High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

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Five

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Evening was coming on as they entered the Bay of Eldamar, and the shadows of the mountains were lengthening over the bay and Tol Eressëa. Alqualondë glittered on the shore, surrounded by its rainbow beaches. The towers of Avallónë rose up from the green mound of the island, gleaming in the light streaming through the Calacirya from the sun sinking westward on the other side of it. It was strange to see, Maglor thought, both like and unlike the golden light of Laurelin long ago. Boats and ships of all sizes and kinds drifted about the bay, some racing each other and zipping across the water, others moving more slowly. Their sails were dyed all rainbow colors, and the silver-haired mariners call called out in merry greeting. 

A crowd was gathered in the harbor at Avallónë—a larger crowd than Maglor had anticipated, and he stepped back from the railing. It was for Círdan, of course. Círdan and Celeborn and Daeron, all come West at last. He glimpsed Galadriel near the front of the crowd, and someone with bright silver hair beside her. Celeborn leaned over the railing, his eyes trained on them as though everyone else had ceased to exist. Elrond must be with them also, but Maglor did not see him and he did not want to linger to look.

“There is Elu Thingol,” Daeron said, sounding startled. 

Someone laughed at him. “Did you think you could slip unnoticed into Valinor, Daeron? Especially coming with Círdan!”

Daeron laughed with them, before retreating back toward the middle of the ship with Maglor. “I did think that,” he admitted ruefully. “Or at least I did not expect Thingol himself to be waiting on the dock!”

“I was not expecting such a crowd, either,” Maglor said.

“Stop that.” Daeron reached out to catch his hand, where Maglor had been digging his nail into the scars. “Doesn’t it hurt you when you do that?”

“No.” It had once upon a time, before the burns had healed, but Maglor didn’t think he could explain why he’d developed the habit. “I’m going to get my things.” It would take him into the cabins and away from searching eyes, and if he lingered perhaps the crowds would disperse, or at least thin out a little. 

“I’ll come with you.” Daeron followed him down into the hold. “Was that small harp all that you brought?”

“No. I have a larger one as well. I suppose someone will come to get the big luggage after we disembark…”

Daeron picked up the small harp from the bunk that Maglor had not really used. “Driftwood?” he asked. Maglor nodded. “I like it. The shape is interesting.”

“I have long favored driftwood for making things,” Maglor said as he picked up his satchel, and took up his cloak. It was the one Galadriel had given him long ago when he’d left Lórien. It would do little to hide him in Avallónë, he thought, but at least it had a hood—and at least the breeze off of the mountains had been cool, and an excuse to wear it. “Even when I could get other wood,” he added, looking over at Daeron. “Driftwood is—the sea changes it in strange ways that I find I like.” Daeron hummed agreement. “You do not have to linger down here with me.”

“I know. Is your other harp also made of driftwood?”

“Yes. But I’m not going to get it out now to show you.”

Daeron laughed. “Of course not. I will see it later.” Someone called to him from on deck. “Are you not coming back up?”

“I will. Don’t wait for me.” He didn’t know how to explain the sudden suffocating anxiety that so many faces, so many eyes, had caused in him. He needed a moment to breathe, somewhere he could at least know who was coming through the door. It was not unlike how he had felt upon leaving Lórien and crossing through the wide and empty lands of Eriador with Elrond’s sons, so long ago now. He was not that fearful anymore—or at least, he had not thought that he was. The way he couldn’t manage to fill his lungs all the way spoke otherwise. Before he’d feared being noticed by someone in particular; now he just did not like to be noticed at all. Daeron was watching him, and Maglor tried to pretend nothing was wrong. “They are waiting for you. And anyway, I have to find my cat.”

“All right.” Daeron set the harp down. “Farewell for now then, Maglor. I am certain we will meet again soon.” Maglor offered a smile, and Daeron went away back up the stairs. Once alone Maglor leaned against the wall and counted his breaths. Then he picked up his harp and slipped it into its case, and began the search for Pídhres.

As he passed the stairs, he met with several silver-haired Teleri coming down, who started in surprise and then laughed at him. “What are you waiting for?” they cried. “Go on, go on! We’ll take your things where they should go, have no fear!”

“Thank you,” Maglor said, trying to smile at them, and glad that the shadows in the passage hid the scars on his face. “But there is a cat hidden away on this ship—small, grey, and prone to climbing, and I cannot find her.” They found this highly amusing, but were eager to help, and before long one of them discovered Pídhres on top of a stack of crates in the hold. 

“Now, go! Surely there are folk awaiting you.”

“Thank you!” Maglor said again, accepting Pídhres into his arms, where she meowed plaintively, and made his way back up to the deck. It took some convincing, but she went back into his satchel and curled up atop his extra shirt with only one more grumbling sound at being disturbed in her explorations of the ship’s hold.

