High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

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Ten

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Míriel did not stay long. She never did, when she came back among the Eldar. That first day Maglor had been bright and merry, but something had happened to make him withdraw again, though Elrond could see the effort he put forth to hide how poorly he was sleeping. He spoke little and played no music. If he held to old patterns it would pass before long, Elrond knew, but he still hated to see it, especially when there seemed to be no reason for the old shadows to come creeping back. 

Then he remembered the news of Fëanor, and thought perhaps it was not only Dol Guldur that was haunting Maglor. 

Before she left, Míriel came to Elrond in the garden, where he was thinning some unruly athelas plants. “I am no healer, as you know,” she said, sitting on the bench beside where Elrond knelt. “But I can tell that my grandson is not well.” Her face was grave as she looked down at Elrond. “I recognize the shadows in his eyes, for they once lived in mine also.”

Elrond sat back on his knees. “I long ago ceased to fear that he would fade away,” he said. “The shadows are only memories; we all have them. You need not fear for him.” 

“Fear is perhaps not the right word. But I am worried. It is, regrettably, not the habit of my line to seek help or healing.” Her gaze strayed away from Elrond across the garden; Elrond followed it and saw Maglor sitting under a tree, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. Pídhres lay on his lap, clearly purring as he scratched her behind the ears. At a distance it might seem that there was nothing troubling him at all, except that he was not smiling.

There was no point in telling her that she need not worry, either. “Maglor is not Maedhros,” said Elrond. “The past comes back to haunt him at times, as it does us all, but the dreams and dark thoughts do not linger as they once did. If they do, I have no doubt that he will tell me. And if he needs more help than I can give him, it will not take much to convince him to go to Estë in Lórien.”

“And if it does?” 

“It will not,” Elrond said. Maglor had confessed to him once that he had been desperately afraid to go to Imladris from Lothlórien, and that he had more than once thought of fleeing on the way, and hadn’t only because Elladan and Elrohir would have caught him immediately. It had never been stubbornness that held him back in those early weeks and months, only fear. But that had been many years ago. If Maglor needed to go to Lórien he would likely be the one to tell Elrond of it. Indeed, he might decide to go without any great need. And most importantly: “He is not alone.”

“No,” Míriel agreed, and smiled at him, though only briefly. “I am glad of it. But my son—he is alone, though it is no one’s fault but his own. I have seen and spoken to him both in death and in life, but my home now is with Vairë, and he could not stay long in those halls even if he wanted to. Maglor would not speak of him to me, and I fear that his other sons will not see or speak to Fëanáro either. He loves them, you know. Desperately.”

“It is not my place to pass judgment on Fëanor,” Elrond said. 

“He loved his father,” Míriel said softly. “Loves him still—but he lost both of us as no child should lose their parents, and Finwë’s death was a far worse thing than mine. I do not defend what he did—the bloodshed in Alqualondë, the ships burning—but that madness is passed. He is not Maedhros either, coming from the Halls unhealed.” 

“I am glad of it,” said Elrond, truthfully. “But he—it was his own children that he harmed most of all.” Elrond understood grief all too well. But he did not understand that. No matter what happened, he could never have bound his children to such an oath, not only for what it drove them to do, but what it promised if they failed. “If he comes to my home seeking Maglor, he may not find me an accommodating host.”

Míriel sighed. “Fëanáro is too stubborn to be put off by a simple no.”

“He will have to learn, then,” said Elrond. “The world is very different from the one he once knew. Fëanor will have to find a new place within it—and to learn to live with the lasting consequences of his deeds. Fëanor is not my concern, but Maglor is. Many of the shadows you perceive in him are of Fëanor’s making.” 

It was not long after Míriel’s departure that his own parents prepared to leave. They went walking along the beach, just the three of them, as was their custom at the end of every visit. Elrond was always reminded of the walks they had taken in his early childhood. Eärendil had been little at home then, too, and those sunlit afternoons of laughter and sandcastles had been more precious than gold—more than the Silmaril—for his return was not guaranteed. Elrond and Elros had understood that even when they were very small. Now, of course, there were only three of them, Elros’ absence a presence in itself, though they did not often speak of him. 

“Elladan has asked if he may go up in Vingilot with me,” Eärendil said, pausing to nudge a crab in the sand with his toe. 

“He has dreamed of that since he was small,” Elrond said. He and Arwen had both dreamed of it, but of course Arwen had long ago set that aside. Elrohir had been afraid of heights as a child, and thought his brother half mad for the desire. If his mind had changed in the years since, he’d never spoken of it. “He is not going with you this time, is he?”

“No, not this time. I told him he had best consult you and Celebrían first, but I will be very glad of his company in the future.”

“I have no objections,” said Elrond. He wanted to keep his sons close for now—but in time the two of them would be off to explore every inch of this new land, and he would rest much easier knowing that they would be safe doing so. “Nor will Celebrían.” The wind picked up from off the water, blowing his mother’s hair out of its braids and lifting his own off his neck. It carried the distant sound of horns. 

