A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Nineteen

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A few weeks after Maedhros and Ambarussa left with Nerdanel, Maglor was in the library putting his notes for Finwë’s song in some kind of order, while Celegorm sat nearby flipping through a book. It wasn’t unusual for him to join Maglor in the library like this, but it was clear that he wasn’t actually seeing the words on the page. He seemed to be working his way toward speaking of something, and Maglor was content to wait until he was ready. He frowned down his own papers, and picked up his pen to scratch a few musical notations in a corner as a snatch of melody flitted through his mind. It might be nothing, but it might also be the start of something. 

“Are you working on your song?” Celegorm asked finally. 

“Yes.” Maglor looked up. “Do you want to speak of Finwë?”

“Not really.” Celegorm looked back down at his book, frowning. “It’s…it’s hard, Cáno.”

“I know. You don’t have to give me any answer if you can’t, or if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to, I just…” Celegorm blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. It settled back where it had been. “He never looked at me differently.”

“Differently?”

“Because I look—I look like Míriel. Sometimes it was like Atar couldn’t bear to look at me at all, but Grandfather never turned away or treated me any differently than he did the rest of you. I think now that it must have bothered him just as much as it bothered Atar, but he never let it show. That’s all I can think of for your song, but don’t want you to put that into it.”

“I won’t,” said Maglor. “Is that why you think you’re Atya’s least favorite, Tyelko?”

“No. Or—maybe part of it. Mostly I think I’m just—I’m too like him. I’m too angry—”

“You’re more than your anger, Tyelko,” Maglor said. “You’re more than—”

“—than all the awful things, I know. I do. I’m…I’m almost at peace with it, I think.” Celegorm looked up. “I miss him,” he said. “I miss both of them.”

“So do I.” Maglor set his papers aside and went to sit on Celegorm’s lap. It wasn’t quite fair turnabout since he was lighter, but he wrapped his arms around him, and Celegorm dropped his book to do the same, burying his face in Maglor’s shoulder. “Do you still hate him?”

“No. No, that at least I think I’ve let go.” Celegorm did not lift his head. Maglor rested a hand on the back of it. “Do you?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t want to. But I haven’t quite forgiven him, either.” But then, he’d forgiven Maedhros long before he’d realized it, so maybe that didn’t mean anything. All he knew for sure was that he felt a horrible knot of anxiety knotting tie itself up in his stomach whenever he thought of speaking to his father. That wasn’t anger. That was just fear.

“Neither have I.” Celegorm sighed. “I just—it still feels as though we’re all scattered, and…”

“Maybe the trouble is that you have not yet put down roots, like the rest of us are doing,” said Maglor as he stroked Celegorm’s hair. “Have you not returned to Oromë at all since Nelyo and I went to Lórien?”

“No. I shouldn’t have gone back to begin with, I think. I just…didn’t know what else to do. I still don’t.”

“It doesn’t have to be any one thing, Tyelko.”

“I know.”

“Have you tried making things?”

The library door opened before Celegorm could answer, and Elrohir came in. “There you are, Maglor,” he said. “Come downstairs; Elemmírë is coming down the road—she and Findis.”

“Findis?” Maglor repeated, startled, as Celegorm lifted his head.

“Yes, I saw her banner.”

Maglor got up, and Celegorm followed. He had stopped avoiding Elladan and Elrohir, though they were not yet quite friendly. “What’s Aunt Findis doing here?” he asked as he and Maglor followed Elrohir downstairs. 

“I haven’t yet seen her since I came west,” said Maglor.

“Oh. I keep forgetting you’ve hardly seen anyone.”

Findis was tall and golden-haired, looking far more like her mother than like Finwë. She sprang up the steps as Maglor stepped outside and embraced him. “Macalaurë! It’s so good to see you at last. And Tyelkormo! I didn’t know you were here.”

“Hello, Aunt Findis,” Celegorm said as Findis threw her arms around him next. Maglor stepped away and went down the steps to greet Elemmírë.

Elemmírë was short in stature, but that was easy to forget because her presence was so bright. Her hair was a deeper shade of gold than Findis’, and her eyes were the color of aquamarine and radiant. “You look much happier than when last we met!” she said, embracing Maglor tightly. She had come to Imloth Ningloron for the Midsummer celebrations the year that Maglor had come west. He had been cheerful enough then, but that had also been before he’d met with his brothers or his father, and the past had still been a very heavy thing. “I’m glad that Lórien could help you.”

“I’m glad, too—and gladder still to see you again. I don’t know where Daeron is at the moment, but he is also looking forward to meeting you.”

