A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Thirty Two

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Celegorm didn’t even have time to get fed up with his clumsy and tangled attempts at knitting before his mother dragged him into her workshop and put a chisel in his hand. “You want to make things, I hear,” she said with a smile. “I thought long ago you had an aptitude for stone—only you disagreed, and rode off to lose yourself in the woods instead.” She set a block of soapstone in front of him. “What better time than now to try again? Go on, get a feel for it under your hands.”

Nearby his cousin Isilmiel sat with her own half-gone block of stone, carefully chipping away at it, her honey-colored hair pulled up in to a tightly braided bun. She smiled at him briefly before giving it her full attention. Celegorm sighed and pulled his own hair back out of his face. Might as well try, he thought as he picked up the hammer and chisel. He remembered how it was done, in a distant and hazy sort of way, gold-tinged like most of his memories of Nerdanel’s workshop long ago when he had been Calissë’s age, before he’d discovered the wild woods and the excitement of the hunt. As he started chipping away very carefully at his stone he watched his mother out of the corner of his eye. She spoke briefly to Isilmiel, offering advice or encouragement, and then went to climb up the ladder erected by a statue twice as tall as Maedhros, with some sort of strange and undulating shape slowly emerging from the otherwise smooth and strait block of pale green marble.

Somehow he’d forgotten what it was like to watch his mother at work. She moved quickly and decisively, never hesitating when she put her chisel to the stone, and hummed as she worked. Fëanor had once said that Maglor had inherited his own talents from Nerdanel; she’d laughed and denied it, but Celegorm remembered Maglor agreeing, and remembered sitting outside of her workshop with him when they were young, out of sight of the windows, just to listen to her through the windows, because she almost never sang if she knew other people might be listening.

Celegorm worked slowly, obediently doing nothing but letting himself get used to the feel of a chisel and hammer in his hand, and the different ways that the stone broke beneath it depending on how he held it or how much force he used. There was, he had to admit, something satisfying in watching the pieces fall away, to imagine that someday he might be able to do this and reveal something worth looking at underneath. It had been a long time since he’d felt any sort of thrill from learning something new—a long time since he’d learned anything worth bring thrilled about. He didn’t feel it then, but he thought he might—and it was worth trying just because Nerdanel thought he could do it, and certainly it was worth getting to spend time with her in her workshop, where nothing mattered except what was taking shape under their hands.

Just like that, Celegorm found his mornings taken up by stones and chisels and his mother’s patient tutelage. In the afternoons he took the ugly yarn he’d stolen out of Caranthir’s workshop, and the needles his grandmother had given him, and went to find Maedhros, who was often either in his own workshop or out by the river, with a sketchbook or an easel. Huan followed him, and Nallámo perched in the window or flew about over the water. Aechen was always near Maedhros. Sometimes Caranthir came to join them; most often he was busy with his own projects or with Lisgalen. It was quiet. It was nice.

“Have you heard from Maglor?” Celegorm asked one afternoon. They sat under a willow tree, Maedhros with a set of colored pencils and Celegorm with what he supposed would be a scarf, if he didn’t do something wrong again and have to unravel the whole thing.

“I had a letter yesterday,” said Maedhros without looking up. Maglor and Daeron had been in Avallónë for two weeks, now. “It sounds as though Daeron is clashing with his parents a bit.”

“Why? You’d think they’d be thrilled.”

“I’m sure they were in the beginning—he was less so, it sounds like. I don’t know Daeron nearly as well as the rest of you, so there’s not much I can read between the lines. Maglor also says he actually met Daeron’s younger brother, long ago. They were both students of Elemmírë, though their time in Valmar did not overlap for very long.”

“How do they get along now?”

“Well enough, but Maglor is keeping out of their way, he says.”

“How’s his songwriting?”

“He says its going well. Felagund is helping.”

