High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

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Fourteen

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Elrond had sensed that Finrod had come there for a reason, but he had not expected that reason to be getting drunk enough to weep in the woods with Celebrimbor and Maglor. He fetched miruvor and water, and went to make sure they did not suffer too badly for their indulgence.

Celebrimbor was sprawled across his bed, already asleep; the pillow was damp beneath his face. Elrond left the cups where he could reach them, and went to Finrod next, finding him turning his circlet over in his fingers, gaze far away. “What is amiss?” Elrond asked as he set the cups before him. 

“Nothing,” Finrod said, eyes focusing at last as he looked up at Elrond. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. 

“Then why are you weeping?” 

“Am I?” Finrod touched his cheek and laughed softly to find the tears there. “So I am. Worry not, Elrond. They are cleansing tears. Did you know that Edrahil has returned?”

“I did not.”

“All of them are here now, at last,” Finrod said. He reached for the water and lifted it in a toast to Elrond. “Save Beren, but he is gone somewhere none can follow. He went singing sorrowless, or so the songs say. I hope it is true.”

“I have no reason to believe otherwise,” Elrond said. He took the circlet from Finrod’s drink-clumsy fingers and set it aside. “Go to sleep, Finrod.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Thank you for the miruvor; you are kindness itself.” Finrod waved him away, careless and airy in a false, brittle sort of way, and Elrond went. 

Maglor was not asleep, but his tears had dried, and he lay on his bed with Huan halfway on top of him. “I hate this dog,” he said into his pillow as Elrond entered the room. 

“Yes, I’m sure the dog is the problem,” Elrond said. “Huan, will you please let him sit up?” Huan obeyed, and Maglor rolled over. In spite of his words he wrapped an arm around Huan’s neck as he sat up. Elrond sat by him on the bed and handed him the miruvor. “I would like to laugh at you,” he said, “but this does not seem like Finrod wanting to begin celebrating Midsummer early.”

“No,” Maglor agreed. He sipped the miruvor and sighed. “I am not going to repeat what we spoke of,” he said. “Half of it should not have been spoken to begin with.”

“I won’t ask it of you,” said Elrond, “but I am worried.” Only that morning he had been laughing and throwing jokes back and forth with Lindir, as merry as Elrond had ever seen him. Now—the shadows behind his eyes weren’t quite back, but he had clearly been weeping, and was still deeply unhappy, eyes red and still damp, and a fragile sort of look to him that Elrond had not seen in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” Maglor said.

“Finrod should not have dragged you into whatever he is battling.”

“He might have had a point.” Maglor turned the empty cup in his hands. “Don’t tell him I said so. I wish he hadn’t chosen today, but…perhaps I will feel better for having said some of it aloud, however ill-advised.” 

Elrond had never pushed Maglor to speak of what had gone on in Dol Guldur. It would not have gone well and it wasn’t as though he couldn’t guess for himself. “I hope so,” he said. “You know that I will listen, if you wish to speak of it. You need not get drunk, either.”

Maglor huffed a quiet laugh. “I would not have said any of it if I’d not been drunk. Nor would Tyelpë or Felagund. That was the point. I told you that my cousin has terrible ideas.”

“If this doesn’t prevent a hangover, come to me in the morning,” Elrond said. He kissed Maglor’s temple, as he might have Elladan’s or Elrohir’s. “We are expecting guests and you do not want to meet them still feeling the effects of Finrod’s bad idea.”

“Thank you,” Maglor murmured. “I do not say it enough, Elrond. Thank you.”

“You do not have to say it at all.”

Maglor sighed and drank the water, and lay back across the bed. Huan did not climb on top of him again, but he rested his great head at his side. Maglor’s fingers tangled in the thick fur. “Will you play something?” Maglor asked. 

Elrond looked at the harp by the window. It was a beautiful thing, carved of interlocked pieces of driftwood that had been bleached and shaped in strange and lovely ways by the sun and saltwater. He rose from the bed and went to it, running his hands over the smooth frame and plucking a string to hear the high clear note shiver through the room. “It is very different from your other harp.” Not in shape or even in general sound, but one would never mistake a harp Maglor had made for one made by any other hands.

“Halbarad is making good use of that one. Gilraen’s son. Arwen’s daughter Gilraen, I mean.”

“I know who you meant,” Elrond said, smiling a little in spite of himself. He’d never actually seen Maglor drunk before—even on feast days in Imladris he’d never over-indulged. 

“There will be little Elronds running around before long, I imagine,” Maglor murmured. 

The thought had never crossed his mind before that his daughter’s children might name their children for him, the way the line of Elros had often used other names out of history, or of their ancestors. It had never occurred to Elrond that he was another such figure, or at least he’d never thought of it in quite the same way. “Good heavens,” Elrond said as he sat down at the harp, just to hear Maglor laugh at him. “What do you want me to play?”