“And I him! I was delighted to hear that both of you were here together.”

Elrond and Celebrían emerged to greet Elemmírë and Findis, and after the usual bustle of new arrivals settled a little, Maglor went to look for Daeron. He had a vague idea that he was somewhere among the workshops. As he walked past the fishpond Aegthil and Annem appeared out of the grass to scurry along at his feet. 

He found Daeron just outside the woodworking shop, brushing sawdust off his clothes. “What are you working on?” he asked. 

“Oh, nothing particularly interesting,” said Daeron. He looped his arms around Maglor’s neck and kissed him soundly. “Were you looking for me?”

“I was. Elemmírë has just arrived, along with my aunt Findis. Have you met her?”

“Yes, several times. It’s Lalwen I somehow have never been introduced to. She’s always either away or busy or something whenever I am in Tirion.”

Elemmírë was outside on the veranda when they returned to the house. She rose to meet them, smiling as Maglor made the introductions and Daeron bowed over her hand. “I am so glad to meet you at last!” she said. “Come, let us sit a while.”

“I am very glad also, Lady Elemmírë, but I have been carving all morning—I will join you as soon as I’ve washed the sawdust away and changed into clean clothes.”

“Does he make his own instruments, as you do?” Elemmírë asked as she and Maglor sat down and Daeron vanished inside. Pídhres appeared to jump up onto Maglor’s lap, curling up to purr as he pet her. Annem and Aegthil had disappeared again, but he could hear scuffling in the grass nearby. 

“Yes he does. And we both looked at those songs you sent me; Daeron thinks one of his students would like them.”

“I have heard of the songbirds of Taur-en-Gellam,” Elemmírë said with a smile. “I’ve been so busy with students of my own, though—including your cousin, Vindimórë. He was a young child still when you arrived on these shores, and I’m not sure if you were able to meet him?”

“Elessúrë’s son?” Macalaurë asked. Elemmírë nodded. “I met him once, but very briefly. When Elessúrë was very young he wanted to learn to play the harp, but I was unable to teach him, and he told me that he had never learned after I left.”

“It isn't too late,” Elemmírë said, “though he might have no interest in it now.”

“Perhaps. How is Vindimórë?”

“Very talented, especially in singing. His sister Isilmiel was also my student for a little while, but though she is equally talented she has not quite the same passion; I think she just wanted to copy her older brother, but she’s old enough now to look to her own pursuits. Have you ever taken students, Macalaurë?”

“Some,” Maglor said as Daeron emerged from the house to join them. “None here—I taught Elrond and Elros, long ago, but that was all very haphazard. Later I was able to teach Arwen and Aragorn’s children and grandchildren better.”

“Elrond is very skilled,” said Elemmírë. “That speaks well of your teaching.”

“I’m sure he found better teachers—and time to practice—after the War of Wrath,” said Maglor. “I’m afraid most of what I taught him was what he and his brother needed just for survival. There was only rarely time for music just for its own sake in those days.”

“It was much the same during my time in Rhûn,” said Daeron, “but I took full advantage of whatever time I did find.”

“Will you take students now, Macalaurë?” Elemmírë asked.

Maglor blinked. “I…I hadn’t thought about it,” he said. “I would like to finish this song my grandmother and Indis have asked me to write first, though, before I give any thought to teaching.”

“What song is that?” Elemmírë asked.

“A song for Finwë. It is long overdue, and they think I am the best one to write it.”

“It is overdue,” she agreed. “Are you having much success?”

“Some. I haven’t written enough to share with anyone yet.”

The talk turned to songwriting in general for a while, and could have gone on all afternoon and all evening if they were not interrupted by dinner and then the inevitable calls for music afterward. It was still cool enough in the evenings that everyone gathered in the hall rather than outside. Elemmírë obliged cheerfully, bringing out her violin to accompany Maglor’s harp and Daeron’s flute. They traded instruments throughout the evening, though Maglor was sorely out of practice in playing any instrument with a bow and gave up quickly, laughing along as Lindir teased him for it. They sang together, too, and it was as wonderful as he had imagined it would be. Elemmírë’s voice was rich and high, a sound that Maglor always associated with the color gold—and not only because she was a Vanya—but it blended together with Maglor’s deeper voice well, and Daeron, whose range was astonishingly broad, brought perfect balance when the three of them sang together.

It was very late before Maglor and Daeron made it to bed. “That was wonderful,” Daeron said as he fell back onto the pillows.

“You should have made your way to Valmar years ago,” Maglor said, laughing as he unraveled his braids. 

