High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

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Sixteen

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The first journey that Maedhros could remember had been taken with his parents. It was before Maglor had been born—maybe even in the early day’s of Nerdanel’s pregnancy, for he had so few memories of the time before he was a brother—and he had been small enough to be carried against his father’s chest, strapped up snugly and securely. It had not been a long journey, only a few days out into the woods where he could explore the thickets and splash in a stream and sleep curled up between his parents on a blanket spread over ferns and moss. He remembered waking up disoriented and afraid—there had been some noise in the underbrush, maybe—and his father had been there to gather him up and pepper kisses all over his face until he giggled, forgetting his fears. Fëanor had been warm, his hands calloused and rough from forge work, strong but always gentle with it, whispering Nelyo, my Nelyo, of course you are safe, I’m right here, in the soft silver-edged shadows under the trees until Maedhros had drifted back to sleep. 

Maedhros lay in his bed and stared at the plain white-washed ceiling, listening to his brothers prepare for departure outside. They had refused to let him do anything besides pack his own bags, united in this as they had not been since the last of them returned from Mandos. Just as well, since he couldn’t seem to get his mind to focus on anything useful—just memories, going around and around in circles, the good ones fading into the awful ones, all of them hazy like he was seeing them through smoke. 

A knock on the door heralded his mother. She sat down on the bed beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. Maedhros couldn’t stop a shuddering sigh from escaping as he closed his eyes, turning towards her. She smelled of fresh air and clay. “What did he say to you, Maitimo?” she asked softly. 

“Nothing,” Maedhros said. “I didn’t let him speak. It was—I needed him to—to see me.” 

“He saw you, my love,” Nerdanel said, “with clear eyes.”

“Did he?” Maedhros whispered. 

“He saw the fire of his own spirit burning in you,” Nerdanel said, “and saw and heard how it hurts you, and it grieves him, Maitimo. It truly does.”

“Did he come…”

“No. No, I will not have him under my roof when it will do nothing but hurt you. I sent him to my father—they know to expect him, and I think it might do him good to hear all that his old teacher has to say. He and I will speak again once you have gone.” Nerdanel kept stroking his hair, the way she had when he had been small, when the things that had troubled him had been foolishly simple—the dark under his bed or a quarrel with one of his brothers about something silly. “I think it will be good for you to get away from this place,” she said after a while. “You’ve shut yourself up here for long enough.”

“Ammë…” 

“What is it?”

“Did Mag—did Macalaurë send a message to you with Tyelpë?”

“He wrote to me. Do you want to see it?”

“No. I just…wondered how he is.”

“There’s nothing in it you should not see, nothing that he asked me to keep in confidence.” Nerdanel rose from the bed. “I’ll fetch it.” 

Maedhros sat up as she left the room, rubbing his hand over his face. He glanced out of the window, which looked toward the river. No one was there, but he felt uneasy still, knowing that Fëanor had not gone far. The ugly twisting in his stomach returned, but retreated when he got up to open the window, letting in the breeze and the sound of his brothers bickering over something. Maedhros leaned against the window and listened for a moment, but it sounded—well, if not good natured, then at least not dangerous. 

“Here it is, Maitimo.” Nerdanel returned with a letter. There was a smudge of ink near the top, as though he had put the pen there and hesitated for too long. The first few paragraphs, short, were cheerful as he described a little of his voyage west, and the cat that he had brought with him, and his rekindled friendship with Daeron of Doriath. 

Maedhros hadn’t known that Daeron had come west. He hadn’t thought of Daeron since—since the Mereth Aderthad, probably. He’d seen Maglor come worryingly close to losing his heart to the minstrel of Doriath, though Maglor had laughed it off, and seemed to forget all about Daeron himself once they returned to the east. Maybe that was just one more thing that Maedhros hadn’t seen, or had chosen not to see because it had been easier to let Maglor reassure him than to ask more questions.

Near the bottom there was another ink spot, and a few lines alluding to what befell me in Wilderland, and an entreaty to Nerdanel not to worry anymore. 

“Do you believe him?” Maedhros asked finally, handing the letter back, thinking again of his brother the performer, his brother who knew exactly what to say to put others at ease. Thinking of how that letter did not sound like the brother he had once known. Maglor’s letters had always been infrequent but long, rambling, with bits of verse and sometimes small drawings. In this one not even his cat had earned a couplet, let alone a tiny sketch. In this one even the bright tones of the beginning paragraphs sounded brittle and false. They were too short. When had Maglor lacked words for anything as song-worthy as his return voyage from Middle-earth? When had he had to think so hard of what to say that he left ink plots on the page? “Do you believe that he is well?”

“Both Telperinquar and Finrod have told me the same,” Nerdanel said. “They say that he laughs and sings and is a beloved member of Elrond’s household. Galadriel, too, has told me such news as Elrond’s sons wrote to her or to her daughter over the years, and all of it has been good. I’ve shared some of it with you.”

Galadriel, though, did not know Maglor. “But he does not want to come here,” Maedhros said. 

“Finrod also told me that he was not prepared to learn that all of you were returned to us,” Nerdanel said.

