![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
starsprayRating: T
Characters: Sons of Feanor, Elrond, Feanor, Daeron, various others
Warnings: n/a
Summary: After years in Lórien, Maglor and Maedhros are ready to return to their family and to make something new with their lives--but to move forward, all of Fëanor's sons must decide how, or if, they can ever reconcile with their father.
Note: This fic is a direct sequel to High in the Clean Blue Air.
AO3 / SWG
Prologue / Previous Chapter
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
- “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver
- -
Imloth Ningloron
Spring
They caught him off guard and unaware, bursting out of the irises by the pond with loud cries to knock him into the grass on the other side of the path. Maglor fell with a yelp, and laughed as the triplets pinned him down, Meneltir straddling his chest. “I surrender!” he cried as Alassië and Nityanandë poked their fingers into his ribs. Maedhros had lately gotten tired of his brothers telling the children to tickle him when he seemed to be brooding, and had taken his revenge accordingly. “I yield, I yield!”
“We were waiting for you for ages,” Alassië told him as the three of them finally relented and allowed Maglor to sit up. “You’re late.”
“How can I be late when I have nowhere I’m supposed to be? I didn’t know I was coming this way!”
“You always come this way from the wood shop,” said Meneltir.
“Will you tell us a story?” Nityanandë asked. “Tell us about one of your adventures!”
“Which one do you want to hear?” Maglor asked. He had over a dozen stories by now, each sillier than the last. The one where he got turned into a crab was a particular favorite, and had resulted in several crab-figures made by both Curufin and Celegorm over the years. They sat on the shelf above his desk alongside the old horses from Finwë, and the figurines of his cats and hedgehogs. He hadn’t received any new carvings from his grandfather, but he didn’t need them—not when he got to spend long hours with him in his workshop behind the cherry grove, restored and expanded, almost whenever he wanted.
The years since Ingwë’s great feast had changed a great deal in Valinor. The garden that Fëanor and Caranthir had planted where their old home had once stood was thriving, and many of the stones from the old foundation had been repurposed, carved into clever statues hidden among the flowers or made into benches—or used to line the pond that Fëanor had dug, where a family of ducks had chosen to make their nest and raise ducklings each year, to Calissë’s everlasting delight. Proper roads now connected the cities in the east and west, well-traveled and with new towns springing up every few years along them. Elrond and Celebrían had only lately returned from their second long journey into the west, and Elladan and Elrohir too had been roaming far and wide with friends old and new. Maglor had done very little travel, except at times between Imloth Ningloron, Tirion, and Taur-en-Gellam, preferring for the most part to let his friends and family come to him instead—though of late he had felt that yearning awake again in his heart, to be moving, to see new places and discover new things; and this time Daeron would be with him every step of the way.
For now, Maglor leaned back on his hands and watched the triplets scrunch up their noses as they thought. “Something true,” Alassië said finally.
“Calissë said all your other stories are made up,” Nityanandë added.
“She did not!” Maglor exclaimed, just as Calissë herself came strolling up the path, arm in arm with Náriel. “Calissë, I’m wounded! How can you go about besmirching your favorite uncle’s good name—”
“Who says you’re my favorite?” Calissë replied, arching an eyebrow in the same manner that her mother did.
“Oh, well, in that case I suppose you won’t be wanting that dulcimer—”
“I meant that of course you’re my favorite!” Calissë said quickly, as she dropped onto the grass beside him.
Náriel laughed brightly and asked, “What stories are you making up today?”
“I’ve never made up a story of my adventures in my life,” Maglor said.
“Oh stop, Náriel!” Alassië protested. “I want to hear the story! A new one!”
“Well,” Maglor said after thinking for a moment. “One time on my travels I came across a king in his castle, and learned that he had three daughters who had mysteriously vanished, and all his knights and lords and ladies had searched and searched, but no one could find them…” The tale wound on to involve an enchanted well with a young dragon at the bottom holding the princesses captive, which Maglor had managed to outwit with the help of a very clever cat who had been raised by the Withywindle, and so went about the land dancing on his hind legs in bright yellow boots, singing merry songs.
