A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Twelve

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The forge was empty but for Lisgalen when Caranthir went out there, and he took advantage of it to sit on top of one of the workbenches, idly swinging his legs while Lisgalen sorted through jars of pigments. “What did your brothers want?” they asked. 

“Maglor’s been asked to write a song for Finwë.”

“Aren’t there hundreds of songs for him already?”

“No. Or…maybe there are, but I’ve never heard any.” There hadn’t been much time for songwriting, or even grieving, between the Darkening and their departure. Surely songs were written in Valinor afterward, but it wasn’t as though Caranthir went to many places where he would hear them sung. “None have been written by Maglor, though. It sounds as though he’s going to be talking to everyone in our family and then some to put it all together.”

“That sounds like quite an undertaking,” Lisgalen remarked, glancing at Caranthir with a crooked smile. “Your family is…large.”

“At least everyone more or less gets along now,” said Caranthir, making a face so that Lisgalen would laugh. “What are you making?”

“I received a commission a couple weeks ago, only I didn’t get a chance to begin the work before Rundamírë came to fetch me out here, and since I don’t know when we’ll be going back I thought I might as well get something done here.” Lisgalen chose a few shades of red and began to spoon them into a crucible. Gem craft was something Caranthir had never been able to get the hang of, and he didn’t understand it now any better than he had when his father had finally given up trying to teach him, but watching Lisgalen at work was always both interesting and relaxing. “I like your brothers, by the way. I know you were worried about it.”

“I’m always worried about Nelyo and Cáno,” said Caranthir, “for one reason or another. I wasn’t really worried about you liking each other, though.” He’d been nervous, even though he knew there was no reason for it, but that was just—well, nerves. He remembered Curufin admitting once that he’d been horribly nervous about introducing them all to Rundamírë. All seven of them together could be rather a lot. Maedhros and Maglor were the oldest, and therefore the most likely to be intimidating, even if they didn’t mean to be—especially Maedhros, who could seem very grim at times, even now after so long in Lórien. 

“Well, this is one less thing. And really, they don’t seem to me like anyone you need to worry about.”

“You didn’t meet them before they went to Lórien.”

“Speaking of meetings,” Lisgalen said as they set the last jar down, “I met your father before leaving Tirion.”

That was something Caranthir had been worried about. Daeron’s introduction to Fëanor had not gone very well at all, and that knowledge had been hovering in the back of Caranthir’s mind ever since he’d first realized that whatever was growing between himself and Lisgalen was not mere friendship. “Oh no,” he said before he could stop himself. 

Lisgalen came over to stand in front of Caranthir, resting their hands on either side of him as they leaned in. Caranthir settled his hands on their waist. “It was an accident,” they said. “He arrived while I was visiting Celebrimbor.”

“What did he say?” Caranthir asked.

“Well he noticed my ring immediately,” Lisgalen said. Caranthir was meant to smile, he knew—he’d told Lisgalen about how none of his brothers had noticed it until after they’d left Lórien—but he couldn’t manage it. He could feel his cheeks getting hot. “He didn’t say anything about it, though, or about you, though I got the impression he was biting his tongue very hard to keep himself from doing so. He just asked about my work, and after we made pleasant and meaningless conversation for a few minutes I escaped and went home to pack my bags to come here. So it could have gone much worse, all things considered.” Lisgalen pressed a kiss to Caranthir’s cheek, and turned back to the workbench. “I still think we should elope.”

“My mother would never forgive me if we did,” Caranthir said. Nerdanel had strong opinions about doing certain things the proper way, and marriage was one of them. Curufin’s wedding to Rundamírë had been an enormous and lavish affair, but that had been during the Years of the Trees, and he the first of Fëanor’s sons to wed. Things were very different now, including Caranthir’s own standing among the Noldor—which he was very glad of—and the fact that Lisgalen had no living kin in Valinor. Their parents were Avari that had wandered westward toward the end of the First Age, and then followed Oropher back east, while Lisgalen had remained in Lindon with the Noldorin smiths, and then gone to new-built Ost-in-Edhil to join the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. They did not like to speak of that parting, and Caranthir hadn’t asked. He didn’t like to talk about his own estrangement with Fëanor, either—it was just less avoidable these days. Still—Nerdanel would insist at least on a formal ceremony and exchanging of rings before witnesses, including all of his brothers and his grandparents, and at least a handful of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain who would stand in for Lisgalen’s kin. Caranthir had no objections to any of that really, but he did not think the knot of anxiety that had just tied itself up in his stomach would go away until the wedding was over and his father had not done something, or made a surprise appearance, or…

“Your father is not going to ruin our wedding,” Lisgalen said, as they picked up some other substance to add to the crucible. 

