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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
The morning that Tirion emptied was warm but overcast, with clouds heavy enough to promise rain later. Amras eyed them, trying to gauge how hard it might rain, and whether there would be a scramble to get the babies back under the cover of the wagon Rundamírë’s parents had procured. None of the triplets enjoyed not being held, so Curufin had Alassië strapped to his chest, and Maedhros had Meneltir, and Rundamírë had kept Nityanandë. They all poured out of Tirion onto the road heading west, a lively and loud host with people in wagons or on horses or on foot. Some were singing, some raced ahead or out through the fields. Amras glimpsed Galadriel charging ahead of her brothers through the tall grass and wildflowers, and heard their clear laughter in the distance.
“Good morning, Ambarussa!” Elessúrë rode up with his daughter Isilmiel and his wife Lossenyellë. “Where is Carnistir?”
“No one knows,” Amras replied, laughing. “Tyelko thinks he and Lisgalen have run off to get married, but I think they’ve just run off to make us think that. And Macalaurë is, of course, already out there—along with Vindimórë I assume?”
“Vindimórë hurt his ankle doing something stupid,” Isilmiel said with a grin, “and had to stay behind in Valmar. He’ll be arriving with all the rest of us, and is very put out about it even though it’s his own fault.”
Isilmiel and Lossenyellë rode ahead to chat with Rundamírë, who sat at the front of the wagon with her father. Elessúrë remained beside Amras. “So…are all of you on speaking terms, then? Your family, I mean. It was difficult for a while to tell who wasn’t getting along with who.”
“More or less,” said Amras. “We’re all getting along—you needn’t worry about that.”
“Russandol has rather suddenly stopped avoiding your father,” Elessúrë remarked, watching the two of them riding ahead on the road. Maedhros said something and Fëanor laughed at it.
“It wasn’t all that sudden,” said Amras. “It’s a long story and not mine to tell—and I wouldn’t ask either of them either, if I were you.”
“Is it that bad?”
“It’s awful. Leftover awfulness from Beleriand—you really don’t want to know, Elessúrë, and they won’t want to tell you.”
“All right, I’ll take your word for it. Does Macalaurë also still avoid Fëanáro?”
“No. They started speaking when he started writing his song for Finwë.”
Elessúrë looked between Fëanor and the rest of them. “…Can I ask why you all avoided him to begin with?” He spoke as one who couldn’t fathom ever wanting to run from his father. Of course he would. Linquendil had never done anything even close to what Fëanor had—and Elessúrë had been a child at the time of the Darkening, far too young to understand the sort of change that had come over Fëanor, if he had even noticed such a change. Amras thought Linquendil and Mornilótë had worked quite hard to shield Elessúrë from the worst of the family strife.
Amras sighed. “It’s…well, it was the Oath, that he had us all swear and then never had to see through to the end himself, but it was also—I don’t know what you remember of him from your childhood, but you must remember all the stories from then. Some of us have been very angry with him, and some of us have just been afraid. All of us have been hurt.”
“Are you still afraid?”
“No. I’m not, anyway, but there’s always at least eight opinions about anything among the seven of us.” He said it to make Elessúrë laugh. It worked, and he steered the conversation in other directions, asking about Vindimórë and Isilmiel instead.
The rain started after lunch. It was very light, only just too heavy to be called a drizzle, but Meneltir hated it, and when he started wailing both of his sisters joined him. Lerinië and Rundamírë disappeared into the wagon with all three babies, and the rest of them drew up their hoods. Amras watched Curufin lean down to ask Náriel if she wanted to join her mother in the wagon, and saw Náriel shake her head vehemently. She was finally big enough for her own pony, and she would stay in the saddle as long as she was able, Amras knew. He’d been the same at her age.
They came to Valmar after a few days—by then the rain had passed and the sky was cloudless and bright—and met Ingwë and a great host of Vanyar there outside of the city. Amras was beside Maedhros near the front of the Noldorin host, and saw him frown as he watched Ingwë and Olwë and Fingolfin exchange greetings with all the formalities that came with kings coming together in front of all their people. “What is it?” Amras asked.
“Do you see Indis anywhere?”
Amras turned to look. “No, only Queen Aravennë.”
“I thought Indis returned to Valmar last fall—called away by preparations for this summer, Finrod said.”
