High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

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Twenty

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It took longer than Maedhros had expected for things to start breaking down. Cracks started showing five days into their journey—all of them snappish and chafing against the constant company of the others—but it was a full week before Celegorm and Curufin got into some snarling argument that none of the rest of them understood, and which resulted in both of them storming away from the camp into the woods. 

“Should someone…” Amras ventured hesitantly, once they were out of sight. 

Maedhros sighed. Caranthir, not looking up from a tear in one of his saddlebags that he was mending, said, “No.”

“Shouldn’t we at least try to find out what it was they’re fighting about?” Amrod asked. 

“No,” said Caranthir again, and cursed as he stuck himself with the needle. “Whatever it is isn’t what the fight is really about, and they won’t tell us what it’s really about, so it would be useless.” Ambarussa exchanged a glance, eyebrows raised; Caranthir was not known for such insights, though Maedhros had learned by now that he saw a great deal more than he let on. It was, Maedhros hoped, a good sign that he had decided to share it. 

“Just leave them be,” Maedhros said. If anyone should get up and do something about it, it was him, but he couldn’t immediately muster the will for it. He leaned against one of the rocks that surrounded the little hollow they’d chosen for their campsite, and stared up at the sky without really seeing it. He had a few guesses about what the fight was really about—Nargothrond foremost among them—but Caranthir was right. Neither Celegorm nor Curufin were likely to confide in anyone this fresh off the fight. “Give it an hour or so,” he added after a moment. If they weren’t back by then he’d have to decide who to go after, and likely no one would be happy with whoever he chose. 

An hour passed, and neither of them returned. Maedhros got up and considered which one was more likely to get into trouble, and decided that it was Celegorm without Huan there to temper his wilder impulses. He was also, Maedhros thought, the one more likely to talk to him. “Keep an eye out for Curvo,” he told the others, and headed in the direction that Celegorm had gone.

Surprisingly, Celegorm had not gone far. Maedhros found him halfway up a tree, lying on his back across a limb, whistling back at some birds hopping around on the branches above. Maedhros sat down on one of the large raised roots to wait; he’d climbed trees before one-handed, but only when absolutely necessary, and this one’s lowest branches were high enough above his head that he didn’t think he could have gotten himself up even with two hands. 

Finally, Celegorm heaved a sigh and dropped down, landing in a crouch in front of Maedhros. “You didn’t have to come after me.”

“I thought we were out here to fix us,” Maedhros said. Celegorm sank down onto the mossy ground beside Maedhros, crossing his legs. The birds in the tree above kept cheeping at each other; higher, in the sky, a hawk cried out, a plaintive and lonely sound. “Tyelko?”

Celegorm sighed again, and this time it was a shaky sound. His eyes were over-bright before he closed them as he leaned against Maedhros’ leg. Maedhros rested his hand on Celegorm’s head for a moment before he started to pick leaves and twigs out of his braid. “Curvo and I were awful,” Celegorm said finally. “Unforgivable. Treacherous—”

“We’ve had this out before,” Maedhros said quietly. The halls of Himring had echoed for hours with their shouting, and none of Maedhros’ people had the nerve to look him in the face for days afterward. Even Maglor had been furious, and Maglor never lost his temper. They hadn’t spoken of it since they’d all returned to life—but there was no need. It had all been said already, and anything they might have forgotten would have come out in Mandos.

“I know. And you were right. We knew you were right. But we just—” Celegorm exhaled sharply, fists clenching white-knuckled in his lap. 

“I know,” Maedhros said. He hesitated a moment, and then asked, “Have you spoken to Finrod?”

“Yes,” Celegorm said, shoulders slumping. “He’s disgustingly forgiving about the whole thing, but I can still see how he gets nervous when we’re in the same room. I don’t know—apologies aren’t enough, but I don’t know what would be, and I don’t think he knows either.”

“Maybe it’s just time that’s needed,” Maedhros said. Celegorm, like all of them, had gone to everyone he’d wronged in one way or another, but it was different with Finrod—their cousin, their friend. But that was not why they were out here in the wilds, and not why Celegorm had gone off alone to whistle half-heartedly at songbirds while Curufin went somewhere else to do whatever it was he did to sulk these days. Maedhros should have known what that was—he’d once known all of his brothers’ habits, happy and unhappy. He needed to do better. “Why do you and Curufin not speak?”

“I brought out all the worst in him,” Celegorm said, voice very quiet and very small. “I don’t know how to not do it again.”

