High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray  

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Thirty Five

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It rained in the night; Maglor woke from a dream that was not quite a nightmare, but which left him unable to return to sleep even as the details slipped away upon waking. His heart beat hard in his chest as he caught his breath. It was very dark in the tent, and very quiet but for the soft breathing of Daeron and his brothers all around him. He was warm, Daeron tucked up against his side, an arm resting across his stomach. The rain was a steady patter on the canvas, comforting and familiar in its rhythms. 

Then someone stirred beside him, breath hitching—Maedhros. He had never had screaming nightmares, had never tossed and turned, but Maglor had quickly and early learned to recognize the signs. Old habits took over and he reached over without thinking, taking Maedhros’ hand in his, rubbing his thumb over Maedhros’ knuckles, and feeling Maedhros grip his fingers tightly, desperately. He couldn’t tell if Maedhros woke or not, in the dark.

After his rescue from Angband Maedhros had slept very little. He had trusted no one but Maglor and Fingon to be there when he did, even as he dreaded being alone, and in spite of Fingon’s deeds there was still so much tension between their houses. Their other brothers hadn’t helped, fear making already-bad tempers worse, but Maglor had been willing to do anything for Maedhros’ sake—and the real healing of the rift had started when he and Fingon had come together to find a way to help Maedhros sleep. Maglor had the power, but Fingon had had the hope, and the right words. 

Maglor hummed one of those songs now. It was not one he had ever sung for anyone else, but he put forth the power of it to wrap around everyone in the tent, murmuring words for rest and ease, for hope of waking to a bright sunrise. Maedhros’ grip on his fingers eased as his breathing deepened and evened out into deep and peaceful sleep, but he did not let go. Sleep did not return to Maglor, but he felt better for having assured everyone else would rest undisturbed until morning, and he lay in the dark and listened to the rain until it faded away and morning light began to brighten the tent.

No one was in a particular hurry, in spite of their decision to depart, and it was noon before they had finished packing their things. Daeron whistled for the horses and they all came trotting out of the heather. Pídhres clawed her way up Maglor’s cloak to curl around his neck while he knelt to scoop up Leicheg, also returning from her morning’s foraging. They both purred as he secured Leicheg in her pouch across his chest. Once he had both them and himself in the saddle he glanced toward Maedhros, who was already mounted and waiting for Ambarussa to stop bickering. He looked…not fine, but less tired than he had seemed the day before. Less fragile. Maglor looked away before Maedhros noticed him staring. Huan trotted over to rest his big head on Maglor’s leg. “For goodness’ sake, Huan, you can stop hovering over me. Celegorm is right there.” But he scratched Huan behind the ears and ignored Pídhres quiet hiss. 

“Are we ready?” Celegorm called out once they were all in the saddle. “Try to keep up!” His horse leaped forward into the heather, and with a shout of laughter Ambarussa charged after, Huan at their heels. The rest of them followed, though not quite as quickly. Maglor let the rest of them go before him, and turned to take one last look at Ekkaia’s calm waters. He was glad to have come, and maybe even glad to have found his brothers there. As his gaze strayed up the coast he thought he caught a glimpse of white-tiled roofs in the distance—Nienna’s halls, revealed in silent reminder and invitation, should any of them desire her help. 

“Maglor?” Maedhros had lingered too—long habit, Maglor thought. If Maedhros was not taking the lead, he was bringing up the rear to make sure no one was left behind. Some things never changed.

“I’m coming.” Maglor tore his gaze from the water and turned back eastward. 

They rode at a leisurely pace, apart from Celegorm and Ambarussa’s initial race ahead. Someone called for a traveling song and Daeron obliged before Maglor had to come up with an excuse not to. His throat was still sore, and he felt like his skin had turned to glass, fragile and transparent, and he did not think he could manage any kind of cheerful music. The echo of Ekkaia still played in his mind, themes of sorrow and of hope mingling together. There was a song of his own there too, somewhere, but he would not be able to tease it out until he could shut himself away in his own room at home in Imloth Ningloron, with his harp and a stack of paper to scribble on. 

The sky remained overcast, and the evening grew misty, though no more rain fell, and they found shelter at the edge of a small wood with tall trees and a thick canopy. Ambarussa built a cheerful fire, and Maglor found himself sitting between Caranthir and Curufin. Celegorm brought out a palantír. “Ammë wanted to know when we were on our way home,” he said, “but I think I won’t tell her that Cáno is with us. Let it be a surprise!” He grinned at Maglor, and turned his attention back to the stone before Maglor had to try to summon a smile in return. 

