High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

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Two

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The place where Celebrían had made her home in Valinor was called, by the time Elrond came there, Imloth Ningloron, for the irises that grew wild throughout, in between the scattered streams and brooks that filled it with the music of flowing water. The Pelóri rose up behind them in the east, much as the Misty Mountains towered over Imladris, but not quite so close, for there were hills in between. The valley itself was also quite different from Imladris, a wide shallow bowl-shaped thing with a gentler approach than the sudden opening of a dell far below one’s feet. She had built a sprawling house in the middle of it, made by many of the same hands that had helped to build the house in Imladris, so that it was both familiar and new. Unlike its forebear, this house had been planned from the start to be a place of comfort and enjoyment, rather than built up haphazardly and quickly to house desperate soldiers and refugees, with comfort only a secondary concern and not much thought of until after the war had ended.

Elrond sat in one of the many gazebos that dotted the gardens, this one reached by a wooden walkway built over several streams and a pond, leaning over the railing of it to watch silver and gold fish dart about the water below. The water lilies were in bloom; so were all the springtime flowers, and the valley was filled with them, like a bright patchwork quilt, and bright with the sound of birdsong. It was a quiet afternoon, and a rare one without visitors. They had been coming in a steady stream ever since Elrond had set foot on the dock at Avallónë, and though he had expected them, any respite was something of a relief. 

There was always music in the valley, too, just as there had been in Rivendell. Elrond reflected, as he watched the fish, that it would not be long before his sons’ voices joined those singing out among the flowers nearby. Unlike Imladris, Imloth Ningloron was wide and sported few trees except the ones that Celebrían had planted—apples and peaches and other fruits that Elrond had never tasted before coming west. The sky was wide and blue overhead, and north and south hills rose up, wooded and wild, and the road wound lazily out of the valley and away, some days’ ride north toward the larger one that passed through the Calacirya and down to Alqualondë; they would take it, soon, and then sail across the bay to Avallónë, to await the ship bringing Elladan and Elrohir at last. And Maglor. He had promised he would come, but Elrond had still not gotten rid of the habit of fearing that he would disappear again. And the knowledge that both Arwen and Aragorn were gone from the world—that made everything harder. 

Imloth Ningloron was also the only little realm in Valinor—now a land of many little realms—that had a space set aside for the dead. There were three graves there, now: three hobbits given the honor and grace of healing from their long ordeals in the land of the Valar before they went to their final rest. They had built a garden around it, where elanor and niphredil bloomed, and snapdragons and laburnums and lilies, and forget-me-nots that had been Frodo’s favorite, and all three had been buried beneath a mallorn tree that Galadriel had planted there, from a seed brought back over the Sea from Lothlórien; a rose bush grown from a cutting that Sam had carried from the gardens of Bag End grew beside his grave, too. There were other little memorials scattered throughout that garden, for those the folk of Imloth Ningloron had known and loved in Middle-earth. There was one for Merry and Pippin set beside the graves of Frodo and Sam, and Elrond knew that something would soon be erected to honor Aragorn and Arwen. He had taken no part in those discussions; the grief was too near, still. He had refused the suggestion that Nerdanel be asked to make statues the moment someone—he couldn’t recall who, now—had spoken of it. Hers were so lifelike that he knew he could not bear it. Celebrían had agreed, to his relief. 

He left the gazebo, thinking he would make his way to that garden. It was always quiet there, and he could feel his mood dipping, his desire for music and even sunshine waning swiftly. He wanted the shade of the mallorn tree and the tall green hedges between him and the rest of the world. But when he stepped through the gate he found that someone had come there before him. 

Elrond had met all of Fëanor’s sons by now, mostly by chance meetings in Tirion or when Nerdanel brought them with her to visit Imloth Ningloron, and of course Celebrimbor was a frequent visitor. But he had seen Maedhros only once or twice in all the time he had been in Valinor. It was widely known though little remarked upon that Maedhros avoided most company. He dwelled still with Nerdanel outside of Tirion, and Elrond did not know how he spent his days. 

