High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

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One

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
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

- - 

Fourth Age 122

It was a small and somber party that passed through the Tower Hills and down the road to Mithlond. A ship waited there; one of the last that would depart from that place. The city was nearly empty. As Maglor followed Elladan through the silent streets he thought that perhaps Men would come here someday, as Arnor grew again. They would build up the walls that might crumble in the meantime, and plant new flowers in the abandoned gardens, and fill it with life and laughter and music. Maybe even some halflings would find their way down to the Sea, following old tales of the Ringbearer and his companion who had passed away over it.

Whatever they did, he would not be there to see it. 

Círdan greeted them at the dock, Maglor and Elrond’s sons and Lord Celeborn. Other elves had already boarded, and were going about the deck or settling their things in the cabins below. Maglor paused as the twins and Celeborn walked up the gangplank. It was only a handful of steps, but they felt like the most significant steps of his life. It was only the weight of his promise to Elrond that carried him at last up and onto the deck, for more than half his heart wished to turn away back toward the coastline, as he had before. The ship rocked gently beneath his feet, and he moved to the railing at the stern, out of the way of the sailors—and of Círdan, who had followed him up. At Maglor’s look of surprise he smiled, before moving away, toward the helm. No lingering looks back for Círdan, who had awaited this moment for years beyond counting. 

Maglor set his bag and his small harp case down at his feet. His full-sized harp he had sent ahead, and it was safe somewhere below in the hold. In his bag he had only a few changes of clothes, a bottle of miruvor, and a few knickknacks and keepsakes given to him by Arwen and Aragorn’s children before he left Minas Tirith for the last time. And, of course, a cat. The flap of his bag moved, and a small grey head peered out; Pídhres took one look around the deck and vanished back into the comfortable darkness. He had been long ago adopted by her foremother, who he had named Tári for her imperious ways; this last litter of her descendants he had taken to Annúminas to place into the care of Arwen’s grandchildren. Pídhres had refused to be left behind, however, climbing up his cloak and his clothes until she could curl around his shoulders, earning herself passage on this ship and her name. 

He watched as the gangplank was drawn up and the ropes were released. The tide was going out, and they went with it, drifting slowly away from the harbor, and the shore. They passed out of Lhûn and the wider coastline of Middle-earth opened up before his eyes. He had wandered those shores for centuries, and even now he felt the pull of that same wanderlust, and knew he would miss them for the rest of his life. Their wildness, the untamed waves, the rocky shores and the cliffs and the sandy beaches. The gulls, and the dunes, and the tide pools with their ever-changing denizens. Maglor took a breath, but exhaled slowly. Someone began to sing a song of farewell, and other voices took it up. He did not join them. 

“No songs from you?” asked an unexpectedly familiar voice at his side. Maglor turned to look into dark eyes lit with ancient stars. 

“Daeron,” he said, and smiled. “Where have you been wandering all this time?”

“Here, there, everywhere.” Daeron waved a hand back toward the shore as it slowly shrank behind them. Sunset painted the water golden. “As I imagine you have been also. But you have not answered my question.”

Maglor shrugged. He did not sing often in front of an audience these days—he had performed on occasion in Annúminas and Minas Tirith, but only when Aragorn or Arwen asked it of him, which they had only seldom knowing that he did not like to. “I have no songs for this parting,” he said. “I notice you are not singing either.”

“I will sing when the stars are out,” Daeron said. “Have you ever been on the water under a starry cloudless sky? It is the most marvelous, with stars above and stars below, so we might be sailing through the heavens themselves.” He leaned on the deck railing, his gaze drawn back to the shore, darkening now as the sun sank further, and the golden light deepened to something redder, that then turned to purple. In the eastern sky the stars flared up, one by one, pinpricks of diamond fire in the gloaming. The wind picked up, speeding them on their way.

