A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Thirty Four

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For reasons he could not begin to imagine, Maedhros woke suddenly in the early hours out of dark dreams to pain—not the burning of his left hand, but the memory of a very different kind of pain. His entire right shoulder and arm ached horribly, in fact, and he lay in bed with his eyes closed for a long time, breathing through it and trying to remind himself that he was at home, in Valinor, in a body that had never actually known the torments of Angband or the agonies of the cliff side. That did not stop his muscles from cramping, or his bones from aching at the site of ancient breaks, or his skin from feeling tender and fragile at the memory of rough stones and sharp iron chains and shackles.

As his room brightened with the morning, the rest of the house began to stir. Maedhros was not usually a late sleeper, but he couldn’t make himself get up. He wanted to go back to sleep, or at least to pull the blankets up over his head to shut out the rest of the world for a little while. If he didn’t get up for breakfast, someone would come looking for him, though, and in spite of his promise to Celegorm to tell him if something was really amiss, he didn’t think he could make himself explain. Not this.

Maglor had spoken a few times in Lórien of other people’s concern making him feel as breakable as they seemed to think him. Maedhros had sympathized, then, but hadn’t experienced exactly the same feeling himself—he’d been too caught up inside his own head to notice, for a very long time, just how much that troubled those around him. He could easily imagine now, though, how much worse he would feel when Celegorm came in to frown at him, or the way Caranthir and Nerdanel would sneak sidelong looks over the breakfast table. Or the way Aredhel would not understand—or worst of all, the way Maeglin probably would.

He muttered a curse and rolled over to bury his face in his pillow. The phantom pains were gone, but he found himself moving stiffly and carefully, like one wrong move would send his muscles seizing up again. To try to break out of that, he rolled his right shoulder and flung his arm out across the bed with more force than he would have otherwise, just to prove to himself that it really didn’t hurt. He turned his head to stare at the wall, trying to remember all the things Estë had taught him about coming back into his own body after such a night, grounding himself in the present time so his mind did not slip back into the past against his will.

After a little while Aechen woke up; Maedhros could hear him scuffling around near the door. He sighed and heaved himself out of bed. “Sorry, Aechen,” he murmured as he opened the door. He shut it again, knowing Aechen could navigate the stairs perfectly well on his own, and retreated back to bed. Just as he pulled the blankets up over his head, though, someone knocked on the door. He didn’t answer, wondering if he could get away with pretending to be asleep.

Caranthir didn’t wait, anyway. “Nelyo?” Maedhros felt the mattress dip, and Caranthir’s hand come to rest on his back. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Maedhros said into his pillow.

“Liar. Bad night?”

“Mm.”

“Does your hand hurt?”

Maedhros sighed, and turned his head. “No. It wasn’t that kind of bad.” He couldn’t quite see Caranthir’s face, but the weight of his hand on Maedhros’ back remained unmoving. “I’m just tired.”

He need not have worried about Caranthir; he had never been one to want to speak of his own troubles, and so rarely pushed for Maedhros to do so. Instead he just asked, “Do you want breakfast?”

“No.”

“All right. Go back to sleep, Nelyo. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.” Caranthir kissed the back of Maedhros’ head and rose.

“Thanks,” Maedhros whispered.

Once he was alone again Maedhros rolled onto his back to stare out of the window. A few white puffy clouds drifted across the sky. He could hear the distant ringing of a hammer in one of his grandfather’s forges—and that made him think of fire and heat and metal, and that made his heart start to race, so he sat up to close the window and shut out the noise. Then he curled up under the blankets and closed his eyes, trying to think of nothing at all. It mostly worked, and he dozed, half-hearing the bustle and commotion of breakfast downstairs, muffled voices and the clatter of dishes. The memory of aching muscles and the pull of his own weight slowly retreated in the warm dark under his blankets, but sleep would not quite return. He kept flinching awake.

Getting up, he knew, would help. Moving his body and doing something that required his mind’s focus would do more to bring him back into the present than just lying in bed, but he’d gotten up once and now he couldn’t make himself do it again.

He didn’t know how much time passed before he heard footsteps outside his bedroom, and then a soft knock just before the door opened. “Maedhros?”