Elwing slipped her arm through Elrond’s. “I know you have been worried about having us and Maglor in your house at the same time,” she said. “You know now that you do not need to, I hope.”

“Yes, and I’m glad of it,” Elrond said. Even if they were not friends, it was a relief beyond words that he could have all those he loved most in the same room without awkwardness or tension. 

“Seeing him fall out of a tree at the sight of us did much to dispel old fears,” Eärendil said. “It’s hard to be angry at or afraid of someone when they are lying on the ground being scolded by a kitten.”

“He isn’t very fearsome any other time, either,” said Elrond. 

“Perhaps not,” Elwing agreed. “But Elrond, you are hardly the best person to judge that.”

Elrond felt his eyebrows go up. “What does that mean?”

“That you are the hardest person to intimidate in the world,” Eärendil said, grinning. “I do not know where you get it from. Certainly not me.”

“Did you not stride into Valinor to face all of the Valar on their thrones by yourself, then?” Elrond asked, and both of his parents laughed. “And was it someone else who flew Vingilot into battle with Ancalagon the Black? I was there, and quite afraid of him.”

“Well, I suppose after facing all of the Valar at once it is hard to be frightened by much else,” said Eärendil. “Even dragons.” He grew serious, then. “But I was terrified, walking into the Ring of Doom. I shook so badly I still cannot believe I was able to speak at all. I could only do it because—well, because I had nothing left to lose except Elwing, and whatever my fate was she would share in it. I do not even know that I had any hope left when Eönwë brought me there.”

“Speaking of Maglor again, though,” Elwing said, “I suppose I found it as easy as I did to see and speak with him here because I had not seen him before, not really. I heard him, at Sirion, but it was not he who chased me up to the cliff.” 

“Did Maedhros ever come to you?” Elrond asked. 

“Yes,” said Elwing. “Long ago. I shut the door in his face and would not hear him. Even for you, Elrond, I do not think I can speak to him with civility.”

“I did fear him, for a very long time,” Elrond admitted. “But now—I have faced far more frightening things since, and it is hard to be frightened of very much when all of the worst things you can imagine have already happened to you.” He had not actually meant to say that out loud, and bit his tongue afterward. Both of his parents stepped in to wrap him up in their arms. “I’m all right now,” he said. 

“And not afraid of Maedhros at all, I would wager,” Eärendil said.

“No, all his fire its turned inward.” And speaking of fire… “There is something I need to tell you before you go.”

“What is it?” Elwing drew back first, brow furrowing. She pushed her dark hair out of her face, only for the breeze to blow it back again. “What is amiss?”

“I do not know if amiss is the right word,” said Elrond, “and I don’t think that this news should yet be spread widely—but Fëanor is to be released. He may have been already.” 

“Well,” said Eärendil after a few moments of silence, broken only by the waves and by a gull wheeling over their heads. “That is…unexpected news, certainly.”

“You will be caught up in whatever happens next more than us,” said Elwing, reaching out to take Elrond’s hand. She smiled at him. “Will you tell us now that you are not intimidated even by Fëanor himself, mightiest of the Noldor?”

“Yes, I will. I do not fear Fëanor, or what he might do or say. But he is still Fëanor, and I am glad to have been given a warning of his coming at least.”

“True,” said Eärendil. “And I suppose I should also be grateful, since it is I who bear the Silmaril. The Oath may no longer drive his sons, but who is to say that Fëanor won’t still seek to take back what is his?”

“The Valar would not release him if he meant to do that,” said Elwing. 

“He may have no intentions now,” said Eärendil, “but he might change his mind. The last thing we must expect is for Fëanor to be predictable. But you can all sort it out while I sail the skies, safely out of his reach!”

They walked back to the house where Elladan and Elrohir were sitting in the grass outside with Maglor, whose quick fingers were weaving dandelions together into a wreath. Both twins already wore crowns of them, the pollen falling into their hair to leave golden streaks in the dark strands. All three greeted Elrond and his parents with smiles, though Maglor’s was quicker to fade away and he dropped his gaze back to the flowers in his hands almost immediately. There were dark circles under his eyes still that Elrond did not like. Eärendil laughed at the twins with their golden-green crowns, and the two of them sprang to their feet to walk away into the roses with Elwing and Eärendil, to say their own farewells. 

Elrond sat on the grass beside Maglor. “You aren’t sleeping,” he remarked. Maglor shrugged. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” Maglor offered him another smile. “It will pass. It always does.”

“Which ghosts are the ones that haunt you now?”

He shrugged again. “Dol Guldur. I don’t know why.”

“I thought perhaps…”

“My father?” Maglor shook his head. He wore his hair in a loose braid that was already starting to come undone, and strands fell forward in front of his eyes. When he brushed them away he left a smear of dandelion pollen on the bridge of his nose. “I do not think that is the cause. I haven’t dreamed of him.”

“Perhaps not. Are you ready to leave Eressëa? Celebrían was talking this morning of returning home, since everyone who is on the island has come to see us already.” 

