High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray  

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Fifty

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The morning after Maglor’s return, he found Elrond after breakfast. He looked rested and well, and he was smiling—and he had rings on his fingers and ribbons in his hair, and wore the same small pair of earrings that he’d worn at Midsummer with the blue stones in them that matched the robes he wore, which were also finer than his usual choices. “Daeron insisted,” he said, catching Elrond looking at them. He reached up to fiddled with the end of one of the ribbons, as though not quite comfortable with it. “He wanted to know what the point of having such things was if I never wore them.”

“He might be right,” Elrond said. “You look very fine, and you are still a prince of the Noldor, you know.”

Maglor made a face. “Only when I have to be, though I suppose that will be more often than I had hoped, going forward. Wearing such things is a shockingly hard habit to pick back up, though, however nice they look.” He paused, and grew more serious. “There was something else I found in my room.”

“Your father’s gift,” Elrond guessed. 

“You knew about it?”

“I knew he made something for you. He and Celebrimbor spent much time together out in the forges and workshops. You do not have to accept it, you know, whatever it is.”

Maglor looked away, rubbing at the scar on his palm with his thumb. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said after a moment. “I knew he sent something to Maedhros. I just—I thought I had made it clear that I wanted nothing from him.”

“You did,” Elrond said. He slipped his arm through Maglor’s. “Let’s go somewhere quiet. I want to hear all about your travels, anyway.”

“I want to tell you,” Maglor said, smiling. “Or I want to tell you most of it, at least.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No, but you will be anyway.”

Elrond didn’t like the sound of that, but he didn’t say anything more until they had left the house and made their way to the peach orchard. It was quieter there, the peaches all long ago picked and the apple orchard now busy with preparations for its upcoming harvest. The sun was bright and hot, but under the trees it was cool, and the dappled sunlight danced around them as the breezed moved through the boughs overhead, and for a while they walked in companionable silence. Finally, Maglor sighed. “I’m very glad to be back here,” he said quietly. 

“You went much farther than I thought you would,” said Elrond.

“I didn’t set out to go all the way to Ekkaia, even though Gandalf suggested it. Of course, it seems he and Huan were conspiring, so I’m not sure I would have had much choice in the matter anyway.”

“He’s been sticking his nose into everyone’s business all summer, if it makes you feel better. He taught your father to make fireworks.”

“That certainly doesn’t make me feel better. Fireworks, really?” They stopped and sat under one of the trees. Maglor rested his hands in his lap and leaned back against the trunk, looking up at the leaves waving gently in the breeze. Nearby a nightingale was singing. “I think it was for the best, though. Seeing them—even traveling all the way back with them. But it’s…I could not have done it if Daeron weren’t with me.”

“We were glad to hear that you weren’t traveling alone,” Elrond said. Maglor smiled, briefly. “Did you speak to Maedhros?”

“Yes. We’ve spoken more than everyone seems to think we have. It was—” Maglor closed his eyes, but not before a tear escaped. “I don’t know what to do. He seems so—so unchanged. There were moments when he seemed more like himself, but only after—” He broke off, and sighed. “Only after he was injured.”

“Injured?” Elrond repeated, alarmed. He had been leaning against the tree, too, but he sat up to face Maglor. “What happened?”

Maglor told the story of the river, of his reversing of Elrond’s own flood song so that they could make their way across, and then the wild cat that attacked just after Maglor had made it to the bank. He gave few details and Elrond knew that he was trying to make light of it, but he trembled and his voice shook when he talked of trying to help Maedhros afterward, on the riverbank, and of his voice giving out in the midst of it. Elrond reached for his hand; Maglor gripped his tightly. 

“It sounds as though you have both made full recoveries,” Elrond said after Maglor fell silent. He felt sure that he would have noticed if Maglor was moving stiffly or in any pain—he thought, too, that Daeron would have taken him aside to say something if there was anything wrong.

Maglor squeezed his hand once more before letting go. “We have. He has some new scars, but they aren’t too bad, however frightening it was at the time, and it all certainly could have been worse. They aren’t even visible, except when he rolls up his right sleeve. I was only bruised, really.”

“After overextending yourself in song,” Elrond said. “You are perhaps the only person I’ve ever known who would attempt to slow a river and expect to succeed.”