“Namárië,” Maglor whispered to the shore just before it slipped from view entirely, swallowed by the horizon. He gripped the railing, and made himself turn to look into the west, where the horizon clung to the last vestiges of sunset. The Music of the world was not as loud out here as it was on the beaches, where the waves brought it crashing against the land, or carried it in gentler whispers over soft white sands. But he could still hear it, a steady rhythm and melody beneath them, carrying them onward and away.

He felt Daeron’s gaze on him. “You do not seem happy to be departing,” he said. “Why did you take ship?”

“I made a promise,” Maglor said. He looked at Daeron and saw his expression darken. “Not that kind of promise,” he said, offering a small smile. “That is over and done, long ago.”

“Good.” Daeron straightened, turning to look back out over the water. The sailors’ singing continued behind them, and Maglor heard Elladan’s voice joining with them, and the sweet notes of a flute played by Elrohir. The two of them stood in silence, watching the stars.

Elladan called to him after a while, and Maglor left the railing. Daeron followed him to where the rest of the sailors and passengers were gathered in the middle of the ship. Someone called to Daeron to sing them a song, and as Daeron obliged, singing of the starry waters of Balar long ago and worlds away, Maglor sat between the twins, who both leaned against him, reaching for his hands. Elrohir was weeping, silently. The tears fell onto Maglor’s shoulder, and he leaned his cheek against Elrohir’s hair. They listened to Daeron’s singing, which wound its way from ancient seashores to the wide waters of Belegaer, and back again up rivers and into deep woods and flowering meadows. It was a lament and a farewell to lands loved and lost and left behind. 

After a little while Maglor raised his head and joined his voice to Daeron’s, weaving a wordless harmony into his song. As they sang the wind kept up, filling the sails and carrying them ever westward, toward the Straight Road that would take them away from Middle-earth altogether. 

When Daeron finished his singing others lifted their voices to fill the silence. Maglor closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. The air smelled strange. Fresh and clean and faintly salty—but with none of the other scents that he associated with it, and had never realized before weren’t truly of the sea, but of the shore. Of seaweed and fish, dune grass and rain, and sun warmed earth. He sighed, and wished himself back again on the shores he knew. Except that he did not, truly. 

He did not know what he wished for. He was sailing because he had promised Elrond that he would, and later he had made the same promise to Elladan and Elrohir. His faith in Elrond eased some of the fears that lived in his heart of what he would find when they came to Avallónë, or to the mainland. But he was not the Canafinwë Macalaurë who had once sung and danced and laughed in Tirion with his brothers and his cousins. He was only Maglor now, no longer a prince or a lord of anything, still a singer but no longer a performer. Still Fëanor’s son—and that, since the Darkening, was not the source of pride that it had once been. He was a member of Elrond’s household, which was something—but they would expect more, those who had known him in his youth, that he was no longer able to give. 

The sun rose behind them; clouds were gathered on the horizon, limned with gold as the sky grew pale. When Maglor turned his gaze to the west he saw Gil-Estel hovering above the horizon. Did Eärendil know who was on this ship, he wondered? Would he take word back to his lady wife, and to his son? 

“I used to imagine that one day I would be permitted to join Eärendil upon Vingilot, even for a single voyage,” Elladan whispered beside him. Elrohir was asleep, lying now with his head in Maglor’s lap. “I suppose that might come true someday soon.”

