A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Seven

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Maglor’s dreams were quiet, but he woke in the early morning still thinking of Finwë. Daeron still slept, so Maglor slipped quietly out of bed and dressed. Aegthil trundled out of the cushioned basket at the foot of the bed where the hedgehogs slept in a pile, and followed him outside, all the way to the woodworking shop. It was a large building, with wide windows and skylights set into the roof, though the day was cloudy and a misty rain was falling, so the light was pale and cool. Maglor finger combed the raindrops out of his hair and braided it firmly back before he went to look through the wood for one that spoke to him. He didn’t know what he wanted to make, only that he wanted the smell of sawdust and the feeling of wood rather than clay taking shape under his fingers.

Finwë, he remembered, had made a cradle for every one of his children and grandchildren before they were born. He’d had to scramble to make a second, larger one after Ambarussa surprised them all, because they cried and cried if ever separated. He had made toys, too, and the first instruments that Maglor had learned to play, and many clever little figures of animals and people. They had been delightful, and Maglor had once had a shelf in his room filled with wooden horses that Finwë had made for him in all different sizes and poses. He had left them still there when they’d gone to Formenos, never imagining that he would never see them again, never receive another such gift to add to the collection. All of them now were probably broken, piled into a box somewhere, or else rotted away along with the rest of the house as time and nature took its course. 

His hands found a piece of cherry wood that felt right, and he went to pick the tools he would need. There was a set of woodworking tools—and one for clay—in his bedroom, tucked away in a drawer at the bottom of his desk. Fëanor had made them, after their ill-fated meeting and after Maglor had fled the valley with Huan and Pídhres. He’d found them awaiting him when he’d returned, alongside a letter. The letter had spoken of deep regrets, and of love. He didn’t disbelieve the letter, but he couldn’t fully believe it either, even if Fëanor did seem to be keeping his promises—to leave them all be, to let them choose whether to come to him, even as the years marched on and surely there were whispers about it in Tirion, speculation and rumor. Maglor didn’t care much about that, for he did not intend to be often in Tirion, but there was a part of him still that missed his father desperately. The other, larger part of him remembered only too well what it had felt like to pick up the Silmaril at the end of the world and feel the white-hot burn of it. They had been hallowed things, holy, precious, unstained and still as bright as they had been upon their first making, even after so many centuries held in the darkness of Angband. Of course they, the greatest works of Fëanor’s hands, had not suffered his touch, or Maedhros’. 

It wasn’t the holy power of the Trees that still burned in his memory and awoke in the scars on his palm whenever he came face to face with his father, though. He thought Maedhros had the right of it, that it was the heat of Fëanor himself, of his own power that he had used in their creation, the same heat that had burned his body into ashes upon his death so there was nothing even for his sons to bury except melted armor and a broken and twisted sword. He had been all fire and heat and rage by the end, and even after so many years in Lórien trying to untangle all the thorny vines of his memory and his fear and his past, Maglor’s mind still returned, again and again, to the flaming Eye of Sauron. They were so very different, and he knew it was unfair, but in his memory they were also so very alike. 

The last and least of the Sons of Fëanor, Sauron had called Maglor once, taunting him even as he tried to cajole him into entering his service. Maglor shuddered away from the memory, but he couldn’t stop hearing the words in his father’s voice—and he did not know whether it was something he imagined on his own or if it was something Sauron had put into his mind. In Fëanor’s letter he had praised Maglor’s strength, and Maglor could look back and see now that he was stronger than he had thought himself, could see the lies of his own self-doubt and self-recrimination for what they were. Fëanor had praised Maglor’s throwing away of the Silmaril, too, but if anything in his letter was a lie it was surely that. Fëanor had sworn vengeance for those jewels and had doomed them all in their pursuit. Maglor didn’t believe for a moment that his father had really forgiven him his casting away of it at the last. 

“I thought neither you nor Nelyo were supposed to be brooding anymore,” said Amras from the doorway. Maglor looked up from contemplating the piece of wood on the bench in front of him. Amras leaned on the doorway, Aegthil in his hands, his head tilted a little as he regarded Maglor. “What’s the matter?”

“I came out here to try to avoid brooding,” Maglor said, sighing. “Then I remembered Atar made me a set of woodworking tools, and…”

“Oh.” Amras set Aegthil down, and came to perch on a stool across the bench from Maglor. “Are they out here?”

“No, I have them locked away in my room.”

“He gave me a set of prisms,” Amras said. “Like the ones Curvo made when I was little.”