“Daeron helped. I wouldn’t have been able to do it alone; I’m not strong enough. No, don’t look at me like that, Elrond. I’m only saying that I’m out of practice. I can’t remember the last time I put forth that much power into a song. I only tried it at all because it would be days before we could leave the hill country otherwise, and I could see how weary Maedhros was. He was—he was losing things again, like he wasn’t wholly there. You remember how…?”

“Yes, I remember.” Elrond had spent many evenings of his childhood watching Maglor carve new small combs or utensils or tools out of wood. Everyone lost things, for moving camp was often chaotic and hurried, but Maedhros had been the worst—as though he didn’t care at all. Those evenings held fond memories for Elrond, though. Maglor had taught them both, he and Elros, to carve things as soon as they were old enough to be trusted with small knives, and he had sung songs and told stories while he worked. It had been years before Elrond had noticed how Maglor would look at Maedhros every time he handed him a new comb; his words had been light and teasing, but his face had grown increasingly worried. In the present under the peach trees, far away from war-torn and drowned Beleriand, Elrond summoned a smile. “But you also surely just wanted to see if you could.”

Maglor smiled, a little wry and rueful. “I did. And it did work, exactly as I hoped it would. If the hill cat had not been there, I would be speaking of it to you now as a great success.”

“I’d like to hear more about it,” Elrond said, “especially how you reversed my own song, since I wrote it with only the Bruinen in mind. But I’m more worried now about you losing your voice.” Maglor grimaced. “It brought it all back, didn’t it?”

“It was all already close to the surface. I’d been trying to hide the worst of the scars, but—well, you know what it’s like camping in the wilds. Celegorm saw the—the brand, and…they didn’t know what to do with it. We’d all seen such things before, you know—on those too far gone, too badly broken in both body and spirit to be saved.”

Elrond had seen such things too. “They must know that yours is different.”

“They did. They do. No one cared much about it after Maedhros was injured, which was something, at least. But—I did lose myself for a while.” Maglor’s voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he did not look away from the leaves overhead. “I don’t really know how long it took for Huan to find us. I think I must have frightened Maedhros very badly.”

Elrond had never suffered from such things himself—being entirely consumed by memory either good or bad, so that he lost track of where or when he was. He had, though, seen others caught in the throes of it. He had seen Maglor caught in it, though it had been many years, and Elladan and Elrohir had assured him that Maglor had not suffered like that at all in the time between Elrond’s sailing and their own. “Do you think, perhaps, Maedhros might have known exactly what was happening?”

“I suppose. He said nothing of it, and I wasn’t going to ask.” 

“Maglor…” Elrond hesitated. Maglor had only just come back, and Elrond, selfishly, did not want to watch him leave again any time soon. 

“Do you think I should go to Lórien?” Maglor looked at him then, his smile faint and brief. “I have been thinking about it.”

“I don’t think you need it direly,” said Elrond, “but it can only help. I think we all underestimated how badly it would go, your meeting Fëanor again, especially with no warning.”

“Maybe. Only—the Ainur, I wonder if they understand how hard it can be to just…be in their presence. Even Nienna, as unlike the Necromancer as anyone could possibly be—I spoke to her by Ekkaia and she was…overwhelming, though I don’t think she was putting forth any power. She just…was.” Maglor paused, and Elrond realized, with such sudden clarity that he couldn’t believe no one had realized it before, why it must be that Maedhros had refused what Mandos could offer, and why he refused still to go to Lórien. Maglor had suffered the attentions of Sauron when he was still much weakened; Maedhros had suffered Morgoth’s, at the height of his power. Unaware of Elrond’s thoughts, Maglor went on, “I am glad she came, though. I needed what she gave me.”

“What was it?”

“She…she understood, without me having to try to find the words, and all she did then was weep with me without trying to tell me what I should do or think. I didn’t…I didn’t realize that I needed it—” The memory of it brought the tears back, and Elrond shifted so that he could wrap his arms around Maglor, who leaned against him. The tears were not many, though, and Elrond thought that Maglor was better afterward for their release, though he didn’t move away or raise his head. “I don’t know how to explain why it frightens me,” he whispered. “Why I can’t—I can’t perform as I used to, and I used to love it, or even be in large or unfamiliar company, I just…”

“You don’t have to. I know why.”

“I shouldn’t be, though. Not anymore.”

“What keeps us safe in one stage of our lives might harm us in another,” Elrond said, “but such habits are always difficult to overcome. I do not say that continuing to hide is harming you, but it does hinder you.”

