High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

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Twenty Seven

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Maglor dreamed of his brothers—but not of the bloody and burning past. The dreams were strange and almost nonsensical, a blending of their youth in Valinor with the present day under the sun: Caranthir pruning roses with their grandmother and aunt; Maedhros sitting by the river with a sketchbook and only one hand, loose hair gleaming in the sunlight; Celegorm and Maedhros squaring off by the river in the late afternoon as rainclouds gathered in the distance, Maedhros looking stubborn but also somehow like a wrong touch would shatter him into a thousand pieces like a badly made piece of glass, and Celegorm snarling in the way a wounded animal snarled, lashing out only because there was nothing else it could do; Caranthir and Curufin conferring quietly as they saddled horses; Ambarussa knee-deep in a river with wood-and-stone spears, laughing at something on the shore rather than trying to catch a fish; all six of his brothers riding down a road and singing one of Bilbo’s songs—the one about the Man in the Moon come down to get drunk.

When he woke, his brothers’ voices all still echoing with a ping and a ping the fiddle-strings broke! in his mind it was to Daeron shifting beside him, one arm wrapped around Maglor’s head and shoulders, the other pushing Huan away. “Leave off, you horrible beast. I am sure Ekkaia is a marvel, but is it truly worth such a hurry? Must we see it before the summer is out to fully appreciate its splendor?”

Maglor smiled into Daeron’s shoulder. “It is marvelous,” he said, “but I think it is marvelous all year round.”

“Tell that to your dog!” Daeron lay back down and pulled the blanket up over both their heads. Huan huffed and flopped down beside them. “What’s his hurry, then?” Daeron asked.

It felt both silly and very cozy to be tucked up under the blanket like that, the rest of the world shut out. Even the hedgehog and the cat weren’t with them, having presumably gone off in search of breakfast. Maglor raised his head to look at Daeron, whose eyes gleamed in the soft shadows. “I don’t know,” Maglor said. “I think he and Gandalf may have been conspiring.”

“Should we be worried?”

“Probably.” Maglor brushed hair out of Daeron’s face. “Historically the people whose lives Gandalf meddles in get sent on terrifying quests to slay dragons or destroy cursed rings.” 

“Well, at least we’re safe from that sort of thing,” said Daeron, “unless there’s some kind of terrible creature lurking in the waters of Ekkaia that Gandalf wants you to take care of.”

“He’ll be disappointed if there is,” Maglor said. “I haven’t fought anything since—” He’d been about to say since the end of the First Age, but that wasn’t true. “Well, the last time I tried to fight it didn’t go very well. I’m certainly not going to try to fight a sea monster.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll sing the—oh I don’t know what sea monsters have. Tentacles? Fins? Whatever it is I’ll sing them off it for you, and we can flee back inland before the tide comes in.”

“And afterward I shall compose a lay about it,” Maglor said, “to be performed on all high holidays before the court of Elu Thingol.”

“Don’t you dare.” Daeron leaned in for a kiss, both of them laughing. Maglor closed his eyes, basking in the closeness and the warmth, and marveling a little at how easy it all still was. 

“It would be a very flattering lay,” Maglor said when Daeron drew back. “All rhyming couplets and—” Daeron shoved him, that time, and they both tumbled out of the blankets onto the grass. As they packed up their camp Maglor began the lay in suitably heroic meter, expanding for many lines upon Daeron’s valor and the might of his voice echoing off of the dark waters of Ekkaia, while Daeron threw things at him and provided scathing commentary on the increasingly tortured rhymes. 

He relented by the time they were ready to go. Pídhres reappeared to climb up on Maglor’s shoulders, and Leicheg scuttled through the grass to Daeron’s outstretched hands, eager to be tucked into the little pouch that they’d fashioned for one of them to wear while they rode, slung across their chests, so she could stick her little nose out to sniff the wind. Huan waited impatiently, circling around and sniffing at the occasional tussock. When they set off he loped ahead and vanished into the tall grass beyond the road, and they could track his movements only by the ripples of it and by the flocks of birds that erupted into the air in a flurry of feathers and indignant cries. 

The rolling fields and wide prairies passed, a sea unto themselves like Ard Galen had been long ago. They saw herds of animals of many kinds in the distance, and occasionally came upon a wandering company of Elves—Avari who had come to Valinor through Mandos, mostly, though there were some Vanyar wandering too. No one recognized either Daeron or Maglor, or even asked their names. They just exchanged greetings and asked after the latest gossip from Tirion or Valmar or from Thingol’s realm, and were satisfied when Daeron could give them only the latter. 

