High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

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Four

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Elrond and Celebrían were kind enough to excuse themselves after Celebrimbor’s revelation, and he went with them, leaving Maedhros alone in the garden with Curufin. They stood in silence for some time. A nightingale was singing in a nearby hedge, and bees flew lazily around them as they went from flower to flower. Finally, Maedhros said, “Maglor is coming back.”

“Is he?” Curufin looked at him, raising one brow. “I thought you did not know where he was. I suppose Elrond told you?” Maedhros nodded. “Have you not looked into the palantíri? I know Amil has them.”

“I did, once,” Maedhros said, unable to keep himself from shuddering at the memory of it. The image of Maglor chained and brutalized was seared into his memory, and he was glad none of the others had seen it. Bad enough their mother had. “But it was long ago, and ever since I have seen nothing but mist.”

The nightingale ceased its singing; somewhere else in the gardens elven voices burst into song, though it was not as merry as Maedhros might have expected after all he had heard of Elrond and Celebrían’s home in Middle-earth. They were all in mourning in this place, in spite of the bright sunlight and the merry music of the rivers and streams. He knew it had not been a good idea to come here now, knew it was unkind, but not knowing anything of Maglor had been eating away at him and he could not rest until he learned something. 

“That is not right,” Curufin said quietly after a moment. “He has never hidden from you.”

“He does now.” Maedhros turned his gaze to the nearest flower, tracing its many petals that seemed to glow in the bright sunlight. It was a deep red color; the color of blood, his mind supplied, and he tried to push the thought away, for it had no place in Lady Celebrían’s garden. “Have you looked into the palantír?”

“No. What would be the point? If he hides from you he hides from us all. But Maglor is not yet here, and our father is—or will be soon. Amil does not yet know what she wants to do and wants all of us with her when she decides whether she will see him again.”

“Will you? See him again?” Maedhros turned back to Curufin, who looked away in his turn. He kept his hair cropped short, as he had when he’d been younger and too impatient to always be braiding it back out of the way of his work. It had grown longer in Beleriand. Since his return to life he’d thrown himself back into making, as he’d fallen away from it before his death, but this time focusing all his energies on making what he wanted to make, and not what he thought their father would approve of, or what might be thought Great. He had no work to compare to the Silmarils or to his son’s Rings, but at last Curufin seemed content with that—like he did not need it anymore. Maedhros was glad of it, but now that their father was returned, he found himself fearing they would all fall back into old patterns—the patterns of the darker days, the unhappy time even before the Darkening, when Fëanor’s fire had been all rage and jealousy instead of love and joy. 

Finally, Curufin said, “I don’t know. I have only just…I need to speak to Arimeldë.” Their reconciliation was still a new and fragile thing. “I will not abandon her again—and going to him if she does not wish it would be an abandonment.” 

“Good,” Maedhros said. 

Curufin smiled, but it was unhappy and short lived. “Will you see him?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I remember he tried—in the Halls. I did not think before that anyone could burn too hot for Atya, but you…” Curufin was watching him almost warily now. “You still burn. Have you truly found no rest, not anywhere?”

“If I could not find it in Mandos, why does anyone think I will find it outside?” Maedhros asked. He’d asked the same of Estë herself, and of Nienna, and he would have demanded an answer of Námo if he’d ever been able to find him. Both Estë and Nienna had told him that he had not found it because he refused to look. “I don’t want to see him, but if Ammë asks it of me I will go with her. Or stand by her when he comes.”

“She won’t ask. You know that. We’ve all—we’ve all sacrificed enough for him.”

They had sacrificed everything. Their freedom, their lives, their very selves. It was more than a father should have ever asked of his children, and Fëanor had not asked but demanded. They had all stepped forward willingly to swear the Oath, not knowing to what they were condemning themselves. But as he lay dying Fëanor had demanded they swear again even after Alqualondë and Losgar, binding them to it even more tightly, knowing that it would be fruitless and end only in grief. Maedhros hadn’t seen it then, but he did now, and he could not forgive Fëanor any more than he could forgive himself for what he’d led his people and his brothers into. All of his baby brothers, destroyed before their deaths and then cut down in bloody battle in pursuit of a gem none of them even wanted. 

“It was not all your fault, you know,” Curufin said after a few moments of silence. “You did not want to go to Doriath. You were our liege lord and you are our eldest brother, but when did that ever stop us disobeying or overriding you?”

“I did not want any of it,” Maedhros said, “but I still did it.”

“Maedhros—Nelyo. You can’t keep going like this.” 