“I remember those.” Ambarussa’s room had been always full of rainbows, and Amras had begged Curvo to make ever more of them, even as he tried to move onto more challenging projects in gem craft—and he had always obliged. “What did you do with them?”

“Hung them in the window. But Cáno, I thought you found healing in Lórien.”

“I did. Just…some things can’t be healed that way, that’s all. Whatever is between me and Atar is one of those things.”

“Does your hand hurt?”

“No, not now.”

“Would you tell me if it did?”

Maglor sighed again. “Yes, Ambarussa, I would. I feel fine. I just…I’m missing Finwë, and it’s all tangled up in missing Atar, too.”

Amras leaned his elbows on the bench as Maglor picked up the tools at last and started to carve away bits of wood. “Maybe you should go speak to him again,” Amras said after a few minutes of watching. 

“There’s nothing left to say.”

“Maybe you could listen? I know he wrote all of us letters, but that was years ago now, and…maybe it would be worth trying.”

“Are you going to speak to him?”

“I’m thinking about it. But it’s…Amrod and I, it’s different. When you used to talk of Atar, back in Beleriand when it didn’t hurt quite so much, all the things you talked about, you and Maedhros and Celegorm and everyone, it was all things Amrod and I had done with you—you and Maedhros, mostly.”

Maglor set the wood down. “Amras…”

“I never realized until afterward that he hadn’t—as he was when we were growing up—that he hadn’t always been like that. I don’t know how to miss someone who wasn’t there the way he was for you.”

Daeron had spoken similarly of his own parents, though that was very different—they had disappeared, lost on the Great Journey when he had still been a baby. Fëanor had just withdrawn, all on his own. Maglor had noticed, of course, but he hadn’t realized it had been so bad. “You told me you weren’t unhappy, growing up,” he said.

“We weren’t.” Amras smiled at him, but it was a small and sad smile, not his usual sunny grin. “And it’s not as though he was wholly absent—he wasn’t, but…but it means…it means that Amrod and I don’t really have strong feelings now one way or the other about Atar. It feels strange and it feels wrong. We both love you, all of you, and we love Ammë, but Atar…he feels like a stranger. And he knows it—he wrote about it in his letters to us. I don’t know, maybe it could be a good thing. We can start all over again and maybe it will be better than before. Amrod spent a few years visiting Grandmother Míriel, and he thinks he wants to try to talk to Atar—really talk to him, not just exchange pleasantries about the weather whenever we happen to meet in company.”

“I know Curufin was worried about what we all thought, before he went to Atar,” Maglor said. He picked up the wood again, needing to be doing something with his hands. “I hope you don’t feel that way.”

“I don’t, and I don’t think Amrod does. We’ve even talked to Celegorm about it, and he didn’t get nearly as angry as he did at Curufin. Did he tell you he went to Nienna? He was gone almost as long as you were.”

“He didn’t,” Maglor said, “but I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

“I hope it goes well,” Maglor said after a few more minutes. “When you see Atar, I hope it goes as well as it did for Curvo.”

“Will you think about talking to him, too?”

“I think about it all the time,” Maglor said. “I just…”

“You didn’t think you could move forward with Nelyo either,” Amras pointed out. 

“I know. The difference is that I wanted to. I don’t…I don’t know what I want from Atar anymore.” Maglor focused his gaze on the wood in his hands, slowly carving into it and letting the curled up slivers fall to the bench top. “I know now that I can meet him without flinching, without losing my temper or running away, but I think that is all I can hope for.”

“Can I tell you what he said, after Amrod and I talk to him?”

“Of course, Amras.”

Amras got bored of watching Maglor work after a little while, and left to find something more interesting. Maglor kept going until his hands hurt and he’d formed the rough shape of a horse in mid-gallop. It had been a long time since he’d made anything that wasn’t useful, something that would just be pleasing to look at. Not since he had come out of Dol Guldur, at least, though he didn’t quite know why. 

He found Elladan nearby when he emerged from the workshop, which had slowly filled with other woodcarvers and teachers and students over the course of the morning. The rain had stopped, though it remained cloudy. “Good morning,” Maglor said as Elladan fell into step beside him. “Is anything interesting happening today?”

“Letters came from Tirion and Valmar and Eressëa—including some for you.”

“From Eressëa?”

“And Tirion, and Valmar.”

“Who’s writing to me from Valmar?” Maglor asked, surprised.

“Elemmírë?” Elladan guessed with a shrug. “I think we are expecting Rundamírë and Lisgalen later today as well, unless the rain delays them another day.”

