High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

---

Seventeen

---

Once he read the letters Huan, for reasons known only to himself, left Maglor alone for whole hours at a time. It was nice not to be continually watched by a great hound, though Maglor did wonder what Huan was doing with himself otherwise; if his errand had only been to get Maglor to read the letters, why did he still linger in the valley? 

During one such stretch of freedom, he went looking for Galadriel, and found her with Finrod and Celeborn, talking of Doriath. “Cousin, may I borrow you for a while?” Maglor said, leaning on the door frame. Finrod started to rise. “No, I meant my favorite cousin.” 

“I beg your pardon!” Finrod exclaimed as he sank back into his eat, and Galadriel rose laughing. “When was I supplanted as your favorite, Maglor?”

“Who has said Galadriel is supplanting you?” Maglor replied, just to see Finrod splutter.

“Who was it, then?” Finrod demanded when he regained his ability to speak. “Do not say Fingon! He’s everyone’s favorite and I would be ashamed of your unoriginality.” 

“Elessúrë,” Maglor replied without hesitation. He held out his arm to Galadriel, who was still laughing as she accepted it, and they left Finrod sputtering again while Celeborn laughed at him.

“If I recall correctly,” Galadriel said as they stepped outside into the sunshine, “your cousin Elessúrë was a child when we left these shores.”

“He was,” Maglor said. He had been just big enough to want to follow Maglor around wherever he went, before they had all packed up and removed to Formenos. Maglor hadn’t thought, then, that they would be gone so long. He had thought that he would come home to visit—he and his brothers had not been under exile, however his father spoke of it. In the end he had only seen his mother’s family once more before they left, a brief and grievous parting; his baby cousin had clung to him and wept, begging to either go with him or for Maglor to stay. “I was his favorite cousin, anyway.” Elessúrë would be grown now, perhaps with a family of his own. Maglor likely had other cousins, too, that had been born after the rising of the Sun and Moon that he had never known. “And on your side of the family my favorite was Finrod, but for heaven’s sake don’t tell him that.”

“Of course not, so long as I really am your current favorite,” Galadriel said. “What was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

“I said it to tease Finrod, but it is true,” Maglor said. “And I wanted…let’s go this way.” He led her to the memorial garden, where it was quiet and set apart. The mallorn’s branches rustled as though in greeting as they stepped through the gate. Galadriel stepped forward to lean over the rose bush, which had a fresh and sweet scent not quite like any other roses Maglor had known. He went to the statue of Gilraen, running his fingers over hers in greeting before turning away. By unspoken agreement they passed to the other side of the mallorn tree where there was a bench in the shade. Maglor sat, toying with the end of one of his braids, as Galadriel joined him and waited. He no longer feared the keenness of her gaze, but it was easier to look at another flowering bush as he said, “Have you seen much of my brothers since you came back?”

“Not as much as my brother has,” said Galadriel. “They come but rarely to Tirion except for Curufin, and he’s been subtly avoiding our branch of the family. He and Finrod have spoken, I think, but Finrod has not told me what passed between them. Are you sure you do not want to speak to him?”

“I’m sure,” Maglor said, and turned to look at her. “He wants me to go to see them even more badly than Celebrimbor does.”

“He is one of the few that can speak to Maedhros these days and expect to be listened to,” Galadriel said. “What do you want to know of them? I will tell you what I can.”

“I don’t…I don’t know. I know…several people have told me that Maedhros isn’t well, but…”

“He is not,” Galadriel said. “Celebrían describes him as wallowing, which is perhaps accurate but not entirely kind.”

“But no one has told me of the others,” Maglor said. “I have six brothers, not only one, and…I don’t know if I want to see any of them, but—” It was so hard to explain. “Tyelpë has told me a little,” he said. “He told me his parents have reconciled, and that Celegorm and Ambarussa spend all their time in the wild, but—perhaps if knew what questions to ask I would…” 

“I cannot pretend to understand exactly how fraught it all is,” Galadriel said. “My own reunions were much different. From what your mother has said…they are all well, in their own ways. Tirion is not unwelcoming but it is not quite welcoming, either. Caranthir spends his days in his own gardens or in Mahtan’s workshops. I cannot speak for Ambarussa or Celegorm. I have heard it said they’ve rejoined Oromë’s host.”