“Yes, I know.” Finrod also said that Maglor had not even wanted to speak of Maedhros, let alone see him.

“Give him time, Maitimo. Let him find his footing. You know how much these lands have changed since he last walked them. When he is settled he will come.” 

“Maedhros?” Celegorm appeared at the door. “We’re ready to go.”

“I’ll walk down with you,” said Nerdanel, taking Maedhros’ arm as they followed Celegorm. “Do not think about your brother,” she said to him quietly, “or your father. You used to love to wander and explore, all of you. Let that be all that you concern yourself with for a time. And there is time, Maitimo. There is all of the time in the world for Macalaurë to find his way home. And for you.”

Outside, Nerdanel embraced them all and admonished them to be careful and watch out for one another—all of the things she had told them when they were young, including: “And do you have one of the stones?”

“Yes, Ammë,” said Celegorm, to Maedhros’ surprise. “I have it.”

“Good. Be sure to use it once in a while!”

Maedhros pulled himself up into the saddle; he’d ridden very little since his return and riding without anything heavier than his own clothes and a hunting knife on his belt still felt strange. “Don’t look at me,” he said, trying to lighten his voice a little, when his brothers all glanced at him—almost as long a habit as Nerdanel’s words. “I am not leading this journey.”

“No,” Celegorm agreed with a swift and bright smile. “I am! We are heading west. Farewell for now, Ammë!”

“Farewell, my sons,” Nerdanel said. “Remember it is Midsummer very soon. Find something to celebrate!”

“I shall celebrate being far away from Tirion,” Celegorm said once they had left the courtyard and struck out at an easy pace across the fields, westward, toward the river. “Did anyone think to pack wine?”

“I did,” said Curufin and Amras at the same time, before exchanging either a grin or a grimace; Maedhros couldn’t tell which. He was not at all sure getting drunk would be wise for any of them, but he said nothing. The worst that would happen, probably, was that they argued and shouted at each other, and by the time Midsummer rolled around they would likely be very far from anyone that would be disturbed by it. 

He glanced back once, as they splashed across the river. There was movement near the gate leading into Ennalótë and Mahtan’s garden, but he could not see clearly who it was. The lights were on in Nerdanel’s workshop. He turned away, not liking the sense that someone—he knew precisely who—was watching them go. “Where are we going?” he asked. 

“West,” said Celegorm, in that tone that said he knew he was being infuriating. 

Maedhros pinched the bridge of his nose, but before he could say anything Caranthir said, rolling his eyes, “West is a direction, not a destination.”

“Do we need a destination?” Celegorm replied. “That isn’t the point. We’ll turn around when we’ve gone far enough. Or when we reach Ekkaia, I suppose. Whichever happens first.” He spoke breezily, but glanced over his shoulder at Maedhros, eyes uncertain above his careless smile. 

“I have no objection,” Maedhros said. “I told you I don’t care where we go. I only wondered.”

“Won’t Rundamírë wonder where you went?” Amrod asked Curufin after a few minutes of riding in silence.

“Tyelpë will explain,” Curufin said. “He said he would ask her to spend Midsummer with him at Imloth Ningloron.” The words dropped into a sudden weighty silence, because to speak of Elrond’s valley was to speak of Maglor, even if they did not say his name. Maedhros looked away. 

It was Caranthir who broke it. “I spent Midsummer there once. It was—very merry.”

“When did you go to Imloth Ningloron?” Amras asked.

“And why?” Amrod added. 

Caranthir flushed, but it wasn’t an angry red. “I was—I was introduced to the Ringbearers once in Tirion by accident, and then the older one, Bilbo, wouldn’t stop writing to me. He wasn’t much of a gardener himself, but he loved flowers, and that’s mostly what we wrote about. He sent an invitation, so…I went.”

“What were they like, the halflings?” asked Celegorm, having dropped back to join the rest of them. 

“They were…strange. I think they were accounted strange even among their own people. Bilbo used to laugh about it. But—I don’t know. I liked Bilbo. Frodo was…” Caranthir trailed off, gaze going distant. “Frodo was the one that carried the Ring to the fire, he and Sam—Sam was a gardener. It became his family name. I liked him too. I liked them all. But Frodo…Tyelpë knew him better than I did. There was very little laughter in him for a long time, not like Bilbo who laughed at everything. He had been…hollowed out.” For a little while none of them spoke. They all knew what that felt like, though their cause had not been nearly so noble, nor so selfless, as that of Frodo Baggins. 

Maedhros asked, quietly, “Did he find the healing he sought?”

“Yes,” Caranthir said, quiet but firm. “Yes, he did. And so did Tyelpë.”

“Tyelpë has never spoken of him much,” Curufin said. “But he was restless when he first came back, and after he started to visit Imloth Ningloron he grew steadier. He started to make things again.” He paused, and added a little sadly, “I do not think he will ever make jewels again, though.” 

“He’s making those windows for Fingolfin, isn’t he?” asked Caranthir. 

“He is.”

“What do we think Fingolfin will do about Atar?” asked Celegorm after a little while.

