A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Sixty

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“You’re sure you don’t want to wait for Daeron?” Caranthir asked.

“He’s likely to be months yet in returning, and he can meet us in Tirion,” said Maglor as he slipped the beautiful copy of his song that Elrond had made into his bag. Elrond had finished it two weeks before, and Caranthir had thought—foolishly, it turned out—that Maglor intended to wait a little longer before delivering it. “I finally heard from Fingon that Indis is there, and I don’t know how long she intends to stay. I want to get this over with, and though I hope Daeron will return before winter, I can’t know for sure.”

“You should at least wait until he gets here before you try to get an audience before the Valar,” said Amras.

“I don’t think it will make much of a difference,” said Maglor, but he didn't look at them as he fastened his bag shut, taking more care than necessary with the straps. “It’s not like he can sing it for me, and it’s not meant for a duet.”

“That’s not the point, and you know it,” said Caranthir. The point of Celegorm going to bring Daeron back was so he would be there before Maglor went to the Valar. And now Maglor was disrupting that plan by speeding up his own while Celegorm would still think he had weeks yet, and they couldn’t actually say anything because he’d just get annoyed at their interference—or worse than annoyed, with how on edge he already was—and none of them wanted to risk another fight. Caranthir glanced at Amras, who shrugged. All they could really hope for now was that the Valar would not be in any great hurry, or that Daeron and Celegorm would arrive sooner than looked for.

Elrond saw them off, with promises to see them in Tirion that winter. Aranel the kitten remained behind with the hedgehogs, having attached herself to Erestor, who had started carrying her around tucked into his robes with just her head poking out to watch everyone and everything with lively curiosity. Lossë curled up in one of Maglor’s saddle bags, and Pídhres perched on the saddle in front of him, tail swishing. It was a short journey to Tirion; they did not stop at home, seeing the windows all shuttered and no smoke from the chimneys. Both Nerdanel and Mahtan were in Tirion, alongside nearly every other maker and crafter of the Noldor.

“So when Ammë asks about Nelyo…” Amras said as Tirion came into view.

“Atya might have already told her everything,” said Amrod. Amras made a skeptical noise. “Nelyo might have told her something. It’s not as though he’s very far—just through the Calacirya with Finarfin.”

“I don’t know about Atya, but I doubt that Maedhros has,” said Maglor. “It’s not anything he would ever want her to know—and it still isn’t our tale to tell.”

“Have you heard from him lately?” asked Amras.

“Yes. He sounds much better than he did in the spring, and has told me that he promised Celebrimbor that he’d be in Tirion this winter, in time for the babies—well, he said baby. I don’t think anyone’s told him yet it’s triplets.”

“Is that going to be awkward?” Amrod asked. “Him and Atya, I mean?”

“I don’t think so,” said Maglor, but he glanced at Caranthir as he spoke. Caranthir said nothing, and kept his own gaze on the road. It was busy, travelers streaming to and from Tirion—mostly from the west, where it sounded like a whole temporary city was being built to accommodate everyone next summer. Fingon had written to Caranthir about it, still amused at how his father was finally being dragged into the logistics. He’d also said much the same as Maglor about Maedhros—that the shock of it all was wearing off, though the horror remained and it might be a long time before he really trusted himself again.

“Well, at least there will be plenty to distract us all in the coming months,” said Amras. “There’s all the preparations for the babies, and then the feasting next summer, and whatever Atya ends up doing with our old house. I think he’s nearly ready to start tearing the walls down.”

“Have you gone back there at all?” Caranthir asked Maglor.

“No.” Maglor shook his head. “I don’t think I want to. I would rather remember it as it was.”

“You went to Formenos, wasn’t that worse?” Amrod asked.

“Formenos was never home.”

They went to Curufin and Rundamírë’s house, finding neither of them at home. The girls were, though, and falling over each other in excitement over the kitten. Caranthir managed to get their attention long enough for a kiss from each, and then he left to take his things to Lisgalen’s house down the street. They weren’t at home either, but their housemates were, both Eredhir and Lostir sporting bandages—and in Eredhir’s case, a cast on his leg. “What happened to you?” Caranthir asked.