“Well, he will now that you’ve said that out loud,” Caranthir said. Lisgalen rolled their eyes. “I just—it’s impossible to know what my father will do. And his initial meeting with Daeron went as well as yours too. Their second meeting, when no one else was there, went worse.”

“I’ll just be careful never to get caught alone with him,” said Lisgalen. “I do not have Daeron’s quick tongue—or his status. If your father takes issue with me, I would rather have someone to hide behind. Fortunately, Celebrimbor has very broad shoulders.”

“I can’t think of any reason he would dislike you,” Caranthir said, “except that you’ve taken up with me.” Lisgalen gave him a flat look. “Oh, don’t. I’m not—I don’t really care what he thinks. I just don’t want him to cause trouble.”

“Liar,” Lisgalen said, but not unkindly. Caranthir felt his face flush red again. “You care so much about everything—that’s one of the things I love most about you.”

“Fine, I don’t want to care, and I’m trying very hard not to.”

“It’s not shameful, you know, to want your father’s approval. Most people do.”

Most people never had cause to doubt their fathers. “Most people don’t have Fëanor for a father.”

“I suppose that’s fair. But you know Curufin and Celebrimbor get along with him just fine.”

“They had their own estrangement; they have a different view of it than the rest of us.”

Lisgalen set down the crucible and leaned against the workbench, looking at Caranthir. Their soft brown eyes were fond but a little sad. “I think this is the most you’ve spoken to me of your father since we met,” they said.

“Yes, well. You hadn’t met him before.”

“It really didn’t go terribly, Caranthir. He was perfectly polite and friendly—he’s just…well, I don’t have to tell you, I suppose. It isn’t even his reputation that makes him intimidating, it’s just his presence, if you know what I mean.”

“I do. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

It was, in a way. Fëanor had made his wishes clear: he wanted reconciliation, he was willing to do what it took to achieve it. So far Curufin was the only one who believed him. Caranthir did not begrudge his brother that, but he couldn’t let go of the past. It wasn’t even for his own sake. Every time he thought of Maedhros or Celegorm or Maglor—how troubled they all still were, how anguished they had been before they’d gone to Lórien or to Nienna—he got angry all over again. Caranthir had long ago accepted that of all his brothers he was the greatest disappointment in his father’s eyes, too unlike him, with no ambition or any particular talent, even when it came to the things he loved. He had more or less made peace with it. His brothers, though—whatever peace they had found in the last few decades, Caranthir feared that it was more fragile than it seemed. Even if it wasn’t, Fëanor was good at breaking that kind of thing. 

Still. If Caranthir were more forgiving, Lisgalen wouldn’t have to worry either—they would have been introduced long ago, and it would have been a happy thing, rather than worrisome. 

“You’re doing it again,” Lisgalen said. They had taken the crucible to the forge; its contents glowed. “Over thinking, I mean.”

“This is why I don’t like to talk about my father.”

“Then let’s not. What sort of help does Maglor want with his song for Finwë?”

“Different views, I suppose.”

“What will you tell him?”

“I don’t know yet.” Caranthir had loved Finwë—of course he had, they all had—but he had not been as close to him as Maglor, or Maedhros, or some of his cousins. He had most loved to listen to Finwë’s stories, to his tales of the Great Journey and the adventures their people had had along the way, or his more youthful adventures by Cuiviénen. Having been to Middle-earth, though, Caranthir wondered how much of those stories were true. He wondered what it was that Finwë had not told them, what sort of sorrows and fears he had been so careful to keep secret. Finwë had passed onto them some of the things his own grandfather had taught him—how to make spears out of stone and wood, for fishing or hunting, how to make arrows and bows—not nearly as good as what they could make in a proper forge or workshop, but useful in a hurry or an emergency. They’d all used those skills in Beleriand far more than Finwë had ever intended—in Valinor they were meant to be fun, to connect them to their people’s history, not real skills needed for survival. Caranthir realized, thinking about it now, that he did not even know Finwë’s grandfather’s name—or his parents’ names, or if he had ever had siblings of his own. 

“Caranthir?” Lisgalen had brought the crucible out to pour the melted contents into a mold, but they were looking at Caranthir out of the corner of their eye.