“Maglor…?” Maedhros pushed the blanket down as Maglor came into the room. As he shut the door Pídhres jumped up onto the bed to butt her head into Maedhros’ face. “Didn’t expect you today,” he said as he scratched her behind the ears until she moved to curl up against his chest, purring softly.

“We left Eressëa with the early tide.” Maglor came to kneel beside the bed, so his face was level with Maedhros’. “Caranthir said you had a bad night.”

“Haven’t dreamed of the cliff in a long time,” Maedhros whispered.

“Ah.” Maglor brushed the hair out of Maedhros’ face. “I can sing the dreams away if you want.”

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done countless times before, but somehow it made Maedhros, absurdly, want to cry. “Please?”

“Of course. Just close your eyes.” Maglor kissed Maedhros forehead, and kept stroking his hair as he began to sing, a very quiet song with a soft melody that wrapped around Maedhros like another blanket. It was a familiar song, and Maedhros let his eyes fall shut, this time confident that nothing but rest awaited him.

The next thing he knew he was waking to moonlight on his face, and the only stiffness in his body the kind that came from sleeping deeply for many hours without moving. With a yawn he stretched his limbs—all phantom pains long gone—and sat up. Aechen was in his basket, curled up beside Pídhres. Maedhros dressed and slipped out of his room and downstairs, leaving his door ajar so the animals could find their way out come morning. The house was quiet, everyone else in bed, and he found the kitchen empty and dark. He lit a lamp and stirred up the hearth to heat water, feeling more thirsty than hungry. As he rummaged through the tea cupboard he heard someone on the stairs, and glanced over to find Daeron, yawning and in the midst of twisting his hair into a braid over his shoulder.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Maedhros asked.

Daeron blinked, apparently startled to find someone else awake. “No,” he said, and smiled a little crookedly. “That would require me to have been asleep. Are you feeling any better?”

“Much. Tea?”

“Thank you.” Daeron went to fetch the cups as Maedhros finally found the peppermint, blended with half a dozen other things, that was his favorite of Caranthir’s experiments, which had been shoved into the very back of the cupboard for some reason.

As he waited for the water to boil, Maedhros leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “How was Alqualondë?” he asked finally, after failing to think of anything else to talk about.

“Exhausting. No one bothered to warn me that I have three younger siblings—two sisters and a brother. I have the dubious distinction now of being the eldest and the newest addition to the family, and that means they all want to forget the first part and treat me like the baby.”

Maedhros wrinkled his nose. “That sounds awful.”

Daeron laughed—the sort of laugh that came out when it was either that or succumb to frustration. “It is. And I can’t even ask anyone for advice about it because I don’t know anyone else in this particular position.”

“I do have plenty of advice for dealing with younger brothers,” Maedhros agreed, “but it does all rely on having known them all their lives. What of your parents?”

“They’re just as bad—they last saw me as a baby, and that is how I have lived in their minds and hearts all these years. I can’t blame them for it, of course, but it’s…hard. Especially when I have no real memory of them at all.” Daeron ran his finger around the rim of one of the mugs—the one Maedhros had broken, after they’d returned from Ekkaia, and that Maglor had mended. The copper painted over the cracks glinted in the firelight. “None of them are fond of your family, either.”

“Were they—” Maedhros couldn’t make his tongue work to finish the sentence.

“No. No, none of my family were present at the quays then. My sister is married to a sailor, but none of the rest of my family have anything to do with ships or shipbuilding, except that my father is one of those who tend the forests from which the Teleri harvest their timber.”

“Good,” Maedhros murmured, breathing a sigh. At least there was that.

“Don’t go apologizing for it. I don’t need it.”

“Have it anyway,” Maedhros said. “I am sorry—for all of it, and also for lying and keeping secrets.”

Daeron smiled at him. “Thank you. You know that I forgave it all long ago.”

The kettle sang, and Maedhros poured the water over the tea while Daeron brought out a jar of honey, and they moved to sit at the table. While it steeped, Daeron leaned his elbows on the table, regarding Maedhros with dark, thoughtful eyes. “Last time we spoke of my parents,” he said, “I had asked about yours.”

