High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

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Six

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After supper Galadriel and Celeborn disappeared, and Elrond and Celebrían took Elladan and Elrohir outside into the garden. They sat together on the grass in the twilight to talk of all the things that felt too close and too fragile to speak of in front of others. Elladan and Elrohir had hardly moved from Celebrían’s side since they had tripped over one another in their haste to get off of the ship, but now they lay on the grass, Elrohir with his head in Celebrían’s lap, and Elladan’s in Elrond’s. He ran his fingers through Elladan’s hair, catching on a few tangles every now and then and working them loose as both of his sons spoke of the rebuilding of Annúminas, and of Arwen and Aragorn’s family. None of them had dry eyes, but the tears were of a cleansing, healing kind. It helped to hear from her brothers that Arwen had been happy, truly and deeply happy, and that her son and her daughters were thriving, with families of their own, more than capable of continuing the work that their parents had begun. 

It was a grief also to know that Rivendell now stood nearly empty, visited only by wandering elven companies as they drifted through the world, but such was the way of things. It had served its purpose, and now the world was changed, and so the valley would change too; the roses would overtake the walls as they slowly began to crumble, and moss would grow over the hearth in the Hall of Fire. The path down into the valley would be worn away by wind and rain until it was gone entirely. Only the trees would remember, for a time, the elves that had once lived and laughed and made music there. 

Elrohir fell asleep after a time, while Elladan grew restless. He and Elrond left Celebrían and Elrohir to walk down to the water. A glance up toward the house told Elrond that Maglor was in his room; he could see someone moving about, and the lamps were lit. “How is he, really?” he asked Elladan, who had followed his gaze. 

“He is well,” Elladan said, “but nervous I think. We were not paying much attention but I think he retreated below deck as soon as he saw how big the gathered crowd was.”

“He does not like large crowds, still?” 

Elladan shrugged. “He performed sometimes at court, in both Annúminas and Minas Tirith, and never seemed troubled by it—though it was always only when Estel or Arwen asked him. But it’s different, isn’t it, when the audience is unexpected, and there are such figures as Elu Thingol in it?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Elrond turned away from the house, and wrapped his arms around Elladan. It was such a relief to be able to do so again, after so long. “And how are you, and Elrohir?”

“We are…it’s hard. Even knowing what was coming.” Elladan rested his head on Elrond’s shoulder and sighed. “Seeing you and Naneth again has helped. Especially Naneth.”

“We have both missed you,” Elrond said. 

“There are several chests and crates of things that Arwen wanted us to bring to you,” Elladan said. “And many letters—from them both and from their children.”

They could wait until they returned to Imloth Ningloron, Elrond thought, looking out over the water. The moon shone bright in the sky overhead, turning the bay silver. Ships still drifted out over it, for the night was fine and cool and the waters calm. “Eärendil came back to port this evening also,” he said after a while. “I expect he and my mother to come sailing into Eldamar tomorrow or the next day—they are eager to meet you.”

He felt Elladan smile against his shoulder. “We are eager to meet them, too.”

After they returned to Elrohir and Celebrían, and roused the former enough for him to stumble upstairs with Elladan to bed, Celebrimbor came outside, looking troubled. Celebrían kissed Elrond. “I will be upstairs,” she said. He smiled at her, and waited until she disappeared inside, and Celebrimbor joined him on the lawn. 

“Something terrible happened to him,” Celebrimbor said. “What was it? He said that he was not well when he spent a winter in Galadriel’s realm, but would say nothing else. Not how he came there or where he went afterward.”

Elrond grimaced. Not well was such an understatement it was nearly painful. “Come with me,” he said, and turned back down toward the beach. It was quiet there, though he did not go all the way down to the water. Instead he turned into a stand of trees where they could speak without being either seen or heard, or worrying about their voices carrying over the water. Once there he turned to face Celebrimbor, who fidgeted, agitated, his weight shifting from foot to foot as he crossed and uncrossed his arms, leaves rustling under his feet. “You have heard of Dol Guldur?” Elrond asked.