Birds were abundant on the plains. They crossed rivers and passed ponds and lakes where geese flocked, and cranes, and herons, and many other birds besides. Huan charged into one such lake, barking wildly, and sent them all scattering, squawking and honking. Even the geese didn’t dare try to chase Huan away. They did not linger in any one place again, though they camped early and started late each day. 

They rode in companionable silence as often as they sang or spoke together; when they were not speaking, Maglor’s mind wandered. He dreamed of his father, glimpses of him in Imloth Ningloron—in one of the guest rooms sitting by the window with a book on his lap, or walking in the garden, or speaking to Elrond in the gallery—as though Irmo or someone else wanted him to know that Fëanor was not following him or causing any trouble. The Fëanor of the present day was so unlike the Fëanor who had charged into Beleriand that he seemed almost a stranger—though perhaps it was only that Maglor’s memories of his father before everything had gone wrong were so badly distorted by all that had come later. 

“Did you ever travel past the Sea of Rhûn?” Daeron asked one morning. “The lands in the east are like these—though perhaps a little drier. Steppe country, all golden grasslands and wide skies.”

“No,” Maglor said. “I ventured south into Harad once, but I did not go very far inland.” 

“I never made it to Harad; I stayed in the north,” said Daeron.

“Did you ever find Cuiviénen, or where it once was?”

“No, I never did. I never really looked for the place—it was the people I sought. I found some of them—some were nomads, like the people of Rhûn. Others had built cities to rival Gondolin or Nargothrond. I found ruins of older cities, too. The Elves of the West are fading, but the Elves of the East remain, and will remain for a long time yet, I think.”

“I’m glad,” Maglor murmured. He’d thought about it—going in search of Cuiviénen, or at least the Elves left behind after the Great Journey—but he’d never gotten up the nerve for it. It had been easier to linger in the lands and by the waters that he knew. And, of course, the one time he did strike out from the coast, following the Anduin north… 

Clouds moved in one day and stayed for the next, and the day after that, slowly growing heavier until at last the rain began to fall. It was steady and light, but Pídhres complained loudly even after Maglor drew his hood up to cover both of them. Leicheg vanished into her pouch and did not come out again; Huan, of course, minded the rain not at all. Daeron sang rain songs he’d learned in Rhûn, and Maglor sang bathing songs that he’d learned from Bilbo. 

They came to a river with trees growing along its banks, and found a place to set up camp until the rain passed. “Whether that is tomorrow or three days from now,” Maglor informed Huan as he and Daeron pitched the tent that Elrohir had packed for Maglor but that he hadn’t bothered with until then. “You might not mind being damp all the time, but we do.”

“Pídhres certainly does,” said Daeron, as Pídhres vanished into the tent to bury herself in the depths of one of Maglor’s saddle bags. The trees kept off most of the rain but not all, and a large drop of it splashed onto the back of Maglor’s neck and rolled down his shirt before he could join Daeron inside. They peeled off their wet clothes before Daeron pulled Maglor down onto the blankets, and they both forgot all about the rain and the road for a long while. 

Later, Maglor dozed, with Daeron sprawled half on top of him, their legs tangled together. Rain pattered gently on the canvas overhead, and just outside of the tent Maglor heard faint scuffling noises as Leicheg hunted for her dinner. Somewhere else nearby a few birds were singing, heedless of the rain. He felt heavy and sleepy and comfortable, and thought idly that even if the rain stopped in an hour he would like to stay there—for a few days, for a few decades…

“Are these teeth marks?” Daeron asked.

“Hm?” Maglor opened his eyes and lifted his head. While he had been dozing, Daeron had been cataloging his various scars. His fingers had found a very old scar indeed on his forearm—Maglor had forgotten it was even there, and was honestly surprised it had not faded away long ago. “Oh, that. Elros bit me.”

“Elros bit you?”

“Elrond was busy kicking at my knees.”

Daeron raised up onto an elbow. “Was this at Sirion?”

“No, it was later—but before they stopped being afraid of me. We had to flee—something. Orcs, probably. I’d promised not to hurt them but in the rush I wasn’t exactly gentle.” 

“Sharp teeth for a child,” Daeron said. He lifted Maglor’s arm and kissed the scar. “Do you have any other interesting ones?”

“I don’t think so.” 

“No childhood accidents or misadventures?”

Maglor laughed softly. “No. I broke my arm falling off of my grandfather Mahtan’s roof once, though. Do you have any scars from such misadventures?”

“Lúthien broke my nose once,” Daeron said. “Neither of us were children, but she was the one who fell out of the tree—landed on top of me and what’s worse, broke my harp.” That made Maglor laugh out loud. “And I have…ah, this.” He held up his arm to show a small and old burn scar near his wrist. “Leaned against the wrong thing in the dwarves’ workshops in Menegroth. They never let me forget about it afterward.”