“You said that they made appearances in Tirion at Midwinter,” Maglor said. Galadriel had shared many absurd and silly stories from the last few years, but she’d skirted around his brothers. He had been grateful for it—was still grateful, for this conversation was making everything inside him twist and knot up, and making it hard to breathe. The only versions of his brothers’ faces he could conjure in his mind were the dream-ghosts that had haunted him in Dol Guldur, and he did not know if they were how he really remembered them or if it was another trick of Sauron’s, distorting them the way he had distorted Nerdanel. He hated the fear that kept clawing its way back up his throat, burning like bile.

“They did. Fingolfin invited them and I think it was only Nerdanel’s insistence that made them come. Even Maedhros came, though he did not stay long and he only spoke to Fingon. The rest were cheerful enough. Again, Finrod would be the better one to ask; he spoke to them more than I did. If it eases your mind, your mother does not seem worried about them.”

“I suppose it does,” Maglor said. 

“You did not want to hear anything of them before we left Avallónë,” Galadriel said softly. “What has changed?”

“They wrote to me. Caranthir and Curufin. Curufin sent…he sent a gift.” Maglor rubbed a hand over his face, feeling tears gathering. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Did they ask something of you that you are not willing to give?”

“Caranthir asked me to go home,” Maglor whispered. “But I don’t…it isn’t that I am unwilling, I just…” He pressed both of his hands to his face, and after a moment Galadriel moved closer to embrace him. He leaned into it gratefully. The tears didn’t fall, but they burned behind his eyes. “I did not think they would be here. I didn’t think I would have to…”

“I am sorry,” Galadriel said.

“Tyelpë said they have all gone off somewhere,” Maglor said. “They would not be there if I went looking, anyway.”

“Will you go to your mother?” Galadriel asked. 

He sighed, and lowered his hands, though he did not lift his head from Galadriel’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Yes, I must, I…” He bit his tongue, and then wondered if it would help to speak aloud this particular torment. He didn’t need to get drunk for it—in fact, he never wanted to get drunk and talk of it again—but there was something to be said for voicing the worst things that lived in his heart, and being heard. Galadriel had already seen him at his weakest and most broken. It was she who had removed the stitches from his lips and given him a room where the first thing he saw upon waking was the bright gold of the mallorn leaves outside of his window. He had been so badly mistaken in his judgment of her once, but he knew better now than to expect anything but compassion.

He sat up, and Galadriel released him so that she could hold his hand instead—the scarred one. “What is it?” she asked. 

“In…in Dol Guldur…” He put his free hand to his lips, feeling the scars there. “He tried to use my mother against me, and I…”

“It didn’t work,” Galadriel said softly. 

“No,” he agreed, “but I cannot remember what her face looks like—I can only see the mockery of it that he used. I don’t—I don’t know why this makes me so hesitant to see her but it does, and I…”

Galadriel squeezed his hand. “You do not need to explain yourself to me. It is enough to know that he sullied your memories of her. It is as unforgivable a thing as anything else he did. I am sorry, Macalaurë. I would have sought to show you her face in my mirror had I known.”

“I could not have looked into your mirror,” Maglor said. “It would have only drawn me to see…things I would rather not.” He did not know much of that sort of power, but he was sure of that. His own will would have had to be stronger than it was, regardless of Galadriel’s own power.

“She is so close by now. You can be there in a day or less if you ride hard.”

“I know.”

“Anyone would accompany you if you asked.”

“I know,” he said again. And Huan would accompany him whether he asked or not. But Celebrimbor had said that Fëanor had come there, and Maglor did not know if he was still nearby. Mahtan’s house was so close by, and that was another place Maglor needed to visit soon. To see his grandparents and his aunt and uncle and whatever cousins might be there, who he had never met or who he had left behind long ago. What would little Elessúrë think of what his once-favorite cousin had become?

“I think,” Maglor said finally, “what I really wanted to ask you is—are my brothers now as they were when you last saw them in Middle-earth?”

“I saw very little of any of you in Beleriand, as you know,” Galadriel said after a moment. “But…no. No, they are not. The Oath is long over and done and they are trying to find their way to who they might have been had it never been sworn, and for the most part I think they are succeeding. Mandos was kind to them. Even to Maedhros—it is Maedhros who will not be kind to himself. I do not say that to try to convince you to go to him,” she added when Maglor looked away. 

“I know,” he said. 

“And I will tell my brother to stop trying to convince you,” she said after a moment.

