A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Six

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Maedhros would have been perfectly happy to avoid Galadriel as he had in all the years since he’d returned from Mandos and she from Middle-earth, but she came looking for him. “Are you still afraid of me, Cousin?” she asked, smiling to soften the question and turn it into something teasing.

“Should I not be?” Maedhros replied in the same tone.

“Certainly not now,” Galadriel said.

They stood in the large dining hall, before one of the many tapestries that lined the walls. Maedhros had been looking again at it, at the depiction of Imladris as seen from the top of the path that led into it, down an almost-sheer cliff face. It was a beautiful tapestry, and a beautiful place. He had seen it in his own mind’s eye, brought to vivid life by Maglor’s songs, and could imagine the scent of pine and the sound of water flowing all around—in that respect much like Imloth Ningloron. Sometimes Maedhros wished he had gotten the chance to pass over the Ered Luin into Eriador and the lands even farther east, to see what lay beyond Beleriand. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if they had thought to try for it, if he and Maglor had retreated over the mountains either with the twins or after they had parted, the two of them just vanishing from all the histories, wandering as Maglor had later wandered—but together, in freedom instead of despair. A useless thing to think of now, especially since the Oath would have never allowed it. He felt a pang of envy—very small, but still there—that Galadriel had gotten to do just that, even as he was glad of it for her sake.

He and Galadriel had never really been friends. He was the eldest of Finwë’s grandchildren and she the youngest, and by the time she had reached adulthood the discord in their house and among their people had been so deeply rooted that there had been no hope, as Maedhros had thought then, of ever being rid of it. Even he and Fingon had ended their long friendship in bitter anger, both of them too loyal to their fathers to keep trying for peace. It had hurt and Maedhros had regretted it deeply afterward, but then—well. It had taken a mountainside and a prayer answered beyond all expectation for that rift to begin to close. And by the time he had recovered enough to give much thought to anything else, Galadriel had vanished into Doriath, and he had seen her only once more in Beleriand, at the Mereth Aderthad, where they had not spoken beyond cool greetings. Maedhros had spent much more time with Finrod, both then and since his return to life.

After the War of Wrath Galadriel had remained in Middle-earth, and like Gil-galad, like Elrond, she had thrived, surpassing all their family and all their people in wisdom and in power. Only Elrond, with the blood of Melian in his veins, could rival her. Maedhros had heard the tales of how Galadriel had fought for so many years against Sauron, a never ending battle of wills and of minds. He could not imagine even attempting such a thing, let alone emerging victorious.

“Thank you—for what you did for Maglor,” Maedhros said quietly, after the silence had stretched between them. Elladan and Elrohir, so shockingly alike to their father and uncle in face that even forewarned Maedhros had not been able to stop himself from staring upon their first meeting, had brought Maglor out of the darkness of Dol Guldur, but it had been Galadriel who offered him shelter and safety and a chance to begin to heal. It was her golden realm of mallorn trees where he had rediscovered light and beauty, still within his grasp if he only reached for it.

“There is no need for thanks. He is my cousin—the only one I had left on those shores. If anything I should apologize for not acting sooner, but Maglor has already told me not to.” Galadriel’s smile was fond and a little rueful. “I’m glad to see that Lórien helped you as much as it helped him, Maedhros. Will you come now more often to Tirion and among our people again?”

“Maybe,” Maedhros said. He had not given it much thought, and did not find the idea very appealing. He had once been his father’s heir, the king’s eldest grandson, a shining prince able to smile and speak with anyone, even able to—for a while—do something to hold their people together alongside Finrod and Fingon. He was older now, and knew better the weight of power—and the relief that came from giving it up. Maedhros did not think he wanted to return to anything like he had once been. Since his return from Mandos, going to Tirion had been almost impossible, leaving him feeling like he couldn’t breathe until he escaped it again back to the quiet of his mother’s house and his grandmother’s gardens. He thought it would be different now, but he would never love it. He would never feel at home there again.

Certainly not while his father remained there.

“I would like for us to be friends,” Galadriel said quietly after a few moments. “I do not wish to be someone you fear.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Galadriel,” Maedhros said. He offered her a smile, as one of his brothers called from across the room. “I’m sorry friendship wasn’t possible before.”