“Oh, good.” Maglor liked Rundamírë—he’d always liked her, thought her a perfect match for Curufin, but he had met her again even before he’d seen his brothers after he’d come west, and she hadn’t looked twice at his face; he loved her all the more for it. “What’s Lisgalen like?”

“Much like Caranthir. Quiet, kind. They’re a silver- and gemsmith who once lived in Eregion, and escaped the destruction by chance, having gone to Lindon just before the war started. I think they came west just after the Last Alliance, but all the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were a bit scattered, Ada says, before Celebrimbor returned to Tirion. You’ll like them,” Elladan added. He draped an arm over Maglor’s shoulders. “How are you this morning?”

“Perfectly well, and if you keep asking me how I am in that tone, I’ll toss you into the fish pond,” Maglor said. “What do you think of Maedhros?”

“He is also quiet, and kind,” Elladan said. “Mostly I am glad that Elrohir and I did not shock him quite as badly as we shocked you upon our first meeting.”

“And what of Celegorm? You and he did not meet under the best of circumstances.”

“I think he’s been avoiding me, more or less,” Elladan said. “And Elrohir—I think he isn’t sure which one of us it was in the workshop with you that afternoon. If you can tell him that neither of us will bite if he says hello, I would be grateful.”

“I’ll make sure he knows.”

“You never did say what he was so upset about, or what you fought over.”

“We didn’t fight. He was upset over our father—what else?”

They found Elrond and Celebrían in one of the cozy parlors overlooking the rose garden. Elrond had a book and Celebrían sat beside him with her legs draped over his lap, assorted embroidery threads scattered about her. “Good morning!” she said, looking up at them with a smile. “Is it still damp outside?”

“A bit,” said Elladan. “Where is Elrohir?”

Before either Elrond or Celebrían could answer, Náriel raced by in the hallway behind Maglor and Elladan, and a crash and a bitten-off curse answered the question of Elrohir’s whereabouts. “Playing hide-and-seek,” Elrond said calmly. “Or at least that’s what they said they were doing ten minutes ago.”

“I don’t remember hide-and-seek involving any chasing,” Maglor said, moving into the room lest Elrohir crash into him next as he flew past after Náriel. 

“It doesn’t, usually, but it seems Náriel is making up new rules as she goes,” said Celebrían. 

“I don’t think that should really surprise anyone,” Elrond said. 

“I think I’ll stay out of all of that,” Elladan said, and went to sit on Celebrían’s other side. 

Maglor left them to it and retreated upstairs to change and look at the letters that had arrived for him. As he shrugged on a clean robe, Daeron came into the room. “There you are,” he said. “Where did you go this morning?”

“Just out to the workshops to do some woodcarving. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I don’t mind being woken—I’d rather you woke me, in fact. What are these?” Daeron picked up the small bundle of letters. “Who’s writing to you from Valmar?”

“Elemmírë is Elladan’s guess—and he was right, this is her writing.” Maglor took the letter and broke the seal. It was not very long—the extra pages were two songs she had been writing, and on which she wanted his opinion. “She wants to come to Imloth Ningloron next year, perhaps in the spring,” Maglor said, “and she hopes that you will be here also. Have you not yet visited Valmar?”

“I haven’t had occasion to,” said Daeron. “I’ve been keeping myself busy with my songbirds and my writing.” He took one of the songs to look it over. “My student Pirineth would like this,” he said. “She is greatly skilled on the viol and loves a challenge.”

The other letters were from Fingon and Finrod—short notes to express their happiness at his return from Lórien and a promise to come to Imloth Ningloron soon—and from his mother. “Ammë cannot get away from her students in Avallónë just yet,” he read, “but she was meant to return home in the autumn anyway, and will come straight here instead.”

“Good.”

They went to sit by the window, Daeron leaning back against Maglor’s chest. It had begun to rain again, harder than the fine misty rain of that morning. Pídhres appeared to curl up on Daeron’s lap, and together they looked more closely at Elemmírë’s music, humming pieces aloud and talking of what they might do differently were it their own song. 

“I think I will like Elemmírë very much,” Daeron said after a while, as he folded the papers together. “I have liked all of her music that I have heard, and she must be a great teacher indeed, having taught you.”