“Perhaps she has gone ahead as Ingwion did,” Amras said, but even as he spoke he doubted it. There was no reason for that. Of all people, Indis should be there with the rest of them. Come to think of it, so should Míriel—but Amras hadn’t seen or heard anything of her either.
“I wonder…” Maedhros murmured, and glanced south.
“Wonder what?”
“Nothing. I need to speak to Fingon.” Maedhros urged his horse ahead through the throng until he came to Fingon and Turgon. Amras spotted Idril nearby with Elenwë, and glanced around to see where Maeglin was. He’d heard there had been a meeting between them, but not whether it had gone well or disastrously or something in between, especially since Aredhel had not been there. He did not see Maeglin, but he saw Eärendil and Elwing with Elrond and Celebrían, all four of them laughing at something alongside Legolas and Gimli. Nearby Vindimórë was greeting his own parents, smiling a little sheepishly as he brandished a crutch.
He found Maeglin after they all started moving again, as the Vanyar fell in with the Noldor and Teleri, everyone merry and laughing and singing. He had tucked himself away with Celebrimbor by the wagon. Everyone was there, except for Maedhros and Fëanor. “I think I’ve only ever seen so many people gathered together before a battle,” said Amrod as Amras rode up beside him. “This is much more fun.”
The weather held as they traveled, and soon the lands grew familiar. “I know that lake, don’t I?” Amras said as it came to view at last in the distance, reeds along its shores. On the other side a whole city of tents and pavilions had sprung up, glittering with gold and silver and mithril, and with gems and crystals that caught the summer sunshine and flashed so that it looked like the whole thing was decked out with stars.
“We stopped here on the way home from Ekkaia,” Celegorm said beside him.
“Did something terrible happen here, too?” Nerdanel asked archly. Beside her Maedhros sighed, rolling his eyes skyward.
“No,” said Amrod. “It was quite nice actually—and it’s a good place for this feast. I see why Ingwë chose it.”
They had all gotten up that morning and put on fine clothes and jewels. Amrod wore the necklace that Fëanor had given him years before, when he’d given Amras a set of prisms. Amras had a matching one by now, and even Maedhros was wearing a finely-made circlet, and had copper beads glinting in his braids. Celegorm was all in silver in a sleeveless tunic that showed off the silver and jade armbands wound around his arms like vines. Rundamírë had her dark hair caught up in a net of silver and a rainbow of tiny gemstones, and both Náriel and Calissë were dressed up to match. Lerinië had given Calissë her first ear piercings just before they had left Tirion, and she was very pleased to show off her new diamond earrings to anyone who stopped to compliment her.
They were all called to the front of the great crowd of travelers, all the kings and queens and princes of the Noldor and the Vanyar and the Teleri. As they came from the east, up from the south rode Elu Thingol and Melian, shining all in silver and sapphire, at the head of the Sindar from Taur-en-Gellam, and the Green Elves who lived in the southern woods and mountains; and from the west came the Avari, clad all in a bright rainbow of colors, all converging at once, and those who had already arrived burst into songs of welcome and of jubilation. Amras heard Maglor’s voice and Daeron’s soaring above the others every so often before blending back seamlessly into the chorus, and he saw them standing with Elrond’s sons and with Finrod and Aredhel, all of them resplendent in their own jewels and fine robes.
“Oh,” Amrod whispered beside Amras, as all the kings and queens met together—Sindar, Noldor, Teleri, Avari, Vanyar—to clasp hands and embrace. “This is—”
It was incredible. Amras had never seen so many people gathered together in one place—with not a single frown to be seen. He glanced around, and still did not see either Indis or Míriel, which was the only shadow cast upon the day. There were speeches made and gifts exchanged, and a choir of singers from all kindreds leaped onto the great stage to sing a song Elemmírë had written for the occasion. She herself wore a diadem of gold set with pale blue sapphires, and lifted her voice as the choir lowered theirs, to welcome them in all the tongues of all the elves by turns.
Maglor finally found them, hours later, amidst the chaos. He had silver ribbons in his hair and wore the blue grey robes Amras had seen him wear before at celebrations in Imloth Ningloron. “You’re all here at last!” he cried, throwing his arms around Celegorm and Curufin. “Hang on, where’s Moryo?”
