High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray  

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Forty Two

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“I really don’t know why I’m surprised,” Elrond sighed as he watched the party of horsemen and -women come riding down the road. The banners of Finwë’s house fluttered above them. Celebrían laughed. 

Beside him Elladan leaned out of the window, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare. “I recognize Lady Míriel,” he said, “but none of the others.”

“That is Indis beside her,” said Celebrían, “and coming just behind them are Findis and Lalwen. I do not see Finarfin, though. Or any of my other uncles, nor any of Fingolfin’s other children.”

“I’m not surprised that Finarfin hasn’t come,” said Elrond. “He was very happy to wash his hands of Tirion and everyone in it, when he handed the crown over to Fingolfin, and it was not that long ago. Didn’t Finrod say he intended to spend at least two centuries in Alqualondë with Eärwen, refusing all visitors but for a few particular exceptions?” Celebrían had been very smug upon learning that she and Elrond were two of those exceptions. Whether that would extend to Elladan and Elrohir remained to be seen; Finarfin, though kindhearted and affectionate, was determined in his quest for quiet and solitude after so many long years of a kingship he had never wanted. 

“Well,” said Elrohir, “at least this summer hasn’t been boring. I suppose we must delay our hunting trip a little while.” They and Elrond had been intending to go off into the woods beyond the valley after their current crop of visitors departed, so the twins might begin to familiarize themselves with the lands and the trees, and to learn all of the new plants and birds and beasts that were to be found in Valinor that they had never seen in Middle-earth. 

Elrond sighed; he had been looking forward to it, and had been expecting to say farewell to Fingolfin and Fëanor in the next day or two, not welcoming the rest of the family. “Celebrían, you know better than I. Can we depend on these new guests to be sensible?”

She laughed again. “When it comes to old family disputes? I rather doubt it.”

“Even Indis?” Elladan asked. 

“I have always known her to be calm and reasonable,” Celebrían allowed, “but as I have gotten to know the House of Finwë, and as I have heard tales of Finwë himself, I have come to suspect that it is not from him that his children all inherited their fire and stubbornness. It is often said that Indis and Míriel are very little alike, but in some respects I think they are really quite similar. It’s only that they’re better at hiding it—and that Míriel has the advantage of being so long absent that everyone has forgotten everything but her talents and her decline. I think if she had not been so weighed down by grief, Indis would have braved the Helcaraxë without hesitation, and I think she might have done deeds as renowned as any of her children, had she come to Beleriand—but you’d never guess it to look at her, or even after getting to know her just a little. I suppose I might be wrong, but I don’t think that I am. I think, though, we don’t have to fear anything worse than a few shouting matches—if that, since Fëanor seems so little inclined to shout these days.”

“Don’t look at me,” Elrond laughed when his sons turned to him. “I do not know her nearly as well as your mother does. Come on then, we had best go downstairs so you may greet your great-grandmother and your aunts.”

“There must be an end to meeting our ever-more-distant relations sometime, yes?” said Elrohir as he paused to straighten Elladan’s robes, while Elladan returned the favor through a quick replaiting of one of Elrohir’s braids. “Only the number seems to continue growing.”

“Someday, perhaps,” Elrond said.

“There are relations even we have not met,” Celebrían added, “those who have not yet returned from Mandos. I do wish you could meet Gil-galad…”

“Is he not yet returned?” asked Elladan. “I have wondered, but I did not know how to ask.”

“No,” said Elrond, “he is not yet returned. How long one spends in Mandos seems a very individual thing. He will come when he is ready.” He had spoken of it to no one except, once, to Celebrían, but Elrond had more than half-expected Gil-galad to be awaiting him when he had sailed into Avallónë, and he had been sorely disappointed to find that was not so. He knew it must have been the same for Círdan, as well; when they had met again his name had not been spoken between them, but the silence spoke volumes in itself of grief and longing. 

