A Hundred Miles Through the Desert - Chapter Sixty Nine

[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 / Next Chapter

 

As they rode away west from Tirion, Finrod deftly maneuvered things so that he and Maglor were separated from the rest of the group by just enough distance that they could speak privately. Daeron raised an eyebrow but didn’t try to follow, since Simpalírë was introducing him to others from Alqualondë. “Can I ask you a question?” Finrod said once he was satisfied they were as alone as they were going to get, off the road a little ways and riding through grass and flowers that grew up past their stirrups. Butterflies and other insects fluttered up out of the grass before them, winging away to calmer places. It was a warm day, and the breeze smelled of wildflowers and horses.

“Nothing has ever stopped you before.”

“Well, I don’t want to ask you to betray any confidence—”

“And now you have me curious. Out with it, Finrod.”

“Celegorm is still avoiding me,” Finrod said, “and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Maglor glanced over at him in surprise. “You think you’ve done something wrong?”

“I think I must be now,” said Finrod. “Don’t bring up Nargothrond, either—I'm trying to leave it in the past where it belongs. I can speak to Curufin just fine, but I don’t know if he’s just of a mind to be happy with everyone because he’s so happy himself lately, or if there’s something else I should be doing when it comes to Celegorm. I miss him.”

“Have you told him any of this?”

“Yes, of course! He always just looks at me like he’s a cornered rabbit and I’m a hunting hound, and then the instant he can he slips away and I don’t see him again for weeks—and that’s if I’m lucky. Even at all the parties this winter he kept to the other side of the room. He spoke to Galadriel more easily than he spoke to me.”

“I don’t know how I’m to answer you without speaking of Nargothrond,” Maglor said. He scratched Pídhres behind the ears, where she perched before him in the saddle. “That’s still the root of it—the guilt, I mean—Nargothrond and all that came after. It isn’t you, Finrod, except that he thinks you’re mad for wanting to forgive him at all, let alone be friends again. He’s still struggling with himself, and there’s not really anything the rest of us can do. He spent some time with Nienna while Maedhros and I were away in Lórien, and I think that helped, but even she can only do so much.”

“Is that where he went? I would not have expected it of him.”

“I can try to speak to him for you, but I think you just need to be patient.”

Finrod smiled, but it wasn’t a happy expression. “I had hoped to find some solution before our own family Mereth Aderthad this year, but I knew that was perhaps a fool’s hope. You don’t have to speak to him if it would only cause trouble.”

“I think he misses you too, for what it’s worth—we all miss what we all used to have, us cousins. But I’m told he also avoided Curvo for years and years after they both came back from Mandos, so it’s not like you’re the exception.”

“It wasn’t as long as you seem to think, but only because Celegorm hadn't actually been back from Mandos all that long by the time you returned. None of them had, really, but he lingered there longest.”

“I know. Elrond told me they were all very new-returned to life when I first arrived. But you know what I mean. You also aren’t the only one seeking his friendship, and I’m not sure whether he finds you or Dior Eluchíl more overwhelming and confusing.”

“Oh dear,” said Finrod, and his laughter sounded more like his usual self. “I didn’t know that. All right, I take your point. I’ll try to be patient, and maybe when I see Dior this summer we can compare notes.”

“Well, if you do, don’t tell Celegorm about it. The last thing you want is for him to think you’re ganging up on him.”

The place Ingwë had chosen for the feast was farther west than Maglor had expected. It was also familiar—near to a lake where he and his brothers had stopped to rest on their way back east from Ekkaia. Already many temporary structures had been erected—something in between tents and proper buildings, made mostly of canvas but with wooden frames made more secure than normal tents. There were fire pits and outdoor kitchens, and a grand stage near the lake halfway built. Ingwion greeted them all, and his people showed them where their tents had already been set up. It was late by then, and after so many days traveling in such a large group Maglor was relieved to let the flap fall shut behind him and to be alone again with no one but Daeron, even for just a few minutes.

“Are you all right?” Daeron asked as Maglor dropped his bags by the bed, which was low to the ground but sturdy and luxurious, with brightly-dyed linens and many pillows.