So much for not thinking of Fëanor, Maedhros thought. “Fingolfin has never done anything unless provoked,” he said. “I told Fingon and Finrod that Atar would have no support from us if he tried to make trouble.” 

“Will we support Fingolfin instead, or will we keep out of it entirely?” asked Amrod. 

“If I am asked I will stand by Fingolfin,” Maedhros said. He did not think he would be asked. All their old followers were either still in the Halls, or scattered throughout Eressëa and Tirion and Imloth Ningloron, or other smaller settlements that had sprung up over the last few thousand years. There was no reason to believe any would come if he called—and he did not want to have to call. It would be enough, he thought, that he did not stand behind his father.

No one asked what had passed between him and Fëanor, and Maedhros was grateful for it. They soon spoke of other things—of the land, of the forests, of where they might stop that night to make camp. It was simple and light and if not for the fact that there were only six of them it might have been easy to pretend they were in Beleriand during the Long Peace, taking a hunting trip or traveling between their strongholds together. It was so easy to forget that there had been joy then, not only death and grief and war. There had been peace for a while, even if it had been false. There had been beauty, and the thrill of wide new lands to explore under the open skies and the new-risen sun and the stars. It was easy for Maedhros to forget that he had been happy. He had been grateful beyond words to Fingon for bringing him out of Angband, astonished and overjoyed to still be alive after everything…

He remembered it in a strange, distant sort of way. He remembered having the feelings, but not what they had actually felt like. He remembered wanting to keep living, to keep going, to keep fighting, but that desire had left him long before he had at last left the world and he did not know how to find it again. If he could just see Maglor again, maybe…

Maedhros didn’t know what that would achieve. If he saw Maglor again more than likely all it would do was hurt both of them. 

The conversation had gone on without him, and when he listened again he found them talking about Bilbo Baggins again, and his passion for songs and poetry. Ambarussa insisted that Caranthir sing them one of Bilbo’s songs, but it was only after Celegorm added his own entreaties that he obliged. None of them could claim a voice comparable to Maglor’s, but Caranthir’s was fair, low and warm and well suited to the cheerful and silly songs that Bilbo Baggins had brought into the west. He sang of the Man in the Moon coming down to an inn and getting drunk, and even Maedhros had to smile at such cheerful nonsense. Ambarussa joined him on the second round with their songbird bright voices. None of them had learned Westron until fairly recently, but it was a language well suited to such songs, Maedhros thought. Their own tongue felt too old for it, too heavy for quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle and the cow jumped over the moon. 

After they finished laughing, Celegorm sang a traveling song of their own, one they had often sung together while riding through Beleriand, between Himring and Thargelion, or from Himlad to Hithlum. Maedhros did not sing, but the remaining sick feeling in his stomach ebbed with each step they took away from their father, and he felt steadier, less like he was going to dissolve into ashes at the slightest provocation, even if he still did not feel quite…himself, or as close to himself as he’d gotten since his return from Mandos. 

They did not stop until well after sunset, when the moon was rising behind them. Celegorm came over to take the reins of Maedhros’ horse, and Maedhros caught his arm before he could turn away. “Thank you,” Maedhros said quietly. 

“We should have done this years ago,” Celegorm said. He hesitated, and then said, “Nelyo…you should have told us about Maglor.”

“I can’t apologize for keeping it from you.”

“It can’t be worse than what we saw before,” said Celegorm. 

Maybe that was so. They had all seen the work of Angband before, in prisoners and escaped thralls, but… “It was never your brother before, Tyelko.”

Celegorm looked at him in astonishment. “Who do you think I meant?” he asked. “Nelyo, of all of us it is you who never before had to watch a brother suffer so.” Maedhros felt his mouth drop open, but he couldn’t think of what to say. “You must stop trying to carry all these burdens alone. First Cáno, then Atar—don’t speak to him alone again next time.”

“That wasn’t the same,” Maedhros said. “That wasn’t—it was what I said to him that I did not want Moryo to hear.”

“Well, now you have said it, so you won’t need to send anyone away. You aren’t alone, Nelyo. That’s all I need you to understand.” 

Celegorm led the horses away, leaving Maedhros to wonder just how bad he had looked when he’d come back from Thangorodrim. By the time he had been given a mirror he’d recovered enough that it had not been so terrible to look at, and his memories of those first days were so hazy… 

“Nelyo, come sit down,” Ambarussa called from where they had started a fire. Maedhros obeyed, and found himself pulled down between them so each twin could claim a shoulder to lean against as all three leaned against a fallen log. Caranthir carefully placed increasingly larger pieces of wood onto the growing fire, and Curufin was digging through one of the bags and muttering to himself. 

It was all so normal. Overhead the stars shone down on them, and in the east the moon had risen, waning but still mostly full. Maedhros allowed himself the small luxury of leaning back against the log and staring up at the stars while Ambarussa whispered together in the half-sentences they used when they weren’t worried about anyone else needing to understand. He did not trace new constellations as he watched the stars; that had been a game he and Maglor had played. But he counted them, and by the time his attention was called back to his brothers he could accept a piece of way bread and an apple and be able to eat them without choking.