“We can tell her if you want us to,” Curufin said once Celegorm was absorbed in the stone. 

“No, that’s all right,” said Maglor. It was somehow easier to commit to going when he knew he was not expected. 

“We looked for you a few weeks ago,” Caranthir said. “In the palantír, I mean.”

Maglor looped his arms around his knees. “Did you find me?”

“Curvo caught a glimpse. You were trying to get your cat out of a tree.”

“I do that rather often. She likes to climb things, but can never get herself back down.” The cat in question had gone to sit by the fire where Ambarussa and Daeron were cooking dinner. Leicheg had vanished into the twilight, and he could hear her snuffling through the leaves somewhere behind them. They must have been looking for him the same day he met Daeron on the road; she hadn’t actually gotten herself stuck anywhere since then, though now that he’d had the thought he would probably find her stuck in a bramble bush the next morning. 

“Then we thought—you can’t hide from us in the past,” Caranthir went on. “And we all managed to find you then.”

Maglor didn’t look at either of them; he kept his gaze on Pídhres. “And what did you see?” he whispered.

“I saw you circling the harp we made like you thought it was going to bite you,” Curufin said quietly. 

“That was a long time ago,” Maglor said, closing his eyes. “I didn’t know at first that it was yours.”

“We made it for you, you know,” Caranthir said. “We just…never got to give it to you. I’m glad it came to you in the end, however it managed to survive—well, everything.”

“You’d cut your hair,” Curufin added. “And you were…” He hesitated. Maglor knew what he’d seen—he’d seen him as he’d been upon first leaving Dol Guldur, afraid of his own shadow, unable to speak and unable to bring himself to even touch the strings of a harp, let alone make music. It was a good thing to be reminded of, he thought as he glanced toward his harp case. He was so much stronger now than he’d been then. He could make music, and write songs, and if he was still apprehensive about performing—even that was fading, little by little. If his brothers had appeared in Imladris as they had by Ekkaia, he would never have been able to speak to them, or even look them in the face; no promise to Elrond would have stopped him from running away. However fragile and terrible he might feel now, he did not feel like that. “You were very thin,” Curufin finished. 

“You saw me just after I first came to Imladris,” Maglor said. He let go of his knees to wrap his arms around his brothers instead; they both leaned against him without hesitation. “It was a long time ago.”

“Did you keep it? The harp?”

“I played it until I left,” Maglor said. “I brought two that I made myself with me—and that harp I left in Annúminas. It will become an heirloom of the Stewards of Arnor. I wanted something of yours to remain in Middle-earth—something beautiful.” Himring still stood, a monument to either their hubris or their hope—he had never been able to decide which—and Eldarion bore the elessar stone that Celebrimbor had made; in Minas Tirith too there was a small figurine that Nerdanel had made of porcelain, of a dancing figure and a spray of flowers and a tree, depending upon how one looked at it; she had given it once to the Lady of Andúnië, who had taken it then to Middle-earth where it had been gifted in turn to Elrond, and then to Maglor. He had in his turn given it to Queen Silmariën as a wedding gift. Not all that they had made or done was terrible. There had been great joy and beauty too, when the Oath had slept. “I loved it,” he added after a moment. “I thought of you every time I played.”

“But you did not play right away,” Curufin said. 

“That had nothing to do with the harp, and everything to do with—with me.” He hadn’t even known at first that his brothers had made it; it had just been the harp Erestor had brought out of storage for him, hard enough to look at all on its own. Erestor, of course, had known all along. Maglor had asked him once why he’d never said anything, and he’d responded with such a knowing look that Maglor had just gone away again feeling sheepish. Of course he had said nothing; Maglor would never have gone near it if he’d known from the start that his brothers had made it, for reasons neither definable nor rational. It had been hard enough finding their marks himself. He would never say anything of that to Caranthir or Curufin, though. They did not need to know it, and it no longer mattered. He’d gotten over the fear in the end.

The next morning Maglor found himself beside Celegorm, as the twins ranged ahead and Maedhros fell behind with Caranthir. “You aren’t singing,” Celegorm remarked after a while. Maglor didn’t answer; a sarcastic or bantering reply was what would be expected, but he didn’t have it in him. “Why not?”

“Whatever your memory might tell you, I have never spent my life in perpetual song.”