“I know. And I know the only way to stop being afraid is to stop hiding.”

They sat for a little while in silence, listening to the wind in the trees and to the nightingales. In the apple orchard Celebrían was singing a song of bounty and of sweetness—a song she had sung every single year in Imladris, too. Here she was soon joined by Elrohir, and then by Daeron, whose singing Elrond had never yet heard but which was unmistakable once he did. The song was meant for the apple trees, but the peaches all responded to the power of him, too, a shiver passing through them that had nothing to do with the light breeze, as though the joy in his song was infectious, sinking into the roots like rainwater. The leaves seemed somehow greener for it, the sunshine more golden; Elrond could almost taste apples. At the sound of his voice Maglor sighed, relaxing against Elrond’s shoulder. 

“Do you want to go to Lórien?” Elrond asked finally. 

“I don’t know. I think that I should. I know that Estë is more like Nienna than…anyone else. I know that someday I must come before the other Valar, either by chance or by summoning, and it would be mortifying to fall into mindless panic the moment Manwë looks at me.” Maglor sat up. “I told Curufin I might go in a year or two.”

“I know things are difficult with Maedhros, but what of the others?”

“It’s—easier than I thought it would be, and easier now than it was at Ekkaia. It’s still hard, though, to look at them sometimes and not just see ghosts.”

“They were dead for a very long time,” Elrond said. 

“I know.”

“And they are all still very new from Mandos. Did you know?”

Maglor shook his head. “I didn’t ask any of them when they had come. I only know that Maedhros was alive to see me in the palantír.”

“He was the first to return, and I think he must have looked for you almost immediately. Celebrimbor was the last, but only by a few years, after Celegorm.” 

Maglor drew a knee up to his chest and looped his arms around it, wrapping one hand loosely around the other wrist. “I can’t forgive my father what he did to us,” he said after a moment, not looking at Elrond, instead watching the sunlight glint on the rings he wore; they were simple, made of silver and set with tiny sapphires and emeralds. The tears had dried but the tracks remained on his face. “I don’t really want to. But I don’t know how to forgive Maedhros what he did, either—even though—I know that he wasn’t thinking clearly, or even at all. I know it wasn’t because of me. I understand. I just—”

“That doesn’t mean it hurt you any less,” Elrond said, though it sounded to him as though Maglor had forgiven Maedhros already, only his mind hadn’t caught up yet to his heart. It sounded, even from what little Maglor had said, just by the way he spoke his brother’s name, as though both of them had fallen very quickly back into old habits—of care, of concern and worry, and love—in spite of the hurt both old and new. “I understand why you did the things you did, long ago, but that never lessened the pain of them.” Maglor closed his eyes. “You know that we forgave you long ago, Elros and I.”

“And you know that I did not deserve it, anymore than my father does.”

“It isn’t about that. Forgiveness isn’t something that can be earned, only freely given. Our love for you always outweighed any anger, and—and you were not like your own father. He fell into darkness and madness and he dragged you all along with him—”

“We swore freely,” Maglor said. “No one forced us.”

“I wasn’t there, and cannot speak to it,” said Elrond; he doubted, though, whether any of them would have dared not to swear—and it didn’t matter now, anyway. “But what I meant was: you did not do that. You sent us away rather than let your fate ensnare us. You stayed away for the same reasons.”

“In part,” Maglor murmured, without looking at him. He said nothing more, but he didn’t need to. It was a conversation they’d had before, and the rest did not need repeating. 

“You loved us, and we never, ever doubted it,” Elrond said.

“I did. I do. I shouldn’t have taken you as I did, but I have never been able to regret it even so.”

“I don’t regret it.”

“It was not a good way to grow up, Elrond.”

“There was no good way to grow up anywhere,” Elrond said. “Maybe we would have been a little safer on Balar. We would have been among familiar faces, perhaps, but our parents would still have been gone, and we would not have had you. I would not be who I am now without you.”

“You are who you are all on your own, Elrond.”

Elrond sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Try to make yourself smaller, to lessen the good things you’ve done. I am who I am because of many things, and you are not the least. You showed me how to be kind even when the world was full of darkness and danger and pain; you showed me that even those who do terrible things are capable of great good, too. You taught me music, and how to turn it into something more. You always stepped between us and anything that might harm us without hesitation, and I never felt unsafe when you were nearby. I always, always knew that I was loved. It was you who taught me that the choices we make—to love, to care—matter, no matter how dark the outside world grows. It was your example that I followed when raising my own children. You are so much more, Maglor, than the worst things you did.”