“I confess I cannot imagine Lúthien falling out of a tree,” Maglor said.

“Few can,” Daeron said with a smile. “I never let her forget it, either. What’s this scar from?” His hands landed on a nasty old burn on Maglor’s hip.

“Dagor Bragollach.”

“And this?” A scar on his thigh where a sword had cut deep—it hadn’t hit any major vessels only by sheer luck. “It looks very bad.”

“It was. That was from the Nirnaeth. Those are the only two battle scars. The rest are from…”

“Dol Guldur,” Daeron finished. 

“Yes. And most of those have faded.” Maglor regretted saying that as he watched dismay pass over Daeron’s face. “They don’t hurt anymore. Except my chest, sometimes.”

Daeron kissed him, sudden and fierce. “You should never have been hurt in the first place,” he said as he drew back, just far enough to speak before he kissed the scars around Maglor’s lips and the one on his cheek. He rested his hand on Maglor’s chest, over his heart—over the brand. “Would that I had come west sooner.”

“You were needed in the east,” Maglor said. He ran his fingers through Daeron’s hair. “And I’m—I’m glad you were not there to see me when I was brought out of that place. I was so afraid for such a long time—”

“You are still afraid,” Daeron whispered. 

“Not like I was. I lost so much of myself in the dark.” He’d thought that he had put himself back together by the time he’d left Middle-earth, but he kept finding missing pieces, or pieces of him that were broken in ways he hadn’t realized before, sharp and jagged-edged. If he had come to Valinor directly after being released from Dol Guldur, though, he would have had to go straight to Lórien, and he wasn’t sure he would have ever been able to come back out. Not with his brothers waiting for him, and without knowing what was happening back across the Sea. “Now I’m only afraid of some things,” he said, trying to speak lightly. Daeron wasn’t fooled. “Back then I feared everything.”

“What, even Elrond?”

“Even Elrond. And especially Galadriel.”

“Well, anyone with sense is at least a little afraid of Galadriel.”

Maglor grinned. “Celeborn isn’t.”

“I never said Celeborn had any sense.”

“Elrond isn’t, either.”

“Elrond is very wise but that does not mean he is sensible. Consider who he is descended from! Consider who raised him!” Daeron grinned when Maglor laughed, but he grew serious again quickly. “It’s useless to wish the past was different, I know, but it has not stopped me yet. I would have done many things differently if I had known…”

“So would I,” Maglor said.

“Starting at the Mereth Aderthad.”

“That, I don’t regret. I would not have had you drawn into my doom for anything.”

“I was drawn into it anyway,” Daeron said, “though through no doing of yours.” He kissed Maglor again, softly this time, and Maglor let his eyes fall shut, keeping his fingers tangled in Daeron’s hair. Then Daeron asked him, “What is it you fear now?”

Maglor didn’t answer immediately, but Daeron was patient. He shifted to the side so that Maglor could roll over and rest on him instead of the other way around. “My brothers,” he said finally. “And—I know I shouldn’t. Everything I have been told suggests that there is nothing to fear from them. Even the fact that Huan is with me. And I’ve received letters. I just…” He closed his eyes. His head rested on Daeron’s chest, and he could hear the steady drumbeat of Daeron’s heart. “I don’t know if I can explain.” It wasn’t like his apprehensions surrounding his mother. All his brothers had done the same things—some worse—than he had. Maybe it was that he had seen them die—all of them, one by one; he’d been too slow, too far away, too encumbered, and he hadn’t been able to save any of them. Not even Maedhros, who had disappeared into the great fiery rent in the earth before Maglor could even scream his name.

“Will you sing something?” Maglor whispered. “I don’t want to think of my brothers.”

Daeron obliged immediately, singing a quiet song of clear waters under dark trees, and the deep twilight of ancient woods. Maglor closed his eyes when Daeron drew a blanket up to cover both of them. Pídhres emerged from her saddlebag-bed to curl up with them, and at some point Maglor must have fallen asleep, because when he woke it was evening, and Huan had crowded into the tent with them too, with Leicheg sprawled out on her little flat stomach between his paws. 

The rain lasted another day, and when it ended they packed up the tent and moved on. “When you see your brothers,” Daeron said as he sprang into his saddle, “I will be with you. You are not alone any longer.”

Maglor smiled at him. “I know. But I wouldn’t ask you to go with me—”

“I know. That’s why I am telling you now, so we don’t have to argue about it later.” Daeron hesitated a moment before asking, “Do you think it’s only fear keeping you away, or grief?”

“Grief? I don’t—they’re alive again—”

“I still grieve Mablung,” Daeron said. “And Beleg, and Elu Thingol, and all the others I knew before who died and who yet walk again beneath the sun. Even when they stand before me I find myself missing them, and the grief has only grown sharp again, when before time had dulled it. I don’t know how to stop. How do you let it go when it has become such a part of you?”