“Just tired.”

“Are you still nervous?”

“Yes, but less than I was.”

“Good.” Daeron sat down and then fell backward onto the bed with a sigh. “Oh, this is nice. Come here. We haven’t had any privacy for weeks.”

“We snuck off yesterday—”

“And as fun as it is to hide away in the tall grass like misbehaving children, this is much less itchy. Come here.” Daeron pulled Maglor down beside him and rolled over to kiss him soundly.

“We’re going—we’re going to miss dinner,” Maglor said in between kisses.

“I still have lembas,” said Daeron without stopping.

“Daeron—” Laughing, Maglor pulled back. “We’re both too important to miss tonight. Elemmírë will want to see us.”

“Well how much time do we have?”

Finrod’s voice reached them from just outside. “Maglor, Daeron? Everyone is gathering for the meal, and Elemmírë was asking for you.”

“See?” Maglor said. “We’re coming,” he called, and then leaned down to kiss Daeron one more time. “After dinner,” he whispered, “we’ll do whatever you want, and fall asleep early on these lovely soft pillows.”

“Ugh, fine.” Daeron sat up. “I’ll hold you to that—I won’t be dragged into any songs or games or anything tonight, not when there’s a proper bed waiting for us.”

Finrod had donned a circlet and a few other ornaments, and raised an eyebrow when Maglor and Daeron emerged. “Not even earrings, Maglor? Some Prince of the Noldor you make. Please tell me you at least packed some nice things.”

“Of course I did,” said Maglor. “But the feast hasn’t actually started yet, you know, so I don’t see why I need to bother with any of it. I promise I won’t embarrass you when I actually get up onto the stage.”

“I left most of mine in Taur-en-Gellam,” said Daeron, “and it will be coming with my aunt. We’ll dress up prettily starting tomorrow, Felagund—I don’t want to dig through my bags tonight.”

“Suit yourselves,” said Finrod, and looped his arm through Maglor’s as they headed for the area where all the grand banquets and feasts would be held. There were dozens of such places all around, most of them still under construction, with hundreds of chairs and benches and only slightly fewer tables. There were gazebos and pavilions and outdoor kitchens and spaces for bonfires, stables and open areas for games and tracks being marked out for racing. It was, as Maglor had heard it described before, truly a temporary city springing up out of the grass. Much was familiar from the Mereth Aderthad, which Ingwion and his father seemed to be using as a sort of blueprint, only writ as large as possible.

Elemmírë ran up to them as they approached the dining area. “Macalaurë, there you are! Hello Daeron, and Findaráto!” She grasped all their hands, beaming. Her eyes were bright with excitement. “Come sit with me! Macalaurë, I want to hear more about this song of yours you wrote for Finwë—you never mentioned that you intended to take it before the Valar. Do you still plan to sing it for the rest of us?”

“Yes,” said Maglor as they sat down, Finrod choosing the seat on Elemmírë’s other side, and Daeron on Maglor’s. Under the table Daeron reached for his hand. “But I won’t sing it alone this time—Findaráto and Findekáno will join me.”

“That sounds lovely!” It was also enough to distract Elemmírë from her other questions about the Valar, and Finrod kept the conversation going with ease even when Maglor ran out of things to say. They were surrounded by others that he had known of old, many of whom he had not seen since his days in Valmar as Elemmírë’s student. There were lingering glances and curious looks sent his way, in between greetings and words of welcome, such as he had not endured in several years. He had forgotten to take such things into account when he had prepared himself for this, and that awful feeling of being watched returned, creeping up his spine. He reached for Daeron’s hand again, and Daeron squeezed his, warm and reassuring even as his speech to the Vanya on his other side never faltered.

After the meal Daeron and Maglor attempted to slip away, but someone called his name and he turned to see half a dozen or so familiar faces—including Simpalírë—in a knot near one of the bonfires that had sprung up. They were all his peers, all students in Valmar at the same time, once his friends. Most were Vanyar, but there were one or two Noldor and a few Teleri among them. None had followed either Fëanor or Fingolfin to Middle-earth, though he thought some of them might have followed Finarfin or Ingwion to the War of Wrath. Maglor had not seen most of them since before things had started to get bad in Tirion. As Maglor turned they waved him over; it was too late to pretend he hadn’t heard, and there was no good reason to refuse the invitation.