“Anything,” Maglor said, plaintive and quiet again. “Anything you like. I have missed your playing.”

Elrond put his fingers to the strings and began to play a song that had always soothed Frodo when his memories grew too heavy. It was not an elvish song, but one of the Shire—the tune was, as Bilbo had once said, as old as the hills, and many different words had been set to it through the years and generations. Elrond sung none of them now, only played the quiet melody that was as gentle as the Shire itself, all rolling hills and green fields, tilled earth and little rivers, quiet woods and children’s laughter. He watched Maglor shake for a little while with silent tears, and put forth a little of his power into the music, in the exact way that Maglor had once taught him, and slowly the tears ceased and Maglor’s breathing evened out and deepened into sleep. Elrond kept playing, and turned his thoughts to Irmo, the Lord of Dreams, with a quiet plea on Maglor’s behalf—and on Celebrimbor’s, and Finrod’s—for peaceful dreaming. Let the past remain where it belonged. Let the darkness recede in this land that promised light and rest, to trouble them no more. 

He played the song twice more before he let go of the strings and let the last notes fade away. Huan watched him as he got up, and Elrond paused to stroke his large head for a moment before slipping out of the room. 

Celebrían was out in the orchard singing to the peach trees as the shadows started to lengthen. Elrond sat down underneath one to wait for her to be done, and when she joined him he leaned into her arms, unable to hold back a sigh. “What’s wrong, my love?” she asked. 

“Your uncle got himself, Celebrimbor, and Maglor drunk.”

“Oh dear. Not a happy drunk, I must assume.”

“No. Not at all.”

“Mm.” Celebrían ran her hands over his hair. “He and I got drunk like that once. It was…well, it was miserable, but I did feel better afterward—after I got my voice back, having screamed myself hoarse—though I’ve never accepted more than a single glass from a bottle he has brought me since. I don’t know how he manages to find the strongest spirits in Aman every time.”

Elrond had been drunk exactly once, just after the War of Wrath was over and someone had managed to distill something into something else. It hadn’t been wine or brandy or anything that tasted at all good. It had not been a pleasant experience; he had hated the dizziness and feeling like he couldn’t quite control his own limbs. “I will have to remember never to find myself alone with your uncle and a bottle,” he said. 

“I’m fairly certain no one in Aman believes you are capable of getting drunk, Elrond,” Celebrían said with such deep fondness that he had to laugh. “Even I have never seen it.”

“Oropher has,” said Elrond. He had been the one to bring the two of them the alcohol in the first place. “And plenty of others—we were celebrating. It only ever happened once.”

“Not a happy drunk?”

“It wasn’t unhappy, but I didn’t like it much. And the next morning was awful.” Oropher had laughed at them and insisted they drink some other vile concoction that he had claimed would cure the hangover. It hadn’t. Celebrían laughed again. Elrond smiled into her shoulder, feeling that same quiet thrill that he had every time he was the cause of it. It was the same now as it had been the very first time he had said something she found funny—it was stronger now, in fact, because now he knew what it was like to try to make her laugh and to fail. He took her hand, their fingers sliding together as they had always been meant to. “Celebrimbor also brought a bit of news today.”

“Oh?”

“Fëanor came to Nerdanel’s house.”

“Did it go well, or has he come to warn us?”

“He did not say that it went well,” said Elrond. “He didn’t have a chance to say much of anything, really, before Finrod dragged him off.”

“A warning, then,” Celebrían decided. “I suppose we must prepare ourselves to find him on our doorstep next. I hope he waits until after Midsummer; I have been so looking forward to that.”

“Mm.” Elrond sat up. “It’s only a few days away now. I think our chances of getting through it without mishap are good.”

“Oh, and now you’ve gone and said it aloud, so something will happen!” Celebrían laughed and smacked his arm. “The kitchen will catch fire or someone will get drunk and fall in one of the fishponds and nearly drown, or Fëanor will arrive right in the middle of it all and cause a terrible disturbance…”

“Maybe Fëanor will get drunk and fall into a fishpond,” Elrond suggested, and both of them dissolved into laughter at the thought. It was Celebrían who recovered first and got back to her feet. 

“Come on,” she said, pulling Elrond up after her. “Help me start picking these peaches.” 

When they returned with a full basket for the bakers and the dozens of pies they have planned for the feasting, they found that Glorfindel had arrived, with Ecthelion in tow—and another guest that Elrond had not expected. The three of them were laughing about something with the twins, and as Celebrían and Elrond approached Ecthelion and the unexpected guest turned to bow. “Welcome,” Celebrían said, holding out her hands. “Elemmírë, I did not expect to see you here! Are you not wanted in Valmar?”

