High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

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Fifteen

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Midsummer in Imladris had always been a merry affair, even when the valley’s inhabitants were dwindling, trickling away west. It promised to be even merrier in Imloth Ningloron. Gandalf arrived the evening before with a cart full of his famous fireworks. The twins burst out into the courtyard to greet him and help unload. Maglor trailed after them, Huan at his heels and Pídhres on his shoulders.

Gandalf took one look and laughed. “Soon we shall not be able to find you at all underneath the host of animals that follow you!”

“I hope not,” said Maglor, holding out his hands. Gandalf grasped them warmly. “It is good to see you, Gandalf.”

“And you, Maglor. You look very well! What is this little one’s name, then?”

“Pídhres,” said Maglor, as Gandalf gave her a scratch behind the ears. “She will climb up anything, but never back down.” Gandalf laughed. He was not much changed from when Maglor had seen him last after the War of the Ring—he had been freed of his labors and cares, and constant joy bubbled under the surface of him just waiting to be released, and Maglor was glad to see that that had not changed. He had even kept his hat, broad-rimmed and summer-sky-blue. 

“And Huan?” Gandalf asked, turning to bow before giving him some scratches of his own. “I am quite surprised to see you here, my good hound. Should you not be making sure another son of Fëanor is staying out of trouble?”

“I cannot answer for Huan,” said Maglor, thinking briefly of the letters he still had not opened. Neither one of them were from Celegorm—but perhaps Huan was Celegorm’s letter. At least he hadn’t really tried to drag Maglor off somewhere. He was just there, a large and steady presence. 

Maglor did not think that he felt better for having gotten drunk and said some foolish things to Finrod and Celebrimbor, but he did not feel worse. The shadows had receded, and his dreams remained untroubled. Celebrimbor had been quiet but his eyes were clear. Finrod did seem better, less fragile than he had been before, though it had been so well hidden that Maglor hadn’t noticed until it had gone away. He still didn’t know why Finrod had been so troubled all of a sudden, what had brought back those particular dark memories, but it didn’t seem right to ask now that they had been banished.

Gandalf was full of news and gossip, none of which meant anything to Elladan and Elrohir and only a little of which Maglor could follow. As he and Elladan retrieved the last of the fireworks from the cart another visitor arrived, a lone horsewoman with dark hair and dark eyes and fingers more or less permanently stained with ink. “Macalaurë!” she exclaimed, swinging down from the saddle. 

He straightened, startled. “Rundamírë,” he said. It was absurd to be surprised, he realized as she came forward to embrace him. Of course she would make her way here for Midsummer, with Curufin off with the rest of his brothers and Celebrimbor here. Maglor had always liked her, his brother’s wife. She took their loud and boisterous family in stride, and had a similar level-headed sense to Nerdanel, and Curufin had been so obviously deeply in love, even before he'd gifted her the epessë Arimeldë, that it had been hard not to love her too just for that. 

It was impossible not to love her all over again for the way she did not so much as glance at the scars on his face, and the way she was so obviously glad to see him, beyond all reason. Everyone was glad to see him, so far, and he still did not quite understand it. “It is good to see you, at last!” she said, stepping back to smile up at him. “I hope you’ll come visit us in Tirion sometime soon.”

“Perhaps,” said Maglor, and turned to wave the twins over; Rundamírë had met Gandalf before, of course, but Maglor introduced the twins, and Elrohir volunteered to take her in search of Celebrimbor. Gandalf waved Elladan and Maglor away, insisting that he take care of the rest of his fireworks himself, for he had a certain order to setting them up and storing them that made no sense to anyone but himself, and he neither cared to explain nor trusted anyone else to get it right. 

Elladan was watching Maglor as they made their own way back toward the house. “You’re making me itch,” Maglor told him. “What’s the matter?”

“I just want to be sure you’re all right,” said Elladan.

“Of course I am. Are you?” Maglor stopped to look at him. He wasn’t truly worried; Elrond and Celebrían—and indeed, the whole of their household—would have been keeping a close eye on both of Elrond’s sons. But sometimes it was nice to turn concern back on the other party.

“Yes, of course,” said Elladan. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Because it was far too soon for this place to be home, no matter how homely it was, and in spite of the merriment of Midsummer and the excitement of new places and new faces, Arwen’s absence remained so palpable that it was a presence unto itself. Maglor did not say any of that out loud, instead tousling Elladan’s hair and disordering his braids, enjoying the squawk of protest before they walked on back into the house. 