Finrod baffled Celegorm almost as much as Dior. They’d been friends once, long ago, so his insistence on being friends again was a little more understandable—except for the part where he’d died horribly because of Celegorm’s treachery. There was setting the past aside in the name of peace, and then there was whatever Finrod was doing. Celegorm knew better than to argue when Finrod got that determined look in his eyes, and he was trying to stay in the habit of being honest with himself, so he really would like to return to something like friendship, but it was never going to look the same. Finrod was never not going to place himself closest to the nearest escape route whenever they were alone together, and Celegorm wasn’t sure he would ever be able to look him fully in the eye again.

Caranthir wandered out after a while to join them. “How’s the stone-carving going, Tyelko?” he asked as Aechen crawled onto his lap.

“I like it more than I thought I would,” Celegorm said.

“More than the knitting?”

“I don’t know how I feel about knitting.” The needles felt clumsier in his hands than the chisel did, and the yarn was a source of constant frustration as it tangled itself in knots or slipped off the needles at the worst times, and his stitches were forever too tight or too lose—but when he did manage to work a few rows without any mishap it felt a little like the stone carving did. Like he could eventually turn this tangle of yarn into something worth looking at, or using, and that was just enough to keep him from giving it up in disgust.

“It’s not that hard,” Caranthir said. “I don’t know why you’re being such a baby about it. You should see some of the lacework Grandmother Ennalótë does. That’s much more complicated than what you’re doing. You aren’t even purling.”

“That she knits?”

“Oh, yes. It’s not all just scarves and blankets, you know.”

“You’ll get there, Tyelko,” Maedhros said, sounding amused. He flipped the page in his sketchbook and picked up a new pencil. “Have Ambarussa sent any messages?”

“No,” said Caranthir, “but they almost never do. I have a letter from Daeron. He’s very annoyed at Mablung about not warning him he has siblings.”

“How many does he have?” Maedhros asked. “Maglor wrote and mentioned a brother.”

“Two sisters, both of whom are married, as well as the brother, who isn’t. He has a niece and a nephew as well, but I don’t think he’d met them yet when he wrote to me. I can’t imagine arriving here and learning I’ve got siblings I never met.”

“I can’t either,” Maedhros murmured.

“Imagine learning that your long-lost elder brother is Daeron,” said Celegorm. He dropped a stitch and cursed.

“You can pick it up without unraveling—here, let me show you.” Caranthir took the needles, and fixed the stitch far too quickly for Celegorm to follow. “See?”

“No, I didn’t see,” Celegorm said. “You did it too fast—”

“It’s not that hard—”

“Then do it slowly—”

“I did do it slowly, you stupid—”

“Children,” Maedhros said, just a hint of warning in his voice.

“Here.” Caranthir took the needles again and dropped a stitch on purpose. This time he went about picking it up much more slowly, and if Celegorm still didn’t fully understand what he did, at least he got the general idea. “How was that?”

“Better.”

After a little while Huan lifted his head, ears perking up. Celegorm expected whatever had caught his interest to pass by after a moment, but instead Huan lumbered to his feet, sending Aechen rolling away in a little spiky ball, and woofed. “What is it, Huan?” Celegorm asked. Huan nudged him with his nose, knocking him into Caranthir and making half his stitches slide off the needles. “Hey!” Huan grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him away next. “Huan, stop!”

“This is why Maglor calls him a menace,” Caranthir said, laughing as he picked Aechen up out of the way of the scuffle. “You’d better go with him, Tyelko.”

“I would if he’d let me up,” Celegorm growled. His shirt had ridden up and he was halfway to choking as the collar caught around his chin. “Huan!”

Finally, Huan released him, having dragged him out from under the willow tree, and Celegorm got to his feet. He was now covered in grass stains, which he didn’t mind much, but he also had a few scrapes over his palms and his stomach from the willow roots that he minded a little more. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded as he followed Huan, yanking his shirt back down into some sort of order.