“No,” Celegorm agreed, “but when we used to travel together you had all sorts of traveling songs.”

“Nothing is stopping any of you from singing,” Maglor said. “You all have fair voices.”

“We’re all sick of each other’s voices,” Celegorm said. “It’s yours that we’ve been missing.”

Maglor didn’t look at him, keeping his gaze on the sky in the east, where the clouds were breaking. The wind was at their backs, and still carried a faint chill—or maybe it was a chill only Maglor could feel. He’d dreamed of Dol Guldur the night before, again. It hadn’t been enough to wake him in a panic, but he’d dreamed of lying on the cold stones with blood slowly seeping out of him, and even waking with Daeron’s arms around him and Pídhres curled up on his chest hadn’t been enough to banish the feeling. “I’m in no mood for singing, Tyelko.”

“You were in the mood before you met us,” Celegorm said in a low voice.

“It’s nothing to do with you.” Maglor reached out, and gripped Celegorm’s hand tightly when he reached back. “It’s hard to perform,” he said. “I don’t know how to explain more than that. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t like that it’s performance when it’s only us,” Celegorm said. “What do you think we’re going to say?”

“Maybe it’s not the right word. I’m not—it’s not that I fear your judgment. I can’t really explain it. But even aside from that, I really am not in the mood for singing today.”

“Did you not sleep well?”

Maglor managed a smile. “Well enough. If I had slept truly poorly everyone would know it.” He squeezed Celegorm’s hand once more before letting go. “Please don’t wor—”

“Don’t you dare tell me not to worry about you.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to breathe with everyone always looking at me like I’m going to fall to pieces at any moment,” Maglor said, unable to quiet the edge that crept into his voice. “Bad enough I know Elrond and the twins are worrying, back at Imloth Ningloron, on top of having to deal with—” He shook his head. “I’m—if I am not fine now I will be. So yes, I do wish you wouldn’t worry about me.” He wished they were out of the maze of rocky hills that they’d entered that morning, so that he might escape all conversation by galloping away ahead of everyone. But they weren’t, and when they crested a hill and he could see the land stretching out before them, it did not look like they would be leaving it any time soon. They were taking a more northerly route than he and Daeron had come, and he didn’t remember the lands well enough to know what to expect over the next few days. Pídhres perched before Maglor on the saddle, watching the lands passing by with interest. In her little pouch Leicheg sniffed the air and purred. Celegorm didn’t leave his side to rejoin the others, but he said nothing more.

They left the cool breezes of Ekkaia behind, and had two days of hot summer sunshine before clouds gathered again and it rained. Pídhres complained loudly from her warm and dry saddlebag; Leicheg was likewise secure in her pouch, but she did not mind the rain nearly as much as Pídhres did, and when they stopped to make camp and Maglor released her she scurried away into the wet without hesitation. 

Both tents were set up that night, and Maglor escaped into his and Daeron’s as soon as they finished securing it. Daeron followed a moment later. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Brothers,” Maglor said, yanking off his boots. “I’m—I’m all right. I just feel like they’re all watching me every moment, and I can’t bear any more of it.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone a while?”

“No!” Maglor pulled him down onto the blankets. “You haven’t been staring at me all day.”

“Yes I have,” Daeron laughed. “Come here.” He slid his fingers into Maglor’s hair to tug him in for a deep and fervent kiss. Maglor surrendered to it gladly, sliding his own hands under Daeron’s shirt to find smooth skin. The world shrank to the size of their tent, inhabited by only the two of them, a place where nothing else mattered—not brothers, not the weather, neither the past nor the future. 

The world outside eventually had to intrude again, but not until the next morning. Maglor woke to someone pulling the tent flap open. “The sun is both up and out,” Celegorm said, “if you two care to join the rest of us on our journey—” He broke off, and Maglor raised his head to see him staring at him. “Cáno, what—”

Maglor had neglected to put a shirt back on, and the blankets had slipped down to his waist in the night. He jerked them up over his chest. “Give us a few minutes,” he said. Celegorm withdrew hurriedly, and Maglor muttered a few choice words as he sat up and grabbed his clothes. In the process he dislodged Pídhres and Leicheg from the pile, and they tumbled into a game of chase around the tent. 

“It was only a matter of time,” Daeron said quietly as he pulled Maglor’s hair free of his shirt. He kissed the back of his neck before swiftly braiding his hair for him. 