There were still plenty of people in the harbor, though less than before, and they did not pay any attention to the solitary figure making his way down the gangplank. Maglor stepped off of the wooden dock onto solid ground and stood for a moment, gazing down at the stones and letting it all stop tilting around him. A part of him had been worried that something would happen, that the Valar would come swooping down to clasp him in chains or something. And now, of course, nothing at all strange had happened and no one was looking at him and all the fear was just foolishness. He took a breath and lifted his head, walking a little way farther from the dock toward the road that everyone else seemed to be taking into the city. There were statues along it—depictions of the Valar in poses of welcome. Maglor stopped before Nienna’s and gazed up at her veiled face. Her hands were held in front of her, and he found himself thinking of her statue in the courtyard of Imladris, far away. That one had often had small offerings in her hands, pebbles or flowers or leaves. This one did not, and on a sudden whim he reached into his pocket and drew out a small white stone that had once sat nestled among the heather in Eriador, part of a larger stone that marked the path to Imladris. It had cracked and broken over many years, and Maglor had taken a handful of the pieces as he’d last passed it without really knowing why. Now he placed one in Nienna’s hand, and a murmur of thanks for the grace that had allowed him to return at last.

He looked up at the sound of his name, and relief made his knees weak at the sight of Elrond, striding toward him through the growing twilight. “Elrond,” he said, stepping forward to meet him. They embraced, both of them holding on tight. “Oh, it is so good to see you again.”

“I’ve missed you,” Elrond said, stepping back to look into his face. There were tears on his cheeks, a remnant of other earlier reunions. He did not ask why Maglor had been so long in disembarking. “I am so glad you came.”

“I promised I would,” Maglor said. This was a much gladder meeting than when he’d first come to Imladris. There was no fear or pain to overshadow it. Elrond was as Maglor remembered him, though he no longer wore Vilya, and the weariness that he had been suffering after the power of the Rings ended was gone. It was worth coming just to see that, to see how easily he smiled and how many lines of care had been smoothed away from his face. 

“I remember.” Elrond slipped his arm through Maglor’s, in the same way Elrohir often did, and they fell into step down the road, away from the harbor. “Our house is not too far. It is in a quiet part of town.”

“You live here then?”

“We have a house here, but Celebrían made her home in the south, where it is warm all the year round, and we spend most of our time there.”

“A second Imladris?” Maglor asked, smiling.

“Like and unlike. The valley is wider and flatter, and there are few trees but for her orchards. It is beautiful, though, all filled with flowers. And the house was fashioned after the one at ho—the one in Imladris.”

Maglor slipped his arm out of Elrond’s and put it around his shoulders instead. “I cannot wait to see it,” he said, and was rewarded with a warm smile. “Or to meet Lady Celebrían, of whom I have heard so much.” Elrond’s smile brightened even more, and it was astonishing to see just how much grief he had been carrying for her on the other side of the Sea—such a part of him then that it was only noticeable now that it was gone. There were other griefs of course—Arwen, Aragorn, Middle-earth itself—but being with Celebrían again had taken such a weight off of Elrond’s shoulders that Maglor was almost surprised he could remain on the ground. 

“Uncle!” The quick patter of footsteps behind them made both Maglor and Elrond turn; Elrond did not look surprised, but Maglor froze at the sight of Celebrimbor racing down the street toward them. He only barely slowed down before he barreled into Maglor, throwing his arms around him. Maglor’s arms came up on reflex as he staggered under the force of the embrace—for Celebrimbor was not small—but he couldn’t do anything else, too shocked to speak. When last he had seen Celebrimbor in life, before the Dagor Bragollach, he had been so young—and when he had last seen him in the nightmarish visions shown to him in Dol Guldur, he had been bloodied and broken, mutilated and murdered. Yet here he was, alive again, whole and solid and not broken in the slightest. 

And somehow he was glad to see Maglor. His embrace was crushing, for he had the broad shoulders and the muscles of a smith and apparently little concern for what that might do to Maglor’s ribs. He drew back to look into Maglor’s face—and when had he grown so tall? They were of a height when Maglor would have sworn that Celebrimbor was shorter than he, closer to Curufin’s height. “Tyelpë,” he said, feeling ready to burst into tears at the sight of his smiling face. The echoes of his last screams echoed in the back of Maglor’s mind. 

“Welcome home,” Celebrimbor said, but then his smile faltered. “What’s the matter?”

“You—I thought that you—”

“Oh—you mean Eregion. It’s all right—now, I mean. I was long in Mandos and returned rested and well.”

“After the War of the Ring,” Elrond said quietly. After Sauron had been defeated forever. 

“Everyone is returned,” Celebrimbor added. “My father, all of my uncles—and now you too are back at last!”