“Maybe, but you would not have been there, and I’m very glad that our first singing together was the three of us. I could hear immediately that she had taught you.”

“She was—is—a very good teacher.” Maglor sat on the bed and watched Annem and Aegthil sniff around the hearth before going to their basket. “Before I went to Lórien I was thinking of going to Valmar as her student again. I feel as though I forgot a great deal.”

“There’s always more to learn,” Daeron said. “And you do have much to teach in your own turn, you know.”

Maglor wasn’t so sure about that. He’d done his best with Elrond and Elros, and later with Arwen’s children and grandchildren, but he’d been making it all up as he went along and he still wasn’t sure that they’d been successful because of or in spite of him. “I could maybe someday take on one student, or two,” he said, “but I don’t know what I would do with a group as large as your flock of songbirds.”

“You don’t need to,” said Daeron. He reached for Maglor, pulling him down onto the pillows. “Though if it is known that you only take a very small number of students at a time I’m sure you will be all the more sought after for it.” Maglor shivered before he could catch himself. “Does that disturb you?” Daeron smoothed Maglor’s hair back out of his face. “I thought you’d left such fears behind.”

“So did I. I don’t know—I’m still so unused to…any of this, really. I don’t feel afraid, exactly, but neither do I like the thought of being sought after for any reason.”

“When we go to Taur-en-Gellam you’ll find my students full of questions for you,” said Daeron. “You can start just by answering those. And, really, you don’t have to take any students if you do not wish to.”

“I wouldn’t say no, I think, if someone asked me,” Maglor said, “but I won’t go around looking for students either.”

“I didn't go looking for students,” Daeron said, laughing a little. “Pirineth came to me. I’m very glad she did, though. I needed something to fill my otherwise empty days. It’s hard to know what to do with myself sometimes, after so many years moving around, always with something to worry about or plan for. It was particularly hard when I found myself suddenly unable to turn around and kiss you whenever I wanted.” He leaned in and kissed Maglor, deeply but gently. 

“It feels dangerous,” Maglor whispered a little while later. Daeron lay half on top of him, head resting on his chest as Maglor played with his hair. Starlight shone through the window. “To make plans, I mean. For the future.” He’d spoken to Celegorm of putting down roots, but finding things to do and a place to belong wasn’t quite the same as looking to the future beyond the next few months. He could imagine things like watching his nieces grow, or traveling back and forth to Tirion and Eressëa, but making something of himself that was more than what he was…?

“You’ve been making plans all winter,” Daeron said.

“Those feel different. I don’t know how to plan for—the rest of my life? Or even just—just years into the future, or anything beyond a few months. It feels like…”

“Ah. Yes, I understand.” Daeron lifted his head. “Don’t make such plans, then. Let life come as it will, and before you know it you’ll find yourself established and comfortable and happy.”

“I’m already comfortable and happy.”

“But you are not established. You are starting to put down roots, but they haven’t taken hold yet.” Daeron kissed him. “Give it time. See this year through, all the travels and all the writing, and then take the next as it comes. Finish your song and start the next one.”

“You are very wise.”

“Of course I am. I certainly should be—I feel I’ve earned it through a great deal of heartache and foolishness.”

The next morning after breakfast, Maglor and Daeron ventured outside, and Maglor caught the sound of raised voices somewhere in the garden. “That sounds like your brother,” Daeron said. “Not a good sign.”

“No,” Maglor sighed. “Better go find out what’s wrong.” 

They found Celegorm facing off with, of all people, Findis. “Understanding must go both ways, Tyelkormo,” she was saying. She had her arms crossed, chin raised, looking quite ready to meet whatever Celegorm might throw at her in his wrath. 

Celegorm, on the other hand, stood stiffly, rigid in that way that Maglor could recognize now not as anger but as a desire to be anywhere else when he couldn’t see a way to escape and did not want to actually become angry. 

Findis went on, “If you wish for your father to understand you, you must try to understand him in turn.”

“I do understand him,” Celegorm did not snarl, but it seemed a close thing. “I understand him too well. That’s the problem.” 

“Celegorm,” Maglor said, adopting a sharp tone from Beleriand that had usually managed to cut through whatever arguments were happening between his brothers, or his captains, or whoever he needed to quiet in the moment. Both Findis and Celegorm turned, startled. Maglor tilted his head toward a path that led away through the gardens, out toward the hills. Celegorm nodded jerkily and fled. Out of Findis’ sight but just within Maglor’s, he broke into a run. Daeron glanced at Maglor questioningly, but Maglor shook his head. 