Huan barked, and as Celegorm followed his gaze he saw pair of travelers—on foot and clad in the plain and undyed robes of the Returned, following the river toward them. Both were dark-haired; one was slightly taller than the other. Celegorm blinked, not quite sure that he was seeing what he thought he was. Caranthir stepped up beside him. “Moryo, that isn’t…?”

Caranthir raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. “That looks like Irissë,” he said, startled. “But that’s—why would she come here? And who is with her? They both look new-come from Mandos!”

“That must be Maeglin,” said Maedhros from behind them.

“But why would either of them be coming here?” Caranthir asked again. “Someone should have been called to Lórien, shouldn’t they? As Fingon and Gilheneth were?”

“That depends on whether they want someone to come,” Celegorm said. “I remember I didn’t.”

“Neither did I,” said Maedhros. “But how welcome do you think Maeglin will be in Tirion? Turgon is still there, is he not?”

“No, he and Elenwë were preparing to leave for Alastoron when I left,” said Caranthir. “But I see your point. We don’t really have a leg to stand on turning him away, is that it?”

“Something like that,” Maedhros said.

Huan bounded forward, barking excitedly. Maeglin halted, eyes going wide, but Aredhel sprang forward to greet Huan with a burst of bright laughter. She threw her arms around his big neck and kissed him. Celegorm couldn’t quite catch what she said. He followed after Huan, leaving Caranthir and Maedhros to either wait or go back to tell Nerdanel they had a pair of unexpected guests. Huan licked Aredhel’s face in greeting and then went to sniff at Maeglin, who stood very still. He was tall and dark—dark-haired and dark-eyed—and Celegorm couldn’t tell at a distance whether he favored Aredhel’s family or not. Celegorm wasn’t sure what he would say to him, or even to Aredhel.

What came out of his mouth, voice shaking only a little, once he was within speaking distance was, “You took your time didn’t you, Irissë?”

“I’m surprised they let you out at all, Tyelkormo!” she replied as she embraced him, holding on very tightly. She felt far more solid than she looked at first glance, and Celegorm wrapped his arms around her equally tightly. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you! Is Curvo here?”

“No, he lives in Tirion. That’s Caranthir and Maedhros behind me. But Irissë, what are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” she said.

“Right, but your parents—your brothers—”

“I’ll see them soon enough,” she said, and turned to hold out her hand to Maeglin, who stepped forward to take it. “Tyelkormo, this is my son Lómion.”

Up close, Celegorm could see how much Maeglin resembled Fingolfin. The rueful and hesitant expression on his face, though, was like looking into a mirror. “Welcome, Lómion,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m glad to meet you at last.”

“Thank you,” Maeglin said as he grasped it.

“Come on. I’m sure we have clothes somewhere that will fit both of you if you want to get out of those robes. Ammë will be very glad to see you again, Irissë.”

“We aren’t intruding, I hope,” Aredhel said as they turned to walk back to join Maedhros and Caranthir. “Where are your other brothers? I heard all seven of you are back.”

“As I said, Curufin’s in Tirion. Maglor is in Avallónë at the moment, and Ambarussa live up in the mountains south of here,” Celegorm said, gesturing in the general direction. “We won’t see them until next spring, but Maglor will turn up sometime soon, probably.”

“Probably? Why is he on Eressëa?”

“Visiting Finrod. Celebrían and her sons are there too—Elrond’s wife and children.” Celegorm paused. “Do you know who…?”

“I don’t recognize the names, no,” Aredhel said.

“Well, Elrond is Eärendil’s son, Idril’s grandson,” Celegorm said, and out of the corner of his eye watched Maeglin trip over something in the grass and catch himself before he fell. “And Celebrían is Galadriel’s daughter.”

“Artanis had a daughter!” Aredhel exclaimed. “Where is she then—Artanis?”

“Taur-en-Gellam—that’s Thingol’s realm here. Somewhere a little south and then west of here. You probably passed the road to it on your way here.”

