High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

---

Nine

---

Maglor sat at a writing desk in Elrond’s library and stared down at the blank paper in front of him. He had told Celebrimbor he would write to Nerdanel, and Celebrimbor was set to depart that afternoon, so here he was—and with nothing to say. In his last letter he’d avoided speaking of—well, of everything important. He’d described Rivendell and had assured her of his safety there and his happiness, trying to sound like the son she remembered. He had written a little of the War of the Ring and of Gondor, and of music. 

Now, though. She knew more than he had anticipated, but he could not tell her the full tale. It would only break her heart. He could not promise to visit her soon, because he did not know if that was a promise he could keep. He could tell her of the voyage and that he was safe, but she deserved more than a single paragraph about fair winds and maybe a description of his cat. 

At least it was quiet in the library. He’d had a painful and awkward conversation with both Olwë and Elu Thingol that morning; he’d stammered out an apology and they had accepted it, and Thingol had said something about wishing to mend the rift between himself and Finwë’s children, and then something about Maglor’s friendship with Daeron, but Maglor had been looking for any excuse to flee the kindness on Olwë’s face by then and wasn’t sure what he had meant by it. 

And now he was here, almost wishing himself back to face Elu Thingol instead of a letter to his own mother. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. 

“What is ridiculous?” Galadriel had appeared from somewhere, moving soundlessly across the floor. He started, and she smiled at him. “I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you. May I?” She gestured to the chair beside the desk. 

“Of course.” Maglor leaned back in his own seat as she sat down. She had pearls woven through her braids, pinned up that day instead of falling down over her shoulders. “Where is Lord Celeborn?”

“With Celebrían. How did your conversation with my grandfather and my uncle go?”

Maglor grimaced. “It…went. At least it is over.”

“There is truly no ill will left,” Galadriel said. “It need not be awkward forever.”

“Yes, I know.” Maglor picked up a pen and spun it in his fingers. “It was less embarrassing at least than my meeting with Elwing and Eärendil.”

“Eärendil thought that was very funny,” Galadriel said. Indeed, Elrond’s parents were still guests there and Eärendil kept grinning whenever he caught sight of Maglor, especially if he had Pídhres on his shoulders. “I hope you weren’t hurt.”

“I’m not so fragile as all that.” Not anymore, anyway. Maglor tried to smile, but it didn’t work very well. “And Tyelpë is to return to my mother’s house, and I had intended to write to her, but…” He gestured with the pen at the blank paper. “I don’t…what do I say?” 

“Only an assurance in your own hand that you are here, and you are safe, and well,” Galadriel said. “Nerdanel will expect nothing more.” 

Maglor glanced at her. “You sound very sure.”

This earned him a smile. “I see her often when she comes to Tirion to visit Aunt Anairë and my mother. She often asks after you. Fortunately, my grandsons are more prolific letter writers than you are, so I have usually been able to give her tidbits. Celebrían has been kind enough to copy out the songs that they have sent so I could pass them on to Nerdanel.”

“My songs?” Maglor did not know why he was surprised. He had long known that Elladan and Elrohir sent batches of letters with almost every ship that had set sail from Mithlond between Elrond’s departure and their own. He had sent one or two over the years, but always only to Elrond. He had been so uncertain of his mother’s reception of that first letter that he hadn’t dared send more. Now he dropped his gaze back to the paper, which now had an ink blotch near the top where he had rested the pen. He set it aside. “Thank you.”

“You need not thank me. I enjoy gossiping about my cousins as much as anyone,” Galadriel said, startling him into laughter. “And I have a great deal of it if you would like to hear.”

“I would,” said Maglor, surprising himself. It was something he had not missed until that moment, all the messy and silly and amusing stories that circulated through Tirion, whether about his own family or about others—the harmless tales, the ones that had made them all laugh before the unrest, when gossip and whispers had taken on a darker edge. “Only I need to write something to my mother.”

“Later, then,” Galadriel said. “I’ll tell you about this past Midwinter and the rounds of parties in Tirion. Even your brothers made an appearance.” She had to notice the way his smile froze at the mention of his brothers, but she said nothing of it. Instead she rose and paused to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Do not fear your mother, Macalaurë. She misses you and will treasure whatever words you choose to send.”

“Thank you,” he said. Galadriel disappeared into another part of the library, and he picked up the pen again, this time refusing to allow himself to think any more about it. He wrote a short description of Mithlond, and of the voyage, and of his cat, and told her of his plans to go to Imloth Ningloron with Elrond and his family when they departed from Eressëa. 