“What was that, Macalaurë?” Findis asked. She had never heard him use that tone, and did not look as though she appreciated hearing it now.

He sighed, and said in his normal voice, “You cannot scold us into speaking to our father, Aunt Findis.”

“Something must give,” Findis said. “This is unsustainable, this avoidance, especially with your brother caught in the middle.”

“We all love Curvo, and we know this is hard for him. The palantír—I assume that’s what you were talking to Tyelko about—it was meant to be a step forward. And,” Maglor added, “it was my idea, and something we all agreed on.”

“Do you have any idea how all of this hurts your father?” Findis demanded. “Do you care, Macalaurë? I cannot—I will not—believe that you do not care.”

“Of course I care,” Maglor said, feeling suddenly so very tired. Something in his chest hurt. “But I cannot say I’m sorry for it.” Daeron took his hand, grip firm and anchoring.

“Your father loves you,” Findis said. “Anyone with eyes can see that he loves you—all of you—desperately.”

“I can’t see it,” Maglor said. His father had been uncharacteristically cautious on the road, smiling for Curufin’s daughters but with guarded eyes, his thoughts impossible to guess. Maglor did not disbelieve Curufin or Findis, when they spoke of Fëanor’s feelings, but he could not quite believe them either. “I don’t know what you want me to say. None of us want this estrangement.”

“The past should be left where it belongs, Macalaurë.”

“We can’t look to the future without understanding the past, or else what is there to stop us making the same mistakes?”

“The root of our ruin was Melkor,” Findis said, “and he is gone. Nothing will happen to cause—”

“Yes, he is gone. But we did not live under his roof, did not watch him transform from a loving father into a fey and fell stranger full of nothing but fire and fury. In all the years I have lived, I can say there is only one other I’ve feared more than I feared Fëanor in his last days. It is so hard to let go of that fear, Aunt Findis, but we are trying. This isn’t something any of us can solve just by knocking him into a pond and being done with it.”

Findis frowned as though she did not quite believe him. “We are none of us strangers to fear,” she said. “Am I really to believe your reluctance, at least, has nothing to do with Daeron?”

“Fëanor knows from what source my dislike of him springs,” Daeron said. 

“I know what you said to him,” Findis said, turning her hard glare on him. Daeron met her gaze calmly. “It was neither true nor warranted, whatever it was that he said to you.”

“Perhaps I spoke more harshly than strictly necessary,” said Daeron, unapologetic, “but he also presumed much.”

“My reluctance to speak to my father has everything to do with him, and nothing at all to do with Daeron,” Maglor said firmly. 

“Because you are still afraid?” Findis asked. Maglor didn’t answer. He didn’t know how—there wasn’t any good way to explain that kind of fear, the kind that sank into your bones. Even decades in Lórien was not enough to banish it entirely—not this fear of his own father, however much he had hoped otherwise upon leaving. It had crept back up on him, unnoticed until it had already lodged itself back in his heart. He didn’t know if it was a remnant of Dol Guldur still, or if he would have felt this way even if he had never come there. The chill of the place had left him, for the most part, but not sound of Sauron’s mocking words in Fëanor’s disdainful voice. Not the roar of flame that he associated with both the Necromancer and with his father. 

Findis looked at him, her gaze lingering on his face as it had not before. Maglor watched her look at his scars, at the lines around his eyes that should not have been there, at the strands of white threaded through his hair that he could laugh about in front of his nieces, but not in front of his aunt. He hated it, this looking, hated that he knew she would not understand the small scars around his lips and that someone would have to explain them to her; hated that that someone would most likely have to be him. “What happened to you, Macalaurë?” she asked finally. “What is this despair even Nienna could not cure?”

Maybe she did know something more of fear than he’d thought. Maglor released Daeron’s hand to hold his out, scars up. “I threw the last shreds of my hope into the Sea with the Silmaril. Later—well, someone else can better tell you of the Black Breath. I no longer despair, but hope for many things remains out of my reach, and fear is never far away. As for my father…” He let his hand drop back to his side, where Daeron grasped it again, holding on tightly. “I do not intend to avoid him forever. I will speak to him before this year is out—I was planning to even before you came to scold us about it—though I won’t promise either of us will come away happy.” 

“That isn’t nothing,” Findis said. “There is no anger in him anymore. All seven of you are so like him—you all feel so deeply. I understand that makes it difficult to overcome the hurt, but you must know that he loves you. Hasn’t Curufinwë told you?”

“That’s the thing about fear, Aunt Findis. It doesn’t care what other people say.”