A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

---

Ten

---

The morning after his arrival, Fingon came knocking on Maedhros’ door. “Come walk with me. Have you seen much of the valley?”

“Most of it, I think.” It was the sort of place, though, that would always offer something new to find, or something different in the gardens or even in the house. Maglor had told Maedhros that even the wide gallery of paintings and sculptures was always shifting and changing. It was never quiet, either. There was always singing or laughter somewhere nearby, and of course there was the sound of flowing water and wind through the grass and the flowers. “How are things in Tirion?” Maedhros asked as they walked along the pond, pausing as a family of ducks emerged from a cluster of blue and yellow daisies to hurry across the path to splash into the water. 

“Quiet,” Fingon said, “or as quiet as they ever get. Are you asking about Tirion or about your father?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Fëanor is also as quiet as he ever gets. He’s rebuilding your old house when he isn’t experimenting in the forge or whatever it is he does there. Daeron keeps writing interesting things about the languages of the Avari in the far east of Middle-earth, which I would have thought would endear him greatly to your father—I know he’s been reading every one of them—but every time they have to speak your father comes away looking like he just ate something sour.”

Maedhros thought of the dangerously-bright way Daeron had greeted Fëanor when they met on the road. “I think the feeling might be mutual.”

“I know he puzzled Fëanor greatly when they first met,” Fingon said, “but I don’t know where the dislike has come from—on either side, really.”

“Cáno, I suppose.”

“One would think that would only make Fëanor try harder to like Daeron,” Fingon said, “but I suppose that’s a problem for Daeron and Maglor to manage. I can tell you that your father and mine are getting along shockingly well. I would call them friends, if I were able to believe my own eyes.”

“What of Arafinwë? Is he still in self-imposed exile?”

“No, he’s come back once or twice, but his meeting with Fëanor was decidedly cool, and he much prefers his seaside estate to Tirion. He says he’s had quite enough of ruling, and he hardly even wants to run his own household, let alone the Noldor.” Fingon grinned. “I sympathize. I’m very happy to be only a prince again—and a landless one at that, except for my own very small estate.”

“I’m happier still to be only nominally a prince,” said Maedhros. The less that was asked of him, he thought, the better. He sympathized too with Finarfin, and was glad he did not even have a household to worry about. His mother had left all such trappings behind long ago when she left Tirion, and Maedhros would be more than content to return to her quiet house. For such a long time it had held only three of them—Nerdanel, Maedhros, and Caranthir. Now all his brothers would be coming and going, noisy and chaotic—but still quieter than Tirion, and far more welcome. All Maedhros had wanted before was to be left alone; now he just wanted peace. 

“Will you come to Tirion yourself?” Fingon asked. “Not to stay, but at least to visit? Your father will be there, of course, but he’s not that hard to avoid, and I know he has promised not to bother you and your brothers.”

“We met him by chance on the road here,” Maedhros said. “It…did not go as badly as it could have. I’ll visit Tirion sometimes—I’ll visit you, and Curvo, but I don’t think I will want to go to the palace, and I hope your father won’t ask anything of me.”

“He and my mother will invite you to parties and things, as they always have,” Fingon said. “I hope you’ll accept, sometimes.”

The thought of dressing in courtly finery, weighed down by jewels and brocaded robes, still made Maedhros feel hot and itchy, even if he thought that he could probably survive an entire evening instead of only a few hours now. “Perhaps,” he said, just to make Fingon roll his eyes. That had been his answer always before when pressed to go to Tirion—or to go anywhere, to do anything—and it had always just been a polite way of saying no. “Really, though—I’ll try to come sometimes, but I don’t think I’ll enjoy myself any more than I did before.”

“I see Lórien did not fully cure your pessimism. That’s all right; Gilheneth and I will help with that. You’ll come visit us, of course, outside of the city?”

“Whenever you wish.”

A call from back up the path made them both turn, and Finrod came running to join them, bright and shining with jewels in his hair and at his throat. “Good morning, dearest cousins!” he said brightly, slipping his arms through both Maedhros’ and Fingon’s. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” Fingon laughed, “not that you would care if you were. I’ve just gotten Russo to promise to come visit me.”

“Really! No perhaps-that-really-means-no? Does that mean I can invite you to my house on Tol Eressëa and expect you to actually come?”

“Perhaps,” Maedhros said, and laughed at the look on Finrod’s face. “By which I mean yes, of course.”