“I remember.”

“Has anything changed since?”

Maedhros shook his head. “I don’t know. I think I was wrong before—when I said he had been restored to what he once was. That isn’t what Mandos does. I was just…unable to see clearly then.”

“Have you spoken since?”

“Briefly.”

They sat in silence for a little while. It wasn’t uncomfortable; Maedhros still didn’t feel that he knew Daeron well, but he liked him and he trusted him, and Daeron would not worry at him the way his brothers would. When the tea was ready Daeron picked up the pot to pour it. “You were worried before that your father might make things difficult for me in Tirion,” Daeron remarked as he accepted the spoon to stir honey into his mug.

“Did he do something when you were there?” Maedhros hadn’t heard of anything, but that didn’t necessarily mean nothing had happened. Whatever lay between Daeron and Fëanor was not public knowledge; Maedhros wasn’t sure even his uncle knew of it.

“No. I did.”

“How worried should I be?” Maedhros asked, pausing with his mug halfway to his lips.

Daeron laughed quietly. “Not worried at all. I’m sorry—I’ll stop teasing. I just went to speak to him. Neither of us were at our best, really, when we had our confrontation years ago. I apologized, and he apologized, and we’ve made peace. I just haven’t found the right time to tell Maglor about it yet, since I’ve been so preoccupied with my own family, and he with his song.”

Maedhros set his mug down. “And just like that…?”

“Probably not,” Daeron said. “That depends on how things go with all of you moving forward, because if it comes down to it I will of course take your side. But Maglor wants it to go well, even if he isn’t yet ready to take the next step, and it will be easier for him at least if he knows that Fëanor and I are no longer at odds.”

“And he…apologized. To you.”

“Yes. He was very quick to do it, actually—to admit that he had been wrong. I thought that you should know that.”

“And you…” Maedhros dropped his gaze and took a sip of his tea before he went on. It was hot and sweet and soothing. “You believe him?”

“I do. Fëanor has a reputation for many things, not all of them good, but it seems to me his faults lie rather in being too truthful than the other way around. He does not say a thing if he does not mean it.” Maedhros flinched, and spilled tea over his hand. He cursed and set the mug down. Daeron rose to fetch a cloth to mop it up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What did I say?”

“Nothing—it’s not you, it’s—nothing.”

But of course Daeron didn’t believe him, and of course he was too clever not to understand why his words had struck a chord. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, resting his free hand on Maedhros’ shoulder. “Whatever he said to you in the past—if he meant it at the time, I do not think he believes it now. One can be wrong without being a liar.”

“I know that he was wrong,” Maedhros said. “That isn’t—it’s that he did believe it when he said it. Please don’t apologize again. You didn’t—it’s not your fault. Any of it.”

“No, but I’m reopening wounds when I am trying to help you close them—and on the heels of a difficult day.”

Maedhros shook his head. “There’s no reopening a wound that never closed in the first place. I’m glad you spoke to my father, and that Maglor did. I just can’t—”

—worse than Nolofinwë—useless—treacherous—no son of mine—I should have left you to—

“I just can’t do it. Not yet.”

“Now I wonder if I went and apologized too soon,” Daeron said.

Maedhros thought it was supposed to be a joke, but he couldn’t find it in himself to laugh. “Please don’t pick another fight with him.”

“I won’t. Believe it or not, I never intended to pick the first one. I just wanted to meet him once, to see if all I had heard matched the reality, and would have been very happy to leave Tirion again without speaking a second time.”

“What was it he said that angered you?”

Daeron sat back down and picked up his tea. “He had concerns about someone from Doriath taking up with his son. All things considered, he wasn’t entirely wrong to worry, and I seem to have done such a good job at hiding how unhappy I was at the time that he saw me only as some sort of cheerful fool who took nothing seriously, either my craft of my friendships or even the worst things that had befallen my home and my people. Part of it too, I think, is that he was still very new-come from Mandos, and time seems to pass strangely there.”

“It does,” Maedhros murmured. “Many centuries had passed for you, but it would not have felt thus for him.”