Elemmírë laughed. Her voice was bright and light as morning birdsong and the chiming of golden bells. Her hair gleamed in the afternoon sunshine like liquid gold, a deeper color than Galadriel’s, and it was wound through with aquamarine, which winked in her ears and on her fingers as well. “I certainly am, but I thought this year I would see what goes on elsewhere at Midsummer.” Her smile turned a little crooked. “And I have been told an old student of mine has come home at last.”

“We heard also that Daeron of Doriath had come west,” Glorfindel added.

“True on both counts,” said Celebrían, “but Daeron will be very much wanted at Thingol and Melian’s court this Midsummer if I am not mistaken.”

“Someday,” said Ecthelion, “I hope we are fortunate enough to hear all three of you sing together.” 

Elemmírë smiled. “I too would like that,” she said. “I have heard much of Daeron of Doriath, and heard many of his songs—and I am very eager to meet him. Perhaps I shall go to the Sindar after I leave here, if I am not called home again. But where is Macalaurë?”

“My uncle is also here,” Celebrían said breezily, “and he and Maglor and Celebrimbor have indulged in some early celebrations, and Elrond has sent them to bed to sleep it off. If they do not emerge sometime this evening, you’ll see all three of them tomorrow at breakfast I am sure.” Elrond saw Glorfindel’s brow furrow, but he said nothing after Elrond caught his eye and gave a small shake of his head. 

Ecthelion was called away then by old friends come to greet him, and Celebrían and the twins took Elemmírë away to show them to their rooms and exchange gossip out of Avallónë and Valmar; Glorfindel lingered with Elrond. “It is not like Maglor to indulge in that way,” he said. “Not unless a great deal has changed since we last parted.”

“It was not his idea,” Elrond said, “nor was it quite as celebratory as Celebrían said. I can only hope it was cathartic in some way. Finrod seems to think so, anyway.”

“I see. How is he really—Maglor, I mean?”

“Finrod’s dubious decisions aside, he is well, if troubled by the news of his father.”

“His father?”

“Is that news not spread so far yet?”

“Not to Turgon’s realm, certainly,” said Glorfindel. It was not Gondolin rebuilt, Turgon’s city to the west of Tirion, but only in appearance. Gondolin in Middle-earth had been an echo of Tirion, and there was no need for that here. This new city that did not yet have a name—or rather, it had so many names that a common consensus had not yet been reached—but it had called nearly all who had lived in the Hidden City to it, including Glorfindel. “Should I be worried?”

“I am not worried,” said Elrond, “but as Maglor is fond of reminding me, I have never met Fëanor. I will not say that I do not think he will cause trouble, but I do not think it will be…the same sort of trouble, at least.”

“Yes, he would find new and interesting kinds of trouble,” Glorfindel said. “What will you do if he comes here?”

Elrond shrugged. “I suppose that depends on what he does, and when he comes.” 

“That is the trouble with your valley no longer being a hidden one,” Glorfindel said, and Elrond had to grin. “Anybody can come to your doorstep at any time. I am glad to hear that Maglor is well, though—and to see your sons again. What news from Gondor?” 

The rest of the afternoon and evening was taken up in Midsummer preparations and merriment. Finrod emerged around supper time, looking only a little worse for the wear. He greeted Elemmírë brightly, and Elrond thought that he, having seen it earlier, was the only one who could tell that the brittleness had not quite left him. Finrod met his gaze and flashed a bright smile that rang only a little false. Elrond smiled back, deciding that Finrod could look after himself. 

Elrond had not expected to see Maglor until the morning, but he and Huan came wandering outside when the stars were out. His eyes were clear and he looked a little tired, but the shadows had receded, and Elrond did not think he hid his relief well at the sight. “Was I really that bad, earlier?” Maglor asked, stopping to put an arm around him. 

“Bad enough to be worrisome. Come; we are out by the pond and Elemmírë is about to sing for us.”

“Elemmírë is here?” Most visitors had been a cause for at least mild alarm thus far, but Maglor brightened at the name of his old teacher. “You did not tell me that she was coming!”

“I did not know until she arrived,” Elrond said.

They made their way out to the gazebo on the water; the stars were out and sparkling on the pond’s surface, and laughter and music echoed across it from their small party and others scattered across the valley. Since Elladan and Elrohir had come, the weight and haze of grief had begun to lift, and the songs were merry again. 

“Macalaurë!” Elemmírë rose as they crossed the walkway over the water, and she stepped out to embrace him. “You’ve returned to us at last! I was beginning to fear you would never come home.” 

Maglor replied, but it was too low for Elrond to hear as he went to take his place by Celebrían. Maglor’s smile only faltered a little, though, when he caught sight of Ecthelion, sitting by Finrod, and he recovered upon receiving Glorfindel's rib-crushing embrace. “Come sit by me,” Elemmírë said when Glorfindel released him, “and let us sing together.” 