“Russandol, are you teasing me?” Finrod exclaimed, punching him lightly in the arm even as his face lit up with a sunny smile. “Lórien has done wonders for you, indeed!”

They wandered the paths, at times in silence and other times talking of inconsequential things like the hedgehogs or the journey back from Lórien. The last time the three of them had spoken together, Maedhros had asked both Finrod and Fingon to come to Nerdanel’s house so that he might warn them of Fëanor’s impending arrival. Now Fëanor still hovered behind their words, but he did not loom—there was no threat, not to either Fingolfin or Finarfin, or the peace among the Noldor, as they had all had reason to fear before. Now Maedhros was the only one who had any cause for concern, and even that was less than it had been. He had missed this, he thought as he followed Finrod across a fallen log that served as a bridge over one of the wider streams, passing out of the gardens and out into the wide meadowland beyond. He had missed spending time with his cousins with no purpose except to enjoy one another’s company. 

“You said earlier that you saw your father on the road,” Fingon said once he had also crossed the log bridge. Finrod turned around with a look of faint alarm on his face. “How did it go?”

“Náriel and Calissë were there,” said Maedhros, “and of course they were excited to see him. I don’t think he would have approached us if Calissë hadn’t insisted.”

“And?” Finrod asked. “What did he say? What did you say?”

Maedhros shrugged. It was almost silly how little had actually been said, when compared to the alarm he was greeted with whenever he told someone of it. “We exchanged greetings. He asked if Maglor and I found what we sought in Lórien. Calissë asked him to come back here with us, but he said he was expected back in Tirion, and so we parted. I can’t guess what he was thinking.” 

“What were you thinking?” Fingon asked.

“That my hand hurt and I couldn’t let him know it,” Maedhros said.

“Your hand?” Finrod reached for it, turning it over to run his fingertips over the ghosts of scars there. “Could Estë not cure this?”

“It isn’t…I don’t think it’s the sort of thing that will ever go away.” The touch of the Silmaril had marked him as deeply as had the rescue from Thangorodrim; Estë had not been able to give him back his right hand, either—she had apologized for it upon his return, even though she hadn’t needed to; he hadn’t wanted it back. He didn’t even really mind having the marks on his palm, most of the time. “It hasn’t hurt like that in a long time.” Dreams had once had him waking with his hand throbbing, but those dreams had mostly left him now, and when he did have a bad night he did not wake up in pain. “It was only seeing him.”

“That seems like something he should know,” Finrod said. 

“He might have guessed anyway,” Maedhros said. Maglor had been taken by surprise, and if Fëanor had not been distracted by Calissë he might have seen the way he had reacted, the way Daeron had reached for his hand the same way Finrod had just reached for Maedhros’ own. 

“You were afraid of seeing him again, I remember,” Fingon said quietly. “Has that changed?”

“I don’t know,” Maedhros admitted. “I had all of my brothers at my back, this time. If I were to meet him alone I think it would be worse. And if my hand is going to burn every time…”

“It is not the memory of the Silmaril that burns you,” Finrod said. He still held Maedhros’ hand in both of his, cupping it as though it were something fragile. The scars there were almost invisible, only noticeable to touch, and even then they were very faint. 

“It feels like the Silmaril,” Maedhros said. There was no pain like that heat. It was unforgettable, unmistakable. “But you are right, it isn’t…it isn’t the Silmarils themselves. My father put something of himself, of his own power, into them. His is a spirit of fire, and that is what burns still, I think.”

“Does Maglor feel it?” Finrod asked.

“Yes.”

“I hope Fëanor did notice,” Fingon said, his expression grim, his voice more akin to the commander of the Noldor in Beleriand than to his usual bright self in Valinor’s present. “I hope that he understands what his very presence does. Would that he could feel even a fraction of it.”

“I don’t want to punish him,” Maedhros said quietly. He thought of Maglor, who was still much angrier than he would admit even to himself, saying he did not care if looking into their pasts in a palantír caused their father pain. There was a part of Maedhros that agreed, but… “I want him to understand, but I don’t…”

“Some lessons hurt in the learning,” Finrod said. “None of us here are strangers to such things. Fëanor died before he could learn anything in Beleriand except a smattering of the language and what not to do when facing a host of balrogs.” Fingon snorted, and Finrod grimaced apologetically before going on, “If anyone should, here and now, feel an echo of this pain, it is not you, Russandol.”