Were it anyone else Maedhros would have bristled, and probably left the conversation entirely. He knew that Curufin was right. But he could not shake the thought that if he went long enough, if he kept refusing, if he kept burning, either he would burn out and dissolve into ash on the wind, or else the Valar would take pity on him and just send him back to Mandos. It would not work any better the second time but maybe they would at least let him stay there. There were plenty of others who would not return—why could they remain there until the world’s ending and he could not?

Finally, Curufin relented, and asked, “When is Maglor returning?”

“Soon, I think. With Elrond’s sons.”

“Will you go to Eressëa to wait for him?”

“I…” That was the question, wasn’t it? He would not be welcome to go to Avallónë with Elrond and his wife—Elrond had made that quite clear—and now he did not even know if he should. Once he had been the first to whom Maglor would turn when in need of comfort or even just companionship. But now, after all he had endured—the centuries of lonely wandering, the decades of torment—Maedhros wasn’t sure that still held true. He did not think he could bear that particular rejection. It might send him to Mandos again whether the Valar wished it or not. “No,” he said finally. “No, I won’t go.” 

“One of us should,” Curufin said. “He can’t come back to no one at all.”

“He isn’t. Elrond will be there.”

“Elrond is not his family.”

Maedhros gave Curufin a look. “Do not start that nonsense again. The line of Fingolfin—”

“You know what I mean,” Curufin said with a roll of his eyes. “He is kin of course, but he is not—”

“Maglor raised him. He is the only family Maglor is sure to want to see,” Maedhros said flatly. He knew that he was not hiding the hurt well, but it didn’t matter. Who was Curufin going to tell about it? And Curufin did not know what Maedhros knew. Neither Maedhros nor Nerdanel—nor Finrod, for that matter—had ever shared what they had seen in the palantír. There had been no point except to cause unnecessary pain. Better that the rest of his brothers did not know. Bad enough that he did, when there was nothing to be done about it. Elrond now claimed that Maglor had healed, but however great a healer and however wise he was said to be, Maedhros still could not see him as more than a half-grown child with more nerve than sense, and doubt lingered. 

Have you nothing else to say to Elwing’s only living son? 

A bell rang, and Celebrimbor came to find them. “That is the dinner bell,” he said. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Yes, of course,” Curufin said. Maedhros said nothing, but he followed after them into the bright and airy dinner hall. Woven hangings adorned the walls, all scenes of Middle-earth that Maedhros did not recognize. There was nothing there of Beleriand. He saw Celebrimbor pause by one bearing the image of a shining door between two great holly trees, and brush his fingers lightly over the symbols of Durin before he went on. Beyond the seats of Elrond and Celebrían was an enormous tapestry showing a view of another valley, tucked at the feet of mighty mountains, all shades of green and blue with rivers and falls and trees of many kinds, and in the midst a rambling house that was both like and unlike this one. Every detail had been woven with care and with love and with the melancholy of homesickness. 

“That is Rivendell,” said someone at Maedhros’ side. He turned to see an old Man, bearded and clad in silver and white, with knowing eyes. “The Last Homely House east of the Sea, it was called. How was it that Bilbo put it…? Ah, yes, a perfect house, whether you like food or sleep, or story-telling or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mix of them all, I believe it was. He was quite right.”

“Gandalf!” Lady Celebrían swept across the hall to embrace the old man. “We were not expecting you! Welcome, welcome. What brings you here?”

“Need I have a reason beyond visiting old friends?” Gandalf replied, eyes twinkling. There was something odd about him, but Maedhros did not know what it was. Something like the Maiar, but also not. The name, too, was familiar, but Maedhros had not cared enough to keep up with all the tales and rumors coming back from the east with every ship. “I hear that your sons are coming at last,” Gandalf was saying to Celebrían. “I am very glad to hear it. And I think your father, too, is coming with them.”

“Is he?” Celebrían’s whole demeanor brightened. “Oh, I hope so! Does my mother know? Of course she does. She is probably already in Avallónë waiting for him. Do come sit down! And Maedhros, your seat is also this way.” She graced him with a smile and swept away with Gandalf on her arm, both of them laughing together. Maedhros trailed after them, having lost sight of Curufin and Celebrimbor as the rest of the household filed in. Everyone seemed happy to see Gandalf, whoever he was, and he was taken to a seat of honor beside Celebrían at the table on the dais. Elrond greeted him in the same bright manner. Maedhros had to stop himself staring, as he realized that he had never seen Elrond so happy before. 

Maedhros was seated near the head of the main table, across and up a little from Curufin and Celebrimbor, who was speaking to those around him like they were old friends. As food was brought out, Maedhros’ right-hand neighbor turned to him with a smile. “Well met, my lord. I am glad to see you again.” He looked at her, startled, and was surprised to recognize her.