“But did you slay the dragon?” Meneltir demanded as Maglor started to describe the grand feast that the king had put on in celebration of his daughters’ safe return.
“Me, slay a dragon? Certainly not! He was also very clever, and I’m sorry to say that he escaped all the king’s finest warriors, and went on to grow up into Smaug, who eventually laid waste to Dale and made his lair in the Lonely Mountain. It was Bard the Bowman who slew him—a far better shot with a bow than I ever was, that’s certain.”
“Is that how you burned your hand, Uncle Cáno?” asked Nityanandë.
Maglor glanced down at his palm. He hesitated only for a moment before saying, “Yes. A dragon’s hoard is quite hot, you know. I should have known better than to try to touch any of it.” Before any more questions could be asked, he got to his feet. “Well, come on. I was on my way to get ready for lunch when you all waylaid me. Does anyone know if Moryo and Lisgalen have arrived yet?”
“Not yet,” said Calissë as she helped Nityanandë to her feet. The triplets ran ahead with Náriel while Calissë fell into step with Maglor. She was almost as tall as his shoulder, matching Curufin in height and likely to grow even taller. “But Great-uncles Urwë and Lindo arrived an hour ago.”
“Oh, good!” It was May, and the valley was awash in both flowers and visitors. That had been Maglor’s only strong preference when it came to his and Daeron’s wedding: that it take place in May. It was the same month that had seen him arrive in Rivendell for the first time, and also when he and Daeron had met again aboard the last ship out of Mithlond. He had chosen to go to Lórien in May as well—it was a kind month, and he wanted to add another joy to its tally. Daeron, who had had no preferences beyond soon, had listened to him explain, agreed, and then kissed Maglor entirely senseless.
That had been just over a year ago. For the last several years Caranthir and Lisgalen had been visiting one of the Avarin cities in the south and west, famed for its gardens and for a particular way of working silver that had made Lisgalen’s eyes light up when they’d first heard of it. Letters had been dispatched as soon as Maglor and Daeron had exchanged their silver engagement rings, and Caranthir had written back to promise that they would be there. The wedding, however, was in less than a week and no one had seen or heard from either of them since.
“Don’t worry, Uncle Cáno,” Calissë said. She slipped her hand into his and smiled brightly at him. “They’ll be here!”
“I’m not worried,” Maglor said, “but I will be annoyed if they miss it.”
“Grandfather Finwë isn’t here yet either.”
“He’s only coming from Tirion—at least I know where he is.”
They found Maglor’s other brothers on the veranda with Fëanor and Daeron, just sitting down to lunch. Urwë and Lindo came outside to greet Maglor as Calissë went to sit beside Celebrimbor. As Lindo stepped back Maglor saw the door open again, revealing Caranthir, still in his traveling clothes and carrying—
“Caranthir, whose baby is that?” Amrod demanded as Fëanor leaped to his feet.
Caranthir attempted to look outraged, but ruined it by laughing. “What do you mean, whose baby? She’s mine! Surprise, Atya—you have another granddaughter!”
“You could have warned us!” Amras said as Fëanor kissed Caranthir and then lifted the baby from his arms to kiss her round, pink cheeks. She had Caranthir’s silver-grey eyes and Lisgalen’s soft curls in her wispy dark hair, and giggled at being the center of so much attention all at once, especially when Calissë, Náriel, and the triplets clustered around. “What’s her name?”
“Laerlórin, and honestly the look on all your faces was well worth keeping the secret for a year and a half—”
“This is a wonderful surprise,” Fëanor told him, “but never do it again.”
“Now you all know how it felt for me and Maedhros when you turned up in Lórien with Náriel and Calissë,” Maglor said. He stepped around the table to embrace Caranthir. “I was staring to think you wouldn’t make it in time!”
“We weren’t going to miss your wedding, Maglor!”
“Does your mother know about Laerlórin?” Fëanor asked.
“Yes, of course! We weren’t going to keep this secret from her,” said Caranthir. Lisgalen came outside then, and Nerdanel just behind them. “We just wanted to surprise all the rest of you.”