“There he is!” Maedhros exclaimed, pointing. After a moment Caranthir and Lisgalen pushed their way through the crowd. “Where have you two been?”
“Around,” said Caranthir. He looked far more splendid than he normally did even on high holidays, with gold rings in his ears and a circlet of gold and emerald to match the emerald clasps in Lisgalen’s braids—and Amras nudged Celegorm when he spotted the simple golden bands on each of their fingers. “We haven’t missed anything, have we?” Caranthir was asking.
“No, but we have!” Celegorm said, snatching up his hand. “I knew it! You aren’t nearly as sneaky as you think you are—”
“We weren’t trying to be sneaky!” Caranthir protested.
“We were a little bit,” said Lisgalen as they wrapped their arms around him, resting their chin on his shoulder. “But I’m glad we got the timing right.”
“Don’t think you’re going to get out of us celebrating you,” Maglor said as Daeron joined them. “There will be speeches made and you will be mentioned in them.” Caranthir made a face and Lisgalen laughed.
“What about the two of you?” Caranthir asked.
“Don’t you worry about us,” Daeron said.
“Honestly, I would’ve expected Maglor and Daeron to slip away and get married without telling anyone, rather than Carnistir and Lisgalen,” said Amrod as Nerdanel and Fëanor joined them. “Hullo, Ammë, Atya! Did you know Carnistir’s married now?”
“Finally!” Nerdanel laughed, and kissed Caranthir and Lisgalen in turn. “I feared you might be having second thoughts, Lisgalen—though I wouldn’t blame you, with such a chaotic family as this.”
“You say that like the chaos is a discouragement!” Lisgalen replied. “I came of age among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain—that’s where you should look if you want real chaos.”
Fëanor stepped up to them next, but spoke more quietly, and Amras turned his attention elsewhere, to all the other meetings and reunions taking place around them. Chaos was putting it mildly, but there was a certain order underneath it all. Being in the middle of such a crush of people should have been overwhelming—Amras would be the first to admit that he preferred the quiet and solitude of the wilderness—but it wasn’t. Instead he just felt excited.
The day was taken up with feasting and with speeches and then with dancing and singing. Amras danced until he was dizzy and breathless, and then fell onto a blanket laid out in the grass, where Fëanor was sitting alone. “Don’t you want to dance, Atya?”
“I was—but not all of us have your stamina, Telvo.” Fëanor pulled him over to wrap an arm around his shoulders. Celegorm spun by with Aredhel, and they watched him grasp her by the waist and toss her into the air, alongside dozens of others tossing their own partners, everyone shouting in unison when the song called for it.
“Did you dance with Ammë?”
“Yes.”
“Have you seen Míriel at all?”
“No, she isn’t here.” Fëanor glanced around as he spoke, as though half-expecting to see her coming through the crowd. “Indis is not here either. I’m not quite sure what to make of it.”
“But what could possibly be keeping them away?”
“Any number of things, surely,” Fëanor said, though he sounded doubtful. “I don’t know—but this is to last all summer, so I have no doubt we’ll see them soon. Many people will be coming and going at different times.”
Amras watched Maedhros step out of the throng of dancers to sit with Maglor and Daeron on the blanket beside theirs. Daeron lay between Maglor’s legs, leaning back against his chest, and their hands were tangled together over Daeron’s stomach, all easy intimacy and comfort. They had both performed earlier in the evening, getting up on the grand stage both alone and together; Maglor seemed to need still to sit quietly and recover, wearied in the way he got these days after getting up before a large audience, and so neither of them had joined the dancing at all.
“What was it that put you and Daeron at odds, anyway?” he asked Fëanor. He knew they were on speaking terms now, and he knew how pleased Maglor was about it, but it had puzzled him for a long time that they should have ever disliked one another, though he hadn’t found a good chance to ask either one about it until just then. Amras would have expected them each to recognize how clever the other was, and to at least develop something like respect, if not immediate friendship.
“I can’t always make myself leave well enough alone, even when I know I should,” Fëanor said after a moment. “I misjudged him, badly. His response was no less than I deserved.”