“I think your grandfather would be glad to have you join him,” Maglor said. He had always imagined it to be very lonely, up there in the cold and unforgiving sky. Elladan smiled at him, but it was not his usual sunny grin. Grief lay heavily upon both him and Elrohir—as it lay on Celeborn, and on Maglor himself. He pulled Elladan in to kiss his temple, and with a sigh Elladan leaned against him again, closing his eyes. Maglor caught Celeborn’s eye; Celeborn offered a small smile before he disappeared below decks. After a few minutes Pídhres wiggled her way out of Maglor’s bag and disappeared down the stairs as well, doubtless in search of the galley and whatever morsels she could charm from the cooks in it. Maglor leaned back against the mast and watched the sun rise higher in the sky, as the twins slept, and he thought of other sunrises and other sets of twins. He hummed a quiet song, one of the first he had written after finding his way back to music again in Imladris, many years ago now. It was not a lament, exactly, but it was a song of grief, and the weight of it, and of that moment in the year when the world was strangely balanced between dark winter and burgeoning spring. It was full spring now; they had left Imladris when the flowers were all in bloom, and the air was fragrant with apple blossom and roses. They had stood for a long while atop the path, looking down into the valley where very few folk dwelt now, which was still as beautiful as it was the day Maglor had first seen it—also in spring, at the beginning of May. Ever since, he had regarded May as the kindest month of the year. 

He had been a frail and broken thing, then. Time, and Elrond, had healed most of his wounds. Many of the scars he had obtained in Dol Guldur had faded, but the worst remained—the brand upon his chest, and the needle marks around his mouth; the whip scar on his face just over his right cheekbone; the rings of scar tissue around his wrists where the cold iron manacles had rubbed them mercilessly raw for many years. Whenever he tried to imagine going to see his mother he remembered those, and he did not think he could bear her having to see them, having to learn what had happened to him—if, of course, she did not slam the door in his face. 

She probably would not slam the door. Nerdanel was kinder than that. How much he really believed she would be glad to see him depended on the day, and what other dark thoughts arose to haunt him. 

Time healed most wounds. But not all. Usually he could set aside old bitternesses and griefs, and it had been long since he had felt truly lonely. But he could feel the old hurts welling up again, like he’d scratched off a scab by stepping up that gangplank, already made tender by new grief. There were others, too, that he knew must be returned from Mandos by now. Cousins, friends. Perhaps his uncle. Perhaps even his brothers—and he did not know anymore whether he wanted to see them again or not, only that he hoped they would not be waiting with Elrond on the docks at Avallónë; he was not ready. 

Maglor shook his head, and looked at the white and puffy clouds drifting lazily over the sky. The water below was blue and flecked with white as waves crested and fell. Eventually the twins woke, and went to seek breakfast and perhaps a real bed somewhere in the cabins below. Maglor was not tired or hungry. He instead climbed his way up the rigging to the crow’s nest. There was nothing to see—no one really knew how long the voyage would take, but it would be days at least until they could expect the sight of land. All that meant in the moment was that no one else was up there, and he could sit and watch the horizon without fear of anyone coming to talk to him. 

Or so he thought. It was not long before the ropes creaked underneath him, and Daeron pulled himself up to join him, having scampered up the rigging with the ease of a squirrel through the trees. He sat on the edge of the crow’s nest, legs dangling out over the deck below, the wind catching his hair so that it floated out over his shoulder like a dark banner. Maglor looked up at him, and he looked down at Maglor, frowning slightly. “Should you not be down among everyone else, singing merry songs and making them all laugh? I remember at the Mereth Aderthad you were almost always at the center of something.”

“That was a long time ago,” Maglor said quietly. 

“True. And it is said that you never did some back among the Eldar after—after.” Even Daeron had not the words for it. He dropped down into the nest beside Maglor, leaning against the mast, shoulder to shoulder. “Though of course that has proved untrue.”

“It is said also that you vanished into the east to lament forever beside dark waters,” Maglor said. 

Daeron snorted. “I had many laments to sing, it is true. But I wandered more than I sat beside any meres, dark or otherwise. Did you never take up performing again even after you went to Rivendell?”

“Sometimes,” Maglor said, “but I lost my taste for it long ago. Besides,” he added with a smile, “there is a mightier singer on this ship than I, and you do not shun an audience.” Daeron laughed. “Why are you not down on the deck singing merry songs, then?”

“We were friends, once, for a short time,” Daeron said instead of answering the question. “Were we not?”

“I like to think so,” Maglor said. 