“Sorry. I’m—I don’t know yet what I’ll tell Maglor. I haven’t…I haven’t thought about Finwë in a long time.”

“His name is remembered still even among the Quendi in the east,” Lisgalen said. “He and Ingwë and Elwë—even those who did not wish to go west honor them for their courage.”

“I’ve never thought of him that way. He was just…he was just my grandfather.” But of course he had had enormous courage—he had faced down Morgoth at Formenos at the Darkening, when he might have fled. He had followed Oromë, a strange and terrifying being himself, across all the world and the Sundering Sea to see if there really was something there, for the smallest chance of finding a place where the Quendi could go and be safe, could live without fear, could thrive.

Once Lisgalen could set their gem making aside they left the workshop, abandoning serious subjects like Caranthir’s family, and talking of nothing more consequential than the flowers and the peaches that were so abundant that Celebrían was sending them away by the cart-full almost every single day, whether their recipients in Tirion or Alqualondë or Avallónë and other places wanted them or not. They came upon Gimli and Legolas near the memorial garden, but they looked too serious, speaking quietly together, to be approached. Nearer the house Caranthir heard shrieking, and both he and Lisgalen tensed before they passed by some bushes and saw Náriel and Calissë chasing one another around the lawn. As they approached, Maedhros emerged from the house, and the hedgehogs appeared out from under some nearby bushes to cluster around his feet.

Náriel came running at them, flinging herself into Caranthir’s arms. He hoisted her up onto his hip. In Elrond and Celebrían’s house, surrounded by laughter and sunshine, it was so easy to set aside thoughts of his father. As they sat down Maedhros asked Lisgalen what they had been working on, and somehow the conversation wound around to Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Caranthir had heard most of the stories before, but he never minded listening to them again, and Lisgalen was a good storyteller. On his lap, Náriel listened too, entranced by the descriptions of the marvelous things the Gwaith-i-Mírdain had made; she was already showing interest in forge work, though it would be some years yet before Curufin allowed her to do more than watch from a safe distance. Calissë had darted away to follow Celebrían, Galadriel, and Rundamírë as they walked together into the rose garden. 

After a while Caranthir noticed the faint sound of flute music coming from somewhere across the valley, drifting along on the breeze. It was a strange and almost haunting sort of sound, the sort of music he’d once expected to hear from Daeron, though until now he never had. He transferred Náriel to Lisgalen’s lap, and set off to hunt down the music’s source. Daeron had seemed cheerful enough that morning, except that he had been very quiet, but Caranthir had seen neither him nor Maglor at all the day before. Elrond had not seemed worried, and Maglor had been his new-usual cheerful self that morning, but Caranthir was used to worrying about Maedhros when he didn’t leave his room for hours or days, and it was a hard habit to shake, especially when someone like Daeron suddenly withdrew. 

He found Daeron in a ferny glade some distance into the wooded hills at the far end of the valley. “I’d thought the music for the breaking of the heart was just poetry,” he remarked as Daeron finished his song and lowered his flute. Pídhres was sprawled across his lap, tail twitching as she dozed.

Daeron’s smile was crooked, but he didn’t seem either offended or upset at being disturbed. “Depends upon my mood,” he said, “and there was a time when I was often in such a mood.”

“Are you in such a mood today?”

“It seems so.”

Caranthir sat down amid the ferns by Daeron. “Where’s Maglor?”

“Somewhere back at the house. We don’t always have to be connected at the hip.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” said Caranthir. He meant to tease, but it was true enough; Daeron had sorely missed Maglor, and hardly ever left his side these days. Daeron smiled but didn’t laugh. “Did something happen? You didn’t fight, did you?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. I just had a difficult night. There’s never any rhyme or reason. Last night was better, and I am feeling more myself today. Maglor is fine—you don’t need to worry about him.”

“I’m not,” said Caranthir. “I’m worried about you. What sort of difficult night?” He and Daeron had exchanged many letters over the last decades, in between Daeron’s frequent visits, and Daeron had alluded once or twice to low moods or unpleasant dreams, but Caranthir had never seen the effects of them in person. He’d thought, when they had first started to exchange notes, that it would be the same sort of epistolary friendship he’d enjoyed with Bilbo Baggins, who had written to him with questions of the Elder Days, or his not-always-flattering and often-cheeky opinions on various high and mighty figures among the Eldar, or just chatter about flowers and his nephew Frodo. Writing to Daeron had started out that way, but it hadn’t taken very long for that to change. By now Daeron felt more like an extra brother than just a friend, even if there were things he kept to himself and did not talk about—such as the darkest parts of his adventures in the far east, surely the source of whatever bad night he’d had. Caranthir had seen some of the scars he bore, but of course he’d never asked about them.