“That’s probably not quite true,” Amras murmured. He felt sleepy as well as tired, and Fëanor was very warm. Amras had not been in Tirion when Daeron and Fëanor had first met, but he’d heard about it from Curufin afterward. Daeron had been unhappy and lonely, missing Maglor and still trying to fit himself back in among his own people. It had also been the year that Dior Eluchíl returned from Mandos. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that they’d gotten off on the wrong foot, now that he thought of it. “But you’ve fixed things now, haven’t you?”
“Yes, we have. Don’t go looking for things to worry about, especially not about me.”
Amrod fell onto the blanket on Fëanor’s other side. “Falling asleep already, Ambarussa? It’s still so early!”
“We’ve been awake since before dawn,” Amras replied through a yawn.
“Go to bed, Amras,” Fëanor said, nudging him gently until he sat up. “There will be plenty more dancing all the rest of the summer.”
“All right. Good night, then.” Amras yawned again. He left the dancing and made his way to the tent he and Amrod were sharing with Celegorm. Huan was already there, sprawled out in between two of the beds, and he did no more than twitch an ear as Amras undressed. As he fell back onto the pillows he heard distant laughter and the strains of music, and when he fell asleep he dreamed of dancing.
Over the next week the performances for Elemmírë’s great song cycle began—the oldest songs came first, the oldest tales sung and chanted by the oldest Elves among them, including Ingwë and Olwë and Elwë themselves, alongside others who still remembered the waters of Cuiviénen. It was marvelous, magical—but Amras kept thinking that Finwë should have been there too. He caught Maedhros several times looking south with a thoughtful expression, but whenever Maedhros saw him looking he just smiled faintly and turned away.
Midsummer came with a very grand celebration—including fireworks. Gandalf arrived the evening before looking very pleased with himself, and the reason for it became apparent when an enormous red and gold dragon erupted out of the largest rocket Amras had yet seen, soaring over the crowd to screams and shrieks of alarm but also of delight—for it was followed immediately by a great flock of fiery birds shooting after it until they all collided in an explosion of fire and smoke that turned to sparkling flowers to rain down over them.
Náriel screamed at the sight of the dragon and threw herself into Maedhros’ arms to hide her face in his shirt. Calissë shrieked with delight, and threw her arms around Maglor, who laughed with her. “He did it, he did it!” Calissë cried. “Just like at the party in the stories!”
“Is that what you were conspiring with Gandalf about last summer?” Curufin asked her.
“Yes,” Calissë said, giggling. Then, “Náriel, it’s just fireworks! They’re not that scary!”
“Yes they are!” Náriel wailed, voice muffled by Maedhros’ shirt.
“It’s already gone, sweetheart,” Maedhros said. Curufin wrapped an arm around Calissë’s waist and whispered something in her ear. She looked chastened by whatever it was, but only for a moment before she ran off into the crowd to find the children from Taur-en-Gellam who she had befriended while there with Maglor and Daeron. Curufin sighed and leaned back on his elbows. “It’ll be fine, Curvo,” Maedhros said.
“I know.”
Maglor leaned over to rub a hand up and down Náriel’s back as he whispered to her, and whatever he said cheered her up quickly, and she was able to raise her head and enjoy the rest of the fireworks, none of which were anything nearly as alarming as the dragon. Amras leaned back by Curufin. “Are they not getting along?” he asked.
“They are—mostly.”
“Could be worse, you know.”
“Talk to me about it after you have children,” Curufin said, and grinned when Amras wrinkled his nose. “What, no pretty lady of the Laiquendi has caught your eye yet?”
“There are plenty of pretty ladies—among the Laiquendi and everywhere else—but no one I’d want to marry or have children with. Or at least, no one I’ve met yet.”
“Well, there’s lots of new faces here,” said Amrod on Curufin’s other side. “How many marriages do you think will come out of this feast?”
“Lots,” said Caranthir.
“Yours doesn’t count.”
“Obviously.”
“How many people do you think will end up married before the summer’s out?” Amrod asked next, with a sidelong glance toward Maglor, who rolled his eyes—though he also did not answer one way or the other.
The next morning Amras and Amrod went to watch some footraces, which Galadriel won easily. “There’s horse racing sometime soon,” said Amrod. “Want to try it?”
“Depends on who else is,” said Amras.