“Yes, but—no.” Celebrimbor’s eyes went wide. “No, he wasn’t—”

“He was. He was there for many years until the White Council drove Sauron out. Sauron knew who he was…” 

Celebrimbor turned away, hands coming up to grasp at his hair. Of all people he knew best what Sauron was capable of, the lengths to which he would go in pursuit of what he wanted, and what Maglor had endured. Elrond could only imagine the memories this had conjured. “Celebrimbor,” he began, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say. 

“There are scars on his face. Around his mouth. If I did not know better—” Celebrimbor turned around again. In the scant moonlight that reached them through the trees Elrond could see his eyes, bright with unshed tears. “What am I to tell my grandmother?”

“She already knows something of it,” Elrond said. “As does Maedhros.” Celebrimbor looked away, jaw clenching. He looked as though some things about his uncle at last made sense to him. “He was left alone in the dark for a very long time,” Elrond said quietly. “That was the worst of it, I think—that is what haunted him the longest.”

“He was alone for too long even before that,” Celebrimbor said. “I should have looked more. I could have. After the city was built—”

“So could I,” Elrond said. “But he is here now. He left that place long ago. There is no use in dwelling on what might have been.”

“If I had not made the rings,” Celebrimbor said bitterly, tears escaping to trace pale lines down his cheeks, “Sauron would not have survived the Last Alliance and returned to capture him.”

“Celebrimbor.”

“I know. I know. It’s only—he does not want to see his brothers but he is glad to see me, who—”

“Who has always been the best of us.” Maglor stepped through the trees, making Celebrimbor jump. “It was not your fault, Tyelpë.”

“The blame lies with Sauron, and Sauron alone,” Elrond added as Maglor folded Celebrimbor into his arms. “And he is gone.”

“He is gone,” Maglor agreed, “and we are here. Do not weep for me, Tyelpë. I do not like to speak of it, but the scars don’t hurt anymore.”

Celebrimbor drew back to look at Maglor. He reached up to touch the scar on his cheek, and one of the smaller ones about his mouth, where the skin had been torn away with the cords after his rescue, leaving a small divot behind. Then he turned and left the trees without another word, shoulders hunched. Maglor watched him go before turning back to Elrond. The white strands in his hair shone like silver in the dappled moonlight. “I did not want him to know.” It was not an accusation; he just sounded sad and weary. “I still do not know what I am going to tell my mother.”

“She knows you were held in Dol Guldur,” Elrond said. “She has palantíri—”

“Oh, those.” Maglor grimaced. “I had forgotten those. They were made so our parents could more easily us when we were young. I wish she hadn’t…”

“Maedhros saw you, too.” The sound of Maedhros’ name had Maglor flinching. “But you’ve been hidden from their sight since you were brought out of there. I suppose you weren’t doing it on purpose.”

“Yes and no. I have always been able to hide if I wished to—and I often wished to, if only to get some quiet once in a while.” His mouth quirked in a small smile. “Six brothers makes for a noisy household.”

But he had never wished to hide from Maedhros before, Elrond thought. So Maedhros had said, and it was easy to believe. Even as a child he had seen the bond between them, almost as close as the one he’d shared with Elros. Always Maglor had been turning to look for Maedhros, and always Maedhros was keeping watch over Maglor. That more than anything had eased Elrond’s fears of him, little by little. It still grieved him that after Maedhros’ death Maglor had not believed anyone else would look for him, or care what happened to him. 

“Did Celebrimbor tell you…”

“Of Fëanor? Yes.” Maglor leaned back against a tree, arms hugged across his stomach. “It was not what I was hoping to hear when I came.”

“I know. It has been a surprise to all of us.”

“I cannot see him. I cannot even see…” Maglor looked away. “But if he wishes to see any of us, I do not see how to stop him. There was never any stopping him when he wanted something.”

“Well, now there is me,” Elrond said mildly, startling Maglor into laughter, though it faded away quickly, absorbed by the trees and the leaves blanketing the ground under their feet. “You are a part of my family and my household, Maglor. That puts you under my protection.”