“Turns out,” Lostir said, laughing, “when you get too many smiths in a forge, accidents happen. Also, forges are hot!” He waved his own bandaged hand. They had both been part of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain in Eregion, and Caranthir had heard many stories about much worse mishaps told just as cheerfully. “Lisgalen knows you’re to arrive today; they’ll be home by supper time, if they can’t get away before.”

“Thanks.”

“If you two wanted to run off and get married, now would be the time to do it!” Eredhir called after Caranthir as he headed upstairs. “No one would notice!”

“Noted,” Caranthir replied over his shoulder. It was tempting—Caranthir would be happy to get away from the bustle and chaos—but Lisgalen would never agree; they liked the work and the excitement. Besides, their plans were already laid, and it would be more fun in the end to disappear just before the feast, and to arrive there properly married and to just wait for everyone to notice.

He’d also told himself that he’d talk to his father before they ran off. That had been his plan when he’d gone to Imloth Ningloron, but then—well, everything had gone wrong, and Caranthir hadn’t thought he could do it without losing his temper and trying to hit either Fëanor or the nearest wall, neither of which was a good idea. Having had time to think about it, he could acknowledge that he wasn’t even angry at Fëanor about it, not really. It didn’t matter what either Maglor or Celegorm said—Caranthir had lived with Maedhros for decades while the rest of them came and went, and though he hated it when people tried to pry into his own thoughts, he’d still spent those years trying to find a way to help. Or, failing that, to at least find out what the root of all Maedhros’ pain was so that he could tell someone else who could help. Maedhros was just too good at shutting himself away, and Caranthir had been too afraid to push as hard as he should have or to snoop through his sketchbooks more than once in a very great while, because even living together it had been hard to know how to talk to each other, and he’d been worried that saying the wrong thing would make everything worse. And in those days he hadn’t had any of his other brothers to ask for help, either. So he’d mostly said nothing. And now here they were.

Lisgalen came home an hour later covered in sweat and smelling like soot and smoke, pink-cheeked and gorgeous, and laughed when Caranthir crowded them back against the door as soon as they stepped into the bedroom. “I missed you too,” they said between kisses. “Can’t I get cleaned—”

“Absolutely not.” Caranthir was already pulling at their clothes, and then he found himself abruptly picked up and tossed back onto the bed, startled into laughter as Lisgalen joined him.

Later, after Lisgalen finally got to clean up and change into fresh clothes, the two of them lingered in the bedroom, listening to the faint noises of dinner being prepared downstairs. Ambarussa had arrived and taken charge of the kitchen, from what Caranthir could hear. Eredhir and Lostir weren’t in any condition to argue, even if they were inclined to. “So, I heard from Rundamírë that things went sideways in Imloth Ningloron,” Lisgalen said, sitting cross-legged on the bed as they fastened their earrings, tiny golden hoops all up the edges of their ears that caught the westering sun through the windows and gleamed. “Did you get to talk to your father like you planned?”

“No.” Caranthir lay sideways across the bed; he’d gotten up to dress but didn’t really want to get up again. “I don’t think there’s time before dinner to tell you everything, and for you to tell me I’m being stupid about it.”

“Do you need me to tell you you’re being stupid?”

“Probably.”

“All right, tell me about it after dinner then. For what it’s worth, though, I was working with both Celebrimbor and Fëanor yesterday. It was fun—I learned a lot, and he was very kind to me.”

“Do you work with him a lot?”

“Once in a while. We’re all working together on one thing or another these days. Mostly decorations and things—the whole place out there is going to sparkle when all is said and done.” Lisgalen finished with their earrings, and leaned over to kiss Caranthir. “I also don’t think you’re being stupid. Besides, I heard most of the details from Rundamírë, and some more from Celebrimbor.”

“I said I’d talk to him this spring, and now it’s summer, and—”

“—and it’s fine. The sky won’t fall down because the plan changed, and it’s not like anyone could have foreseen what actually happened. Now, our plans can’t change—I will be very upset if another crisis pops up just before we run off to get married. I’d ask you to let your brothers know, but that would spoil the surprise.”

“If another crisis pops up, someone is going to get punched,” Caranthir said. “Whether I do it or Celegorm does remains to be seen.”