“I am, too.” She reached for his hand, squeezing it briefly before going to speak to Celebrían.

Maedhros joined Caranthir and Ambarussa as they went outside. Aechen appeared to follow at Maedhros’ heels down the path until he stopped to scoop him up. “You’re going to be as bad as Maglor soon, just covered in small animals,” said Caranthir, watching Aechen settle into the crook of Maedhros’ arm.

“I hope not,” said Maedhros.

“Were you making friends with Galadriel this morning?” Amras asked.

“She was asking if I intend to go to Tirion more often, now.”

“Do you?”

“Probably. Sometimes—to visit Curvo and Fingon, at least. Are you gong to live there, Moryo, after you and Lisgalen marry?”

Caranthir shrugged. “We haven’t decided yet. We might split the difference between Ammë’s house and Tirion and build something in between, but we’re both comfortable where we are, so we might just go back and forth for a while before deciding. There’s no real reason to hurry.”

“Does Atya know about Lisgalen?” Amrod asked.

“I don’t know. Probably—I told Curvo he doesn’t need to keep any secrets for me, but Lisgalen hasn’t ever mentioned meeting him.”

“Maybe he learned his lesson after Daeron,” Amras said.

Caranthir made a skeptical face, wrinkling his nose a little. “Maybe.”

“What did Daeron do?” Maedhros asked. He was sure that Maglor and Daeron had spoken of it privately, but all anyone else had said was that Daeron and Fëanor did not get along. It wasn’t a surprise, exactly, but Maedhros couldn’t think of any real reason for it. Daeron was as impressive as Fëanor himself, and a loremaster—surely they had many interests that aligned, more reasons to get along than not.

“You’ll have to ask Daeron,” said Amras.

“I was in Tirion when he and Atar met, and he came to Curvo’s house after they had words,” Caranthir said, “but he didn’t tell us exactly what he said. I don’t think Atar really liked him even from the start, though. You saw how he looked at him and Cáno when we met on the road.”

Maedhros had noticed, he supposed, but he had been more concerned with trying not to show how badly his own hand hurt as their father had approached. “It’s because of Cáno that Atar dislikes Daeron?” All three of his brothers shrugged. It seemed Fëanor had not been any more forthcoming than Daeron had, or that Curufin had not shared in his own turn. Maedhros sighed.

“It’s not a problem for you to try to fix, you know,” Amrod said. “Daeron can obviously handle both himself and our father. Easily.”

“Atar could make things difficult for Daeron, if he wanted,” Maedhros said.

“Not unless he wants to destroy the Noldor’s relationship with the Sindar,” said Caranthir, “and whatever our own feelings, it must be acknowledged: he is going about things differently this time.”

“That’s true,” Amras said. “Daeron is a favorite of Elu Thingol, and I do think Atar really values Thingol’s friendship, because he was such great friends with Grandfather Finwë.”

“So was Olwë,” Maedhros said.

“Everyone is thinking clearly, now,” said Amrod. “Everyone wants to move forward in peace. Even Atar—I know we all still feel…I don’t know how to name my feelings, but we must be fair and realize that he is as committed as we are, as Caranthir said, to doing things differently, to being better. Maybe it makes no difference to us, but it makes a difference for the world, and for everyone else in it.”

“Our feelings are for our father as his sons, not as the Eldar for Finwë’s eldest son and brother of the King,” said Amras. “I don’t know how Fingolfin can manage to be friends with him now, but for everyone else it isn’t nearly so personal.”

“Fingolfin holds the power, now,” Caranthir said quietly. “He can approach our father from a place of strength—and, well, Finwë isn’t here. I think his absence is what’s really brought them together.”

Maedhros missed Finwë, suddenly and painfully. He hadn’t thought of his grandfather in a long time, that grief buried under so many others. It was one he had not spoken of with Nienna in Lórien. He hadn’t thought to, and now he regretted it. After so many other battles, so many other losses, so many dead—the finding of Finwë’s body remained the worst, because it had been the first—the moment when his entire world had come crashing down, shattered like the doors of Formenos. Aloud he said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter why—only that they are getting along, and not falling back into old feuds. As long as we are not asked to return to Tirion as princes ourselves, I don’t much care what goes on at Fingolfin’s court. I don’t even really care what Atar thinks of Daeron, except that it might make things harder for Maglor.”