Maglor scratched Pídhres behind her ears where she sat before him on the saddle. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “You are right, though—I think of them and all I can see is how they died, or what they were just before—how they were all so changed from the brothers I loved. Perhaps if I had known…I never thought to prepare myself for it. I never thought they would be released.”

“I expected—I hoped—to see the ones I missed, here alive and whole again,” said Daeron, “but even the knowing does not make it easier. I spoke to Melian of it, and she told me that it will fade with time, which I expected her to say and yet still disappointed me.”

“Maybe it’s useless to make the distinction between the two. I learned when Finwë died that grief can feel an awful lot like fear,” Maglor murmured. It had been difficult for a very long time to tell the difference—he still felt sometimes like he’d started being afraid then and had never stopped. 

“I have found that, too,” said Daeron. 

“I don’t know what keeps me away, exactly,” Maglor said after they had ridden in silence for a time. The grass around them was still wet from the rain, and it sparkled under the sun. Huan trotted along between their horses, tongue lolling out. Leicheg peered out of her pouch, carried by Daeron, and Maglor could hear her purring contentedly. “Part of it is—I was so angry when I saw my father. I don’t want to be angry like that again, and I’m afraid I will be.”

“I think,” Daeron said slowly, “that grief can also feel a lot like rage.”

With the passing of the rainclouds the weather turned fine and hot. They kept their leisurely pace, and after some days more Maglor began to recognize the country around them; rolling hills covered in heather that, once, had seemed to glow in the faintest Treelight that only barely reached them. Now they flourished under the summer sun. “When we crest those hills,” he told Daeron, “we will see it, Ekkaia. There will only be some dunes between us and the beach then.”

“I want to go on foot,” said Daeron. “Let us stop before the hills and let the horses loose so we don’t have to stop and worry about them afterward.” He glanced around as he spoke, and raised a hand to shield his eyes. “This is beautiful country. But desolate, somehow.” There was nothing else for miles—no one lived out here, and though Nienna’s halls were on the shores of Ekkaia they were nowhere in sight, and Maglor had never found them in his previous wanderings up and down the coast, long ago. There were not even birds, no gulls or albatrosses or terns, diving into the water or circling above, or nesting on the beach. Maglor had never stayed long before, though he’d come several times in his youth, drawn to the eerie silence and emptiness and yet unable to bear it for more than a short time. 

It felt a little different this time. This time he wasn’t alone. “Come on,” he said, urging his horse forward. “I want to make it to the hills before sunset.”

They reached the hills well before sunset, just as the sunlight began to take on a deeper golden color as the afternoon began its waning. They unsaddled the horses and set them free to roam where they would. Pídhres curled up around Maglor’s neck, and Leicheg peered out of her pouch at his chest, and purred when he stroked a finger over her head. Huan, though, raced ahead and paused to sniff the air before bounding away north, past the dunes onto the beach, letting out a loud bark after a few minutes. “What was that about?” Daeron asked. 

“Perhaps he scented a sea monster,” Maglor said. “Are you prepared to enter into battle?” Daeron laughed, reaching for his hand to climb up through the heather and the tall grass to the top of the hill before them. They stopped at the crest of it, and Maglor’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of Ekkaia stretching out before them. Its waters were calmer and smoother than Belegaer. The waves were gentle as they washed quietly up over the stony beach, their music no more than a whisper, the stones themselves all warm browns and reds and occasional pinks, and the waters were darker, not quite reflecting the blue of the sky, but instead shimmering with the remembered light of ancient stars. They were endless, vanishing past the horizon; there were no ships that sailed upon Ekkaia, no fishermen to cast their nets into its depths. Certainly no sea monsters, Maglor thought as he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the westering sun. Here there was only peace.

“Oh,” Daeron breathed. “Oh, it’s…” He gazed at it a moment longer before tilting his head back to begin to sing. His voice lifted up on the breeze and echoed out over the water, a song of praise for the peace and tranquility of the sea at the edge of the world, for the beauty of its dark waters and the bright glow of the sun overhead. When he finished his stanza Maglor continued the song, singing of his memory of it under ancient starlight before the rising of the Sun or Moon. 

They traded verses as they made their way down to the beach, past the grassy dunes and onto the stones, falling into harmony as easily as they joined hands, building upon one another’s words as they went, weaving themes and melodies together. The stones crunched gently underfoot, and when Maglor knelt to dip his fingers into the waves they were cool and fresh; the air smelled faintly of salt. 

As Daeron’s last verse ended but before Maglor could begin another Huan barked again; they both turned—and Maglor froze. Huan was not alone.