“Please don’t punch anyone.”

“I make no promises.”

“At least promise me you won’t punch your father when you go talk to him.”

“I think I can promise that.”

It was still almost a week before Caranthir got up the nerve to go looking for Fëanor. He picked a day when Curufin said Fëanor would be at their old house—no one else would be there, and it would be quiet. Caranthir had seen the old house before, with the overgrown gardens and crumbling walls. It was sad, but only the result of time’s passage. Caranthir knew what real devastation looked like, knew that awful grief of losing a beloved home to fire and slaughter—the old house had once been home, but it was a place they would have all left eventually, and he didn’t miss it the same way some of his brothers did, or their parents. He waited until the afternoon, when no one else was around to see him slip away. No one on the street paid him any attention, just one more anonymous face among so many. The noise and the crowds were still too much, but Caranthir did appreciate how easy it was to pass through them unnoticed.

Finally, he came to the neighborhood where he had been born and where they’d all grown up. It was less crowded, with bigger houses and bigger gardens to go with them, often fenced in or walled. Of course it was all different from when Caranthir had been young—but still familiar enough that it was a little like stepping back in time. He kept his hands in his pockets and his head down until he came to the opening in the wall where the gates to their own house had once stood. Inside the earth of the gardens and lawn was bare and churned up, though a few stubborn weeds were growing here and there—hardy dandelions and a few thistles. The house was still standing, empty and slowly crumbling—a strange thing to see in the middle of Tirion, or anywhere in Valinor really, where everyone went to great lengths to prevent precisely this kind of decay. Caranthir looked up at it, finding his own old bedroom windows, empty and dark, and thought it rather fitting that it was their house to succumb to time like this.

He didn’t go in, but wandered around the side, and found the workshops already torn down, even his father’s forge. There was something very odd about that, seeing the place where the Silmarils had been made reduced to a shapeless pile of stones and timber and cracked roof tile. Caranthir stared at it for a few minutes, trying to sort out how he felt and failing. It was also the forge where he’d learned to work metal and failed to learn gemcraft. Where he’d watched his father work for hours at a time, fascinated by the way it all seemed to come together so effortlessly. He still liked watching people make things—particularly those who knew exactly what they were doing and who lived and breathed for their craft, and especially if it was a craft that Caranthir didn’t fully understand. It was like listening to Maglor sing—or like listening to him write the music, changing little notes here and there until it was exactly what he wanted it to be even though to Caranthir’s ears it sounded beautiful from the start. He didn’t have to understand what was happening to see the magic and the beauty—and nothing had been more magical than watching Fëanor at work, at the height of his accomplishments.

Fëanor wasn’t by the workshops, though. Caranthir found him having just come outside to sit on the front steps, dusty and sighing, when he made his way back around the house. Caranthir stopped before Fëanor noticed him, took a deep breath, and then went to sit beside him. Fëanor started, but Caranthir kept his gaze on the stones at their feet. “Moryo?” Fëanor ventured after a minute.

Caranthir still didn’t look at him as he spoke. “I need you to know that I’m not ever going to be what you wanted me to be. I’m never going to be good at anything, not the way you think I should be, and I don’t want to be—and I’m done trying. And—and I need you to know that I don’t forgive you. Your stupid Oath turned us into monsters and then got us all killed—and I don’t care what anyone else says, it’s still your fault Nelyo remembers what he does because if it weren’t for the Oath he never would’ve gone to treat with Morgoth the way he did, and never would’ve gotten captured. He’s never hated you for it, either. He still loves you, even after everything, and that’s why it hurts him so much.” His chest felt tight and his face felt hot; he curled his fingers around the step underneath him until his hands ached. “He can’t hate you, and Tyelko thinks he hates you but he doesn’t, not really, but I do.”

It felt like a very dangerous thing to say to his father—to say to Fëanor, who had gotten so angry over far less. Though it wasn’t like it mattered, coming from Caranthir. There wasn’t anything to ruin, nothing to break. There was no favor to lose, because Caranthir had never had it. If his father had ever loved him it was only the sort of love that any parent naturally had for a child, nothing particularly special—because Caranthir was his, not because of who he was. It was also a lie, though it hadn’t felt like one until he spoke it out loud, the taste of it like bile on his lips.