“Dringil,” he said. “Well met.” And looking past her he saw others that he had once known, in Valinor before the Darkening and in Beleriand, who had followed him to Himring, or Caranthir to Thargelion, or even Curufin and Celegorm to Himlad. Now that he was looking, he saw that there were many who had once followed the sons of Fëanor scattered throughout the hall, mingling with those who had served the House of Fingolfin or Finarfin. 

“It is a long way from Himring,” Dringil said. “Did you know it still stands? It is an island off the coast north of Lindon, now.”

“I did not know,” Maedhros said.

“We rescued a great deal from it after the storms settled,” Dringil said. “It was taken to Lindon and much afterward to Imladris.” She nodded toward the tapestry. “I know that Master Elrond has copies of the records too in the library here.”

“I didn’t know that, either,” Maedhros said. He also did not know how he felt about it, that of all Beleriand it should be his fortress that had survived everything that came after. “Thank you.” Dringil smiled at him, and then was distracted by someone across the table calling for her opinion on something related to the forges. Others stopped by Maedhros’ seat to greet him, or smiled at him from down the table, and it felt very strange to be so warmly welcomed by all of the members of Elrond’s household while Elrond himself sat close by looking anywhere but at him. 

It was Maedhros’ own fault, and he knew it—he’d gone about it all wrong. He watched Elrond from the corner of his eye, as he leaned in to speak into Celebrían’s ear, both of them sharing secret smiles, all sweet softness. When they were not caught up in each other they were laughing with Gandalf, who seemed to laugh more than he spoke, and whose ease with them spoke of long, long years of friendship. 

“Who is he, Gandalf?” Maedhros finally asked Dringil when he could catch her attention again.

“Gandalf? Why, he is—he is Gandalf! He was one of the Istari sent to Middle-earth long ago by the Valar to aid us against the Enemy,” Dringil said. “He has many names—Gandalf, Mithrandir, and Olórin that was his name here before he went back over the Sea. There were other wizards, too—Radagast has not yet returned to the west, and Saruman…” A shadow passed over his face. “Saruman is no more. There were two others, but I never met them. But it was Gandalf who led the Company out of Rivendell, and it was due to his councils that the War of the Ring was won at last.” She smiled. “He bore also Narya, though of course none of us knew anything about it until after it was all over. He was a dear friend of Bilbo and Frodo and Sam—the Ringfinder and the Ringbearer and his companion. I do not think you ever met them…?”

“No,” Maedhros said. Even he had heard of them, of course. Their names were honored throughout Valinor. But he had thought it better to keep away; they had come to Valinor to heal, not to be beset by ghosts of the ancient past. 

“That is a shame,” Dringil said, to his surprise. “Bilbo would have been delighted to meet you—he was certainly very happy to meet Lord Caranthir.”

“He sounds…rather singular, this Bilbo,” Maedhros said, unsure what exactly he meant and not quite sure that it was a compliment. But Dringil laughed and agreed, and so perhaps Bilbo would have taken it as a compliment. Perhaps Maedhros should have paid closer attention to the tales of the War of the Ring. 

After the meal ended there were calls for music, and someone began a song of the deeds of the Three Hunters, who had raced unceasing over many leagues in pursuit of their comrades taken by Uruk-hai. It sounded like a thrilling tale, but Maedhros saw a spasm of grief pass over Elrond’s face before he whispered something to Celebrían and got up from the table. As he turned he caught Maedhros’ eye, and nodded toward a door at the back of the hall. Surprised by the summons, Maedhros did not hesitate in rising and following. 

In the hallway, Elrond said, “It is a good story, that of the Three Hunters, but I cannot hear it tonight.”

“Does it end badly?”

“No!” Elrond smiled briefly. “No, it ends well.” He did not say more, instead leading Maedhros up a staircase, past an enormous library, and to a smaller more private study. “There is something I’ve been meaning to give to you, only I have not yet had the chance,” Elrond said as he stepped inside. The furniture was sturdy and plain, made of warm golden-brown wood. A braided rug covered the floor, and the bookcase held more trinkets than books, several of which had the clumsy but earnest look of something a child had made. Maedhros stood by the door as Elrond went to a chest in the corner. It was by far the oldest thing in the room. 

“Elrond,” Maedhros said. 

“I do not want to revisit our earlier…conversation,” Elrond said as he opened the chest. 

“You were right, though. I am sorry—I should not have come here as I did. Not now. I should have come long ago.” He just had not been able to bring himself to do it. He had avoided Elrond as much as possible through the entirety of his childhood, and it was only easier now that they were not forced into close quarters by the dangers of living in the wilds of war torn Beleriand. His feelings about that time were nothing, of course, to Elrond’s, but Maedhros knew that he was too much caught inside his own mind these days. He just did not know how to step out of it. 