“In his eyes I was little better than a stranger, and not someone who should be going around wearing any sort of token Maglor had given to me.” Daeron’s hand rose to the pendant he always wore, the pale wooden one inlaid with purple enamel in the shape of a many-petaled flower, that matched Maglor’s favorite hair clip. “In my eyes he was just—well, he was the subject of many of Maglor’s nightmares, and the architect of the Oath, and all that it wrought. I did not realize how deeply unhappy he was, too. We misunderstood one another in precisely the right ways for it all to go wrong, and so it did. And now I find myself in the very odd position of getting along better with Fëanor than my own closest kin. It would be funny if it weren’t also frustrating.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Maedhros asked.

“You just have, by letting me talk at you about it in the middle of the night even though I shouldn’t be burdening you—”

“I’d rather think about someone else’s problems than my own,” Maedhros said. “At least yours have a relatively simple solution.”

“Time, you mean? Maglor keeps saying so too.”

“You were there to support all of us when we were trying to come back together, and you didn’t have to be,” Maedhros said. “I hope you’ll let all of us return the favor, and not just Maglor.”

“I was mostly there to support Maglor, but thank you. It does help to have someone to talk to who is at least somewhat removed from it.”

“Yes, it does.”

Once the tea was gone Daeron retreated upstairs again, hopefully to find sleep. Maedhros had rested almost too well and was still wide awake, so he went out to his painting studio, lighting one of the crystal lamps with a touch, so he had enough soft light to see by. The moon was very bright too, casting silver squares over the drawing table and the floor through the window. He turned his attention to the portrait of Curufin, which he had finally finished and which…wasn’t as terrible as he’d thought it would be. He set it aside and sat down with his sketchbook to decide which of his brothers he would practice on next, focusing all of his attention on that, on the paper under his fingers and the smells of paint and paper and flowers that surrounded him, and the quiet nighttime sounds outside, grounding himself in the present and not permitting his thoughts to wander, because if he did they would just take him back to where he didn’t want to be.

It worked until the moon set and he glanced out of the window to see Gil-Estel hovering near the western horizon, bright and beautiful in the way only a Silmaril could be. He looked back down at his palm where the scars were almost invisible, and sighed.

As the sky brightened with the dawn and the birds began their morning’s song, the rest of the house started to wake up. Maedhros remained where he was, taking up his pencil to draw the Queen’s Lace that grew up outside his window, just peeking over the sill in all its pale and delicate beauty. He heard the door open and close a few times, and the door to his mother’s workshop. He heard her voice, and his cousin Isilmiel’s. When he glanced up he saw Huan trot out into the garden, nose down to sniff at some interesting scent, and he saw Aechen following until he disappeared into the tall grass and clover. Celegorm and Aredhel came outside; Celegorm glanced toward Maedhros and lifted a hand in a brief wave before they passed away out of the garden.

Maglor appeared next, and came to lean through the window. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“I am. Thank you.”

“Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Come eat with me, then. Daeron is still asleep, and I think Caranthir and Lisgalen are too.”

Maedhros wasn’t going to deny Maglor anything, even if he still did not feel very hungry. He left his sketchbook and followed Maglor back to the house. Maedhros still wasn’t any good at cooking, and Maglor didn’t seem inclined to it that morning, so they found sweet rolls stuffed with currants that someone had made the day before, and a small basket of blueberries, and took them out to the river to sit by the water as they ate. “Do you want to talk about it?” Maglor asked after a while.

“Not really.” There wasn’t much to talk about—nothing had happened, the memories just decided to rear their heads, as they had not for a long time, and Maedhros was hopeful that it would be even longer before such a thing happened again. “I’d rather hear about you. How was speaking to Finarfin?”

“He’s very different. From all I’ve heard he was a good king, but I don’t think it suited him.”

“No, it was not a burden he ever wanted to pick up.”

“He told me that he and Findis fought over it, actually. And he was wounded during the War of Wrath and it still troubles him sometimes. It was…it went well. I am glad I spoke to him, and not just for the song. I’m glad to have seen and spoken to everyone, really. It’s only Aegnor that I haven’t, yet.”