“Old friends?” Daeron whispered in his ear as they walked over. He slipped his hand into Maglor’s, weaving their fingers together.

“Yes—of your brother’s too.”

“You’ve been hiding ever since you came back—what’s kept you from visiting Valmar?” said Ilcalamo, tossing his golden braids over his shoulder as Maglor and Daeron joined them. Then, taking a second look at Maglor’s face as he stepped into the firelight, his bright smile vanished. “Elentári’s stars, Macalaurë, what happened to you?”

“Quite a lot,” Maglor said, making himself smile, and then glancing at Simpalírë, who caught his eye and immediately interrupted to introduce everyone to Daeron of Doriath—the mightiest singer of all the Eldalië, and Simpalírë’s own older brother.

Everyone had, of course, heard of Daeron—and no one believed Simpalírë’s claim until Daeron laughed and confirmed it, saying, “Surely you can see the family resemblance!”

“How is it you came to be sundered, though?” asked Cucuanis, looking between Simpalírë and Daeron. “That you stayed across the sea and Simpalírë was born here?”

“Did I never tell you?” Simpalírë said before Daeron could speak. “Our parents were among those who did not complete the Great Journey—they came here by way of Mandos. Daeron remained behind, along with our father’s sister and her family, when Singollo disappeared and Olwë led the rest of our people west.”

“I was born during the Journey,” Daeron added. His grip on Maglor’s hand tightened a little, though his smile remained in place. “I followed Elu Thingol, not some idea of paradise beyond the Sea. I had no wish to leave the starlit lands of my birth—especially not when my only family was also remaining behind.”

“You are here now,” said Cucuanis.

“Lovely as these lands are,” Daeron laughed, “I did not come for their sake—I came seeking my king and my kin, and others besides.” He glanced Maglor as he spoke, expression going soft. Maglor smiled back at him, aware that the others were watching them with keen eyes but feeling better able to ignore it when Daeron was looking at him like that.

“But Macalaurë, what kept you there for so long?” asked Mornarusco. He stood with his arms crossed and a faint frown on his face. He was a Noldo, though he had been born and had grown up in one of the smaller villages outside of Tirion, and Maglor seemed to recall that he had settled permanently in Valmar after his marriage. “Is it true you came here and went straight to the Gardens of Lórien?”

“I did not go straight there,” said Maglor, “but yes, I only came back from Lórien a few years ago—that is why I have not visited Valmar, Ilcalamo. That, and reuniting with all my own numerous kin in Imloth Ningloron and in Tirion.”

Ilcalamo also frowned. “But why did you need to go to—”

“Ilcalamo,” Simpalírë said, a little sharply, “surely it is still considered to be in as poor taste in Valmar to ask why someone seeks Lórien as it is in Alqualondë.”

“It is,” said Cucuanis, glaring briefly at Ilcalamo, who at least looked chastened. “We’re sorry, Macalaurë. We have missed making music with you—and Daeron, I greatly look forward to singing with you too. Will you join us for a few songs tonight?”

“Not tonight,” Daeron said. “Maglor and I have both been doing rather a lot of travel these last few years, and I’m afraid it is starting to catch up to us. We intend to seek our bed early.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” said Maglor as Daeron started to turn away. “Good night—I am glad to see you all again.”

“Good night,” they all chorused. “Welcome home,” added Tinwelúto with a warm smile.

“Thank you.”

“Is Ilcalamo always so tactless?” Daeron murmured as they walked away.

“He’s always been forthright,” said Maglor. “Honestly, just coming out and asking is a refreshing change from the sidelong glances and the questions that dance around it, even if it is in somewhat poor taste. But how much does Simpalírë know of what happened to me?”

“Nothing from me—and he never asked, having better manners than Ilcalamo apparently does.”

“I’ll ask Finrod to spread it around, then. I don’t want to always be dodging questions or having to explain.”

“You really don’t mind the story being so widely known?”