“I don’t mind going back to court sometimes,” said Amrod. “But every time someone addresses me with a title it feels strange.”

“The less time I have to spend anywhere near the palace, the better,” Caranthir said.

“Even the gardens?” Amras asked.

“I have my own garden.”

Celebrían found them then, and called for help with the peaches. There was more fruit coming out of her orchards than she knew what to do with, and so she intended to send as many baskets as they could fill to Tirion and Alqualondë. Amras seized Maedhros’ hand to pull him away down the path to the orchard. He and Amrod kept doing that—grabbing Maedhros to drag him along as though they expected him to resist—because before he had gone to Lórien he would have.

Picking peaches in Imloth Ningloron reminded him of the plum harvests in the orchard by their grandparents’ house. When they were young Maedhros used to lift Ambarussa onto his shoulders so they could reach higher than anyone else. Now he found himself hoisting Calissë up instead, so she could pick the fruit from the highest branches to hand down to Caranthir. It was a bright day, with white clouds drifting lazily across the clear blue sky. Birds sang in the trees alongside the elves, who sang songs of bountiful harvests and sweet-tasting fruits, of strong roots and boughs. When Maedhros put his right wrist against the tree to steady himself he could feel the life humming within it, could catch a few of its slow and satisfied thoughts as it shed its ripe fruits into their hands, pleased with the songs and with the soil and sun and the breeze passing through its leaves.

It was a good day, a joyful day, but once summoned there Maedhros found that Finwë was never far from his thoughts. He thought of the plum orchard, but also of the cherry trees that Finwë had planted, and how Finwë had once lifted Maedhros onto his own shoulders to pick them by the handful, long long ago when Maedhros had been small enough to be lifted, and to feel utterly safe with his grandfather’s strong hands resting on his knees, the same way that he now held Calissë steady. When he heard laughter on the way back to the house with baskets full of fruit he thought for a moment it was Finwë, but it was only Elrohir. Elrond and his children all took after Elwing’s line, but in their laughter and sometimes in the way that Elrond spoke or gestured, Maedhros saw small glimpses of Finwë, or of Fingolfin.

He slipped away to his room after dinner. It was near Maglor’s, cozy and airy at once, lit with soft yellow lamps, and with wide windows and soft rugs scattered across the floor. The rugs and the hangings on the walls were all soft greens and browns. He had found two sketchbooks and a set of pencils waiting for him on the desk, and the bookshelf held a small collection of books that he might have chosen for himself off of Elrond’s library shelves. He still did not know how Elrond had known—or Celebrían—unless they had consulted with his brothers or with Fingon, and that felt equally strange, to imagine Elrond asking such questions about him with such an aim. Maedhros ran his fingers along the spines of the books, and picked one more or less at random before going to the window seat. Twilight had settled like a soft purple blanket over the valley, and the stars were coming out, glimmering on the water. Maedhros could hear singing somewhere out by the largest fishpond, where Elrond had found him the morning after their arrival.

Finwë would have loved Elrond and his family—would have loved this valley and the home they had made there. Maedhros blinked back the building heat behind his eyes and tried to turn his attention to the book on his lap, but rustling in the ivy that climbed up the wall outside heralded Celegorm’s arrival. “This,” Maedhros said, as Celegorm swung himself through the window to join him on the cushions, “is why Curufin thinks you’re a bad influence.”

“I can’t be a bad influence if they don’t see me,” Celegorm said. He fell back against Maedhros’ chest. “What’s troubling you? I thought Lórien would cure you of brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” Maedhros said. He had a feeling he was going to be repeating that quite a lot in the future. Celegorm tilted his head back to frown at him. “I’m just—Moryo mentioned Finwë earlier, and I’ve been thinking about him. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Celegorm sighed. Maedhros set the book aside and settled his arms around Celegorm. “I miss him too,” Celegorm said quietly after a little while. “You know Curvo won’t eat cherries?”