“But I do, and…I don’t know what will change that. I don’t know what I need from my father, except—except that he keep his distance, I suppose. But neither of us can live our lives like that forever, never speaking, never seeing each other.”

“I don’t have any answers,” Finrod said. Fingon shook his head in agreement. They both loved their fathers, had never been so hurt by them. “I wonder if it would help you to speak to Fingolfin, or to my own father. One has reconciled with Fëanor, and one is almost as wary as the seven of you.”

“Your father did not bear the brunt of mine’s anger,” Maedhros said.

“Perhaps not, but he was left picking up the pieces afterward. His reunion with Fingolfin did not go so smoothly either—but neither of you heard that from me.”

A flock of birds erupted out of the flowers a little distance away, and the three of them turned to see Huan bounding through the grass and the irises, barking joyfully. Maedhros saw Celegorm following behind with Calissë on his shoulders. They saw Maedhros standing with Finrod and Fingon, and waved cheerfully.

Finrod sighed, and let go of Maedhros’ hand as Fingon waved back. “But if we are speaking of pain, I think Fëanor feels a great deal of it already—of heartache, at least. Whatever we may choose to believe, however little we may find ourselves able to trust him, I do believe he is sincere in his regrets.”

“I don’t think I can believe that,” Maedhros said.

“As I said before, that is no one’s fault but his,” Fingon said. “I am still surprised that Curufin gets along with him as well as he does.”

“It’s different for Curvo.”

“Because of Celebrimbor?” said Finrod. Maedhros nodded. “You know he gets along with Fëanor, too.”

“I know. It’s even more different for Tyelpë.” They’d all worked to keep Celebrimbor away from Fëanor at his worst, and of course Curufin had tried hardest. Even until they parted in Nargothrond, he had tried to shield his son from the worst of what they were all becoming. He’d come to Himring afterward furious and almost unrecognizable as the little brother Maedhros had watched grow up in Valinor—he and Celegorm both more like Fëanor in his wrath than any of the rest of them—but though he’d raged he had never raged against his son. It meant now that, though Celebrimbor was not ignorant of Fëanor’s final days, he did not have the same memories, the same fears. Maedhros was glad of it, and only wished he had been able to shield his brothers better, too. 

“Why were you afraid to begin with?” Finrod asked him.

“I don’t…” Maedhros took a breath. The fear had taken root before the exile to Formenos, but it had blossomed like a thorny, ugly weed the moment Fëanor ordered the ships burned. “I stood aside at Losgar, when I couldn’t convince him not to burn the ships.”

Finrod tilted his head, frowning a little. The sapphire beads in his braids clicked together softly. “Yes, we know.”

“Atar was furious afterward.”

“I would imagine…oh. Was it that bad?”

“It was.” Maedhros looked away again, back toward Huan. If not for the Oath, if not for the knowledge that his brothers would become targets next, Maedhros might have turned away from him then, and he would have been lying if he tried to say he hadn’t taken a certain bitter satisfaction in handing over the crown to Fingolfin later, knowing how his father would have hated it. Guilt still layered over it, because he was his father’s son and he had never known how to be anything else. Whatever Fëanor tried to say now, Maedhros knew there were conditions to be met in order to receive his love, as he had not known before Losgar. Maybe the conditions had changed, but they were still there. The burning in his hand felt like continued punishment—for giving up the crown, for standing aside, for destroying himself as soon as he got the Silmarils in the end, or maybe for only getting two out of the three. Maybe for all of it. 

“He did not mention Losgar in his letter to you,” Fingon said quietly.

“What letter?” Finrod asked.

“He wrote us all letters at the end of that first summer,” Maedhros said. “I think it was Celebrimbor’s idea. I don’t know if my father even remembers what he said at Losgar, or afterward. He was—he was terrible in his wrath, fell and fey, and…”

“You are still stronger than he,” Fingon said. “I told you so before, and it is only more true now.”

“I don’t want to have to be,” Maedhros said. 

“You shouldn’t have to be,” said Finrod, “but you have been, and you still are. Maybe it is only memory that burns your hand, and the more you see him the less it will hurt.”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe it is a wound your father gave you that only he can heal,” Fingon said. 