“I can’t hide that something terrible happened, and I’m certainly not the only one who will be here this summer with visible scars,” Maglor said, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. He glanced back and caught a glimpse of Ilcalamo watching them walk away before someone pulled his attention back to the conversation at hand. “Finrod and Galadriel told the story to all my other cousins, and it’s since made the rounds in Tirion, and that has saved both time and awkwardness. And—it’s not something I’m ashamed of, exactly—”

“Nor should it be.”

“Yes, I know. So, no—I don’t mind it being widely known, as long as it stops people from talking to me about it. Just because I’m not ashamed doesn’t mean I find it easy to speak of. There’s going to be speculation anyway, and getting the truth out will at least put an end to it.”

“There is that,” Daeron said, and sighed. “Well, it sounded as though Simpalírë intended to take Ilcalamo to task, so I doubt you’ll have to deal with any more awkward questions from that quarter. Were they all close friends of yours?”

“Yes,” said Maglor. “We spent a lot of time together in Valmar, and kept in touch after our studies there ended.”

“Were any of them lovers?” Daeron asked as they came to their tent.

“How in the world would I know that?”

Daeron rolled his eyes as he secured the flap behind him. “Yours, I meant.”

“I already told you I took no lovers in Valmar.”

“But what about afterward? Did any of them visit Tirion?”

“Yes, sometimes, but we never did anything more than get tipsy and play silly songs. Why?”

“Ilcalamo’s interest seemed to me to run rather deeper than mere curiosity.”

“I suppose if I would call anyone from my years in Valmar a particularly close friend, it would be Ilcalamo,” said Maglor. “We approached our music in the same way and spent a lot of time together, but it was never more than that. But I have not seen or spoken to him since before the start of the unrest in Tirion. My father…well, I’m lucky that I went to Elemmírë when I did. He would not have allowed me to go to Valmar after things started to get bad—and many of the Vanyar stopped visiting Tirion then too. I stopped writing to my friends there around the time Maedhros stopped speaking to Fingon.” Maglor ran his fingers through his hair, teasing out some of the day’s tangles, and narrowed his eyes at Daeron. “Are you jealous?”

“Of course not!” Daeron shed his clothes and fell back onto the bed. “Only curious, because you’ve told me so little of your youth—and perhaps I pity him a little, if you really did leave him brokenhearted and my sister was not wholly mistaken in the rumors that followed you from Valmar.”

It was Maglor’s turn to roll his eyes as he joined Daeron on the bed. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, if you ask. But I refuse to be held responsible for any broken hearts I did not even know about. You have only a vague suspicion about it, anyway—which I can put to rest by pointing out again how forthright Ilcalamo is, so it’s not like he would have been shy about saying something—so stop needlessly pitying him and start kissing me.”

The next morning they woke early, before the sun had fully risen. The tent was lit very softly by strings of tiny crystals strung across the ceiling that offered no more than the suggestion of starlight, though as Maglor and Daeron started moving around they brightened. Maglor stared up at them as he combed his hair, thinking idly that he might ask Curufin to make him some when they got home. Or maybe he would ask his father—somehow that thought still kept tripping him up, that he could just ask his father to make him something and Fëanor would probably be overjoyed to do it, no matter how small.

Daeron sat down beside him with his own comb. “You were nervous at dinner last night.”

“Everyone was looking at me—I’m fine. I just forgot to expect it.” Everyone in Tirion had gotten used to him very quickly, and Maglor knew the same would happen here. He could handle a little discomfort for a couple of days. “Are you nervous at all?”

“A little,” Daeron said. “Such a gathering has never happened before, and it is a little daunting to think of being the center of everyone’s attention. But only a little—I know I’ll forget all about it once we get too busy.”

“Elemmírë wants us both to help her organize everyone—I don’t think I’ll be very useful. I’m better now at taking direction than giving it.”

“I’m quite good at ordering people around,” said Daeron, “so try not to worry about it. I’ll put myself forward so you can take a step back—and Finrod is here too, and he’s even better at taking charge.”