“I know,” Maglor said, very softly. His eyes were very bright again, but he shed no more tears.

“Do you? I will remind you again and again, as often as I need to.”

“I do know. I am more than my deeds and more than my scars, as Arda is more than its marring.” He sounded as though he were quoting someone else, but he did not say who, and it also sounded as though he were repeating it like a mantra, to convince himself as much as to reassure Elrond. He looked away into the trees. “I know that is true of Maedhros, too, and if so it must be true of my father.”

“We are all more than our worst mistakes. He is trying not to repeat them, even if that means he is making new ones instead.”

“I suppose I am grateful for it,” Maglor said. “He didn’t have to let me raise my voice or say any of the things I said.”

“I’m not sure anyone could stop you.”

“Few can. He was always one. From what Caranthir and Ambarussa told me, he let Maedhros have his say, too. I wish it had made either one of us feel better.”

“I told Elladan that sometimes a wound needs to be lanced before it can heal,” Elrond said. 

“Better to say that a bone set wrong must be rebroken,” Maglor said. 

“Maybe. Either way, healing can come afterward—whatever that might look like. I don’t know what he wrote in his letter to you, but he and I have spoken much over this summer, and there are some things he said that I think you should hear.”

Maglor sighed. “I don’t know if I’ll read the letter, but I’ll listen to whatever you have to tell me, though I don’t think it will change my feelings much. It’s Maedhros that I wish I could…I wish I could see a way forward, but I don’t think there is one. There won’t be until he can find it for himself, but I don’t even know if he’s able to look. He’s still punishing himself.”

Elrond had thought the same, but now he wondered if that too wasn’t also just fear—the same fear that held Maglor back from performance in front of an audience larger than their family, from drawing attention to himself, hiding behind his hair or keeping to the fringes of a room, that had held him back from going to see his mother and his brothers sooner. He said nothing, though. If it was fear, it was a fear that Maedhros himself had not recognized, and Elrond did not think it was his place to say anything of it, at least not yet. He didn’t think Maedhros would listen if he did.

“It was not all bad, though,” he said now, “your summer travels. I met your hedgehog this morning when I tripped over Pídhres outside my room.”

Maglor laughed, the sound sudden and bright, like the sun emerging from behind a storm cloud. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Leicheg has figured out how to navigate stairwells far more quickly than I ever thought she would.”

“It was a surprise, certainly. Celebrían was delighted.”

“I’m glad, especially since I don’t think I can promise to keep her out in the garden. She and Pídhres are very attached to one another.”

“And to you,” Elrond said.

“Yes, though heaven knows why.”

“Daeron is also rather attached to you,” Elrond remarked after a moment. He had seen them at breakfast together, had seen the way that Daeron’s gaze lingered on Maglor, and the way that Maglor looked at him—the same way that Elrond knew that he looked at Celebrían. Now Maglor’s expression softened in such a way that Elrond rarely saw. “Celebrían suspected something in Avallónë, but I confess it had never occurred to me.”

“It occurred to your sons,” Maglor said, wrinkling his nose as he laughed. “They were making bets with one another about it, apparently. It didn’t—it didn’t occur to me, either, until we were traveling together. It had been so long since the Mereth Aderthad.”

Elrond raised his eyebrows. “You—at the Mereth Aderthad…?”

“No, nothing happened, but…it might have, if I had been free to pursue it. The seed was planted then, and now it can grow. I do hope you aren’t going to get protective. Celegorm already tried, and then my mother spoke to him.”

“Certainly not,” said Elrond. “I’m happy for you, Maglor. We spoke earlier this year of you being under my protection, but you don’t need protecting from this.”

“Tell that to my mother,” Maglor muttered.

“I can’t speak for my sons, of course, or Celebrían.” Elrond laughed when Maglor covered his face with both hands, groaning into them. “They would only be teasing. We are all overjoyed to see you so happy. Truly.”

“Thank you.” Maglor lowered his hands, his expression now rueful. “I already argued with my mother over it. She—she just sees the scars. I know she means well, and I know I haven’t really given any of my family reason to believe I’m anything other than—than unhappy and broken—but—”

“You aren’t broken, Maglor.”