Fëanor should have said something—he always had something to say—but he didn’t. He just sat very still, as though waiting for Caranthir to finish saying what he had to say. Caranthir took another breath and said, “But I love all of them more than I hate you. So I’m not—I’m not going to try to keep avoiding you and I can be polite, but I don’t—I’m going to get married and you aren’t invited, and I don’t care if you approve or not. I don’t need your blessing. But you don’t get to take any of that out on Lisgalen like you did on Daeron, or I’ll—”

“That was a misunderstanding that’s since been corrected,” Fëanor said. “I’m not angry, Carnistir—”

“You’re always angry.”

After a pause, Fëanor said, “Well, yes. But I’m not angry at any of you—and you least of all, Carnistir. And—maybe you don’t need or my blessing, but you have it.”

Caranthir would not have admitted under any torture that he wanted his father’s blessing, and he was not going to start crying now that he had it. To keep that from happening, and because now he was curious, he asked, “Who are you angry at?”

Fëanor stretched out his legs, scuffing his heels over the dusty flagstones and bumping a dandelion that had grown up through a crack and gone to seed. They both watched the seeds float away, caught on the breeze. “Myself,” Fëanor said finally, “when I stop to think about it too long. So mostly I try not to think about it.”

“How’s that working?”

“Depends on the day.” Fëanor sighed, shoulders slumping—it was a posture of defeat, and Caranthir didn’t think he liked seeing it in his father. He turned his gaze back to the dandelions at their feet. After a few minutes Fëanor said, “When I lost my father, I forgot that I was one, too. Or at least I forgot what it meant. I forgot what just about everything meant, except vengeance and what I thought was justice. I don’t know how to make up for any of it, how to fix any of the things that I broke. These days I doubt whether I ever really understood what fatherhood meant—well, obviously I didn’t, since it is clear I failed you in ways that I have not even been aware of. And—Carnistir, I’m sorry. Whatever I made you believe I wanted before—all I want now is for you to be safe and to be happy. You’re my son, and I love you—and if I made you think that love was ever conditional, I am so, so sorry.”

“Of course it was conditional,” Caranthir said. “What you thought of us was more important than anything—you made sure of that. All your expectations—because we were your sons we had to be the best at whatever we chose to do, but of course it had to be something you approved if. And—the way you only had to glare at Maedhros to make him stop talking to Fingon, the way you shouted at Celegorm until even he gave in and abandoned Oromë. That’s why we all went to Formenos instead of following Ammë like we should have, why I never had the nerve to tell you that what I really wanted was to go learn everything Yavanna could teach me. It’s why we swore that stupid Oath, and what we all died for. The best thing you ever gave us was each other, but we even lost that in the end—we’d all turned on each other by the time we came to Doriath, because we all hated ourselves and we were starting to hate one another because none of us knew how to break the Oath and we were too scared even to try. And that’s why Maglor was scared to come see any of us when he first came back here, because he’d thrown the Silmaril away and he thought we’d be angry at him for it. You did that. To all of us.” He got to his feet, feeling that burn behind his eyes that he’d promised himself he wouldn’t ever let his father see.

“Moryo—”

“I still don’t forgive you. For any of it.” His voice broke, and in seconds Fëanor was on his feet and folding Caranthir into his arms, and Caranthir did not start crying, but he couldn't find it in himself to pull away either. He smelled like the forge—because some things never changed—and his arms were warm and strong. Caranthir felt suddenly very very young and very tired, and all he wanted was to be picked up and carried home like when he’d been a child, back when home meant light and laughter and parents that loved each other and loved all of them—because whatever had happened later, Caranthir could admit to himself that Fëanor’s love had not always been conditional. He had always had high expectations but when they’d been young they hadn’t seemed so heavy—they’d thought they’d have all the time in the world to try to live up to them. When they had been young, those expectations had come with encouragement, with confidence and pride—the expectation not that they had to do great things but that of course they would. It was just that that had all changed, either so quickly or so slowly that none of them had noticed until it was too late, and he didn’t know how to forgive it, or anything else that had come afterward.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Fëanor said. His hand rested on the back of Caranthir’s head, and he pressed a kiss to his temple. Caranthir wondered, suddenly, when he’d gotten to be as tall as his father. He didn’t remember—in his memory Fëanor always loomed so large, always someone you had to look up to see. “I know I don’t deserve it. But I do love you, Morifinwë. I love you so much. And I’ve seen your gardens, and they’re beautiful—as Thargelion was beautiful, the fairest of all your realms in Beleriand—and I have spoken to Lisgalen, and they are wonderful. You are wonderful, in the way you care so deeply and the way you make sure others are cared for. You don’t need my approval, but I am so proud of you.”