“And then for a very long time I hated you. For Alqualondë—and the lies afterward. I think I could have forgiven the one if not for the other. And then I heard of Doriath, and of Sirion, and of what you did to Lúthien’s children.” Maglor said nothing. “Knowing that you were there was the worst of all of it, I think. I cared not for your brothers. I did not know them. I did not sing with them, or teach them my writing, or learn anything from them in return.”

“Daeron…”

“I thought for a very long time that I should become a kinslayer myself I if I ever saw you again.”

“I am glad that it has not proven so,” Maglor said, “unless you are warning me that you intend to throw me into the Sea.” Daeron snorted. Their shoulders still pressed against each other, a point of warmth against the cool breeze. Somewhere below someone laughed, and there was the smell of something cooking drifting up from below decks. In the distance a whale broke the surface of the water, shooting a sudden spray high into the air before sinking back beneath the waves. 

“Time has dulled the edge of many hurts,” Daeron said at last. “And I would rather make music with you, as we did last night, than exist in unhappy silence. What do you intend to do when we reach Eressëa?”

“I will go with Elladan and Elrohir to their parents’ house,” Maglor said. “And from there—I do not know.” He would have to go to Alqualondë, to Olwë, and thence perhaps to whoever led the Sindar in Valinor if they had not joined entirely to Olwë’s people. To Elwing. To Tirion, and his uncle, whichever sat on the throne there. Eventually, he would have to go to his mother. “Where will you go?”

“I suppose I will follow Lord Celeborn to wherever he goes, and thence to—well, whoever rules our people in these days in these new lands. I hope to see Elu Thingol again, but I do not know. What can you tell me of where we are going?”

“I can tell you what it was like in the Years of the Trees, but so much time has passed that everything must be very different now,” Maglor said. “We will sail into Eldamar, and dock on Tol Eressëa, and beyond we will see the Pelóri, and through the Calacirya we may glimpse Tirion, the Mindon Eldaliéva rising above the other towers with its silver lamp…” 

Daeron was watching him, and as Maglor trailed off he frowned, and reached over to touch the scar on his cheek. “What is this?” he asked. “I did not notice it before. And what are these?” His fingers went to Maglor’s lips, tracing over the scars there. “It looks like—”

“They are old.” Maglor turned away, letting his hair fall between them like a curtain. There were streaks of white in it, also a gift of Dol Guldur, but Daeron made no comment on them. “Do not ask me more.” 

“One question more, and then I will leave it,” Daeron said. “Who was it? Who gave you these scars?”

Maglor did not want to answer. The name tasted like blood on his tongue, and burned when he whispered it. “Sauron.” He was no more—defeated for good many years ago now—but the memory of him still haunted Maglor’s nightmares. And he had only been a prisoner of the Necromancer, long before he had rebuilt the strength of Barad-dûr and nearly overtook all of Gondor. It could have been so, so much worse, he knew. He had seen the look in Frodo’s eyes after it all, and seen the damage to the walls of Minas Tirith and the ruin of the Pelennor.

Daeron asked no more, as he promised, but he also left the crow’s nest. To ask someone else, Maglor thought wearily, who would tell him the full tale. Lord Celeborn, most likely. He did not care, as long as he himself did not have to speak more of it. 

He would need to grow used to such questions, though. Daeron was not the last who would ask him about those scars. He rubbed his hand over his lips and grimaced. With a sigh, Maglor leaned back against the mast again and gazed out over the horizon, only a slight shift in the shades of blue marking the line between sea and sky. After a little while he started to hum, and then to sing—very softly, just to himself—a song that he had written long ago in Valinor all about the color blue. It had been a silly and merry song in those days, but he found a softer tune for it now, gentling the melody to one that felt more comfortable to him now, so much older and so much more tired.

At least he would find rest, he thought. Whatever else awaited him, Valinor’s promise to the Eldar was rest. 

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