“I don’t either,” Maedhros said. They tasted like plums did—like childhood and the warmth of Laurelin and the sort of joy they could never know again. There would be joy in the future—there was joy in the present—but it was of a different kind, something found again in spite of grief, rather than lived in ignorance of it. It felt now like something they had to hold onto as hard as they could lest it slip away again, where before they had been able just to be joyful, careless and fearless and free.

A knock at the door heralded Maglor, carrying his small harp. It was made of driftwood, and Maedhros thought Maglor brought it with him traveling for more reasons than just music—the wood had come from Middle-earth, picked up from far flung, desolate strands that no one else had ever visited except him. “Nelyo, is something the matter?” he asked as he shut the door behind him.

“We were just talking of Finwë,” Celegorm said.

Maglor’s worried frown softened, and he came to join them. “I was thinking of him today, too.”

“How bad was it really?” Celegorm asked. “When you found him.” He stretched out his legs over Maglor’s lap.

Maedhros looked at Maglor, who met his gaze only briefly before turning away. “Bad,” Maedhros said quietly. “He had fought, but…” Morgoth had not put forth his power yet into Angband or into the very earth as he had done later in Middle-earth. He had not yet been bound to only one form, not yet burned by the Silmarils. Fingolfin had only managed to wound him, later. Finwë had stood no chance—and yet he had not fled. The lamps had all been lit, though. Maedhros remembered that vividly, how all of Formenos, all the world, had lain in shadow but for the entryway where Finwë had made his last stand, speaking or singing words of light against the dark—and they had worked, had chased it back, at least a little. It had made it all the worse to find him, broken and unmoving, eyes still open and staring unseeing and empty toward the ceiling.

Maglor had been just behind Maedhros as they entered through the broken doorway, so Maedhros hadn’t been able to stop him seeing. They’d both, though, kept the sight from their brothers. It felt like the last thing Maedhros had really succeeded in protecting them from, even as he suddenly learned there were things from which they needed protection. They’d even managed to keep Fëanor from seeing the body later, though he’d been almost mad with grief and it had taken all three of them—Maedhros, Maglor, and Celegorm—to hold him back. Maedhros wasn’t sure Fëanor had ever forgiven them for it.

“Don’t ask us more, Tyelko,” Maglor said. “I know we all saw terrible things afterward, that on the face of it were so much worse, but—it was different.” Finwë had loomed so large in their lives, a bright and kind and warm presence—and to see him so utterly broken…Maedhros felt like it had broken something in them, too.

“We’ve talked about this,” Celegorm said. “You shouldn’t have to carry—”

“It isn’t that,” Maedhros said.

“We cannot speak of it,” Maglor said. “There aren’t any words, even if we wished to share it with you. There aren’t even…I was never even able to write a lament for him. Findis did, but I never could.”

“When did Findis write anything?” Celegorm asked, sounding startled.

“I don’t know. Finarfin took the song with him over the Sea, and shared it with Elrond. Elrond wrote it down for me.” Maglor kept his gaze on the window. “Maybe it’s time I tried again.”

The door opened again and Náriel darted in, and clambered up onto Celegorm’s lap, giggling. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” Maedhros asked her.

“No!”

“Did your atya say you could stay up past your bedtime?” Maglor asked, smiling.

“Yes!”

“Well, that’s all right then,” said Maglor.

Celegorm laughed. “What happened to being a good influence?”

“What’s the point of being an uncle if I can’t indulge my beloved niece’s every whim?” Maglor asked. He picked up his harp. “Náriel, what song shall I sing for you?”

“The one about Uncle Nelyo losing his hand,” Náriel said after a few moments of thought.

“Náriel,” Celegorm protested, sounding so like Curufin that Maedhros couldn’t stop himself laughing, ducking his head so he could press his face into Celegorm’s braids to try to stifle it.

“I don’t think your atya would be very happy with me if I sang one of those,” Maglor said. He put his fingers to the harp strings and played a few chords. “I do have a song about Tyelko and Huan from when we were all very young—”

“Oh no, not that one!” Celegorm cried.

“It’s almost as exciting as Nelyo’s rescue by Findekáno,” said Maglor with a grin. “Would that do for you, Náriel?”