“Thank you.” Maglor set his comb down and picked up a silver ribbon to weave into his braid—Finrod had a point about looking the part of Prince Macalaurë, much as Maglor hated to admit it. “It’s going to get very chaotic once everyone is here—everyone’s going to have different ideas and ways of doing things…”

“And Elemmírë has a very clear vision of what she wants,” said Daeron, “and many good ideas about how best to get everyone working in proper harmony. I’ve already told her that I know several tricks to get a large group of people to quiet down—even mighty singers—and she’s promised to avail herself of them at need. I do think you’ll find it easier than you expect—when the party from Imloth Ningloron arrives, they’ll look to you before anyone else.”

“Laughing at me for it the whole time—I know. I’m looking forward to it, though I might just let Lindir take charge most of the time.” Lindir had an almost uncanny knack for choosing just the right joke or just the right silly song to break any tension; and if he was not Daeron’s match in sheer power, he was equally at home in front of any audience. He was also a teacher, and had a teacher’s way of getting everyone around him to listen and to understand in just a few words what was needed. They would all, along with many from Avallónë, be singing songs from later in Middle-earth—from the Second and Third Ages, of Dwarves and Men and Hobbits too. Maglor knew the shape of what Elemmírë wanted and had made a few plans of his own accordingly, which he was eager to share with Lindir and the others. “It’s going to be incredible,” he said softly.

“Yes, it is,” Daeron agreed. He pulled a string of amethyst beads out of his pack to wind through his own braids. Maglor sorted through his little box of jewelry and found the small silver and sapphire earrings that Curufin had given him—the first gift he had received from any of his brothers upon his arrival in Valinor. They were still the first ones Maglor reached for when he wanted or needed to wear jewels. “I just realized—where is Pídhres?”

“No idea.” She had vanished as soon as they’d arrived at the encampment. “As long as she doesn’t climb up something and get in the way of the builders, I’m sure she’s fine.”

When they went in search of breakfast they found Ilcalamo and Simpalírë also already awake, sitting at the end of one of the many long tables. As Maglor sat down beside Ilcalamo, with Daeron across from him beside Simpalírë, Pídhres reappeared, jumping up onto the bench to rub her head against his arm. “There you are, mistress,” he said, scratching her ears.

“Where did the cat come from?” Ilcalamo asked, leaning forward to peer at her curiously.

“All the way from Rivendell,” said Maglor.

“I didn’t know you liked cats.”

“Well, she likes me. Whether I like her depends on how recently I’ve fallen out of a tree after she’s gotten stuck.”

“That cat would follow you to the ends of the earth,” Daeron laughed. “And in fact she already has.” Pídhres meowed, sounding very pleased with herself.

After breakfast Simpalírë dragged Daeron off to meet some more people from Alqualondë, leaving Maglor with Ilcalamo. “I’m sorry about last night,” Ilcalamo said as soon as they were alone. “I didn’t mean to pry—I was only surprised. You look—well, you know you look different, I suppose.”

“That’s all right. I am very different than I was when you knew me—in more ways than just looks. I wasn’t offended by the questions.”

“I knew you had fought a war, of course,” said Ilcalamo, “but—”

“I have a few battle scars, but these aren’t from that.” Maglor reached up to rub the scar on his cheek, and stopped himself. He picked up Pídhres instead. “I would prefer not to speak of it. I’m sorry.”

“If you do not want it known—”

“It’s already known in Tirion. It’s not secret, it’s just…unpleasant.” Maglor kept his gaze on Pídhres as he stroked her back. “I have been struggling with the memories these last few months, but I’m all right,” he said, because Ilcalamo was an old friend and he deserved honesty, even if this wasn’t something he could really understand. “I’ve missed all of you,” Maglor added, because Ilcalamo deserved that truth too. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited or written—I really have been busy reuniting with all my own family, and finding my footing here now that I’m back.”

“Why did you wait so long to come back?” Ilcalamo asked after a moment. “You never did answer Mornarusco last night.”

“I would not have been permitted until after the War of the Ring.”

“But you waited even then.”

Maglor looked up then and offered a smile. “I stayed until Estel—King Elessar, I mean—passed beyond the Circles of the World—he and Arwen. And then I came west with Elladan and Elrohir, as I promised Elrond that I would.”