“You spoke to Irissë of it?”

“Not yet about the song, no—but I’m very glad that she’s here. I haven’t yet seen Maeglin, though. Celegorm said he’s been hiding out in Grandfather’s forges.”

“Not hiding, exactly. I think he’s just…nervous about anyone showing up unexpectedly.” Maedhros brushed the crumbs from his roll off of his leg. “How did it really go in Tirion—speaking to Atar?”

“It was hard,” Maglor said after a few minutes. He turned the last bit of his own roll over in his fingers. “Speaking of Finwë was hard. He wanted to speak of his faults, which I did not expect. He isn’t the only one—Finarfin spoke a little of that too, and Turgon—but it felt like it was coming from somewhere different, in Atar.”

“Did you only speak of Finwë?” Maedhros asked.

“No. I tried to apologize for what I had said to him before, and he wouldn’t let me. He apologized instead.” Maglor leaned his head on Maedhros’ shoulder. “I think I was very wrong about what I thought happened in Mandos,” he said after a little while. “I had thought that he was returned to how he had been before it all went wrong. I thought all of you had been, too, and that’s why I didn’t want to see you at first. But of course that’s not how it works.”

“No, it’s not. But he is restored in part.”

“Healed, maybe. Restored isn’t the right word. Like we found healing in Lórien—maybe it’s not complete, and won’t ever be, because you can’t break a bowl and put it back together and expect the cracks to disappear again.”

“You just paint them gold instead,” Maedhros murmured.

“I don’t think Atar’s are ready for that. I think the glue is still trying to dry.” Maglor gazed out over the water. His expression was hard to read, his gaze far away—not unlike how he’d looked often when he’d first come back, after they’d met again by Ekkaia. It had been particularly bad in the days following the River Incident, but Maedhros was almost certain nothing nearly that frightening had happened lately—not unless he’d been doing a very good job of lying and pretending that his meeting with Fëanor had gone better than it really had. Maedhros didn’t think so, though. Maglor had once been very, very good at that sort of performance, but he had either lost that skill or abandoned it on purpose in the long years since Beleriand’s sinking. Finally, he said, “My hand hurt again when I saw him, but I don’t think it’s him anymore. The scars just hurt because—because the memories hurt, and Atar’s the ultimate source of them. He didn’t say anything wrong, or terrible…he said everything I had wished I could hear him say. I just…”

“Just what?” Maedhros asked softly. “What are you still afraid of, if it went so well?”

“I don’t think there’s anything that can rid me of—the darkest shadows that still cling to me are not ones that have their roots in Atar, even if they’ve taken on the shape of him. That’s not his fault.”

“It is in part,” Maedhros said. “He made himself into someone who could fit into whatever shadows still haunt you. But Maglor, I thought you left all that behind in Lórien.” Not everything had been left there, but Maedhros had thought that Maglor could at least put Dol Guldur behind him. Of course, he’d thought the same of himself and Thangorodrim, and that was clearly not true.

“I don’t think it can ever be fully left behind. I’m always going to have the scars. There are things I cannot yet let go of, even though I know they are lies. I don’t know how. That’s not his fault. I’m not even sure it’s mine.”

“It’s not your fault,” Maedhros said. He put his arm around Maglor, who drew his knees up so he could curl against Maedhros’ side.

“Did you see him in Tirion?” Maglor asked after a while.

“Briefly. I went to our old house, and saw him as I was leaving. I asked him what he was going to do after he tore it down.”

“What did he say?”

“That he is going to build something new. He doesn’t yet know what.”

“That’s what we’re all trying to do,” Maglor murmured. “Is that all?”

“He doesn’t remember Losgar. He said he doesn’t remember much of anything very clearly after the Darkening.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Maglor said, and that did surprise Maedhros. “He lost the most important person in his world. I don’t know how much time I lost after you died.”

“Cáno, I’m—”

“No, don’t. I just mean…it could have been weeks or months. Maybe it was years. I just don’t know. It just makes sense to me that Atar would have suffered something similar.”