I miss you, he wrote at last. I will come to see you, if you do not choose to come instead to Imloth Ningloron. He paused again, adding another ink blotch to the paper before he made himself write of the past. Elrond has told me that you know something of what befell me in Wilderland. I wish that were not so. Please do not worry any more about me, Ammë. I am well, and I found much joy in Imladris and in the wider world afterward. He should have added, he knew, that he expected to find joy there in Valinor too, but he couldn’t bring himself to write it out. It wasn't untrue, but it wasn’t true enough to commit to paper. 

The worst part, he thought as he signed his name at the bottom—scratching out Maglor to write Macalaurë instead—was that his memory of Nerdanel’s face remained fuzzy and distorted. Sauron had used it only once in Dol Guldur to try to break his will, and it was that memory that came to his mind every time he tried to imagine her. He hated that. Hated that Sauron still had that much power over him even in memory. 

He took the letter to his room, realizing suddenly that he should send something else—a gift, something he’d made with his own hands. That would reassure Nerdanel better than any words he wrote. He had not brought many such things with him; almost all that he made he gave away. But he had a cup that he thought Nerdanel would find pleasing. It had been broken by one of Tári’s clumsier kittens, long ago, but he had repaired it with gold and lacquer and the help of Ifreth, who had taught him how to do it. She had taught him many things of the Avari, and in return he had carved many beads for her, for she preferred wood to metal or gemstones for her hair, and had brought back pearls and seashells from his wanderings. Ifreth had left Imladris long before he had, though he did not know if she had taken ship with Dringil and others who had departed at the same time, or if she had made her way back east to find any who might remain of her clan beyond the Sea of Rhûn. They had been friends, but she had always liked to be mysterious. 

The cup itself was big enough to hold a large handful of brushes or pens. He had glazed it a dark green color which complimented the golden repairs nicely. Maglor turned it over in his hands for a moment, rubbing his fingers over the cracks and filled-in chips, and then wrapped it back up in the soft leather he’d used before. Then he dug out a stick of wax and his seal, which he used so rarely that he’d almost forgotten that he had it, and sealed the letter before taking it downstairs in search of Celebrimbor. 

“What is this?” Celebrimbor asked as he accepted the wrapped up cup.

“A gift. She always used to be wanting places to keep her brushes and pens, and I thought…”

Celebrimbor laughed. “She does still.” He tucked the letter and the cup into his bag and looked back at Maglor. “Are you sure there is no other message you want me to take?” he asked. A message for Maglor’s brothers, he meant. Maglor shook his head. He hated that his nephew was caught in the middle of whatever strange mess was brewing in their family, but he had had enough trouble finding the right words for Nerdanel, who he did want to see again. “Can I…can I tell them about…?” Celebrimbor gestured at his own face. 

“Yes,” said Maglor. “Yes, of course. It isn't a secret, Tyelpë. Do not burden yourself with it.” He embraced Celebrimbor, and the two of them held on very tight for a few moments before Maglor kissed his temple and drew back. “Safe travels,” he said. 

Celebrimbor smiled. “There are few other kinds, here,” he said. “Farewell for now, Uncle.”

After Celebrimbor departed, Maglor retreated back to his room. The house was bustling; he heard Elladan laughing somewhere outside of his window, and when he peered out of it Maglor saw him with Eärendil; Elwing and Elrohir were nearby, sitting among flowers and speaking more quietly. It was not a bright and sunny day; the clouds had moved in, but Maglor did not think it would rain—at least not that afternoon. Maglor sat by the window and drew a knee up to his chest, looking out over the water. Celebrían had chosen her house in Avallónë well; it had a view of the whole bay and Alqualondë across the way, as well as the open Sea beyond. The breeze off the water was cool and fresh smelling. The bells in Avallónë tolled the hours, but little of the other noise of the bustling city reached this part of it. 

A knock at the door heralded Elrond’s entrance. Maglor turned to smile at him, and saw the flicker of relief in his eyes as he did so; old worries faded only slowly. “Did you write to Nerdanel?” Elrond asked as he crossed the room.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Elrond paused by the harp. “This is new. You made it?”

“Yes.”

“What became of the other harp?” 