“Maybe that isn’t the right word. But I have been struggling all summer, and that’s really all they’ve seen of me. I asked my mother to visit me here. Maybe then she’ll see…”

“She will.”

“Elrond, is that you?” Celebrían called as she emerged from the trees a little distance away. “There you are! And Maglor!” 

“Good morning, Celebrían,” said Maglor as he rose to his feet. “How are your apples?”

“Wonderful! The harvest this year is even better than we expected.” As Celebrían spoke, Daeron followed her. “They are the same apples that I grew in Imladris,” Celebrían added.

“Are they?” Maglor’s smile brightened. “I didn’t realize. Those were the best apples in all of Eriador.” Daeron stepped up beside him, and Maglor slipped an arm around his waist, both of them leaning in towards each other, as natural as breathing.

“They were, weren’t they?” Celebrían said, and Daeron laughed. “It isn’t quite time yet, but soon we’ll be so awash in apples we won’t know what to do with ourselves. I’ll have to send some to Tirion—and to your mother, Elrond, and of course this year we must send some to Lady Nerdanel…” 

Maglor seemed after that morning to forget all about his brothers and his father as he settled back into the rhythms of the valley. They were all settling back into normal routines after the disruptions of the summer. Daeron hardly caused a ripple in comparison to Fëanor and Fingolfin. There was music and laughter, and many new songs about hedgehogs and kittens soon heard throughout the valley.

“I approve,” Celebrían told Elrond one evening, as they prepared for bed. “Of Daeron, I mean—in general, and particularly with regard to Maglor. He’s the least troublesome house guest we’ve had in ages.”

Elrond smiled as he unraveled the last ornaments from his hair, leaving the ribbons and clips in a small pile on his nightstand. “Shall I tell Finrod you said that?”

“Finrod is, of course, my favorite uncle—but he delights in causing trouble occasionally. Oh, but I’m glad all that’s over! Have you heard anything from Tirion yet?”

“I had a note from Fingolfin, thanking us for our hospitality this summer. I think he might be planning some kind of gift, but I can’t imagine what it would be.”

“He and Fëanor, you mean. Goodness, how odd that is to say even still.” Celebrían slipped under the blankets with a sigh. “Has Maglor looked at the gift his father left?”

“I don’t think so. We spoke of it, but of course he’s reluctant. He knows about Maedhros’ gift; I got the impression that Maedhros did not take it well.” 

“I do feel badly for them,” Celebrían murmured. “I can’t imagine ever seeing my father and feeling anything but joy. Oh, we’ve fought and disagreed, of course—I was a terror for several years growing up—but nothing like this. I have never, ever doubted that he loves me.”

“I have thought many times over the last few months of how grateful I am that Elladan and Elrohir never turned from me in such a way,” Elrond said quietly, “though I too sent them often into darkness and danger.”

“That was different, Elrond. You know it was. They would not have remained safe at home if they could be doing something.” Celebrían tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. They lay each on their side, facing one another. The only light in the room came from the stars outside; the window was open, letting in a cool breeze and the soft sound of flowing water. “Fëanor at the end acted in wrath and in despair, and so doomed his children and his people. You have never, as long as I have known you, succumbed to despair, my love.”

“I came very close, once,” Elrond whispered. The years after Celebrían’s departure had been the darkest of his life. Elladan and Elrohir had thrown themselves into their unending hunts for orcs and other fell creatures in the Misty Mountains, and even into battles far away in Gondor, and between the grief of parting from Celebrían and his fear for them—Elrond still wasn’t sure how he had gotten through. Arwen had remained at home, but even offering her the comfort she needed in her own grief and worry had been almost beyond him. He’d tried very hard to hide his heartache, for her sake, though he was sure he’d failed miserably. Hope was a choice, and he had tried to choose it every day for as long as he could remember, but for a time it had felt more like something he clung to with his fingernails, desperate and painful and always on the verge of slipping away.

“But you didn’t.” Celebrían pulled him in to kiss him. “Don’t think of it, Elrond. It was long ago, and it is over.”

“I know.” He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her soap and the oils she put in her hair, smelling of apple blossoms and roses, floral and sweet. It was all over, the darkness and the danger and the fear; he’d found ways to firmly hold onto hope again, and it had won out in the end. And every day he got to wake up to Celebrían beside him still felt like a miracle in this land of miracles, where hope was not beyond grasp—not for anyone who would reach for it.