“We didn’t take roads,” Aredhel said. Then she darted ahead to greet Maedhros and Caranthir. That left Celegorm behind with Maeglin—and Huan, who had taken pity on Maeglin and moved so that Celegorm was between them.

“You’re in good company here, you know,” Celegorm said after a moment. He offered a crooked sort of smile when Maeglin glanced at him warily. “One could argue we were far worse than you.”

“Did you make deals with the Enemy too, then?” Maeglin asked, sounding brittle but like he would rather go back to Mandos than let anyone see.

Celegorm hadn’t expected sarcasm, but thought it was probably a good sign. “If you try to tell me you made yours entirely of your own will, I’ll throw you into the river,” he said, keeping his tone mild, slipping his hands into his pockets. It was Maedhros’ favorite threat, so Maeglin would have to get used to hearing it. “We made no deals, but that’s what makes us worse. We did his work for him and and he never even had to ask.”

“So what did you do when you returned?” Maeglin asked after a moment.

“Went to bend the knee before everyone we wronged,” Celegorm said. “For the most part they were all happy to say ‘yes we forgive you, now please go away and don’t trouble us again,’ and it’s been long enough now that no one so much as blinks when we turn up in public.” Maeglin didn’t smile, not even the slightest twitch of his lips. Celegorm hadn't realized before just how used he’d gotten to everyone being cheerful most of the time—even Maglor, when he wasn’t moody or snappish over his songwriting. He stopped trying to be funny. “I don’t know what will be asked of you when it comes out you’ve returned, but you’ll probably find a lot more forgiveness than you expect. We certainly did.”

“What I did not expect,” Maeglin said after a moment, “was to find you sounding so much like Lady Nienna.”

Celegorm snorted. “Well, I spent a few decades in her halls recently. I’m glad something seems to have stuck. Come on. At least it’s only three of us here at the moment. You can get used to us a little at a time.”

Nerdanel was shocked but very pleased to see Aredhel, and to be introduced to Maeglin. She ushered the two of them to the guest rooms and sent Caranthir next door for clothes fit for Aredhel; Maeglin was close enough to Caranthir in size that he could borrow some of his for the time being. “So that’s Lómion,” Maedhros remarked when he and Celegorm were left alone in the kitchen.

“I haven’t see anyone so terrified to be here since Maglor,” Celegorm said.

“You think he’s afraid?”

“He’s very good at hiding it.” Celegorm couldn’t have explained exactly how he knew that Maeglin was so frightened; it was just a sense that he had, some instinct honed over his years as a hunter. Something about the way he held himself, even if he wasn’t visibly poised to run off. Something about the way he kept looking for Aredhel, as though he couldn’t stand the thought of letting her out of his sight.

Maedhros sighed. “Seems to run in the family,” he murmured. “What is it you think he fears?”

“Not hard to guess. Turgon. Idril. Not to mention Tuor, and everyone else who once lived in Gondolin.”

“Do you think he has good reason?”

Celegorm shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not as though I’m the one Turgon confides in. You’d be better off asking Finrod, or maybe Fingon.”

“Maybe I will,” Maedhros said. “Better to know before he actually meets with anyone. I’ll see what Irissë thinks later.”

With nothing else to do as Maedhros went to put his sketchbook and pencils away, Celegorm put a kettle on, and dug through the cupboard for tea that he thought Aredhel might like. He couldn’t even begin to guess at Maeglin’s tastes. Most of the jars were full of Caranthir’s odd and experimental blends, some of which were more successful than others. Celegorm couldn’t remember what Aredhel liked, so in the end he just picked the newest experiment that he liked best.

Aredhel returned to the kitchen as he spooned the leaves into the teapot. “I’m not sure what I expected to find,” she said, leaning against the counter beside him, “but I don’t think it was anything quite so domestic.” He shrugged. “Thank you for welcoming Lómion,” she added after a moment.

“I should have done far more, long ago,” Celegorm said quietly. “I’m sorry, Irissë.”