He had wanted to make some kind of overture, but Maedhros had always been a figure set apart, unapproachable in both memory and in life. As a child Elrond had feared him; as he had grown older that fear had not gone away, exactly, though it had lessened, little by little. Even that had faded by now, for Elrond had faced far more frightening things in his life that Maedhros Fëanorion, but that did not mean he knew what to say to him, or even how to fully understand him. He had come back from Mandos unhealed, and it seemed to Elrond that he had rejected it in life also. Grief and guilt lay on him like a too-heavy cloak in high summer, uncomfortable and doing more harm than good, no lighter than they had been in Beleriand long ago. Some of it Elrond knew—the pain of watching everyone you loved die, or leave, and being the only one left standing in the end without knowing why; he understood that all too well. But Maedhros’ brothers and kin were all alive again—or almost all—and still he seemed unable to leave the past where it belonged.

Maedhros was not who Elrond had expected to see, particularly in this part of the gardens. Maedhros turned as Elrond entered through the gate; he had been contemplating the memorial to Gilraen. Elrond had made it himself only recently, for she had been much in his thoughts of late—she and Arathorn and all the others who had come before. 

“You have no monument to Elros,” Maedhros said before Elrond could think of how to greet him. 

“We made this garden first for Bilbo,” said Elrond, going to stand before the small flower-covered mound. Sam’s roses were in full bloom, and the air was thick with the sweet smell of them. “The other remembrances have been added only slowly. And Elros has his monument in Avallónë.” Finrod had made it, and Elrond had seen it when he’d first come there. The likeness was not inaccurate, but Tar-Minyatar of Númenor was not the Elros whose memory lived in Elrond’s heart. It had been hard to look at, and anything he tried to make himself would only be worse. Were it up to Elrond alone there would be no memorial to Arwen or Aragorn, either—though he knew that was selfish, and in time he would come to appreciate whatever was done. He looked up from the roses at Maedhros, who had tilted his own gaze up to the mallorn tree, branches swaying gently in the breeze over their heads. Elrond wanted to ask why he was there, but he could not think of a way to do it that did not sound either rude or like he was unhappy to see him. Even if it was true, it was unkind.

“I heard of your daughter,” Maedhros said finally, lowering his gaze to meet Elrond’s. “I am sorry.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Will your other children come west now?”

“Yes. We expect to hear of it anytime now. Lord Celeborn is coming, too.” Elrond thought he understood now what had brought Maedhros there. His concern was not for Elrond or for Elrond’s children, not really. “I also expect Maglor to sail with them,” he said. 

Maglor had written to Nerdanel—a fairly short letter that he had entrusted to Galadriel. Elrond did not know what it had said, but he imagined that Maedhros did. What Maglor had done and what had happened to him over the course of the Second and Third Ages of the world was not Elrond’s tale to tell, so he had remained quiet, and no one had come to him to ask. Now Maedhros asked, “Why did he not come with you before? He was—” He turned away, hand balling up into a fist. “He was put to torment. I know that he was—I saw it in one of my father’s palantíri.”

Elrond had not known of that. If he had, he would have tried harder to speak to Maedhros before. “He was,” he said quietly, “but he was long ago brought out of that place. He found healing in Imladris.” 

“Some hurts cannot be healed in Middle-earth,” Maedhros said. 

“It seems that some cannot be healed even here,” Elrond said, and was rewarded with a glare, Maedhros’ eyes flashing with that fire that had once made armies flee before his coming. Elrond met it without flinching; of the two of them there, he was the mightier now, no longer a frightened child but a Ring-wielder and lord of Elves and Men in his own right. Grief weighed on him, too, but he knew how to carry it, rather than letting it devour him. He wondered if Maedhros wanted to be devoured. “Maglor sought healing, and so he found it. What will he think when he sees that you have done neither when he comes?” 

“Do you think I could so easily retreat to Lórien and let myself sleep the years away while my brother lay in darkness and in pain?”

“He has not been in darkness or in pain for many years now,” Elrond said. 

“How do you know? I have looked for him and I have not found him again. I have seen only mist over the shore.”