Downstairs, Finrod and Fingon and Galadriel were gathered to greet the newcomers. Fingolfin and Fëanor were not there, but they had walked away into the valley some hours before and were not yet returned. The usual boisterous and cheerful chaos of such meetings ensued as Míriel and Indis and Indis’ daughters swept into the entry hall. They were introduced to Elladan and Elrohir and greeted with delight, but Lalwen wasted no time in turning to Elrond and asking where her brothers were. “Off beyond the gardens somewhere,” Elrond said, “perhaps in one of the orchards.”

“Excellent,” Lalwen said. “We were hoping to avoid a crowd of witnesses for this first meeting; that is why we came from Tirion!”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Findis added, pausing to kiss Celebrían and Elrond.

“Certainly not!” said Celebrían. “The more the merrier—I hope!”

“That remains to be seen,” Findis said, a little ruefully.

“Sister!” Lalwen called from down the hall.

“Yes, I’m coming!” Findis hurried away after Lalwen. 

“Should we be concerned, Grandmother?” Finrod asked, watching them go. 

Indis smiled. “I don’t think so.”

“And where is Arafinwë?” Fingon asked. 

“Still in Alqualondë,” said Indis. “He has made it quite clear that if his brother wishes to reconcile, he may come there—as he will have to sometime soon, to speak at least with Olwë.” There was a slight pause and a few grimaces, but the moment passed quickly. Like Elrond, no one was really surprised by Finarfin’s absence. “But where is Macalaurë? I had thought he had come to dwell with you, Elrond.”

“He left soon after Fëanor arrived,” Elrond said. “We expect him back before winter.”

Indis and Míriel exchanged a glance, but Indis said with a smile, “Well, he has never been content to remain still for long. I hope to see him in Tirion soon.”

“I hope so, too,” Elrond said. 

After the initial greetings were over, and Indis walked out to sit near one of the ponds with Galadriel, Celeborn, and Celebrían, Míriel came to Elrond and asked to talk a walk with him through the gardens. “Macalaurë did not even want to speak of his father in Avallónë,” she said. “What really happened when Fëanáro came here?”

“Maglor was angry,” Elrond admitted, “and they did have words—but I don’t know what precisely was said. They met outside of the house, almost across the valley, and Fëanor has not shared what passed between them. Nor did Maglor, for he left immediately afterward.”

“You told me before that you were not worried for him. Has that changed?” Míriel ran her fingers over the flower petals as they walked; much of the garden was in full bloom, a rainbow of bright colors with greenery peeking out of it, rather than the other way around. Birds sang in the bushes and trees, and the sound of flowing water surrounded them, cheerful and clear. White puffy clouds drifted lazily across the sky overhead, casting occasional drifting shadows over the valley when one passed in front of the sun.

“Only a little. He was very cheerful until Fëanor came—and Fëanor came without warning, which made it all the worse. He sang and performed at Midsummer for us. Huan caught up to us on the road coming here, and also left with him. I am not worried that he is wandering in the wilds alone, or that he will not come back—he said that he would return by autumn’s waning.”

“But he is troubled—more than he was in Avallónë.” Míriel smiled a little, wry and rueful, and added, “I remember you telling me that Fëanáro would have to learn to take no for an answer.”

“So he has,” Elrond said. “I did not, in the end, stop him from seeing Maglor, but Maglor made it very clear what his wishes are. He does not want to see or speak to him again.”

“My other grandsons are also wandering somewhere in the western wilds,” Míriel remarked after they walked in silence for a few minutes. “I must be glad, I suppose, that Fëanáro’s brothers have not also gone storming away. Or his sisters,” she added, when raised voices from nearer the water reached them. A moment later there was a great splash. 

Elrond sighed. It had been a joke, was his first thought, as he and Míriel turned to quickly make their way towards the commotion. He’d never really expected anyone to get pushed into the fishpond; he’d only ever said it to make Celebrían laugh. 