They wandered away from the races, and put their names down for the horse racing later after seeing that Celegorm and Maglor already had, alongside Aredhel and Fingon and Angrod. They passed a group of children clustered around Legolas and Gimli, who was regaling them with vivid descriptions of the first time he had entered the Glittering Caves behind Helm’s Deep. Náriel and Calissë were there, listening with wide eyes and rapt attention. Elsewhere, Vanyarin spear-dancers were putting on a performance. Amras saw Lalwen among them, a single dark head in a sea of shades of gold. Fëanor was watching, standing with Fingolfin and Finarfin; he said something and Fingolfin laughed—and even Finarfin smiled. They passed what looked like a contest to see who could fashion a sculpture out of clay the fastest, which Nerdanel was not winning, but in which everyone involved looked like they were having a great deal of fun, if all the laughter was anything to go by.
“Ambarussa!” Finrod and Aegnor found them soon after that. “There you are! Don’t forget—do not make any plans for two weeks from now.”
“What’s happening in two weeks?” Amrod asked. “And hello, Aegnor! It’s very good to see you.”
“Our own Mereth Aderthad—just for the House of Finwë,” said Finrod as Aegnor grinned at Amrod. “Didn’t your brothers tell you?”
“Oh, that,” said Amras. “Can all of us be spared for a whole day?”
“Yes,” Finrod said. “I made sure of it ages ago.”
“But what about Míriel and Indis?” Amras asked. “Are they here yet?”
Aegnor’s smile faded. “No,” he said. “Ingwë thought Indis was in Tirion this whole time, while we thought she had gone to Valmar—and who knows where Míriel is.”
“They’ll be here,” Finrod said. “I haven’t heard from either of them, but they will be.”
“Then how can you—”
“Sometimes I just know things, Ambarussa!”
“Better you than us,” Amras said, wrinkling his nose. Finrod laughed. “When are you and Maglor singing Finwë’s song? We’ve been waiting for ages to actually hear it.”
“The next night, after our family party,” said Finrod. “Have you really not heard it?”
“Maglor never practices in front of anyone,” said Amras. “Not that song, anyway.”
“Findaráto has,” Aegnor said, “though we had to ask him to stop because it’s impossible to get anything done when you’re weeping.”
“That is not my fault,” Finrod said.
They’d walked back around to where the spear-dancers had been, and found them replaced by a group of Avarin dancers with spears and knives, the blades flashing as they were tossed and spun as the drums beat out a rapid rhythm to match the dancers’ feet, and the drummers chanted songs that Amras didn’t understand but which sent a thrill through him. Celegorm was there too, watching with his arm around Huan’s neck. “Oh,” Amrod breathed as they stepped up beside him, eyes going wide. “Oh, I want to learn that.”
“Me too,” Celegorm said, watching a series of knives hit the ground one after the other, plunging almost up to the hilt in the dirt, all in perfect time.
“Looks dangerous,” said Aegnor.
“Exactly,” said Amrod.
“Many of the most beautiful things are also the most dangerous,” Finrod murmured. The dance came to an end, and they joined in the applause. Usually when they ended up in company together, Finrod tried to speak to Celegorm—tried to act as though there was nothing in the world to keep them from being friends again, as they’d been in their youth. Now he kept his distance and soon excused himself to go speak to his father on the other side of the space cleared out for dancers. Amras glanced at Celegorm, who watched Finrod go with a faint frown before he too turned away.
“Is everything all right, Tyelko?” Amras asked as he and Amrod fell into step beside him.
“With me? I’m fine.”
“With you and Finrod.”
Celegorm glanced back over his shoulder. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You used to be friends,” Amrod said.
“That was before—you know.”
“He seems willing to be friends now, too.”
“Finrod,” Celegorm said, “is incomprehensible. He and Dior—I don’t know what’s wrong with either of them.”
“If they want to leave the past—”
“Some things,” Celegorm said, a little sharply, “are unforgivable.”
“Maybe,” said Amras, “but, Tyelko, shouldn’t that be left up to the person doing the forgiving?”
Celegorm halted abruptly, looking as though that thought had never before occurred to him, and now he had to very quickly rearrange some of the things that he believed. Then he turned and headed back the way they’d come. Amras heard him call out, “Hey, Findaráto!” and saw Finrod turn, looking startled.
“Should’ve thought of pointing that out years ago,” said Amrod.
“I would’ve thought Nienna did already,” said Amras, “but better late than never, I suppose!”