“So if Amrod or I turn up in a few years married and with a baby—” Amras began.
“Don’t you dare!” Fëanor and Nerdanel chorused, to Lindo and Urwë’s great amusement. They should have been used to such things by then, Maglor thought, but sometimes still seemed half-bemused by how loud and boisterous all of their various nephews and nieces could be.
“Something you want to share with us, Ambarussa?” Maedhros asked.
“No! I’m just saying—”
Finwë arrived with Indis and Míriel just before dinner that evening. Afterward there was music and dancing late into the night under the stars. Maglor danced with his grandmothers and with Celebrían, and with Daeron, and much later, as things started to quiet down and everyone began to drift off to bed, he found himself sitting between Fëanor and Finwë. He idly strummed his harp just to fill the silence, and leaned his head on Fëanor’s shoulder. “I hear you’ve added dragon slaying to your list of adventures,” Fëanor remarked.
“I have not—I only outwitted him. Or the cat did, and I helped.”
“Ah, of course. My mistake.” Fëanor laughed quietly as he put his arm around Maglor. “I have noticed that you never play the part of the hero in your stories.”
“It’s more fun not to be,” Maglor said. Beside him, Finwë chuckled. “I was never really very heroic anyway, and I’d rather make people laugh now than try to impress them.” All of his songs, ever since he’d finished the one for his grandfather, had been mostly meant for laughs. He’d rediscovered the joys of playing with words and their meanings and their sounds, and in bright quick beats and simple melodies. His lay of the sea monster was still unfinished and ever-growing; he added a few lines or a verse whenever he wanted to tease Daeron, and had lately started threatening to teach it to the triplets and Daeron’s youngest niece Maiwendë.
At that moment, Daeron sat a little distance away with his parents and his aunt and uncle, leaning on Belthond the way Maglor leaned on Fëanor, all of them talking quietly. Things were still often difficult between them, with clashing personalities and strong opinions about everything on all sides, and sometimes Daeron only kept speaking to his parents and sisters just so he could see his nieces and nephew, but it was getting easier, little by little.
Pídhres came to curl up on Maglor’s lap, followed by little Onindilmë, the smallest of her last litter who had decided to adopt Fëanor, even though he had protested for months that he did not want and could not care for a kitten. He’d given in after finding her for the twentieth time asleep on his anvil when he went into his forge in the morning. Now he picked her up and kissed the top of her head before she curled around his shoulders.
“Not all acts of heroism involve winning battles or slaying dragons,” Finwë said. “Sometimes the most heroic thing one can do is endure. Courage is, after all, simply acting in spite of one’s fears—and by that measure, Macalaurë, you must be counted among the bravest of our House.”
“I don’t know about that—” Maglor began.
“It is your wedding week, Cáno,” Fëanor said, “and that means you must accept all praise without complaint.”
“Does it?”
“It certainly does,” Finwë said, sharing a grin with Fëanor.
Later, as Maglor started to make his way to his own bed, he was intercepted by Elladan and Elrohir near the stairs. “We have something for you,” Elrohir said as Elladan held out a small wooden box, of the kind meant for a piece of jewelry. “It’s from Arwen.”
“From Arwen?”
“And Estel. They told us that we would know when the right time was to gift it to you,” said Elladan as Maglor took it. “I do not think she foresaw your wedding, but she did foresee a time of great joy to come.
It was a brooch, in a similar style to the elessar, but in the shape of an eight-pointed star—the star of Fëanor—made of both gold and silver, and set with a clear green stone that brought to mind the elessar itself. When Maglor turned it over he saw two A glyphs on the back, marking it as the work of both Aragorn and Arwen.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“We already looked, and it will go very well with your wedding robes,” Elrohir said.
“Oh, I don’t care about that. I’d wear it anyway!”
“You’ll find our gift to you after the wedding, in the stables,” Elladan said. “And I know that it wasn’t planned for, but I saw Gandalf sneaking fireworks into the valley when he arrived last week.”
“I would expect nothing less.” Maglor returned the brooch to its case and embraced Elladan and then Elrohir. “Thank you,” he said again.