“He hasn’t been,” Maglor said. “But if I tried to speak to him of this I think that he would. I know that he means well…”

“Well, there is a reason I am your favorite and not him,” Galadriel said, with just enough smugness that Maglor couldn’t help but laugh, a pathetically small and damp sound, but still enough to lift some of the weight of this conversation from his spirit. “What will you do?” she asked. 

“Today? I will go throw clay on the wheel until I feel steadier. Maybe I will even make something worth firing; maybe I will be able to decide what I want to do afterward.”

“A good plan,” said Galadriel.

“I don’t think I will come back for lunch,” Maglor said. It was nearing noon, but he had no appetite, and he could not bear other company. “Will you tell Elrond? He still worries about me eating.”

“I will tell him, but should I be worried about you eating?” 

“No.” Maglor summoned a smile for her as they rose, knowing he looked something of a mess. “By now Elrond just worries out of habit. I’ll eat later, I promise.”

“I will hold you to it.”

Maglor embraced Galadriel, and kissed her cheek. “You really are my favorite cousin,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Macalaurë. Tell me when you decide what to do. I will go with you if you wish.”

“I will.”

Maglor stopped by a stream to wash his face before going on to the workshops. No one else was working with clay that day, and with relief he settled down at the wheel, throwing the clay down onto it with a satisfying thwack. He worked it for a while with no particular purpose, just enjoying the feeling of it shifting underneath his fingers. Clay was clay, whether in Valinor or Middle-earth, and there was comfort in that. He hummed as he worked, no particular song, just an old melody he’d learned long ago. After a while he heard a familiar thump outside the door, and looked up to see Huan sprawled out in the shade of the workshop. “Hello, Huan,” he said, receiving a lazy woof in reply. He turned back to his clay, which seemed to want to be a bowl. As he focused on the making rather than just the feeling, he started singing properly, a making-song he had learned in Rivendell. It was best when sung in company, but even alone it lifted his spirits and steadied his fingers, so that when he was finally done the bowl was even in form and in thickness. He carved a design into the rim of it, wavy and curling, and then etched a small M rune into the bottom before he set it on the rack to dry in anticipation of firing later. 

For a long time he had not found any particular satisfaction in making anything. It had been something to do with his hands and something to think about outside of himself. Now, though, he was smiling as he left the workshop to wash the clay from his hands. Huan followed him down to the stream, and when he was clean Maglor threw his arms around Huan’s big neck and kissed his nose. Whatever else was wrong, he could still make things. He could shape clay and he could carve wood and he could write songs, and he could fix things that were broken in a way that brought new beauty to them. Sauron had taken his memories and twisted them, and he had taken his freedom and he had taken his strength and even his voice—but he had not, in the end, taken everything. And what he had taken could be recovered. Had been recovered. 

It occurred to him that maybe the distorted memories could be recovered too. “Perhaps I should go to Lórien,” he said aloud. Huan licked up the side of his face. “Ugh, Huan!”

“Maglor?” Elladan and Elrohir came up the path. “Have you eaten lunch yet?” Elrohir asked, coming to sit beside him. “No? Of course not.”

“I’m fine,” Maglor said, but he accepted the bowl of raspberries presented to him. He ate one and savored the bright burst of sweetness on his tongue.

“Visitors are coming down the road,” Elladan said, sitting on Elrohir’s other side. “With banners.”

“What banners?” Maglor asked. 

“Silver and blue,” said Elrohir. “Ada neglected to tell us that he is expecting a visit from High King Fingolfin.” Maglor made a face. “Do you want to avoid him?”

“No…no, I shouldn’t.” Just a minute ago he had been feeling more confident than he had since disembarking in Avallónë—but this news might be almost enough to undo all the good that a few hours working clay had done him, if he was not careful.

“Do you want to? For today, anyway,” said Elladan. “He’ll likely be here for several days at least.”

Maglor grinned at them. “Are you trying to avoid meeting my uncle? He is your grandfather.”

“He is our very formidable grandfather,” said Elladan.

“You are rather formidable yourselves,” Maglor pointed out as he ate a few more raspberries. 

“Not in these lands, we are not,” said Elrohir, laughing. “We fought at the Black Gate but that is not the same as challenging Morgoth himself! You’re right, though, that we shouldn’t hide away like children—but we needed to prepare ourselves. This is all even worse than when Glorfindel came to Rivendell for the first time—it took us almost a full month to get up the courage to speak to him longer than a good morning or good evening. But I think Fingolfin wishes to speak to Ada about something in particular, so perhaps we should wait a little before we go back in.”