As they emerged from between the lilac bushes to come within sight of the pond, he found Celebrían valiantly trying to hold in her giggles, but when their eyes met she had to clap a hand over her mouth to stop them spilling out. Meanwhile, Fëanor was heaving himself up, water streaming down his hair and his clothes, one hand pressed to his face over one eye. “Did someone hit him?” Míriel asked, sounding surprised but not terribly worried. 

“Finally,” said Fingon, coming up to join them. “I’ve been waiting for someone to lose their temper with him. Who was it? Aunt Lalwen?”

“Findis, I think,” said Elrond, watching her shake out her hand as Lalwen, while living up to her name, waded into the water to help Fëanor the rest of the way to his feet. 

“Aunt Findis! I would not have expected that. I do beg your pardon, Lady Míriel,” Fingon added belatedly. “I mean it all with the utmost affection.”

Míriel laughed at him. “A black eye and duckweed in his hair won’t do any lasting harm,” she said, “and I think he knows that he deserves it.”

“He offered to let my father punch him, or so Elrond has told me,” Fingon said, “but Atya only rolled his eyes when I asked him why he didn’t take advantage of the opportunity, and then he scolded me when I said I would not have turned down such an offer from Turgon if we had ever quarreled the way he and Fëanor have.”

Elrond left them, and went to join Findis on the bank, where Fingolfin was examining her fingers. “I know that I taught you once to throw a proper punch,” he was telling her. “That was not a proper punch.”

“We were both children when you taught me, and you have never been a great teacher,” Findis retorted. “Hello, Elrond!”

“Is your hand all right, Aunt?” Elrond asked, holding out his own so he could take a look for himself. 

“I think so. I’m afraid I lost my temper.” 

Elrond noticed, though, that she was not apologizing. “Nothing is broken,” he said, releasing her hand, “but I think that’s more luck than anything else. You must keep your thumb on the outside of your fist.”

“Very well, Master Healer—you’d know all about throwing punches, I suppose?”

“Of course,” Elrond said, smiling. “I’ve not always been only a healer.”

“Was it Maglor that taught you?” Fingolfin asked. “He always was a good teacher.”

“Yes, along with all the dirtiest knife tricks that he knew.” Elrond excused himself and went to join Fëanor and Lalwen, who was trying to examine his eye, but was laughing too much to be of much use. 

“The look on your face when she hit you!” she was exclaiming in between giggles. “Oh, I will treasure that forever, Fëanáro.”

“I am overjoyed for you, Lalwen,” Fëanor said dryly. He held his hand over his eye still, but lowered it when Elrond stepped forward to take a look. 

“Well, that will turn some interesting colors by tomorrow,” Elrond said, “but there’s no real harm done, except that you’ve frightened all of my wife’s fish.” Fëanor rolled his eyes and got to work wringing out his clothes. “At least she did not break your nose. That would be much messier to deal with.”

“I’m touched by your concern.”

“Your own mother says that a black eye and a little duckweed won’t hurt you,” Elrond said placidly. Fëanor looked up sharply, seeing Míriel for the first time, and looking for a moment like a child caught misbehaving. “Try not to track mud and algae into my house though, please—and I might as well warn you that there will be at least half a dozen songs and rhymes about all this by dinnertime.”

“Wonderful,” Fëanor said. “And they’ll be the sort of songs that you can’t get out of your mind afterward, of course.”

“Oh, certainly. That is Lindir’s particular talent. And,” Elrond added with a smile, “has it not been said that the deeds of the Noldor will be a matter of song until the end of days?” This sent Lalwen into another gale of laughter; Fëanor covered his face with a muddy hand, but his shoulders shook in a poor attempt to restrain his own mirth. 

Celebrían was still seated on a nearby bench with her parents. “Well, we almost lasted the summer without someone getting shoved into the pond,” Elrond said as he approached, and she lost her struggle not to burst into helpless giggles. 

“Was that a real worry?” Celeborn asked. 

“I didn’t think it was,” Elrond said.

“Well,” Galadriel said, the picture of serenity, “Fëanor is learning now that, having begun to reconcile with his siblings, he must grow used to having siblings—and all that that entails.”