“Because he came to me after he was brought out of the darkness of Dol Guldur, and dwelled with me in Imladris until I left it. Because I know the world in which I left him, and there is no darkness left that could hold him. Do you think I am so poor a healer that I would have left him behind if he truly needed to come here?” At this Maedhros looked away, and Elrond took a breath, and softened his voice. “Maglor has long hidden himself from any who might seek for him. Even Galadriel could never find him. It does not surprise me that he has fallen back into old habits.” 

“Not from me,” Maedhros said in a low voice. “He never—he has never hidden from me.” 

Elrond swallowed a sigh. He did not know how to answer. He knew some of Maglor’s fears, and he could easily guess that his grief for his brothers, and Maedhros in particular, was far more complicated than merely missing them. Resentment and bitterness mixed up in love and grief made for a thick knot that would take time and pain to unravel. He would have been lying to himself if he tried to say that he had not dealt with some similar bitter feelings in the wake of Elros’ choice.

“Whatever answers you seek, Maedhros, I cannot give them to you.”

“I had thought perhaps the wisdom for which you are famed would offer some insight.” The words were almost sneered, and spoken with unmistakable bitterness.

“Even if I could, why should I?” Elrond asked, tiring at last of this. “Tell me, Maedhros son of Fëanor, why should I give you anything at all?” Maedhros looked at him, eyes widening slightly. “I have heard that you went to everyone that you once wronged, from Alqualondë to the court of Nimloth my grandmother to offer apologies and whatever restitution might have been asked of you—but when you come at last to my door—to this garden—you offer nothing but bitter words and thinly veiled accusations. Have you nothing else to say to Elwing’s only living son?”

“I came to learn what you would tell me of my brother,” Maedhros said after a pause, having recovered from his surprise enough to be angry again. 

“And you have learned it.” With that Elrond left the garden, knowing that even if it was Maedhros who left he would find no peace there that day, and knowing that staying longer would only cause his resentment of that fact to bubble to the surface, doing neither of them any good. He retreated inside instead, up the stairs to the bedroom he shared with Celebrían. It was open and airy, with more windows than walls, for she had chosen a place far enough south that the weather was warm year-round. The breeze was flower-scented and made the gauzy curtains billow and wave gently. Everything was warm in that room, pinks and reds and warm brown floors and walls. Elrond sank onto the edge of the bed and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

After a few minutes he heard the door open, and then the mattress shifted and dipped as Celebrían slid across it from the other side to wrap her arms around him from behind. “Maedhros is here,” she said, after kissing his temple.

“I know,” he said without lowering his hands. “We spoke.”

“Mm. Perhaps I should not have told him to join us for supper, then. What did he say to you?”

“Nothing—nothing awful, really.” Elrond allowed her to catch his wrists and lower them, and he leaned back, turning his face into her neck. Her hair was softer than silk against his cheeks. It was still a marvel, a miracle, such a blessing to be able to do this whenever he liked—to touch her and kiss her and just speak to her, to know that she was somewhere nearby even when out of his sight. “He wanted to know about Maglor.”

“Did you tell him?”

“That we expect him to sail with the boys? Yes. Now I think I should not have. I don’t even know if Maglor will want to see him.”

“That’s simple enough to fix,” Celebrían said. “I’ll have a word with my uncle, and if Maedhros appears on Eressëa and Maglor does not want to see him, Finrod will keep him away.”

Elrond thought of that glimpse of fire in Maedhros’ eyes. “I’m not sure that it will be so easy.”

“It will be,” Celebrían said. She slid her fingers through his hair, removing the circlet that he’d been wearing, and tossed it aside. “Maedhros can be quite determined, it is true, but so can Finrod—and these days Finrod is one of the few who Maedhros will both speak and listen to. And if it turns out that Maglor does want to see him right away, it will only be a matter of sending him to Finrod’s house rather than bringing him to ours, and no harm is done.” She had moved on to undoing the braids that kept the remainder of Elrond’s hair out of his face now that the circlet was gone, ridding him of that tension on his scalp. “I think, though, that you believe Maglor will not want to see him.”

“I know that he would not have, had he sailed with me,” Elrond said. He lifted his head to let Celebrían reach the other braids, and sighed. “He was healed, but he was not—he was still fragile in many ways. I fear he is still.”