“Oh, yes!” Náriel said. Maedhros put his hand over Celegorm’s mouth to stifle any further protests as Maglor began to play a song he had written very long ago, long before they knew anything about trouble or discord or unrest, about an unfortunate incident involving a lake and a very large fish and an even larger rambunctious puppy. By the end of it they were all laughing, but Náriel was also fighting back yawns. Maglor adjusted his fingers just slightly and began to play another song, moving seamlessly from the silly story put to verse just to tease Celegorm to a lullaby, though not one Maedhros had heard before. His voice gentled and softened, and it did not take long before Náriel’s eyes grew too heavy to keep open, and she slumped against Celegorm’s chest. Maedhros felt himself yawning, too, before Maglor let the last notes fade away into the quiet room.

“I’ll take her to bed,” Celegorm said, getting up carefully. He leaned down to kiss Maedhros’ forehead. “No more brooding tonight, Maedhros.”

“I wasn’t brooding to begin with,” Maedhros said. “Goodnight, Tyelko.”

“Goodnight.”

Maglor lingered as the door shut behind Celegorm, and started to play again, quiet and wordless songs to fill the silence. As he played they both watched the night deepen outside. Clouds passed overhead, gathering slowly, promising rain in the early hours of the morning. Slowly, the whole house quieted, lights going out one by one, or dimming and softening. The sound of flowing water wove in between the notes of Maglor’s harp. Maedhros sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Will you really try to write something for Finwë?” he asked after a while.

“Maybe. But maybe it’s been too long, and there will be no one now who wishes to hear it.”

“I want to hear it.”

“Then I’ll try.”

They stayed up most of the night, talking here and there, mostly just enjoying one another’s company. Eventually, Maglor asked, “You really aren’t bothered by Náriel’s curiosity about your hand?”

“No.” Maedhros shook his head, and laughed a little. “I wouldn’t have been bothered before, either—not by that.”

“The questions will change, you know, as they grow older and learn more,” Maglor said.

“Yes, I know. It still won’t trouble me. My hand is the one thing that has never troubled me as much as everyone thinks.”

“I know. Or I did know, before.” Maglor leaned back, letting the last notes he’d played fade away as he rested his hands atop the harp’s frame. “I just didn’t know if that had changed, since…”

“It hasn’t. It’s…I’m glad that I came back without it. It was never like any of the other scars I had, and…now that I don’t have them, it’s the one thing that really shows that I am not the same. No one can look at me and deceive themselves that they see who I was before.” Maedhros had spoken of scars once to Curufin, in the early days after Maglor’s return after his reunion with their mother’s family had not gone as well as anyone had hoped. The scars made it harder in many ways, but returning in a body devoid of them was a difficult thing of its own.

“I’ve often wished that I did not have such visible scars,” Maglor said without taking his gaze from the window, “and I still do not like the way people stare, when they realize what they mean.” The most visible scar he had was on his cheek, just above his cheekbone. Up close one could see the smaller scars around his mouth, marks left by a needle and thread—a tale of horror in themselves. There were others too—marks on his wrists, and even worse ones more easily hidden by his clothing. “But you’re right, it would be harder to meet those who knew me long ago and have them expect me to be unchanged, just because I might look the same.”

“I also wish you didn’t have the scars,” Maedhros said, “but that’s because I wish such things had never happened to you in the first place. You never did tell me what took you so close to danger to begin with.”

“I thought to follow the Anduin north—and I thought it would be safe enough if I kept away from the wood and close to the river. There was no particular reason. I did finish that journey later though, after Elrond left and the world was made safe.” Maglor smiled at him. “I went all the way to its headwaters in the Ered Mithrim.”

“You know that I don’t know where those are,” Maedhros said.

“Elrond has maps. I’ll show you sometime.” Maglor rose, and leaned down to kiss Maedhros in the same place on his forehead that Celegorm had. “I’m for bed. Goodnight, Nelyo.”

“Goodnight.” Once Maglor had gone, Maedhros made his own way to bed, falling into the pillows with a sigh. When he slept he dreamed of Finwë, but not of the end—instead he dreamed of the cherry trees behind the palace, almost glowing in the golden light of Laurelin, and of his grandfather’s deep laughter and strong arms lifting him up to pick the highest fruits.