“Oh, Tyelko.” Maedhros slipped off of the root and wrapped both his arms around Celegorm. Celegorm didn’t cry, but he went limp, resting all of himself against Maedhros, hands coming up to grip Maedhros’ arm. There wasn’t really anything to say—nothing that would fix this, or make anyone feel better. So instead he asked, “Is this why you never go to Tirion?”

“You never go to Tirion either,” Celegorm said. 

“Don’t be like me,” Maedhros whispered. “Please don’t be like me.” 

When they returned to their camp Curufin had already come back. Neither he nor Celegorm looked at the other, and when Caranthir glanced his way Maedhros shook his head. He would find a time to talk to Curufin later. “Let’s go,” he said, and they all moved to break camp. They were ready to move on in minutes, and no one protested when Celegorm again took the lead, though Curufin dropped to the back. 

Before long they came to a road, which was a little surprising, since Maedhros had thought they had left behind nearly all villages and towns, and lonesome hamlets were few and far between out in the wilds. They broke into a canter just for the pleasure of speed, but after a time Celegorm held up his hand, and they all slowed. Maedhros did not reach for a weapon but he saw Ambarussa and Curufin make aborted movements toward their belts. “What is it?” Maedhros asked. 

“An old man,” said Celegorm, sounding baffled. 

Caranthir and Maedhros both moved forward, on either side of him. Caranthir snorted. “It is only Mithrandir.”

“Who is Mithrandir?” one of the twins asked. 

“One of the Istari.” Unlike Maedhros, his brothers seemed to have kept themselves informed, and knew what that meant without further explanation. “I don’t know what he’s doing out here, though. I would have thought he would be at Elrond’s house with Midsummer approaching.”

Gandalf, or Mithrandir, or whatever name he had decided to use that day, came strolling down the road, wearing an absurd blue hat with a broad brim; his cloak was grey—befitting the name Caranthir had given him—and he was singing as he walked, in Westron, keeping time with his staff and his footsteps. 

Still round the corner we may meet
A sudden tree or standing stone
That none have seen but we alone…

He broke off his singing and laughed, as he had laughed when Maedhros had first met him. “What have we here, then? Six brothers journeying west? Where are you going, Sons of Nerdanel?” 

“Well met, Mithrandir,” said Caranthir. 

“We are going west, as you see,” added Celegorm, looking as though he did not know whether to be amused or not. “And where are you going?”

“To Imloth Ningloron, of course! Midsummer’s Day is the day after tomorrow!” Gandalf beamed at them. “I have prepared a special set of fireworks to celebrate Elladan and Elrohir’s arrival, and I have heard that Elemmírë will be there as well—a great piece of luck for the rest of us, to have both Maglor and Elemmírë there to perform.” 

“You are a long way from Imloth Ningloron, Mithrandir,” said Caranthir. 

“Not so long,” Gandalf said, laughing again. “I am glad to see the six of you together. It has been too long.” He gazed up at each of them in turn, and Maedhros had the uncomfortable feeling that Gandalf saw much more than his cheerfully careless demeanor suggested. “Is your father back among the living yet?” 

Maedhros stiffened, and his horse shifted under him. Gandalf knew very well that Fëanor was back, he thought, seeing that glint in his dark eyes. It was Caranthir who answered him again. “What business is that of yours, Mithrandir?”

“Oh, none at all! I’m afraid I spent far too many years among hobbits, and they are shameless gossips, every one of them. Perhaps I do have a bit of a personal interest, being rather fond of your brother. Now, if you want my advice—”

“We don’t,” said Caranthir and Celegorm. 

“Well, I shall give it to you anyway.” Gandalf leaned on his staff, and Maedhros noticed for the first time that he wore a ring, gold set with a warm red stone. “Imagine you are in your mother’s kitchen, and there is a bowl on the table, a lovely ceramic bowl, perhaps painted with flowers, or with stars. It is knocked to the floor and breaks into a dozen pieces—what would you do with it?”

Maedhros glanced at Caranthir, who shrugged. The silence went on long enough that it became clear Gandalf expected an answer. “Sweep it up, obviously,” Celegorm said impatiently. 

“And do what with the pieces?”

“Throw them away.”

“Put them away,” Caranthir said. “Our mother might use them for something later.”

“Or,” Gandalf said cheerfully, “you can put them back together.”

“What’s the point of that?” asked Celegorm. “You can’t put a ceramic bowl back together the way it was.”