“I know.” Maglor’s smile was wry. “But I do not like to think of you having to protect me from my own father.”

“What can he do except shout at me?” Elrond asked. “If nothing else I can give you time to slip out of a window and away.”

“I did that one time, Elrond.” But Maglor was laughing again, the tension in his shoulders easing. 

“You never did explain why.”

He shrugged. “I just did not want to see anyone, or be seen, and it was easier than trying to creep through the hallways.”

“Well, I wasn’t wholly joking,” Elrond said. “No one in our household will help someone find you if you do not want to be found.”

“I know.” Maglor smiled at him. “Thank you. When I flee unwanted visitors I’ll be sure to use the proper doors.” 

They left the trees together and walked down to the water. Elrond was tired, but not yet ready to go back inside, and though Maglor might have been he did not seem like he wanted to sleep. “Is the idea of seeing your father so bad?” Elrond asked after a little while. He had been anxious before seeing his own father again, but he had wanted to see him—desperately, as he had as a child whenever Eärendil had sailed away and Elwing had turned her back to hide her own tears. 

“I am not afraid of him, if that is what you are asking,” Maglor said. “Or at least…I don’t think I am. But I think I might…I don’t know if I hate him or if I miss him so much it just hurts in the same way. If I were to see him I know I would say things I would regret.”

“I wonder if he does not need to hear some of those things,” Elrond said. 

“I do not want to be the one to say them. I don’t…I don’t like being angry.” Maglor’s shoulders were hunched a little, not unlike Celebrimbor’s had been. “But I am angry. I am so angry I could scream, and I don’t know how I never realized it before.” He did not sound angry, only tired and sad—but then, he was not angry at Elrond.

“It’s different when the objects of our anger are far away and beyond our reach,” Elrond said, “when there are other things closer at hand to worry about or to occupy us.”

“It’s been so long,” Maglor said. He stooped to pick up a pale seashell from the sand. “I thought I’d left it all behind me, all the ghosts of the past, only to find them come back to life ahead of me here.” He sighed. “I meant to ask you whether you think I should go to Alqualondë, or to whoever rules the people of Doriath these days, or…”

“All of your brothers did,” Elrond said. “There is no hurry. You do not need to make any public declarations either—in fact I think most would prefer if you didn’t. You can speak to Olwë here—he came to meet Círdan—as well as Thingol, if you want to get it over and done with.” He’d had a few somewhat awkward conversations about it with both Thingol and Olwë, and he thought they would appreciate a briefer, private meeting sooner than later. Thingol in particular seemed determined to mend the rift between himself and Finwë’s children, even with the House of Fëanor. 

“That’s a relief, at least,” Maglor murmured. “I do not have any grand speeches or fair words in me.”

“I would not be surprised to see my parents here as soon as tomorrow afternoon,” Elrond said. “They are eager to see Elladan and Elrohir. I think you should speak with them, at least.” It was difficult to articulate just how badly he wished that the most important people in his life all at least tolerated each other, even if they could never be friends. “Even if just for a few minutes.”

“Whatever your mother wishes to say to me, I’ll listen without complaint. I’m sure I deserve it all.”

“Maglor, don’t.”

“I’m not trying to—it’s only the truth.” Maglor looked up and smiled ruefully. “Not everyone is as forgiving as you, Elrond. I do not know where you got it from.”

He hadn’t really had a choice, Elrond thought. Maglor let the shell drop back into the surf and they turned to walk back to the house. He was not someone who could use grudges or old hurts like fuel on a fire to keep him moving. They felt like weights instead, and if he had not learned forgiveness he long ago would have suffocated under them. Forgiving was letting go, and letting go was the only way he had found to keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

That did not mean it was easy. And it could only be even harder when those who had hurt you had been far away and were suddenly not. He had spoken at length with Elwing about Maglor, about his childhood and about what had come afterward, but he did not know what she would say when she and Maglor met at last. As for Eärendil—if Elrond had inherited his ability to forgive from anyone, it must have been from him. He had no temper to speak of, and Elwing had spoken with exasperated fondness of his inability to even be annoyed for more than an afternoon. Eärendil had retorted with something about weighing anchors—following Elrond’s own thoughts of shedding weights.