Daeron shrugged carelessly. “I’ve spent much of my life close to danger, or on the edges of war. Such memories have barbs that can never quite be excised. Surely you know what I mean.” Caranthir nodded; he knew exactly what Daeron meant. “The past does not weigh as heavily on me as it did on Maglor—I so very rarely have such dreams. This time, at least, I did not wake to an empty bed or a strange room.” He turned his flute over in his hands. “I woke up this morning, as I said, feeling almost entirely myself again.”

“So why are you out here playing such melancholy songs by yourself?” Caranthir asked. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, don’t go. I’ve had my sulk, and I should be returning anyway.” Daeron made no move to rise. “It isn’t the dreams that I have been dwelling upon. You and your brothers are not the only ones with somewhat fraught relationships with your parents.”

Caranthir raised his eyebrows. “Your parents?” he repeated. He’d never actually thought about whether Daeron had parents. He spoke often of his cousin and his aunt and uncle—and Lacheryn had come several times to visit Nerdanel—but of course he must have had parents too, if he had aunts and uncles. “What did they do? You have never spoken of them before.”

Daeron did not lift his gaze from his flute. “Vanished,” he said, “and then died, it seems—which, really, is better than the alternative. I have no memory of them; I was only a babe in arms then. Maglor knows the story, and I mentioned it once to Maedhros, on that journey back from Ekkaia. It’s no secret, there just isn't much point in speaking of those I have never known. Until yesterday I thought it likely I never would know them. Now, though, I have been told they dwell in Alqualondë, and are very unhappy with my aunt and uncle for never finishing the Journey.”

“I suppose that is rather fraught,” Caranthir said. “Are you going to Alqualondë, then?”

“I haven’t decided. I must decide soon and at least write to Mablung about it—I would rather meet them at a time of my own choosing, rather than have them come here unlooked for.”

“A good idea,” Caranthir said wryly. “I’ve had an estranged parent sneak up on me, and I do not recommend it.” That meeting had gone worse for Maedhros, because he’d sent Caranthir away almost immediately, and he hadn’t exchanged even a single word with his father. That was different, though. Fëanor felt like a stranger, after so long, after so many things had happened. Daeron’s parents were strangers. “But why didn’t they make themselves known before? You came west years ago.”

Daeron lifted one shoulder in another shrug, this one not so careless. “As our languages changed, so did our names. Daeron is not the name I was given at birth. When they heard of Daeron of Doriath they did not realize they heard of their own son, I suppose. I certainly did not recognize their names when I read Mablung’s letter. It was my aunt that tracked them down—my father’s sister. I don’t know how. Mablung only wanted to tell me that they had been found, and that I should make my way to Alqualondë, though I don’t think he really expects me to hurry, for he knows that Maglor is returned from Lórien.”

“Have you spoken to Finrod, or to Galadriel?” asked Caranthir. “They grew up in Alqualondë.”

“Not yet. I will. I must, I suppose.” Daeron sighed, and looked up at Caranthir, his expression now rueful. “I was too young when I lost them to either mourn or miss them, and I fear that they will expect both of me. And if they are angry at my aunt for not bringing me across the Sea, following Olwë, what will they say to my own decision to tarry in the east as long as I did after the way was made open again? I could have sailed then—I thought about it, though I do not regret my choices to stay, either for Thingol or for my own reasons later.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Caranthir said before he could think better of it. He winced. That was just what he told himself about Fëanor. “Sorry. Of course it matters.”

“It does and it doesn’t. They are my mother and my father, but they are also strangers, and I am unaccustomed to caring much what strangers think of me.”

“The timing of the letter doesn’t help, arriving on top of an already-bad day,” Caranthir said. “Maybe that’s what’s throwing you off balance so badly.”

“It certainly did not help my mood yesterday.”

“Give it another few days, then before you try to decide anything.” Caranthir got to his feet and held out his hand. Daeron grasped it and rose to his feet, scooping up Pídhres as he did so. She made a disgruntled noise, but settled quietly and comfortably into his arms. “And look on the bright side.”

“What’s that?”

“Whatever happens, at least they aren’t Fëanor.”