Midsummer itself dawned with clouds and a brief shower of rain. Maglor woke to the sound of it on the window, and when he sat up he saw robes draped over a chair across the room that he did not recognize. He untangled himself from his cat and Huan, and went over to look at them. His breath caught when he held them up, for they were… 

They were a prince’s robes, something he would have worn on such a holiday long ago in Tirion, young and bright and shining, with gems in his hair and rings on his fingers and in his ears. They were also not like anything he would have worn then. There was something of the Sea in these robes, in the way the fabric moved and in the soft noise it made when it did, and in the colors of it, all greens and greys and blues. Tiny pearls were sewn into the collar, and the sleeves bore delicate and intricate embroidery—waves and sea foam and gently swirling seashells. 

It was his grandmother’s work, clearly. Maglor laid the robes back down and ran his fingers over the stitches. He rarely wore finery anymore—had only started to take particular care in his appearance after the War of the Ring was done and he found himself spending time in Aragorn and Arwen’s court. But he had never worn anything like this. Only Finwë had ever had robes like this, made by Míriel, that he wore on high days and for solemn ceremonies. They had been far too precious for everyday wear. 

He did not put them on yet, going instead to the window, pushing it open and leaning out to feel the rain on his face. It was cool in the warm air, and he could see blue skies coming up behind the rainclouds. The breeze picked up as the rain faded away, and when the clouds broke the whole valley sparkled in the bright Midsummer sun. Someone below burst into song, and Maglor joined his voice to theirs, singing praises to the raindrops and the flowers and to Arien above them on this longest day of the year. When the song was done Maglor withdrew inside, and found Huan looking at him reproachfully, as he usually did in the mornings. He sat by Maglor’s writing desk, where the letters had been tucked into a drawer. “Absolutely not,” Maglor told him. “Not today.” Huan whined. That was new. Maglor picked up his comb to tease out the tangles of sleep and the dampness of the rain. He heard a drawer opening, and turned to see the one holding the letters now ajar, and Huan looking very reproachful. “It’s a holiday,” Maglor informed him. Huan just woofed. “Ugh. Fine.” 

He set the comb down and went to take the letters out. One from Caranthir, one from Curufin. Curufin had sent something with his, and Maglor gave into curiosity and opened that one first. A pair of earrings fell out onto his palm, small hoops of silver set with minuscule sapphires that glittered as he tilted his hand to look at them. They were delicate and simple, matched perfectly with his new robes, and were exactly the kind of earrings Maglor would have chosen for himself—but not what he would have asked Curufin to make long ago when his brother had made jewelry instead of swords, when Maglor had cared more about such things. His throat went tight, and he set them, very carefully, on the desk, and then sat down on the floor to lean against Huan as he unfolded the letter. 

 

Maglor,

I don’t really blame you for not wanting to see any of us. By the time I died I had lost myself almost entirely and—well, you remember what was left. I have been trying to build myself into something new, something better. Mostly by making things. Pretty things, mostly. Nothing complicated. It is easier when I am not striving for something great or something beautiful, something that might compare to—

Do you remember the combs that I made you, after I spilled that glue in your hair and you had to cut it all off? You didn’t speak to me for two months afterward, and they were the worst two months of my life before the Darkening. I found them, and a box of the beads you used to weave into your braids. I would send them with this letter but they are back in Tirion and I am still at Amil’s house. 

I hope you’ll accept these earrings instead. They are not what you once wore but it felt right to choose them for you. 

Curufin 

 

Maglor lowered the letter and breathed out. The worst two months of his life? Surely that was exaggeration. He set the letter on the desk above his head and turned to bury his face in Huan’s fur. He remembered very well having to cut all his hair off because Curufin had spilled some kind of experimental glue all over it. He never had learned what it had been for, and he had been furious, though it seemed ridiculous now. It was only hair. When next he had had his hair cut short, it had been to rid it of the years of matted filth from the dungeons of Dol Guldur. It had been strange and uncomfortable and it had grown back far more slowly. 

When he felt he could breathe again, he opened Caranthir’s. 