“There is a method of pottery repair practiced by the Elves of the east—the ones you call Avari, though they have their own names for themselves, of course. It was brought west to Rivendell by one of them after the Last Alliance, and I found it fascinating and quite lovely. They take broken pottery—for clay is not always so abundant that they can simply toss a broken piece away and make another—and glue it back together, and then they highlight the breaks with golden lacquer—or silver, perhaps, or some other color, but Ifreth always used gold. Everything has a history, you know, a story, and the breaking is a part of it, and it is turned into something quite lovely when all is said and done. You’ll see several such pieces in Imloth Ningloron, if you stay there long enough—platters at the supper table, or vases holding Lady Celebrían’s roses and peonies.”

“Sometimes,” Maedhros said quietly, “a thing is too broken to be repaired.” Shattered into a thousand pieces, so all that could be done for it was to sweep it up and dispose of it while trying to avoid stepping on any sharp pieces that might embed themselves in one’s foot.

“Sometimes,” Gandalf agreed, looking at Maedhros with such kind pity in his eyes that he wanted to turn away, though he found that he could not, “but in my experience that is a rare thing indeed.” He smiled and straightened, tapping his staff on the road. “There. You will remember that, I hope, and when it proves useful you can find me in Imloth Ningloron with your thanks. Another bit of advice, if you like, for your travels: Ekkaia is quite lovely at this time of year. Farewell! I must be going or I shall be late, and feasting and singing at the house of Elrond and Celebrían is not a thing to miss if you can help it!” He passed them all by then, his staff tapping on the road again in time with his steps, and as he gained distance he began to sing again, that same cheerful tune from before: 

Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though we pass them by today,
Tomorrow we may come this way
And take the hidden paths that run
Towards the Moon or to the Sun…

“What was that all about?” Amrod asked after Gandalf had disappeared into the distance. “A lesson about the pottery customs of the Avari isn’t advice.”

“I hope he was not so strange in Middle-earth, if he was meant to defeat Sauron,” said Amras. 

“He was and he wasn’t, to hear Bilbo tell it—and anyway whatever he did worked,” Caranthir said absently, frowning as he gazed back down the road after him. “Did you see his ring? It seemed familiar.”

“Telperinquar’s work,” Curufin said quietly. “It was Narya.” He kept his gaze lowered, staring at his horse’s mane rather than looking at any of them.

Maedhros sighed, and looked at Celegorm. “You had mentioned Ekkaia too,” he said. “Should we go there?”

“Might as well,” said Celegorm, straightening and flashing a grin. “Unless there is somewhere else one of you needs to be.”

“Nowhere, and you know it,” Caranthir said. 

“We have never seen Ekkaia,” said Amrod, as Amras nodded. 

“Nor have I,” said Curufin after a moment, seeming to bring himself back to the present with a great effort. 

“Then we must go!” said Celegorm. He urged his horse forward into a canter and then into a gallop, and one by one the rest of them followed. Maedhros brought up the rear. The wind in his face was brisk and the sun was warm. They passed through forests and fields, seeing no other travelers but coming more than once upon a settlement or a hamlet, with elves that paused and waved cheerfully as they flew by. They did not slow until the sun began to set in front of them; they had left the forests behind and ahead were rolling hills covered in grass and wildflowers, with purple heather glowing in the light of the setting sun. 

Celegorm led them off the road and up one of the hills, and Ambarussa disappeared to look for firewood. The rest of them set the horses free to graze, and set up the rest of the camp. Curufin and Celegorm still were not speaking directly to one another. The silence was grating, and Caranthir caught his eye more than once, questioning, but Maedhros did not think any further intervention would solve anything. He knew why Celegorm was keeping his distance. He did not know why Curufin was letting him. 

When the twins returned Caranthir finally spoke. “Are we saving the wine for Midsummer or for Ekkaia, or can we get stupidly drunk tonight?”

Amrod made a face. “Do we all want to get angry and shout at each other tonight? That’s what will happen if we get stupidly drunk.”

“Except Maitimo,” said Amras. “I don’t think he would yell.”

“I won’t be getting drunk,” said Maedhros. 

“You’re the one who probably should,” said Curufin unexpectedly. But he did not move to get out a bottle. “Let’s wait. We can fight one another on the shores of Ekkaia where no one else will hear.” 

“There’s no one else around here for miles,” Caranthir said mildly. 

“That’s what we thought before we encountered Mithrandir.”

“Mithrandir doesn’t count. Any of the Ainur could appear at any moment. We’d never do anything if we decided to worry all the time about whether Manwë might decide to drop out of the sky on a whim.”

Maedhros leaned back on his elbows and watched the stars come out. Gil-Estel shone over the western horizon, and he found himself thinking of Fëanor again, wondering what he thought when he saw that star. Whether he would try to demand the Silmaril’s return. It seemed doubtful. That manic, shadowy haze of madness and rage and grief had been absent from Fëanor under the willow tree. Still… 

A stick hit the side of his face. “Stop brooding,” said Amras. “You’re not supposed to brood on this trip.”