“You did not wrong me just by being away from home when I came looking,” Aredhel said. “But Tyelko, what you did—”

“I know. I’m sorry for all of that, too—more sorry than I can say. I’m…we’re all trying to be better. I think Curvo’s doing the best out of all of us, honestly.”

“He’s back in Tirion, you said. Back with Rundamírë?”

“Yes. They have two little girls now, did Ammë tell you?”

Aredhel smiled, and then laughed. “No, she didn’t! Little girls—Tyelpë must be delighted.”

“He is. Do you want me to write to Curvo? I can just ask him to come visit—I don’t need to write in a letter why if you want to keep it secret.”

Aredhel did not answer immediately. The kettle sang, and Celegorm poured the water into the teapot. Finally, Aredhel said, “I do miss him. I miss everyone—but I was unable to protect my son, before, and I need to do better now. Until I know better how he will be received, I do not want to return to Tirion at all, or even for my family to know that I am returned.”

“You can always go to Fingon first,” Celegorm said. He turned to the cupboard to take down mugs. “He and Gilheneth are north of Tirion, and they’re not welcoming many visitors just now either—Gil-galad is back too. If you don’t want anyone noticing a letter from you, slip it inside one of Maedhros’.”

“Would he mind?” Aredhel asked.

“Not at all,” said Maedhros as he came into the kitchen. “I have a letter to him I was going to send tomorrow, if you want to write sooner than later, Irissë.”

“Thank you, Russo.” Aredhel smiled at him. “I’ll try to think of something tonight.”

Caranthir returned then with clothes for her, and Aredhel disappeared to change. “Who does that leave in Mandos, still?” Caranthir asked when she was gone.

“Aegnor,” said Maedhros.

“And Finwë,” Celegorm added.

“Well, Finwë goes without saying,” Caranthir said. Celegorm glanced at Maedhros, who shook his head minutely. Unaware, Caranthir went on, “I almost wonder if something has happened lately. Maedhros and Maglor came back from Lórien, and now all who remained are flooding back.”

“Three people is a flood?” Maedhros asked, amused.

“Feels like it, a bit. Coming in such quick succession after the two of you.”

Aredhel and Maeglin returned, changed out of their robes from Mandos and into proper clothes, and Celegorm poured the tea for everyone. There was still a little awkwardness, because none of them knew Maeglin and it had been so long since any of them had seen Aredhel. She, however, had never known what awkwardness was, and therefore had always been good at chasing it away. She wanted to know all the latest gossip and news from all sides of the family, and what their brothers and cousins were doing alongside her own. Maeglin sat quietly, speaking when spoken to but otherwise appearing more than content just to listen.

The next day Celegorm spent the morning with Isilmiel, chipping away at stone as he started his first rough sculpture. Afterward he introduced her to Aredhel, and when she left to return to Mahtan’s house Aredhel turned to Celegorm with a raised brow. “You’re a sculptor now, are you?”

“No,” Celegorm said, shaking his head. “But I’m…I can’t be a hunter anymore, the way that I used to be, so I’m looking for something else. It’s either that or just—drive myself mad worrying about all my brothers.”

“Do they need worrying about?” Aredhel asked. They sat under the hawthorn tree in the garden, and she leaned back against the trunk, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Russandol and Carnistir seem fine.”

“They are now,” said Celegorm. “But Nelyo only returned last year from decades in Lórien, because Mandos didn’t help him at all. Cáno, too—Cáno never died, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Aredhel said. “I paid very little attention to anything but myself and my son in Mandos. Well, I paid attention to the big things, but nothing really after the War of Wrath…what was Macalaurë doing all that time, then?”

“Wandering, mostly,” Celegorm said. He drew a knee up to rest his arm over it as he watched Aechen trundle by. “Then—some awful things happened to him, and he ended up with Galadriel and then with Elrond. He didn’t come west with them, but came with Elrond’s sons.”

“Has he been on Eressëa since? I mean, aside from Lórien?”