 

Cáno,

No one else is going to ask you to come home because they are trying to give you time or because they are afraid you’ll say no, but if it were me in your place, even if I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to see anyone or not, it would hurt not to be asked. I would stay away too if I thought that I was not wanted. But you are wanted. We are all here, because Ammë wanted us here, but no one is really speaking to each other and everything feels wrong and off balance. I’m sure Tyelpë and Finrod will have told you how badly Maedhros misses you, because it’s true, but the rest of us miss you too.

I miss you. Please come home. 

Moryo

 

Maglor set that letter on top of the other one and pulled his knees to his chest so he could bury his face in his arms. Huan lay down next to him, pressing against his side. His eyes burned, but the tears didn’t fall. Maglor allowed himself a few minutes to just sit and not think about anything at all, and then pulled himself up. He folded the letters and tucked them into the drawer again. “Satisfied?” he asked Huan, who woofed softly, which didn’t answer the question at all.

He finished combing his hair and braided it more elaborately and with more care than normal, winding silver ribbons through, pale enough that the white in his hair could be mistaken for them. He had not planned on wearing any jewelry, but the earrings sat on his desk and glittered as he pulled on the robes his grandmother had made, and it felt strange to wear such fine clothes and no jewels at all. There was a box of rings and armbands and necklaces, and another with a few circlets that he had been gifted over the years by friends in Imladris, by Elrond and his sons, by Arwen and Aragorn. He wore few of them and only seldom—really, only when he visited Minas Tirith or Annúminas—but now he opened them up and chose a few rings, and a circlet. Then he picked up the earrings and slid them into place. 

Ready at last, he turned to the mirror. He looked…not like Macalaurë of Tirion, exactly, but closer than he had looked in many centuries. Maglor stared at himself, and then looked at Huan. “I do not feel nearly as splendid as I look,” he said. Huan yawned. “All right, come on.” Maglor scooped Pídhres up off the bed and went downstairs. 

The whole household and all the guests were turned out in their own finery. Elrond was resplendent and Celebrían radiant. “These are new,” said Elrohir, appearing at Maglor’s side as he poured himself tea, reaching up to touch the earrings. “They’re lovely.”

“They were a gift,” Maglor said. Elrohir tilted his head, eyes bright with curiosity, though he didn’t push. He had half a dozen small golden hoops glinting up the curve of his own ears, bright gold against the dark fall of his hair, which was entirely loose and held back from his face by the golden circlet he wore. “Where is Elladan?”

“Outside already. Come on!” Elrohir looped his arm through Maglor’s and drew him outside to the wide flowery field where picnic tables and blankets had been scattered about, and tents raised against the heat of the summer sun, though it was still early enough to be pleasantly warm instead. There was music everywhere, and footraces and other games, but most were sprawled out on the picnic blankets or sitting at the tables. Maglor sat between the twins on their blanket and let himself get swept up in the merriment. 

And it was merry. The whole day was games and singing and music, of more laughter than speech, and rich food and flowing wine and all the joy that summertime brought. Maglor played music more than he danced, and he sang with Elrond and with Elemmírë. Maglor did not think about his brothers at all. 

The sun set in a glory of fire in the west, with clouds billowing up to shine red and orange, haloed with light like molten gold. “That is my favorite thing about Anar,” Elemmírë said to Maglor as they watched it, sitting among irises and violets. “Sunrises and sunsets. We did not have these with the Trees.” Maglor hummed agreement. He became aware of her gaze on him; Elemmírë missed very little, but she had not asked about the scars. Not even the ones on his wrists, bared for the world to see when he shook back his sleeves to play the harp. “Your voice is changed,” Elemmírë said. 

“Yes,” Maglor said. “I am…not what I was.”

“When you say it, you mean that you have diminished,” Elemmírë said. “But that is not so. It is as strong as it ever was.” 

Maglor turned to her, startled. “No it isn’t,” he said before thinking better of it. It was not the kind of argument he could have with Elemmírë, of all people, and hope to win. 

She looked at him gravely. “It is stronger in the way a bone is stronger after it has healed from a break,” she said. “I do not ask what happened to you, Macalaurë; I can see and hear enough to know it was grievous.” She placed her hand over his. “But you survived, and you are here, and I am very glad.”

“I forgot,” Maglor said softly. “The first lessons you taught me—the most important ones. I forgot them in the dark.” In the dark of his own self, in Beleriand, when the Oath and the blood and the grief had drowned everything else. And then after, in the dark of Dol Guldur where there was nothing but cold stone and the heavy weight of the Eye upon him.