“Yes, I’m ready. I think that I know what valley you mean when you talk of Imloth Ningloron, and I want to see if I am right.” 

Elrond kept forgetting that Maglor had wandered almost every inch of Valinor in the years before the Darkening. “I think we will leave in the next few days.”

“I should seek out Daeron, then, to tell him I am leaving soon,” Maglor said. “Unless Thingol has already returned to the mainland?”

“I don’t think so,” said Elrond. He had heard that Daeron had come on this last ship, but at the docking his attention had been elsewhere. “I did not know that you were friends.”

“Only briefly—at the Mereth Aderthad. I did not see him again after that until I boarded the ship. Probably for the best,” he added, like a confession. “I am…I am very glad that he did not stay in Doriath.” He finished the wreath in his hands and set it on Elrond’s head with a sudden grin. “It’s only fair that you match your sons,” he said. Then someone called his name, and he turned toward the path leading around the house to the road. “It seems I do not have to seek out Daeron after all.” 

As though summoned by their conversation, Daeron of Doriath appeared around the corner, with pearls and amethyst glinting in his dark braids. Elrond rose to his feet alongside Maglor, and watched as Daeron looked at him once and then again—very briefly and with only a slight widening of his eyes, before he covered his reaction with a smile and a graceful bow and a greeting of fair words. It was not unexpected; Elu Thingol had nearly turned around and left the room again upon first seeing Elrond. It had long ago ceased to trouble him, his resemblance to the grandmother he had never known, but he knew it was hard for those who had known her. “I am glad to meet you at last, Master Elrond,” said Daeron, his smile flashing across his face. In person he was not much like the tales and songs that spoke of a melancholy or jealous singer lurking in the shadowy glades of Neldoreth, or wandering the wilds lamenting for Lúthien. This Daeron did not seem as though he lamented very much at all these days, or made music for the breaking of the heart. His voice, however, did live up to the songs. Even only speaking Elrond could hear the power that lay behind it, both like and unlike Maglor’s. 

It was also clear that he had not come to see Elrond. After the necessary pleasantries Elrond excused himself and went inside. Celebrían was with her parents, and so he went to their room where a small but growing pile of letters awaited him. Everyone from Finarfin to Ingwë had sent invitations to Midsummer festivities. Elrond wrote notes of thanks to each of them but declined them all; they would be spending Midsummer at home this year. Gandalf had promised fireworks, and already a feast with all of Elladan and Elrohir’s favorite foods was being planned; it was to be as much a welcome party as a holiday celebration. There were other notes from the loremasters of Tirion who were forever asking Elrond questions about all kinds of things, and who could never seem to wait long enough to compile a list of them in a single missive. There would be even more waiting for him at home. 

“Why do you suppose they keep writing to me about Bandobras Took?” he remarked when Celebrían joined him a few hours later. “I haven’t the faintest idea of the color of the horse he rode into the Battle of Greenfields, nor why it would matter.”

“Someone must have taken it into their head to illustrate it,” said Celebrían. “They keep writing to you because a letter is surer to reach you than Gandalf.” 

“If I ask Gandalf to go to Tirion to answer all their questions in person, do you think he would do it?” 

“I think,” Celebrían said, laughing, “that he would give different answers to each asker and cause even more confusion.”

“Perhaps I should do the same,” Elrond said. “They might stop asking me, then. I have been a loremaster, but the Shire was never my focus of study.”

“Was not Elladan just telling us last night about their friends among the hobbits?” Celebrían said. “When we go to Tirion, introduce our sons to the loremasters, and they shall never write to you about the Shire again.”

Elrond laughed. “How cruel you are to your children, Celebrían. If we take them to the loremasters of Tirion we may not see them again for a thousand years.”

“Oh, nonsense. We raised clever and courageous sons; I’m sure they’ll escape before then. Five hundred years at the most. Are you coming down to supper?” 

“Is it time already?” Elrond glanced out of the window, finding that the sun had nearly set. “Is Daeron still here?”

“He and Maglor went off some hours ago to explore a little of Avallónë,” Celebrían said. “Your flowers are wilting.” She helped to lift the dandelions out of his hair—he had forgotten all about them—and she laughed when she ran her hand down his back, holding it up to show him her yellow fingers. “Golden hair does not suit you, my love. Let me comb this all out before we go downstairs.”

Elrond caught sight of one last letter that had been nearly lost in the chaos of the rest, and as Celebrían combed out his hair he turned it over to see Fingolfin’s seal. Curious, he opened it and read the short letter—written in Fingolfin’s own hand, a request somewhere between a kinsman asking a private favor and a king requesting aid in a serious matter. “What is that?” Celebrían asked. 

“Fingolfin wishes to visit us at home after Midsummer.”

“He must know that he need not ask permission,” said Celebrían. “Especially not if he only wants to greet his nephew. Our doors are always open.”

“It isn’t only that,” Elrond said, sighing. In fact, Fingolfin had not mentioned Maglor at all. Elwing had been right: he would be caught up in whatever happened next. “He wishes to speak with me of Fëanor.”