Maglor couldn’t stop himself flinching, and he knew that Celebrimbor saw it, but before he could say anything Elrond stepped in and reminded them both that Celebrían and the twins were waiting. Maglor found himself caught up between the two of them, each holding onto an arm or a hand as though he was a child with a tendency to run off into a busy street. It was absurd, but with Elrond there at least he did not have to speak. He watched their feet instead, letting his hair fall forward to hide his face. 

All of his brothers, alive again. Their faces flashed through his mind, the ghostly visions that had haunted him in Dol Guldur and afterward imposed over the youths they had been before the Darkening. He was no closer now to reconciling all of the thousand things that he felt than he had been in Imladris when he and Elrond had spoken of seeing them again—whether he ever could, whether he even wanted to. He hadn’t known, then. He found rather abruptly that he did know now: he did not want to see them. He did not want to see them all made whole and fair again, healed of all hurts and weariness while he was still—

Stop that, he told himself, and looked up as they approached Elrond and Celebrían’s house. It was a large and fair place, made of white stone as were so many of the buildings in Avallónë. Climbing roses twined about the pillars, and golden lamplight glowed in the windows and flowed out of the door when it opened. Inside Elrond led the way to a large parlor where others were gathered. Elladan and Elrohir sat with a silver-haired woman between them—that must be Celebrían. He had expected someone like Galadriel, but Celebrían was smaller and more delicate looking, with bright eyes that sparkled when she looked up to see Elrond. Her silver hair was woven with sapphires and pearls, and if he had not already known what had befallen her in Middle-earth, Maglor would have never guessed at it. 

Galadriel and Celeborn were there also, and Galadriel came forward to greet Maglor as Elrond went to his family. “It is good to see you, Maglor,” Galadriel said, taking his hands and leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” he said, grateful that she had not said welcome home. But then, if anyone understood how strange it was, it would be Galadriel. She had planted roots in Middle-earth even deeper than he had. “I am glad to see you again, too.” She smiled at him, and led him farther into the room where Celebrían rose to embrace him, greeting him as a long lost friend rather than a stranger.

The room was filled with laughter and conversation as stories were exchanged and questions asked and answered. Maglor sat near Elrond, and Celebrimbor sat beside him. He was aware of Celebrimbor watching him, and aware that in Celebrimbor’s memory he was not nearly as quiet as he was now. And in the bright light of the room all of his scars would be visible, so he did not turn to look at his nephew. He didn’t know how much Elrond had told him—how much Elrond had told anybody—and he had already endured Daeron’s scrutiny and questions. It would be worse coming from Celebrimbor. 

They were called in to supper before too long. Maglor had little appetite but he ate anyway, knowing Elrond would be watching. The joyful conversation continued into the dining room. Even Celeborn was merrier and more lighthearted than Maglor had ever seen him, seated between Celebrían and Galadriel. Maglor, too, felt his spirits lifting as the wine flowed, though he still spoke little and only when called upon. It was not out of the ordinary for him these days, and Elrond and his sons knew it, but Celebrimbor down the table kept frowning at him during lulls in the talking. 

When at last Maglor managed to excuse himself in a way that wouldn’t cause undue worry, it was Celebrimbor who rose and offered to show him his room. Elrond glanced at him, and Maglor smiled agreeably, and followed Celebrimbor from the room, down a wide hall and up the stairs. There were many others coming and going, members of Elrond’s household that Maglor remembered from Rivendell, and others he did not know who had come with either Galadriel or Celebrían. As they passed a large workroom where many women were gathered around working on some large sewing project Maglor heard his name, and turned to see Eleryn rising from her place. 

“Welcome!” she told him with a bright smile, taking his hands in hers. “I am so glad to see you! You look very well.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said, smiling back. 

“You’ve arrived earlier than we thought.”

“We had fair winds and weather all the voyage.” 

“Good!” 

“When did you get to know Eleryn?” Celebrimbor asked a few minutes later, after they left her to return to her work and went on up another flight of stairs. 

“I spent a winter in Lórien. I was…not well. Eleryn looked after me.” Celebrimbor looked at him—at the scars on his face—and Maglor ducked his head, hair falling forward to hide it again. “Please do not ask me more.”

“Elrond never told me of this. Nor Galadriel.” Celebrimbor sighed, and then said, “Here. This is the room that has been waiting for you since Elrond sailed.” It was a spacious, airy room with a view of the garden that sloped down to a small private stretch of beach, where the water washed gently up onto the white sands. The sound of it was quiet and soothing, and the air smelled of the roses that Celebrían grew. Maglor went to the window to admire the view before looking around at the rest of it. There was no hearth; none was really needed on Eressëa. The rugs on the wooden floor were soft, and everything was a shade of green or of warm brown. It was not much like his room in Imladris, but it was lovely. He could see Celebrían’s hand in it, he thought. His bag sat atop a chest at the foot of the bed; the flap was open and Pídhres was nowhere to be seen. Doubtless she had gone in search of the kitchens, and would make her way back to his bed later in the night. 