“Did you often blacken your brothers’ eyes?” Celeborn asked her.

“Not often,” said Galadriel, and refused to elaborate further. “I do remember that once Elrond broke his own brother’s nose.”

“That,” Elrond said, when Celebrían turned to him in astonishment, “was an accident.”

“It looked very purposeful to me,” said Galadriel. 

“It was not my fault he put his face in the way of my elbow.”

“It was fortunate that it happened after his coronation,” Galadriel said, “and it did give us all a way to tell you apart for a time, even if it was rather undignified for the new King of the Edain to be going about with his eyes blackened and his nose swollen.”

“What did you tell everyone?” Celebrían asked. 

“Nothing,” Celeborn said, “since Elrond did it in public.”

It really had been an accident—Elrond had been absorbed in…something. Maps, he thought it had been, trying to make sense of the hastily-made ones of the new coastline. He did remember that his thoughts had been full of Maglor and where he might next try to search for him. Elros had come up too quietly behind him, and he’d reacted without thinking at sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. Elros should have been able to dodge, even so, but he hadn’t, and the war had ended so recently that the sight of his face all covered in blood had driven Elrond into such a sudden panic that Gil-galad had had to take him aside to sit with his head between his knees for a while.

Elros had been furious, of course. Not for long—never for long—but it had been as good an excuse to fight as any, since they’d been trying so very hard not to be angry at each other for choosing differently after Eönwë had come to them. Elrond had, like Fëanor, offered to let Elros get in a punch of his own. Elros had told him not to be stupid, and Elrond had replied that it was no stupider than Elros himself had been, and then they hadn’t spoken at all for three days. After that Elros came to find him for one last trip together to look for Maglor, and it was as though the fight had never happened.

“It was an accident,” he repeated, now. He missed Elros, suddenly, sharply—he always missed him, but it did not usually hurt quite so much these days.

“I wonder if I should be grateful, then, that I was never blessed with siblings,” Celebrían said brightly, deftly turning the conversation away from Elrond and toward herself. “I obtained quite enough bruises all on my own.”

“They are good for things other than punching,” Galadriel said. 

“They’re excellent for laughing at you afterward,” Elrond said, watching Lalwen and Fëanor go by, Lalwen hanging off of his arm and still giggling, and Fëanor staggering a little with the weight of her, but submitting to being towed along as any older brother would, still soaking wet and leaving a trail of pond water in his wake. Findis and Fingolfin followed behind at a more sedate pace with Míriel and Indis; Míriel, too, was laughing. Fingon had disappeared, likely to go tell Finrod all about the scene. 

“I want to say that our children never blackened each other’s eyes, or broke anything,” Celebrían said, “but now I wonder if I just never heard about it.”

“We never did, Naneth,” said Elladan. He and Elrohir appeared to each press a kiss to Celebrían’s cheeks. “Not outside of the sparring ring, we promise, and Glorfindel always hit us harder than we hit each other.”

“Arwen bloodied my nose once, though, do you remember?” Elrohir said. “When she was tiny and always squirming around—she kicked me right in the face.” 

“I do remember,” Celebrían said, laughing. Elrond did not laugh, but he smiled through the pang in his heart at the memory of Arwen as a baby, small and round-faced, with bright eyes and shadow-dark hair. She had been squirming because Elrohir had been blowing raspberries into her stomach, making her giggle and scream with delight. 

By supper time, as Elrond had predicted, there were three songs going around about Fëanor’s tumble into the fishpond. Fëanor bore the teasing with surprisingly good humor. Elrond saw that he avoided Indis, as much as was possible, but it was shocking how much tension had been gotten rid of in only a single afternoon. Elrond even saw Fëanor laughing at something Fingon said. Celebrimbor caught his eye and raised his eyebrows, showing his own surprise.

Gandalf, of course, watched it all unfold with a very smug look on his face, and when he caught Elrond’s eye, he laughed.