“I don’t know if that makes me feel any better about Atar,” Maedhros said after a few moments. It made him feel much worse about Maglor, but they’d already talked about that so many times, though Maglor hadn’t spoken of losing time like that before. There wasn’t anything left to say, even if Maglor would let him apologize again.

“I know.”

“I suppose I know where to start when I do try to really speak to him, though. I know that I have to, I just…don’t know what I want out of it.”

“We all just want our father back,” Maglor said softly. “We’re never going to get the one we miss, but that might not be a bad thing. I can’t speak to him again until after I’ve finished my song and sung it before the Valar, but he knows that and…Amras said he understands.”

“Does he know you’re to sing before the Valar?”

“No. I hope he never finds out. Something broke in him when Finwë died, I think, and…I don’t want to see what happens if he starts to hope for his return only for the Valar to refuse again.”

Movement downstream caught Maedhros’ eye, and he turned his head to see Nerdanel walking toward them through the grass. Maglor lifted his head as she reached them. “Good morning, Ammë,” he said.

“Good morning, my loves.” Nerdanel nudged them apart and sat down between them, and both of them leaned against her shoulders when she put her arms around them. “Or is it a good morning? You seemed very serious just now.”

“We were talking about Atya,” Maglor said after a moment, his voice sounding very small and strangely young. “And the past.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Nerdanel asked, in that same gentle voice that had offered solace throughout their childhood and youth and which Maedhros hadn’t even known how much he had missed after they all left until he had come back to hear it again.

They did not tell her everything—not about the past and not about the things that still haunted each of them—but it was a relief to sit by the river and answer her gentle questions and to talk through some of the things that worried them both, and to hear the things she had to say in reply. There was much Nerdanel did not know and could not understand, but she knew them, better than anyone, and she listened, and passed no judgments and gave no advice unless they asked her for it.

After a while Maglor kissed Nerdanel and got to his feet. “I owe Grandmother and Grandfather a real visit,” he said. “I’ll see you all at dinner—tell Daeron where I am please, if you see him before I do.”

“Of course,” Nerdanel said. Maedhros had not lifted his own head from her shoulder, and she stroked his hair as they watched Maglor walk back toward the house. He still carried himself lighter than he had before he’d gone to Formenos, however unhappy the things they’d been speaking of that morning were. Maedhros would not have expected it to help, going back, but though Maglor hadn’t really said anything about what he’d seen or done there, it was as though he’d left behind some heavy burden.

“I missed you yesterday,” Nerdanel said after a little while. “Carnistir said you had a difficult night.”

“Just bad dreams,” Maedhros said. “I don’t remember them now. I wasn’t—I was just tired.”

“You sound tired now.”

“I suppose I am, a little.”

“What do you intend to do when your father comes back to Tirion?”

“I don’t know. How do you do it—speak to him, I mean, without…”

“Without it dissolving into a fight?” Nerdanel kissed the top of his head. “I believe he is genuine in his sorrow and his remorse, but that doesn’t erase what happened, because I know he means what he says now, and I also know he meant what he said then. We speak rarely, and not often in private, which makes it easier but also means we have not spoken of anything truly important in many years—which is, I think, the answer to your question. It cannot go on like this forever, but I am not yet ready for what comes next.”

There was something reassuring in that—in knowing that even Nerdanel could not quite let go of the past. “We should have gone with you when you left Tirion,” he said after a moment. “I’m sorry that we didn’t.”

“Oh, Maitimo. Thank you, but you don’t have to be. I understand why you didn’t. We were all caught up in lies and growing paranoia, and I think it might have gotten much worse much more quickly if any of you had left with me.”

“You still deserved our loyalty more than he did.”

“Not at that time. I think we both deserved your loyalty—but both of us together, and our parting put all of you in an impossible position, and for that I owe you an apology.” She sighed, and put both her arms around Maedhros, resting her cheek on his hair. “Findis likes to put all of the blame for the unrest on Melkor, but he did not steal our wills. None of us made good choices.”

“I’m not sure there were any good choices,” Maedhros said.

“I’m sure there were better ones than we made. But we can talk about what we should have done until the world ends, and it won’t change anything. All we can do is move forward and remember our mistakes so that we do not make them again. This, at least, your father understands.”