Then it was a wound that would never heal, Maedhros thought but bit his tongue to keep from speaking aloud. He said instead, “I’ll just—I’ll handle it as it comes, whatever the cause or the solution. Nothing else hurts. I am better—I’m so much better than I was. If I am afraid of my father still, I am not afraid of anything else.” Whatever shadows still lingered, whatever his father might do or what he might want, Maedhros would live his life on his own terms going forward. He had the support of his brothers and his mother, and his cousins—what was Fëanor compared to all of them? He was not worth the tears that Maglor had shed the day before, or that Maedhros knew he would weep later that night when he was alone in the quiet dark of his bedroom. 

When they joined Calissë and Celegorm, Calissë insisted on trading Celegorm’s shoulders for Maedhros’, which were higher and afforded her a greater view. It was hard to remain gloomy in the face of her irrepressible cheerfulness, and even Celegorm was able to laugh and speak with Finrod more easily than he ever had before. Finrod, for his part, appeared determined to try to bridge the gap that still lay between them, and teased Celegorm mercilessly for his messy and crooked braids made by a child’s hands, and the broken flowers stems that were caught in them. Then after a few minutes, Finrod said, “Actually, Celegorm, I wish to speak with you. Come on!” Without waiting for an answer he seized Celegorm’s hand and pulled him away, out toward one of the smaller ponds covered in water lilies. Celegorm glanced over his shoulder at Maedhros with a look of alarm, but there was no arguing or gainsaying Finrod when he was determined. 

It was nearing lunchtime by the time they returned to the house. Maedhros set Calissë down as Rundamírë came to call her in to wash up before the meal, and as Elrond also came out. “Legolas and Gimli have just arrived,” he told them with a smile, as though they were supposed to recognize those names. 

Fingon seemed to, at least. “I have been looking forward to meeting them!” he said. “They are returned at last from Aulë’s halls, then?”

“They left Aulë some time ago, and have spent the last few years wandering the forests of Vána and Yavanna. Now they are come here to stay awhile, and we are very glad to have them. They are inside with Maglor and Elladan and Elrohir.” Elrond lingered as Fingon went ahead inside, and he looked at Maedhros, who had also hung back. “Are you not going to join them?”

“I’m not sure who either Legolas or Gimli are,” said Maedhros, “though Gimli sounds like a Dwarvish name.”

“It is. Did you not hear when they arrived? It was a year or so before Maglor and my sons came—they caused quite a stir when they appeared in Avallónë. No one had expected such a thing.”

“I had not heard, no. But why would a dwarf wish to come to these lands?”

“I forget that you kept yourself so separate for so long. Legolas and Gimli are two of the last three living members of the Fellowship of the Ring. Gimli came west for the sake of Legolas, after Aragorn’s death. Do you remember the song sung here of the Three Hunters?”

“No, I never did get to hear it in full.” Elrond had called Maedhros from the hall at the start of it, unable to hear it for one reason or another. Maedhros had wondered a little at the time, but he had had little curiosity for anything outside of his brothers in those days and had swiftly forgotten about it.

Elrond’s smile turned rueful. “I remember. You’ll hear it in full very soon, I am sure.”

“Was it because of Aragorn that you could not listen to it then?”

“The grief was still very near. I raised him as my own son. Estel, we named him in his youth, to keep him safe and hidden. Wingfoot, he was named later, after he raced many leagues across Rohan in pursuit of the orcs that captured Merry and Pippin.” Elrond looked away, out over the valley. A nightingale burst into song in a nearby juniper. “Hearing of his death was as hard as hearing of Arwen’s.”

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros said. 

“It is easier now to speak of him.” Elrond turned back to Maedhros, his gaze keen. “Are you well? You seemed troubled as you came in.”

“I was only speaking of my father with Finrod and Fingon,” said Maedhros. “It isn’t as though that trouble is anything new. I’ll be all right.”

“You and Maglor are both very fond of saying that.”

“At least now we can say it truthfully.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I remain skeptical for a while longer.”

How startling it was every time he realized that Elrond really cared. “I am all right,” Maedhros said. “Of course thinking of my father troubles me, but it’s—I don’t know how to fix it, or if it can be fixed at all.”

“You thought once there was no fixing what lay between you and Maglor,” Elrond pointed out. 

“I don’t know if I want the same thing now,” said Maedhros. “I just want to live my own life out from under his shadow.”

“You deserve no less,” Elrond said. “And I know of course I am one of the last people you would confide in, but if your hand continues to pain you, please tell me. Maybe there is nothing I can do, where even Estë could not bring full healing, but I would still like to try.”

“I will,” Maedhros said. He curled his fingers over his palm, feeling the faint markings there. Elrond smiled at him again, and led the way inside.