“I would have liked it to be a time of my own choosing.” Maglor turned around to return the favor, though his fingers shook a little as he parted Daeron’s hair. 

No one would look him in the face when he and Daeron emerged from the tent, except for Maedhros—and Maedhros, Maglor thought bitterly, had surely already seen it in the palantír, the brand of Sauron on his chest, the thing that marked him as something apart from any prisoner just taken to torment or punish with no other real purpose. He did not look at any of them either, and kept his head down as he and Daeron packed their things, and his brothers packed theirs. Pídhres climbed up onto Maglor’s shoulders, and he turned his face into her fur for a moment, glad of the chance to hide, for however short a time. Daeron stayed by his side, and when they let everyone else ride ahead of them, no one protested. Maedhros looked like he wished to say something, but he glanced at Daeron and must have seen something discouraging on his face, because he just turned and trotted away to catch up with the rest. They were all in a knot, six heads leaning together and speaking quietly. They didn't look back, but he knew they were talking of him. 

“I hate this,” he whispered.

“They love you,” Daeron said quietly. He took Maglor’s hand and kissed his fingers. “Just give them time to get over the initial shock, as you did me.”

“You knew to expect something terrible. And—I meant to show you,” Maglor said. “I never…” He had never wanted his brothers to see, to know the full extent of what had happened to him. It was already bad enough they’d all had to see Maedhros, after Angband. Bad enough that Maedhros had seen him in the midst of it in the palantír. “I just wish he hadn’t seen the brand.” Anything else he could bear, he thought. The ugliest of the other scars had faded, visible to him only by a small discoloration of the skin because he knew what had been there. The cuts and the scars from the whips on his back and his arms and legs were nothing that stood out—notable only for the number, not the shape of them. The brand, though—that was as livid as the day he’d gotten it, its meaning unmistakable. 

It hurt, thinking about it. His lips hurt too, remembering the needle that had come only minutes after the brand. 

“Take out your harp,” Daeron said. “Let us continue the song we began at Ekkaia.”

“I can’t—”

“You need to be thinking of something else, so let’s have an argument about scansion and your horrendous ideas of rhyme.” There was nothing wrong with the rhymes he’d used in the song about Ekkaia, and Maglor said so as he reached for his harp case. Daeron grinned at him. “Then try to keep it up for the rest of the song!”

Their song making lasted the rest of the day, and by the time Celegorm called a halt Maglor was in a fairer mood—and the clouds had returned. “We had such pleasant weather riding out,” Amrod said as he frowned up at the steel-grey sky. 

“We’ll reach the grasslands tomorrow or the next day, and we can outrun the clouds,” said Celegorm and added, in a teasing manner that sounded forced, “if Maglor and Daeron can keep up.”

“I’ve kept pace with the fastest horsewomen of the eastern steppes,” Daeron said mildly, “and they put the famed Rohirrim to shame. You need not worry about me.”

Maglor knew he was meant to say something similar—to invoke his keeping of the Gap with cavalry, and all the races he had won against his brothers in their youth. Instead he found himself thinking of his race with Galadriel—begun to escape those same brothers—and said nothing, instead turning to tend to his horse, resting his head against her warm neck for a moment. She nosed at him, and he stroked her velvety nose before removing the saddle and letting her wander away with the others to graze. Huan followed them; they were approaching wide open country where wild beasts roamed. Maglor wasn’t worried, any more than he had been on the journey west; Huan’s keen senses would alert them to danger long before it reached them—and his mere presence would be more than enough to frighten away any but the most desperate of predators. 

The clouds hid the stars, but it did not rain, so they did not bring out the tents. Caranthir disappeared to seek firewood, and Maglor and Daeron went to forage for whatever they might find—mostly herbs, but it was enough to go with the birds Celegorm had managed to shoot at the same time. Curufin and Maedhros took over cooking. It was all so very normal, except that everyone was quieter than they should have been, and being so careful around Maglor as though afraid to speak to him at all, lest he—what, burst into tears? Snap at them? He didn’t know, and what was worse, he didn’t know that they were wrong. It had been starting to get easier—being around them, talking to them, seeing them as his living brothers and not just ghosts brought out of the mists of Ekkaia—but all that was gone now, and he didn’t know how to get it back.

As the afternoon slowly darkened into evening he leaned against Daeron and listened to the quiet conversation flowing around the campfire, letting his hair fall forward to hide his face. No one called for music that night.