“Should I not have asked you to come?” he asked abruptly as they drew closer to the house. “If you were not ready—if you did not wish—”

Maglor caught him and embraced him. “If I had not wanted to come, I would have said so when we spoke of it in Imladris,” he said into Elrond’s hair. “I would have sailed with you, but for Arwen. I’ve missed you, and I am glad to be here with you. I only regret that you’ll be caught up in whatever mess my father makes next.”

“I am not afraid of Fëanor,” Elrond said. 

“You have not met Fëanor,” Maglor muttered as he drew back. 

“No, but I am married to Galadriel’s daughter.” That, at least, made Maglor laugh. Elrond had never thought Galadriel terribly fearsome or even very intimidating, and he knew that made him the exception rather than the rule. He still did not find the idea of Fëanor, even in his wrath, all that frightening. What could scare him after the War of Wrath, after the Last Alliance, after Angmar? And he did not truly believe that Fëanor would really come rampaging into his house demanding to see Maglor; if he was likely to do such a thing he would still be in Mandos. Most likely he would not come at all—if he had any sense, he would wait for his sons to come to him.

Maglor sighed as they stepped inside. “There is one I would dearly like to see, and cannot,” he said.

“Who?”

“Finwë. But it is said, isn’t it, that he remains in Mandos so that Míriel could return to life?”

“That is true. But it was also said that Fëanor would not return from Mandos until the ending of the world.”

Maglor’s mouth quirked in a small smile. “True.”

“There is always at least a little hope,” Elrond said. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to keep hoping for me, at least for now. I have not yet relearned how to fully grasp it.” He turned to smile more warmly at Elrond. “My room is wonderful. Please thank your lady wife for me.”

“I will. Good night, Maglor.”

“Good night, Elrond.” Maglor kissed his forehead and they parted. 

Elrond retreated to his room in relief. Celebrían was there, propped up on pillows with a book on her knees. Her sleeveless nightgown showed the scars that still marred her arms and crossed over her chest, but they did not trouble her any longer, and Elrond was learning to ignore them too. He slid under the cool blankets and sighed as she put her arm around him and he leaned against her shoulder. “All is well?” she asked, fingers catching in his hair.

“As well as it can be. I promised Maglor we would keep any unwanted visitors from him.”

“His brothers, you mean.”

“And his father.”

“I confess to a great curiosity about Fëanor, but I do not blame Maglor for wanting to keep his distance.” She set her book aside and turned to kiss Elrond. “It has been a long day.”

“It has.” The waiting at the harbor had been the hardest part in the end, watching the ship get ever closer—inexorably but so slowly. And they had known who was aboard; he could not imagine the toll it took on those who waited for every ship to come in, hoping for a loved one’s face at the railing, only to be disappointed each time. “But a good one,” he said.

“Yes, a very good one. And tomorrow will be better.”

“Maglor wished for me to pass on his thanks for his room.”

“I’m glad he likes it. I hope he will like the one in Imloth Ningloron even better.”

“I have no doubt.” 

“By the way, I noticed a little cat making herself at home; she seemed very sweet, but I haven’t the faintest idea where she came from.”

“I think she is Maglor’s. Or he is hers.” Elrond had not seen her, and Maglor had neglected to mention a cat, but ever since his first summer in Imladris had had one at his heels or draped across his shoulders more often than not. It would have been strange for him not to have one follow him across the Sea.

“Ah, I should have guessed. You told me about the cats’ fondness for him.” Celebrían turned the lamp off, and the room plunged into gentle darkness, softened by the silver moonlight through the curtains. The windows were open, and the sea scented breeze swept over them, soft as a caress. Elrond closed his eyes and sighed, drifting into sleep as from a nearby room came the quiet music of a harp.