The day of the wedding came at last, bright and clear and warm. Maglor’s brothers and parents and nieces and nephews came in and out of the room while he prepared for the ceremony and the feast to take place later that afternoon. Daeron was elsewhere in the house suffering similar attention from his own family. “I do regret saying I had no real preferences for today,” Maglor said as Nerdanel twisted his hair back into elaborate braids. Fëanor and Curufin had raided his jewelry box. “If I could just—”
“No,” Nerdanel and Curufin said together.
“You could have run off like Moryo,” Maedhros said from where he sat on the window seat, baby Laerlórin on his lap. She had somehow gotten hold of one of Maglor’s silver circlets and was chewing on it while Maedhros made no effort at all to stop her. He grinned when Maglor glared at him. “That would’ve avoided all this fuss.”
“It would’ve also gotten both of us disowned,” Maglor said, as Nerdanel pulled particularly firmly on a strand of his hair. “Ow, Ammë!”
“Oh, don’t be so silly,” she said. “I’m nearly done.”
“No one would’ve been disowned,” Fëanor added, “but we would have been very disappointed. Where did this brooch come from?”
“Arwen and Estel, and if I’m to wear any jewelry today it will be that.”
“You’ll be wearing so many jewels that Daeron won’t recognize you,” said Maedhros. “Curvo, where are those really fancy earrings, the ones with the connecting chains—”
“No, not those!” Maglor protested. “I have to take them off later, you know, and they always get tangled up in my hair!”
“But they’re very pretty,” said Maedhros.
“I’m sorry, is today my wedding or yours?”
“Not those earrings, these instead,” said Fëanor, taking out some much simpler pieces of gold and emerald. “These will go better with the brooch.”
Finally, Maglor was able to put on his robes and all the jewels, and if he felt more weighed down than he would have liked he could not deny that he looked very nice—every inch his parents’ son. The triplets all appeared in the doorway to stare at him, suitably impressed. “I didn’t think you owned that many jewels,” Meneltir said as Fëanor adjusted the circlet resting on Maglor’s hair, and Curufin clasped the mallorn-leaf necklace around his neck. He was dressed all in gold, including the gold and yellow robes that Míriel had made for him, shot through with bits of green that matched the emeralds and beryls in his jewelry.
“I didn’t think I owned this much gold either,” Maglor said, blinking at himself in the mirror.
“I did name you Macalaurë for a reason,” said Nerdanel as she kissed his cheek. “Are you ready?”
“Oh yes.”
Downstairs everyone had gathered outside on the wide lawn between the house and the apple orchard. The trees were all in bloom and the air smelled sweetly of apple blossoms. As they walked through the gardens Fëanor caught Maglor’s hand and pressed a slender golden ring into it. “You’ll be needing this.”
“Thank you, Atya.”
Daeron was waiting with his own family as they arrived at the place where tables had been set out for the feasting, and where a space had been set aside for dancing. Huan was sprawled out on the grass with the hedgehogs, and Pídhres trotted over to accept a few pets before darting away after some small creature in the grass. Daeron was clad all in silver and blue. The fashions of the Sindar tended toward fewer jewels than the Noldor, but his braids were more elaborate, and he kept reaching up to touch them as he came to join Maglor. “I never wear my hair this tight,” he muttered. “I already can’t wait to take it all down later.”
“You look very lovely, though,” Maglor said.
Daeron’s smile lit up his whole face. “So do you!”
There had been some debate over what ceremonial traditions would be followed, and in the end they had decided to follow the customs of Lindon after the end of the First Age, which Rivendell had carried on into the Third and Fourth Ages—when, after so many long years of warfare there had been at times no parents to stand with those being wed, and so siblings or dear friends had stood in their stead. So when the time came it was Maedhros who stood with Maglor, and Mablung with Daeron. Maedhros took Maglor’s hand and placed it into Daeron’s, as Mablung did the same. They spoke the words to begin the marriage rites, invoking Manwë and Varda and speaking of the joy this union brought to both of their families, but Maglor hardly heard them. It was very hard to notice anything beyond his and Daeron’s joined hands, and Daeron’s starry eyes, and the pounding of Maglor’s own heart against his ribs.