“I know who Elrond is, of course,” said Ilcalamo, “but the tales told of his children seem odd and confused to me—I don’t understand very much of them. They are always being compared to Singollo’s daughter.”

“There will be songs sung of both Lúthien and Arwen this summer,” said Maglor. “And Lúthien was Elrond’s great-grandmother. He and his children take after her in many ways, not just in looks.”

“Will you sing them?”

“Of Lúthien? No—someone from Taur-en-Gellam will sing the Leithian, I think. I will probably sing of Gondor or the Reunited Kingdom in company with others from Imloth Ningloron. And…I did love Middle-earth. I still do. It’s beautiful and big and wild and—”

“Dangerous.”

“So is Valinor.”

“Not like there.”

Maglor shrugged. “I wandered alone and unarmed for most of six thousand years and came to no harm. That changed, obviously, because I was both foolish and unlucky, but—oh, I don’t know. I don’t regret going. I don’t regret staying.”

Ilcalamo frowned a little, twisting one of his curls around a finger. “Do you regret anything?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard that I’m rather infamous for my regrets. Of course I regret many things—the Oath and all that came of it, and some choices I made afterward.” Maglor shifted Pídhres in his arms as his scarred palm twinged. “But I don’t regret going east. Not all of it was in vain. There is beauty and joy there as much as there is here, and perhaps it is all the more precious because it has been so fragile and hard-won. Maybe you’ll understand better after this summer, when you’ve heard us sing of it.”

Before Ilcalamo could respond they were joined by Tinwelúto, who came up behind Ilcalamo to throw his arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. His hair was a few shades darker than Ilcalamo’s, falling in unruly strands across his face as though he hadn’t bothered to comb it after rolling out of bed. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. Good morning, Macalaurë! Where did you get a cat between last night and this morning?”

“Good morning,” Maglor said, relieved at the interruption. “I’ve had a cat all along, she was just off exploring last night. Her name is Pídhres. She—” Something bumped into his foot, and he looked down to find Aegthil and Annem scurrying in circles around him in the grass. “Hello, there! Where did you two come from?”

“Maglor!” Lindir came striding up, laughing and with his arms outstretched. “I knew I had only to set the little ones down and they would lead me straight to you!”

“Lindir, when did you arrive?” Maglor grasped his hands, and spotted others from Imloth Ningloron, and from Taur-en-Gellam, coming out in search of breakfast.

“Late last night,” Lindir said cheerfully. “We were so close and it was so pleasant a night that we just pushed on rather than stopping to make one last camp.”

Maglor introduced Lindir to Ilcalamo and Tinwelúto; Lindir bowed and greeted them merrily. Very soon Maglor was surrounded by old friends from Imloth Ningloron and newer acquaintances from Taur-en-Gellam, including Pirineth and Daeron’s other older songbirds. It was a relief to fall in with his friends from home and to hear all the jokes and the teasing about the hedgehogs. He picked both Annem and Aegthil up so they wouldn’t get trampled, aware that Ilcalamo and Tinwelúto were watching him curiously—watching how he acted among his friends from Middle-earth, which was similar but not quite the same to the way he’d once laughed with them—but feeling a little more at ease now that he was surrounded by others who knew him as he was and didn’t care about the distant past. Daeron reappeared after a short time too, only to vanish into the throng of his students for several minutes.

The morning was full of meetings and reunions and introductions. The Avarin singers who had answered Elemmírë’s call arrived just before lunch, so the whole day was filled with cheerful chaos and, very soon, music. “This summer is going to be marvelous,” Finrod said to Maglor that evening, bright-eyed and grinning as he leaned in to whisper under the strains of a dozen flutes around them, harmonizing different melodies from Middle-earth and Alqualondë and Valmar.

Maglor couldn’t remember when he had last been in the midst of such a large and merry group of elves. “It’s already marvelous,” he said. Finrod laughed and slung his arm around Maglor’s shoulders, and they joined their voices to Lindir’s as the first stars appeared in the deepening twilight.