“Where is your room?” he asked Celebrimbor.

“Down the hall,” Celebrimbor said. “I stay often with Elrond and Celebrían when I am not with my mother in Tirion.” He paused, and Maglor knew he was waiting for him to ask after Curufin, or the others. The words stuck in his throat. Finally Celebrimbor said, “You do not want to see any of them, do you?” It was impossible to tell whether he was surprised or disappointed or if he felt any way about it at all. 

“No,” Maglor admitted. “I do not.”

“Not even Maedhros?”

Especially not Maedhros. “I cannot—”

“He came too soon from Mandos,” Celebrimbor said. “He is not…he is restless and unhappy, and I think he has been trying to look for you for years in the palantíri that Grandmother Nerdanel still keeps. We have all missed you, but none more than he.”

Then why did he leave me? Maglor bit his tongue to keep the words from escaping. It wasn’t a fair question to ask Celebrimbor, of all people. When he mastered himself he said, “I need time, Tyelpë. Yes I know how much time has already passed,” he added when Celebrimbor opened his mouth. “And I am glad to see you. But I—I’ve only just come here, and until—for a long time I did not expect to be allowed back. Let me at least find my footing. Please. And—I do want to see my mother. I will see her. Soon.” If she wanted to see him. And he was painfully aware that that jumble of clumsy and disjointed words was as unlike his old self as the scars on his face or his new habit of remaining quiet in company.

“I was not going to argue. Of course you must take the time you need. You could not have known who would be waiting for you. Grandmother Nerdanel lives near her father’s house, on the other side of the plum orchard,” said Celebrimbor. “It isn’t hard to find—when you’re ready.”

“The orchard is still there?”

“Yes, it’s still there. And the river with the willows beyond it. On the other side of the river it’s all woodland now.” Celebrimbor came farther into the room and joined Maglor by the window. “Maedhros lives with her still. Cousins Finrod and Fingon keep trying to take him to Tirion but he never stays long. But—there is something else. You should know, before you go to see her…”

“What is it?” Maglor asked. 

“Grandfather Fëanor is to be released from Mandos. Word came of it only just before Elrond and Celebrían and I came here to wait for you.”

Maglor felt himself go rigid, and his hand throbbed with the sudden memory of searing pain. “I see,” he made himself say past the sudden roaring in his ears, after the silence outside of his head stretched too long. His heart was pounding and his lungs did not seem able to fill all the way. 

“I don’t think anyone has decided yet whether they want to see him,” Celebrimbor said ruefully. “I would like to, I think—but it is less fraught for me.”

Of course it was. Celebrimbor had sworn no oaths, and slain no kin. Whatever his faults, Curufin had always shielded Celebrimbor from the worst of Fëanor, and the worst of the rest of them. Maglor looked out of the window at the moonlight on the water. “Galadriel told me once that you kept a place for me in Eregion,” he said after a moment, needing to speak of anything except his father. “I am sorry that I did not come there.”

“I am, too,” Celebrimbor said. “It was—it was wonderful, what we made there. Until it all went wrong.” He sighed. “In trying to avoid the mistakes of the past I made new and worse ones.”

“His deception and treachery were not your fault.”

“No, but I had warnings. Galadriel distrusted him, and so did Elrond and Gil-galad. I just—” Celebrimbor shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now, I suppose.” He rubbed one hand over the other, as though recalling old hurts. Maglor remembered again the visions shown to him of those hands broken and bloodied, of Celebrimbor’s face swollen and bruised almost beyond recognition. He swallowed and pushed them back. That place should not still be haunting him, all these years and all these long leagues later. Dol Guldur was long thrown down and left to be overtaken again by the forest. He had seen it himself, and had joined with Celeborn and Thranduil and Radagast and others to sing songs of green and growing things, of trees and of birdsong and flowers under sunshine and spring rain, to speed the healing of the land. He had looked down into the pits laid bare by the power of Galadriel, opened to the skies so they might never hold such horrors again. 

“I am leaving in a few days,” Celebrimbor said after a few moments, “to return to Grandmother Nerdanel’s home; they are all anxious for me to bring news of you. Is there any message you wish for me to take?”

“I…I might write a letter to my mother, if you will carry it for me.”

“Of course,” Celebrimbor said immediately. “Anything you like.”

Maglor managed to smile at him. “Thank you. And—thank you for coming here, Tyelpë. I missed you very much.”

“Thank you for getting on that ship,” Celebrimbor replied. “I have missed you, too—we have all missed you.”