Elrond drew a satchel out of the chest, and laid it on the desk. Maedhros looked into his face, really looked, and saw the weight of years, saw the bright joys and sharp sorrows that Elrond bore with such astonishing grace, saw the wisdom there, and the power—he was Eärendil’s son but also a child of Melian, and Maedhros knew that it had been a mistake to ever forget that. This was not the frightened child that Maglor had carried out of the wreckage of Sirion, or the stubborn youth who had insisted that neither he nor Elros could stay back any longer from the fighting in the north. Maedhros wondered if he knew how that parting had broken Maglor’s heart. 

That was an unkind thought; it was Maedhros’ fault that it had been so. Maglor could have—would have—gone with them, had it not been for him. If not for the Oath. 

“This was yours,” Elrond said, and Maedhros looked at the satchel. He almost did not recognize it, one of his last remaining possessions at the end. If anyone had asked him he would have said he’d taken it into the fire with him. 

“Where did you…?”

“It lay near the casket that had held the Silmarils.” Elrond was the only person to speak of the Silmarils so frankly before Maedhros. Most avoided the subject of them entirely, or tried to at least avoid saying the name. Even his mother never spoke of them.

“You…” Whatever Maedhros had expected, it was not to learn that Elrond, and presumably Elros, had gone after them. The thought had never crossed his mind. “And you kept the satchel.”

“We thought you might want it, if we ever found you. We learned the truth later, and then we thought Maglor might want it. After a time, keeping it just became habit; I have so few things from that early part of my life. Still, it isn’t mine—and there are some things inside I thought you would want.” 

Maedhros stepped forward, feeling like an intruder in this small and private space, and flipped open the satchel. There were only a handful of things inside, all carven wood. Maglor’s work. He pulled out two combs, a horse, a spoon, and a knife handle. They were not as brittle as he would have expected by their great age, but that was Elrond’s work, he thought. “Thank you,” he said softly, running his fingers over the details carved into a horse’s mane. “Did he…did he still carve things, after…?”

“Sometimes,” Elrond said. “He found most joy in clay, after Dol Guldur.” He spoke the name of that place so easily, almost carelessly, that Maedhros flinched. “That place is gone,” Elrond said, because of course he noticed. “It was toppled and its pits laid bare; Galadriel herself sung down the walls with the same songs that Lúthien used to topple the towers of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. By now the Greenwood will have overtaken that hill again, the spiders all driven out, and life brought properly back to the forest. The fear there was in that name is ended.”

“Is it?” Maedhros said without thinking, his head full of other pits and other dungeons—the name of Angband still tasted bitter on his tongue, though it was even longer gone than Dol Guldur. “For those who were there—”

“I was there,” Elrond said, voice suddenly sharp. “Not at Dol Guldur, but I have stood upon the slopes of Mount Doom and seen the might of Barad-dûr, and felt the heat of Sauron’s gaze. Do not tell me about fear, Maedhros son of Fëanor. I learned the taste of it as I watched you drive my mother into the Sea.” Maedhros met his gaze for a moment, but had to look away. He was cursed to always say the wrong thing to Elrond, it seemed, even when he did not mean to wound. After a beat, Elrond said, “Dol Guldur and Barad-dûr and all that Sauron ever built are now no more than rubble, with moss and grass and flowers slowly creeping back in to cover them. The fight against Sauron was long, and grievous, and some scars will never fade, but it is over.”

“If you know about fear, you know it does not end with the crumbling of stones,” Maedhros said quietly. 

“Fear of a name fades with time, and with the using of it. Once we avoided the use of Sauron’s name for fear that he would hear it. That danger is gone, and by naming him as he was I reject the hold that name might still have upon my heart or on the hearts of those who hear me speak. And I will say the same of Angband, and of Morgoth,” he added, and Maedhros did not flinch only because he had anticipated it. “If you truly came seeking my wisdom, Maedhros, I will give it to you. My counsel is to go to Estë, or to Nienna. Your spirit burns hot in you but you do not have to keep fueling it. Listen to what they have to tell you.”

Maedhros looked down at the carving of the horse in his hand. His mother would like to see these, he thought. He slipped it and the others back into the satchel, and picked it up. “Thank you for this,” he said, raising his gaze to meet Elrond’s, though it was hard to look at him. His eyes were soft grey and starlit, but his gaze seemed to pierce through to Maedhros’ very core, and it was not a comfortable feeling. “I am sorry,” Maedhros said. “For all of it.”

“I know,” said Elrond. His eyes softened, just a little. “I forgave you long ago.”

“Did Maglor?”

Elrond hesitated, which was answer enough. “He loves you,” he said finally. “But more than that, I cannot say. I do not know.”