Maglor lifted the bowl away from Huan’s questing nose. “I will not argue,” he said. “Let the great ones take counsel together, and then I can go say hello to my uncle. Huan!” Huan had abandoned the raspberries but had returned to licking Maglor’s face, which was worse. “What is the matter with you—” Elrohir, laughing, managed to rescue the berries when Huan shoved Maglor down onto the grass, presumably to make licking him easier. 

“It’s nice to know that the great Hound of Valinor is, sometimes, just a dog,” Elladan said as he took a berry from the bowl. 

“The great Hound of Valinor is a menace,” Maglor said through gritted teeth, trying and failing to shove Huan off of him. 

Someone called up the path, and still Huan did not stop trying to coat Maglor in as thick a layer of drool as possible. Elladan and Elrohir scrambled to their feet, and it wasn’t until Maglor heard laughter that he recognized the voice. Of course Fingon would come to find him at the least dignified moment imaginable. “Help,” he said, and it took both the twins pulling and Maglor shoving to get Huan off of him. At least when Maglor got to his feet he wasn’t knocked over again in an instant. He wiped his face as best he could, but knew he still looked a disheveled mess when he turned to greet Fingon. 

Fingon only laughed at him, of course, and embraced him with as much force as Celebrimbor had by the docks of Avallónë. “At last, Maglor, you’re here! Whatever took you so long?”

“It’s good to see you too,” said Maglor as he returned the embrace, and he found that he really meant it. Fingon had always shone, an exuberant and joyful presence even as the shadows lengthened and the wind out of the north grew bitter and colder with every passing year, and in the bright summer sunshine, with golden ribbons in his hair, he seemed even brighter than he had before. 

His smile dimmed, however, when he drew back enough to see Maglor’s face properly. Maglor spoke before he could. “I know, I am a mess. Huan decided I needed a bath like I was a puppy.” Fingon laughed, but his smile no longer reached his eyes, and Maglor saw his gaze linger a moment on the scars. He turned away from it. “Have you met your nephews yet? Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond and Celebrían.”

“I have not!” Fingon turned his blinding smile on them, and Maglor could step back as they exchanged greetings, both twins a little overwhelmed at yet another kinsman of renown appearing to welcome them to Valinor and to the family. It wasn’t long before Fingon set them at ease, though, and they were all laughing as they turned back to head toward the house. Fingon said nothing of the scars. Huan tucked himself up at Maglor’s side, and Maglor rested his hand on Huan’s head. 

“I’m surprised to see Huan here,” Fingon remarked, glancing over at him. “He has stuck to Celegorm’s side like a bur since he came from Mandos.” 

“I don’t know why he is here,” Maglor said. “I’ll catch up with you in a moment. I need to wash all of Huan off of my face before I see my uncle.”

“Come on, Huan,” said Elrohir as Maglor turned down another path to another stream. “If you are going to knock someone else over, let it be Glorfindel.” Fingon laughed, and Maglor ducked behind a bush to kneel by the water and rinse his face off. He finger-combed the snarls and bits of grass out of his hair, and undid the smaller braids to pull half of it back out of his face, sliding Daeron’s hair clip into place to secure it. He did not want to meet Fingolfin by ducking his face behind his hair, however hard it was to be stared at. He did not want Fingolfin to think him still broken. He stared at his reflection in the water, though he knelt in the shade and it was little more than a shadow. He knew what was there, though. There was no hiding some scars, but he rolled his sleeves back down his arms to hide the marks around his wrists, and some of the fainter and fading scars higher on his arms from the orcs’ knives long ago. 

Fingon hadn’t known. Maglor had seen the surprise there. It would be too much to hope that Fingolfin did. If they met among other company, though, surely he would not ask questions. Maglor rubbed his hands over his face and got to his feet. Elladan was waiting for him down the path. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Fingolfin is formidable to us, but you did not seem to think him so earlier.”

“He is formidable,” Maglor said, “and he is the High King. That’s why I stopped to wash off the dog drool. I’m all right, Elladan. You really don’t need to worry about me.”

“I think Fingon is worried about you,” Elladan said. 

“Hopefully he won’t be insufferable about it. If he is I’ll shove him into a fishpond later.”

Elladan laughed, delighted. “Is this what it was like when you were younger?”

“Not really.” Maglor smiled and threw his arm around Elladan’s shoulders. “I never had to shove Fingon into a fishpond before. Hopefully I won’t have to now. Come on. Fingolfin will probably not be quite so terrifying as he is in the tales.”