Caranthir squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed past the lump in his throat. Maglor had warned him, hadn’t he, that it wouldn’t go the way he expected? He should have listened. Unable to continue this line of conversation he said, knowing it was abrupt but not caring, “What are you going to do after you’ve torn it down?”

“I don’t know,” Fëanor said after a moment. He let go and stepped back, and turned to look at the doorway—giving Caranthir a moment to rub his sleeve over his eyes. “I don’t want to build another house, since there’s no one who would live in it, but I also do not want to give up this bit of land to someone else.”

A handful of anemones grew near the gateway, a bright splash of red and purple against the pale grey stones of the wall. “You could plant a garden,” Caranthir heard himself say.

To his surprise, Fëanor laughed—though not very loud, and sounding more regretful than amused. He turned back to face Caranthir, folding his arms over his chest. “I’ve killed every plant I ever attempted to tend, even the hardiest ones that I was promised hardly needed any attention at all. A garden would only wither under my care.”

That was the most shocking thing Caranthir thought he’d heard yet—to hear his father admit there was something he was not good at, or that he couldn’t do. “You haven’t killed these,” Caranthir said, nudging another dandelion growing up through the cracks in the flagstones by his foot. Overhead the sky was starting to darken as afternoon slowly faded toward evening. Before too long the stars would be out, and Caranthir would be expected at Curufin’s house for dinner, where his nieces would be full of chatter about their kitten, and Rundamírë would talk about how the nursery was coming along, and Maglor would be gently teasing Curufin about how much he worried about everything, when he and Curufin weren’t both teasing Caranthir and Lisgalen about their long-delayed wedding. Perhaps Nerdanel would join them, if she wasn’t engaged elsewhere.

It was easy, suddenly, to acknowledge to himself that Fëanor should be included in that picture. Caranthir didn’t think he could choke out an invitation, though.

Fëanor’s smile was small and crooked. “A fine garden that would make, all dandelions and thistles and whatever crab apples whose roots I’ve missed. I—” He suddenly looked past Caranthir, smile disappearing. “Curvo? What’s wrong?”

Caranthir turned to find Curufin in the gateway, out of breath and looking worried. “Is Maglor here?” he asked.

So much for no new crises.

“No,” said Fëanor. “I have not seen him at all in several days.”

“Moryo, have you seen—?”

“No,” said Caranthir. “What happened?”

“He hasn’t come home,” said Curufin. “He was supposed to come back to spend the afternoon with the girls, but he didn’t—and he sent no note, and Fingon says he was fine at lunch. Ambarussa are also out looking for him, but we’re running out of places to try.”

“Curvo, it’s all right.” Fëanor went to put a hand on Curufin’s shoulder. “He won’t come to any harm—”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Curufin said. “I’m worried about what happened to make him disappear.”

“Curufin,” Caranthir said, and hesitated a second before asking in the language of the Easterlings that Maedhros had used to speak to him when Fëanor had first returned and they hadn’t wanted to be understood, “Do you think something has happened like at the river?” Maglor had not had nightmares since the spring, at least that he would admit to, but those dark memories had all been dredged up then and would still be lurking far closer to the surface than they had since his return from Lórien—not to mention how on edge he was about the song and the uncertainty of when or if he would be summoned by the Valar. Caranthir couldn’t think of anything that would throw Maglor into waking nightmares, like losing his voice had by the river in the west, but he also couldn’t think of any other reason he would disappear, whether he was hiding on purpose or not.

Curufin was clearly thinking the same. “What else could it be?”