When Mablung finished his part, Maglor took Daeron’s hand and slipped the silver ring from his finger. “This silver ring I gave you in solemn promise, and now I exchange it for one of gold as a symbol of my solemn vow to walk beside you all the days of our lives,” he said as he slid the golden wedding band into place; Fëanor had dusted the rings with ithildin, and they shimmered gently even in bright sunshine, “through sorrow and through joy, with love undying—so I declare here before all gathered to witness, and before Eru Ilúvatar.”
Daeron repeated those words back to Maglor as he also exchanged the silver ring for gold, his hands steady and firm on Maglor’s, and as soon as he was done speaking he flung himself forward to kiss Maglor, just as Laerlórin yelled very loudly, and they had to break the kiss when they started to laugh alongside very one else. A cheer went up around them, and then music was struck for the celebrations to truly begin. Dusk was falling, and a rocket shot into the air above them, bursting into bright gold and silver leaves that fell around them before dissolving into puffs of pale smoke. Daeron laughed again and kissed Maglor deeply. “Now we can run off and wed each other properly,” he whispered. “Somewhere far away from everyone and everything, under the stars.”
“That sounds perfect,” Maglor whispered back. “But it will be impossible to slip away unnoticed.”
“Oh, I don’t care. But the first chance we get—”
The chance did not come for some time. There were dances and toasts—many toasts, since all of Maglor’s brothers insisted on getting up to say something embarrassing—and the gift-giving from each family. It was ancient tradition to give necklaces or gems, but Maglor found himself presented with a silver flute edged with mother-of-pearl from Daeron’s family, and his own gave Daeron a harp, also made of silver, and etched with delicate and intricate patterns of stars and ferns.
When Daeron was dragged out to dance with his aunt, Maglor found Elrond nearby. Elrond embraced him, holding on almost as tightly as he had when Maglor had stepped off the ship in Avallónë. “I wish Elros could see you now,” he said.
“Elros would have been delighted with the stories Caranthir and Celegorm were telling earlier,” Maglor said, and Elrond laughed. “I miss him terribly—but I am so glad to be here with you.”
Elrond grinned at him as he drew back. “But you’re also itching to be away. If you wait five more minutes, you’ll find your horses already saddled and ready—in the new tack from Elladan and Elrohir.”
It was Maglor’s turn to laugh. “Thank you!” He hugged Elrond again, and kissed his temple. “And this time when I ride off you really don’t have to worry about me.”
“I haven’t worried about you in years,” said Elrond. “I’ll only miss you while you’re gone.”
Maedhros stepped up beside Maglor. “Planning your escape?” he asked, slinging his arm around Maglor’s shoulders.
“Are you surprised?”
“No.” Maedhros kissed the top of his head. “Just be careful out there. Watch out for wild animals—unless you’re taking Huan with you again.”
“We are not,” Maglor said firmly as Elrond laughed again. He caught Daeron’s eye as the dance came to an end. “If I thought I could get away with it, I’d try to leave Pídhres home too.”
“She won’t be having that,” said Elrond. He leaned down and picked her up as she sauntered out from under the table behind them. “Isn’t that right, mistress?”
Maedhros tightened his arm a little around Maglor’s shoulders. “I’ll miss you,” he said quietly.
“I’ll miss you too, of course—but I’ll be back before you know it, with all sorts of stories and songs to share.”
It took far longer than five minutes to escape everyone’s well wishes and kisses and embraces. It was full night by the time they finally got into their saddles; the stars blazed overhead in the cloudless sky, and the breeze out of the west was warm and smelled of grass and wildflowers. They called out their farewells as they cantered away from the house, leaving its warm lights and music behind. When they reached the main road they paused to look out at the wide world stretching out before them, gilded silver by the starlight, and then looked at each other. “Where to?” Daeron asked. They had not bothered to remove their finery, and he was luminous, glimmering like a star himself.
“Beyond the moon, and past the sun!” Maglor replied, grinning as the wind caught in his hair as he leaned over for a kiss. The night was full of promise—the future full of light. “Wherever the stars will guide us!”