Maedhros tossed the stick back; Amras caught it easily and threw it into the fire. “Distract me, then.”

The twins obliged, launching into a story about one of their recent hunting trips. It was absurd and more than half made up, but it had them all laughing by the end. “We win!” Amrod crowed. 

“Win what?” Maedhros asked. 

“We made you laugh first!” Amras said. 

“Probably for the first time since you came back from Mandos,” said Amrod. 

That was…probably true. Maedhros wasn’t sure what to say without ruining the mood, but Curufin started a much more believable but still funny story about his wife’s family and a lost bracelet, and after he was done Caranthir talked of what their younger cousins were making—lovely things, furniture and lamps and jewelry—and then Celegorm took his turn with another hunting story. Maedhros offered up no tales, for he had none. 

It was late by then. The stars blazed over their heads, and the moon was just rising in the east. “What is Elrond like?” Amras asked. “We only met him once in Tirion. He seemed…” He paused, thinking. “I don’t know what he seemed like.”

“Kind,” Amras murmured. He lay with his head in Amrod’s lap, eyes closed. “He was kind.”

Everyone else looked at Maedhros. “Why do you look at me?” he asked. “Curufin has seen him as recently as I have.”

“You raised him, didn’t you?” asked Celegorm.

“Maglor raised them,” Maedhros said. Maglor’s name dropped heavily from his tongue, into the space between them like a stone tossed into calm waters. They had been dancing around it for days, ever since they had left Nerdanel’s house. 

“Why?” Caranthir asked. Why not you? Why not—when you were once the consummate eldest brother, the one all of us as children looked to after our parents, the protector, the comforter. 

“Would you let me near a child now?” Maedhros asked. “I was worse then.” Caranthir and Celegorm exchanged a glance. Curufin frowned at the stick he was whittling down to a nub. Amras opened his eyes.

“You could still tell us about him, couldn’t you?” Amrod asked quietly. “As a child.” 

Maedhros did not immediately answer. It wasn’t really Elrond that they wanted to know about. If they wanted to know anything about Elrond they could go ask him, or others who had known him. It was that time—those years after Sirion when none of them had been there, when the seven of them had been reduced to two. They knew what happened at the end, but no one knew what came before. Neither Elrond nor Elros had ever set those years down into the history books, but for one or two lines that only hinted at the love they bore Maglor. His brothers waited. Maedhros sat up, and looked into the fire because it was easier than looking at any of them, and…he tried to think of what to say. It had been terrible. Sirion had been terrible, chaos and betrayal compounding betrayal, and Ambarussa had died and they hadn’t even been able to take their bodies for burial. Afterward there had been just a handful of loyal followers around them, for reasons Maedhros still did not understand. Maybe it had been for the sake of Elrond and Elros. He couldn’t ask them now. He didn’t even know if they had survived the war in the north. 

“The world was falling apart around us,” he said finally. “Storms ripped across the land, and the earth shook, and rivers flooded and dried up and flooded again; there were orcs everywhere. But the twins…there were always flowers, wherever they went. There would be none when we set up camp and then the next morning or the day after there would be niphredil everywhere. It still happens to Elrond, I think.” That was what he remembered most clearly about those terrible years—the sweet springtime scent of niphredil cutting through everything else, and the silky softness of the petals when he woke to them blooming by his cheek. That and the music the twins had made with Maglor, as he taught them to sing and to play the harp. Their voices had been sweet as nightingales, and there had been real joy in Maglor then—the joy of sharing the music he loved with others, of teaching someone willing and eager to learn, of being the listener sometimes rather than always the singer—and it hadn’t been just music. He had made the decision to love those boys with all he had left in him and had never looked back, even when it broke his heart. 

“Maglor taught them music,” Maedhros said out loud, to the fire. “He taught them everything he could, and they learned quickly, always asking questions even when no one had answers for them. And then when they reached adulthood—they grew fast, the way Men do—they insisted that we go north to join with Gil-galad and Finarfin. Maglor sent them with the rest of our people. We knew better than to go ourselves.” Maglor had given Elros his harp, so he could not play anymore. He hadn’t sung, either. There was no longer an audience to pretend for, except Maedhros, and that was a different sort of performance. “Maglor loved them, and they loved him. Elrond loves him still.” 

“And you?” someone asked, almost too softly to be heard over the gentle crackling of the campfire. Maedhros wasn’t sure who. 

“They were afraid of me,” he said. “I kept my distance.”