“No. Elrond and Celebrían have settled in a valley a little ways south of here—Imloth Ningloron, it’s called. It’s that wide sort of bowl-shaped valley filled with streams and irises. Cáno lives there with them. He’s been in Tirion and Alqualondë and now Avallónë because he’s got this song he’s writing and he wants to talk to just about everyone who ever knew Finwë for it. He’ll probably ask you too, if you’re willing.”

“To talk of Finwë?” Aredhel shrugged. “I suppose.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Well, I did just come from Mandos, where he still is. I can tell Macalaurë of that.”

“You might want to write down whatever you want to tell him,” Celegorm said. “You’ll start to forget soon enough. Everyone does.”

“Maybe.” Aredhel stretched her legs out in front of her, and tilted her head back to watch the leaves sway above their heads. “You’re very different, you know.”

“Good. I don’t want to be what I was.”

“That’s a shame,” Aredhel said. “I rather liked who you were—fire and temper and all. So you aren’t a hunter anymore—do you still have your bow?”

Celegorm did still have a bow, and they found another one better suited to Aredhel, and took a couple quivers of arrows out into the fields beyond the river. They shot at no game, just old fence posts or tree stumps. Aredhel’s shots went wild more often than not, but she just laughed—it was still all new to her, being alive again, and it would be some time before the thrill wore off. Celegorm hadn’t been quite so happy about returning to life—but he’d come back alone and even less certain than Maeglin of the kind of welcome he’d receive even from Nerdanel. But he did remember that particular feeling of exhilaration that came with regaining a body—that came with all the sensations of life, of touch and sound and smell, and hunger and weariness and even pain, in its own way—that feeling of rightness that came with his spirit settling back into a living body in the living world.

As they rested back by the river, Aredhel lay back on the grass with her arms behind her head. “Where’s your father?” she asked after a little while. “He’s back too, is he not?”

“He went off with Ambarussa, but mostly he lives in Tirion.”

“What’s the matter?”

“What? Nothing.”

“You never were a very good liar.”

“I was an excellent liar,” Celegorm said tightly, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Well, maybe to other people.” Aredhel knocked her foot against his ankle. “So what lies between you and your father?”

“Everything. Curvo gets along with him fine, and Ambarussa have mended things so far as to take him off to the mountains with them, but the rest of us—haven’t. Don’t mention it to Maedhros, though, please.”

“All right. How tense will it be when I finally return to Tirion?”

“Probably not very tense at all,” said Celegorm. “Your father and mine haven't just made peace, they’re apparently friends.”

“Really?”

“Most everyone is more or less at peace with my father being back and being…himself. He gave up his claim to the crown, so your father is still the king. It’s just us that don’t speak to him.”

“Why?”

“Why—you know what happened. We never would’ve done any of it without the Oath and he’s the one that made that, he’s the one that set us on that path and then died—”

“I doubt that he wanted to,” Aredhel said quietly. “I didn’t.”

“You,” Celegorm said, “didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Gondolin later.”

“Didn’t I? I opened the door for it.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“It’s close enough.”

“It’s not close at all—”

“Also not worth arguing about,” Aredhel said. “I didn't come back just to fight. Or at least not about that—not with you. I’m sure I’ll get into a screaming match with Turgon sometime, and then we’ll both cry a bit, avoid each other for a few months, and then never talk about it again.” She sighed. “I suppose I just know what it’s like to be a parent and to fail my child. But mending it has to go both ways, so he must be doing something right if Curvo and Ambarussa have forgiven him.”

“I guess so. He wrote us all letters, back when he first returned. That was fifty years ago now.”

“What did he write in yours?”

“Apologized. Said he loved me. You know, all the sorts of things you’re supposed to write in that kind of letter.”

Aredhel sat up. “Your father never says anything that he doesn’t mean.”

That, Celegorm thought—remembering all the things they’d each shouted at one another when things had first started to get bad—was the whole problem. “I know,” he said aloud. “That doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind.”