, but knowing he would recognize it when he saw it. Finally, he found a stone that had broken into several pieces, two of which fit comfortably in his palm. He picked them up and slipped them into his pocket.
“Pityo?” Fëanor had arrived while Amrod was picking through the stones. “What are you doing?”
“Just—I want to keep part of it.” He wasn’t sure he’d be able to explain why, but Fëanor didn’t ask. He just came to put his arm around Amrod. “I like the idea of a garden.”
“I do too, I think.”
“You should ask Moryo to help you.”
Fëanor shook his head. “I’m not sure he would—”
“You said he suggested it. He’d help if you asked him. It might be like—like us helping you clear out the store rooms, only better because he knows what he’s doing and you said you don’t. So he can teach you.” Caranthir hadn’t told anyone what he and Fëanor had spoken of, and he didn’t act as though anything had changed, but Amrod didn’t believe it. Caranthir just liked to pretend he was angrier than he really was, so no one would ask too many questions.
“Maybe.” Fëanor squeezed Amrod’s shoulders before letting him go. “I’m not getting rid of all of this, you know. I’ll keep some of the larger stones if I can think of something to do with them in…whatever sort of garden this becomes.”
“That’s good. I still want a little piece just for me.”
When they returned to Curufin’s house they found Nerdanel there, looking puzzled. “Did Carnistir and Lisgalen not arrive?” she was asking Curufin and Celegorm when Amrod followed Fëanor into the room.
“No,” said Curufin. “When were they supposed to get here?”
“They left a week ago.”
When looked at, Amrod shook his head. “I haven’t seen them,” he said. “Maybe Eredhir or Lostir know?”
“They don’t,” said Nerdanel. “I just spoke to them when I went to take Lisgalen something they forgot at my house. Neither Lisgalen nor Carnistir have been seen in Tirion since the winter.”
“Should we look in the palantír?” Curufin asked, brow furrowing.
Celegorm laughed suddenly. “Oh no, you don’t want to do that. They’ve run off to get married—they think we won’t guess what they’re up to, just because we didn’t notice the engagement rings quick enough.”
Nerdanel rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. “So much for all Carnistir’s assurances that they would have a proper ceremony,” she said.
“We didn’t have a proper ceremony,” Fëanor murmured, and then looked like he wanted to swallow the words back down when Nerdanel glanced at him.
“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” said Curufin. “If they were going to follow tradition they would’ve been married ages ago.”
“Don’t worry about it, Ammë,” said Amrod. “We can still make toasts and give embarrassing speeches and things at the feast when they finally turn up. If they’re hoping they get lost in all the rest of the festivities, they’ll be sorely disappointed.”
Later that afternoon, Amrod had retreated to the roof again with Amras to repair some of their traveling gear that they’d been putting off. Celegorm soon followed them. “There you are, Amrod. Hold out your hands,” he said, and then dropped a small figure of a bird into them. It was made of clay, fashioned as though it were in mid flight with its wings outstretched, and painted in the likeness of a blue jay.
Amrod laughed out loud. “I love it! It’s beautiful, Tyelko.” He held it up for Amras to see. It wasn’t quite lifelike, but it was near enough. “With a little more practice you’ll be making things as real looking as Ammë does.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Celegorm, but he looked pleased with himself—far more pleased than when he’d finished knitting a scarf or spinning a skein of lumpy yarn. “Don’t worry, Amras, I made you one too.” He held out another bird figure, this one of a falcon in a dive.
Amras took it with a grin. “Oh, it looks fierce! Thanks, Tyelko.”
Amrod turned his blue jay over in his fingers, watching the light catch and gleam on the brightly painted feathers. That newly-woken grief still ached somewhere in his chest, but it suddenly didn’t seem so overwhelming—it felt easier again to let go of the past, especially when the future seemed so bright and filled with color.