“Of course,” said Maglor, settling on the floor by Elemmírë’s legs as she returned to her place on the bench, bracketing himself between her and Galadriel, who rested a hand upon his shoulder for a moment. “I would have brought out my harp if I had known there was to be singing.”

“No matter,” said Elemmírë. “Our voices are enough.” She began to sing, her voice rich and full, a song of the splendor of the stars and of Varda Elentári. A beat after she began Maglor joined her. 

Maglor had said more than once that his voice and skill were not what they had once been, but listening to him then, harmonizing with Elemmírë as the stars shone down upon them, Elrond did not think that was true. It was not precisely what he remembered from his own childhood, for no one could wander so long by the Sea, learning its moods and its songs, and not be changed. It had been changed too by pain and grief and fear, but not diminished. There was yet power in it, steady and rolling as the tides. Elemmírë’s power was of a different kind, shaped by different things, but Elrond could hear the kinship, could hear the ways that she had helped to shape Maglor into the singer that he was—and even the ways in which her teachings had been passed from Maglor to Elrond himself. 

Elsewhere other singers fell silent as Elemmírë and Maglor’s voices soared up toward the sky. Elemmírë led the way, from verse to verse to song to song, and Maglor followed unerringly; they were songs from the Years of the Trees and even before, some in a tongue older than the split between Quenya and Sindarin. It was not often, even there in Valinor, that Elrond felt young. He did that night—and it was not overwhelming as it had been at other times; instead it was a thrill, to hear the music of the ancients sung by those who had been there, or whose parents had been there, and sung with such skill that it took one’s breath away. 

Eventually their performance wound down, and silence descended over them all. As Elrond remembered how to breathe, Elemmírë looked around and laughed. “Now I wish to be the audience! Someone sing something of Middle-earth for me.” 

Maglor hummed a few notes, and looked to Elrohir, who raised his flute to his lips and began to play. It was a simple tune; the original song had not had accompaniment. Maglor sang softly and in simple Westron, and from the way he glanced across the gazebo, Elrond thought the song was not as much for Elemmírë as it was for Finrod—a quiet song of defiance in the dark. 

Above all shadows rides the Sun,
And stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the day is done,
Nor bid the stars farewell. 

Galadriel lifted her voice as that song faded, singing of Lothlórien far away, and Celeborn joined with her, singing of golden mellyrn and the rushing Silverlode shimmering in the starlight. Then Elladan and Elrohir sang a song of Rohan in that tongue, of the rolling fields and the horses and the shining spears of the Riders. And on they went, everyone taking a turn, even Finrod, who had been very quiet until then. 

It was dawn before they dispersed. Elrond lingered with Celebrían and Maglor, who had Huan half on top of him again. This time it was because Huan had fallen asleep, and with a hound such as Huan one had no choice but to let the sleeping dog lie. Finrod also hung back, lying down on the empty bench with one knee bent, his hair spilling over the edge in a half-braided tangle. “Uncle,” Celebrían said, “are you going to tell us what’s the matter, or must I have my mother drag it out of you?”

Finrod waved a hand. “Don’t trouble Galadriel,” he said. 

“I am not the only one with ghosts,” Maglor said quietly. “Or at least, one particular ghost.”

And Edrahil had recently returned from Mandos. Elrond was glad no one had thought to sing any part of the Lay of Leithian that night. “Did it help?” he asked, glancing between them. “Getting inadvisably drunk in the middle of the day?”

“Yes,” said Finrod. 

Maglor shrugged. “I don’t know. But I am not doing it again.”

“If you say so.”

“Regardless, it isn’t the sort of thing to make a habit of,” said Celebrían. “Or at least not a frequent habit, however good Elenwë’s wine is. Uncle, are you returning to Tirion or will you join us here for Midsummer?”

“Ugh, do not make me go back to Tirion! My father and uncle won’t stop dithering about whether to tell anyone about Fëanor’s return, or who to tell if they do decide to share the news. And anyway, when he does turn up I do not want to be there.”

Maglor rolled his eyes. “And so you came here, to one of the only other places in all of Aman he is likely to come?”

“Why would he—oh.”

“Yes, oh.”

“Well, if he does come here at least we can all hide behind Glorfindel.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Celebrían primly. “He is only Fëanor, not a balrog.”

“Never mind,” Finrod said to Maglor, “we shall hide behind my niece. I should like to see that confrontation, though from a safe distance.”

“I don’t have confrontations,” Celebrían said. “Honestly, Uncle. Are you still drunk?”

Finrod laughed. “No, my dear niece. I promise I am as clear-headed as can be.”

“Hm.” Celebrían rose, shaking out her skirts. “Well, I am to spend the morning preparing pastry dough for baking this afternoon. Please hold off on further indulgences until Midsummer, when the actual feasting and celebrations are going on!”