“He may always be,” Celebrían said softly, as one who knew only too well of what she spoke. “But that does not mean he needs always to be wrapped in cotton wool, or that you need always take the role of his protector.”

“Old habits,” Elrond murmured, leaning back against her again. He sighed. “I spoke more harshly to Maedhros than I should have.”

“I know what it takes to provoke your temper, Elrond—and I am also sure that you did not speak nearly as harshly as he probably deserved.”

“He is not well.”

“And whose fault is that? If he is content to wallow in his misery, that is his business, but he does not need to drag us all down with him. And I will tell him so if he is unpleasant at supper.” When Elrond smiled in spite of himself, she added, “And let us leave tomorrow or the next day for Avallónë. I can pace the halls of our house there as well as here, and it will be a much shorter walk to the harbor.”

“You’ll have no argument from me,” Elrond said. 

“Of course not! When do you ever argue with me?” Celebrían laughed and kissed his forehead, and then his cheeks, and then at last his lips.

“Whenever you are wrong,” Elrond said. He sat up and kissed her back. “But that happens so rarely.” That made her laugh again, the sound sweeter than birdsong in spring. He felt better just hearing it. 

Before he could so much as reach up to thread his fingers through Celebrían’s hair, however, the clatter of hooves echoed up through the windows from the courtyard below, followed by cheerful calls and greetings from others in the household out and about. Elrond sighed, and Celebrían made a face as they parted and went to the window to look down. “Oh, it’s Celebrimbor!” Celebrían leaned out of the window to call down to him. “Well met, Cousin!”

Celebrimbor looked up and smiled from beneath a mess of dark windblown hair. His companion also looked up, though his expression remained more stern. As Celebrían drew back inside Elrond wondered aloud, “What is Curufin doing here?” Celebrimbor was a frequent visitor to Imloth Ningloron—so much so that he could almost abandon the title of guest—but his father had never before accompanied him.

“Looking for his brother, perhaps?” Celebrían said. “We’ll find out soon enough. Let me fix your hair.”

“My hair that you unfixed, you mean,” Elrond said as she picked up the circlet. 

“Hush, you.” She combed her fingers through the strands to set them in order, and set the circlet back over them. “There. Now you look like a proper lord and not as though you just rolled out of bed.”

“I rather wish I had just rolled out of bed,” Elrond said, just to hear Celebrían laugh again as she took his hand and pulled him from the room. 

Celebrimbor was not in the courtyard or the entry hall when they descended the stairs. Curufin was, and he bowed in greeting. “Lady Celebrían, Lord Elrond,” he said.

“Well met, Cousin Curufin,” Celebrían said, stepping forward to take his hands and kiss his cheek as he straightened. “To what do we owe this visit?”

“My brother Maedhros,” Curufin said. “I do not know where Tyelpë has gone—”

“To the gardens, I think,” Celebrían said. “We’ll follow after. He always goes to the memorial garden when he comes, to pay his respects.” She took Curufin’s arm, and Elrond fell into step beside them as they made their way back outside. They did not go to the little walled garden, but instead to the rose garden by the house, where there were benches and fountains aplenty. “Maedhros is here,” Celebrían said as she directed them to her favorite bench. “Though I am not sure where, at the moment.”

“Is something amiss, Curufin?” Elrond asked, watching him. There was something unsettled and almost nervous about him, which did not bode well. 

Curufin did not answer until Celebrimbor reappeared, with Maedhros in tow. Maedhros avoided Elrond’s gaze as he bowed over Celebrían’s hand, and greeted his brother with as much surprise as Elrond had felt upon seeing him. “Did someone send you after me?” he asked, sounding resigned and almost wryly amused. 

“Amil did,” said Curufin. “And she sent Caranthir to track down Celegorm and the Ambarussa.”

“Why?” Maedhros asked, voice sharp—something of the lord of Himring in it, Elrond thought. “What has happened?”

“A message came from Mandos two days ago,” Celebrimbor said when Curufin hesitated. “Fëanor is to be released from Mandos.”