The other harp was one that had sat in a storage room of first Lindon and then Imladris for years uncounted before Maglor had come there. It had been rescued, as best anyone could guess for the records were lost, from the slowly crumbling halls of Himring after the War of Wrath; his brothers Curufin and Caranthir had made it, though Maglor still did not know when or why. “I left it with Halbarad in Annúminas,” he said. “Arwen’s grandson, the Steward of Arnor.” He had taught all of Arwen and Aragorn’s children and grandchildren to play music at one time or another; Halbarad was the only one who had taken to the harp, so it had seemed fitting to leave it with him, to become an heirloom of that house. 

It was also something, Maglor thought, to leave a work of his brothers’ hands in Middle-earth, something of beauty and joy rather than destruction. For that same reason he had gifted the little porcelain dancing figure that Elrond had given him to Eldarion on his wedding day. It had been made by Nerdanel and given to the House of Andúnië in Númenor long ago, and Maglor had thought it only right to give it back. 

Elrond smiled a little wistfully. He would never know his grandchildren, and Maglor could only imagine what a grief that was. “We have not yet spoken of Arwen,” Elrond said. 

“We need not, not yet,” said Maglor. “There is no hurry.”

“I would rather be at home when we do.” Elrond shook his head, and this time his smile was stronger. “You have a visitor downstairs.”

“Me?” Maglor said, surprised. “Who?”

“Your grandmother. She is in the front room.”

Of all who might have come to see him on Eressëa, Maglor had to admit that Ennalótë was one he had least expected. He rose from his seat. “I’d best not keep her waiting, then.” 

But it was not Ennalótë who was waiting for him in the front room. Instead there was a small and slender figure, silver hair caught up in a silver net dotted with diamonds that glinted in the sunlight coming through the window. She was clad in a gown of a rich deep red color, the sleeves richly embroidered with flowers and butterflies so lifelike that they almost seemed ready to rise out of the fabric to flit about the room. Maglor almost stumbled as he came to a halt just inside the doorway. She turned, and he found himself staring into his own eyes, soft grey shot through with just a little bit of green. 

Míriel smiled at him. “Macalaurë,” she said. “Or should I call you Maglor?”

“Whichever you like best,” Maglor said, glad that she had not offered up Canafinwë. 

They sat together by one of the wide windows. Maglor did not know what to say. Míriel had always been so very present in her absence throughout his childhood, the grief of it a thing that his father and grandfather had carried with them always. He had heard the tales, come to Middle-earth by way of Númenor, of her return to life and of Finwë’s fate to remain in the Halls in her stead. But still he had not expected ever to meet her. 

In her turn, Míriel gazed at him as though committing every small detail to memory. “I will not ask what you have been doing all this time,” she said at last, “for I have woven and stitched much of it.” She reached out to touch his face, her thumb gracing one of the scars at the corner of his mouth. “This we did not render into thread, but I knew of it all the same.”

“I am sorry,” Maglor said. “You should not have had to…” To see any of it, really. The fire and the death and the blood. He wondered if it had been Míriel to take up the needle and red-dyed thread every time one of them fell. Or killed. 

“I would not have seen those things recorded by any other hands. The tale of our family was mine to weave, as the tale of the Noldor was yours to sing.”

“I have not sung the Noldolantë in a very long time.”

“I am glad. I hope you have been singing of happier things.”

“I have.”

She lowered her hand from his face and took his hand again—his right hand, her fingers closing over the scars on his palm. “Your father followed your wanderings through the tapestries of Mandos,” she said. “It grieved him deeply to see you walk alone for so long.”

Maglor did not pull his hand away, but only with great effort. “I don’t…I cannot—I am glad to meet you at last, Grandmother, but I cannot speak of my father. Please.” He braced for her disappointment or disapproval, but it did not come. 

“There are few who can,” she said, and sighed. “It grieves me, but he has earned it, and I played no small part in the shaping of him.” Maglor wanted to protest; he was no stranger to the pull of death on one’s spirit. Had things been different, had he not been so afraid of what would stop him, he might have followed Míriel’s path to Mandos—and he would not have been the first or the last. But he did not know how to say it without also saying something worrying. But she seemed to trace the direction of his thoughts anyway, and her smile was soft and kind. How unlike Fëanor she was, he thought as she spoke again. She did not say more of Fëanor, instead turning the subject away. “I do wish that my return to life did not mean that Finwë had to remain. You would rather he were here to greet you, I think.”

“I don’t!” Maglor protested. “I would rather both of you were here.”