“But you relearned them after,” Elemmírë said. 

“Maybe. I think I would like to learn them again from you,” Maglor said. “And whatever else you would teach me now.”

“You can come to me whenever you like, Macalaurë. My door is always open.”

“Thank you.” Maglor hadn’t even known that he had feared this particular rejection until it did not come to pass; it felt as astonishing as seeing Uinen smile at him from just beneath the water’s surface as they sped toward Eldamar rising up in the distance. 

Her smile brightened a little and she added, “I hope you will bring Daeron with you when you visit. I have heard much praise of him and I am eager to meet him.”

“The tales are all true when they speak of his skill,” said Maglor, grinning. “He would like to meet you too.”

“Do you know him well? I had heard you sailed together, but one voyage does not necessarily a friendship build.”

“We had met before,” Maglor said, thinking of the sunlight on the Pools of Ivrin, the sweet honey mead of the Northern Sindar, and the first proper wines that the Noldor had made in Beleriand, and the easy laughter and hours of music shared both in front of and away from audiences. “I think you will like him. He was a student of Queen Melian of Doriath.”

“A mighty teacher indeed,” said Elemmírë. “I look forward to meeting him, and to all three of us singing together.” She took up her violin and began to play, sliding the bow across the strings with liquid smoothness, teasing out a gentle melody for the coming of the evening. Maglor put his fingers to his harp strings, and they played together until Gil-Estel was shining in the west and night had come, and Gandalf set off the first of his fireworks to burst in the air above them, hanging red and green against the sky. Somewhere nearby Elladan and Elrohir burst into song—one that Bilbo had written based upon a verse that Sam had once made, turning grief into joy afterward, of the finest rockets ever seen, and stars bursting in all colors of the rainbow, sending a rain of sparks down onto the water. Lindir joined them with his flute as Gandalf sent another firework soaring into the sky with a whine to erupt in a bright flash of fire and crackling white sparks that burst in all directions like shooting stars. 

After the fireworks there was more singing, and bonfires with more dancing, wild and ancient beneath the stars, to drumbeats and chanting, heads thrown back, arms flung out wide. The night was a short one, as the day had been long, but it was moonless, starlit and beautiful; the ponds and the streams sparkled with it, and as the wildness faded away the songs grew older still, songs of starlight upon other older waters, songs of a home left willingly but still missed even by those who had never seen it. 

By the time Maglor got back to his own room it was nearing dawn, and he was tired but not enough to sleep, feeling loose and warm with good drink and good food, but not drunk. Pídhres was already on the bed, curled up asleep on a pillow, and Huan followed Maglor in; for the first time that day he’d left Maglor mostly alone, instead leaping about and cavorting with the dancers, jumping into ponds, and acting more like a dog than whatever it was he was doing with Maglor. Guarding him? Chaperoning him? Waiting for a chance to drag him off to wherever Celegorm was? 

“I wish you would talk,” Maglor told him as he carefully slipped out of his robes. The garment was not a fragile thing but it was precious, this first gift from his grandmother that he had ever received. He hung it up with equal care, and then sat down to take his jewelry off. It was a strange and jarringly familiar ritual, in the same way that Tirion had been strange and familiar, in the way that the whole land of Valinor was, changed and unchanged at the same time. “I wish you would tell me why Celegorm sent you.” Huan woofed and butted his head into Maglor’s shoulder, not quite hard enough to knock him out of the chair. “I don’t need you to keep an eye on me, you know. I have not needed that in a very long time.” Huan butted his head against him again and this time he did knock Maglor out of the chair. “Huan!” One of his new earrings went rolling over the floor, and Maglor had a moment of absurd panic that it would be lost, before he got his wits back and snatched it up. 

He put the earrings into the box with the rings and other bits of jewelry, and loosened his hair from its braids, tossing the ribbons by the jewelry box to put away properly later. Then he turned to the desk, and took out the letters again.

You didn’t speak to me for two months afterward, and they were the worst two months of my life before the Darkening.

I miss you. Please come home.

Maglor looked at Huan, who looked back at him with dark, solemn eyes. “You left once,” Maglor said. “Why did you go back, I wonder?”

Of course Huan did not answer.