She laughed. “Yes, but if you had to choose one it would be Finwë. I do not take offense. He has also grieved for your long exile in the Halls.”

Maglor dropped his gaze to his hands. “I do miss him,” he said softly. Even when he was young he had known not to take for granted those hours spent in his company, for any time alone at all with the King was precious. Especially when he cast aside the trappings of his office to instead be only a grandfather and teacher, storyteller and woodcarver. He had just not known how precious—none of them had, until it was too late. And now…

“There is hope yet for his return,” Míriel said. “Ours is not a singular case—his and mine and Indis’. There are many others who desire their spouses returned to them, yet who found love after death.” She squeezed his hand. “But we do not need to dwell on such things. It it too fine a day and I am too happy to be speaking with you. Tell me of your voyage here. Who else was aboard the ship?”

They spoke of the ship and of the Sea, and of Daeron and Círdan and others that Maglor had known in Middle-earth, until Celebrían came to find them for supper. It was a quieter affair that evening than it usually was; the guests were limited to only Elrond’s parents and Míriel—a reprieve from the flood of kinsfolk and acquaintances who wished to meet Elrond’s sons. In turn the formality of the meal dropped away, and there was much laughter and teasing. Maglor was still in the habit of speaking little, but Elladan and Elrohir knew how to draw him out and make him laugh, and he let them. The wine was sweet and light and flowed freely, and after the meal they retreated to the large parlor where Celebrían called for music. Maglor fetched his harp, and Elrond his own, and Elladan his flute, and as a soft light rain fell outside they sang many songs and told many tales. Celeborn and Galadriel sang songs of Doriath, and Maglor joined with the twins to sing songs from Gondor. Elrond played the song of Eärendil that Bilbo had written long ago, to make them all laugh, and then Eärendil told them of how he had taken Bilbo with him on one of his voyages through the stars, and of the old hobbit’s delight in it. 

Míriel spoke little and did not sing, but she listened intently, her eyes bright and hands busy with a hook and some fine yarn. Maglor sat on the floor near her chair with his harp. Pídhres eventually made her way into the room, and Elladan and Elrohir burst into a song about the many cats of Imladris that followed Maglor around. Maglor laughed as he picked her up and scratched her behind the ears. She purred and shoved her face against his chin before climbing up to curl around his shoulders.

It was very late when he made his way at last to bed. As he undressed he heard laughter coming from other rooms down the hall and from out in the garden, heedless of the rain. When someone burst into a merry tra la la lally he almost felt he could be in Imladris again, but for the scent and sound of the Sea underneath it all. He was smiling as he fell into bed. 

At first his dreams followed the track of his thoughts, winding through the paths of Imladris as birds and elves sang in the trees. But unbidden the paths turned darker, and the trees closer together, dense and black and hung with tattered remnants of thick spider webs. The singing turned into jeering and cursing, and he was no longer alone on the path. Orcs were coming up behind him, and sudden fear made him trip before he could catch himself and start to run—but the path split and twisted and he did not know where he was going, which way led out of hate wood. Roots and stones rose up before him to catch at his ankles and trip him up, and always the orcs drew closer, taunting now as they shouted at him and laughing at his fear. And then the trees ended abruptly, and he did fall then, on his hands and knees on bare and pitted earth, sharp stones digging into his palms. The sky overhead roiled with dark clouds, and the tower of Dol Guldur rose up before him, windows glowing red. The Eye within focused on him with an almost physical weight. 

He woke with a start, choking on the ghost of a hand around his throat. Pídhres had fled his thrashing, and when he finally pushed himself up he found the sun peeking over the edge of the sea in the east, the rainclouds all gone to leave behind a sky washed clean and pale. Maglor raised a hand to his throat, half expecting to find bruises there. But of course there were none. “Only a dream,” he whispered, and dropped back onto the pillows. It had been a long time since such a nightmare had come to trouble him. He felt wearier than he had when he had gone to bed, and if he had been back in Imladris he would have allowed himself to linger, letting the warm breeze and the sunshine ease the bone-deep cold that such dreams always left in him. It was tempting to do it anyway; he would be awful company if he dragged himself down to the breakfast room, and he would worry both Elrond and Míriel—and the twins, and Galadriel, and others—regardless. He sighed, closing his eyes. Pídhres crept back up the bed to curl up at his side, and he dropped his hand down to sink his fingers into her soft and warm fur.