“I think you will both like each other,” Maglor said. He looped his arms around Daeron, gazing out of the window, all the flowers and hedges made blurry and indistinct by the rain on the glass. “I am so very glad to have returned to find everyone I love coming to love one another too,” he murmured. “You and my brothers, and all of you and Elrond…”

“I’m glad too,” Daeron said. “I felt so very lonely for the first few years of your absence. It did not help that everyone in Taur-en-Gellam kept looking at me askance. It got much easier after I started writing to Caranthir regularly, and visiting Tirion more often.”

“Looking at you askance—because of me?”

“More because of your brothers. And I myself am different. I don’t have the same patience for the sorts of games and whispers people play at, even at a court as harmonious as Thingol and Melian’s is here. But speaking of those we love knowing and loving each other—my aunt and uncle are returned from Mandos. That was the real reason Mablung came to drag me back when you were preparing to leave for Lórien. I very much want you to meet them.”

“I would like to meet them, too.”

“They were rather startled to hear about you and me, and I think my aunt has some reservations still.” Daeron sat up and turned so they were facing one another, so he caught the look on Maglor’s face before he could say anything. “No, don’t apologize!”

“But if—”

“She is only thinking of how I reacted to the news of Alqualondë, but it was so long ago now—and I introduced her to your mother, and they like one another very much. There’s just so much only my own and Mablung’s reassurances can do. Aunt Lacheryn has always been protective.”

“Of course she has,” Maglor said. “She is your father’s sister, is she not?”

“Yes.” Daeron paused, a small frown passing over his face. “There are also others in Taur-en-Gellam who wish to meet with you. Galathil is one.”

“Galathil? Celeborn’s brother?”

“And Nimloth’s father. And…I suppose it would be a bit much to expect you to remember him, or even to have known who he was. He died in Menegroth.”

Maglor blinked at Daeron for a moment, uncomprehending—and then he realized. “Oh. Oh, I—” He started to draw back, but Daeron reached for his hands. “Daeron—”

“He wishes to see you, to speak to you. He isn’t angry, Maglor.”

“But I killed him—”

“And Celegorm killed Dior, and they have since met and made peace. That’s all Galathil wants. Nimloth has been less forgiving, but since Dior’s return even she has softened.”

“Of course I will speak to him if that’s what he wishes. I just—I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Daeron said. “Just let him speak first.”

“Does Celeborn know?”

“He does. He’s known all along.”

Maglor closed his eyes, astonished all over again at the welcome and care shown to him in Lothlórien long ago, and the friendship afterward offered by Celeborn. All of it done in full knowledge of all that Maglor had done, and not just the generalities. “Whatever Galathil asks of me, I’ll do it of course, if it is in my power.”

“He will ask nothing of you, I think, except to look him in the eye. He just wants to speak with you so you can both put the past where it belongs. Maglor, beloved.” Daeron took his face in his hands, and Maglor opened his eyes. “Everyone seeks to put the past where it belongs. Do not pick up these burdens again after you’ve just learned how to shed them. I meant only to forewarn you that he might come here seeking you when he learns that you’ve returned from Lórien.”

“I haven’t shed them,” Maglor said. “I’ve just learned how to carry them. I did what I did, and there is nothing that can change it. I do not want to let it go entirely. Let me be reminded sometimes—let me feel the weight of it, now that I know how not to let it rule me.”

Daeron searched his face, expression grave. “Very well,” he said finally, very softly. “I still hate to see these shadows return.”

“They will pass.”

“I hope so. If they do not, I will have words for Estë.”

That was meant to make Maglor smile, he knew, but he couldn’t manage it just then. Instead he leaned forward to rest their foreheads together. “There is a reason,” he whispered, “that the greatest of my works will forever be the Noldolantë. It does no one any good to deny or to forget the past, even as we seek to leave it behind and look forward.”

“I do not believe that, that your greatest work must be the Noldolantë.” Daeron kissed him, very softly. “You will write many songs greater and more profound than that, of the joy that comes after sorrow and the hope that rises out of despair.”

“I don’t know about that—”

“I do. Surely the time is come now to leave lamentation behind.”

Maglor shook his head. “Almost,” he said. “I’ve one more lament to write, one I should have written long ago—I just never could find the words. For my grandfather.”

“Ah.” Daeron smoothed a strand of hair out of his face. “Of course you must write what your heart tells you to write. But your music cannot be forever only lamentations and grief, whatever the old tales say of you.”

“It isn’t. I don’t think I have written anything of grief since I came here. The song for Finwë is just…long overdue, and he has been on my mind of late. I don’t intend to write anything great, or anything I will even sing aloud except to my brothers, and maybe some of my cousins.”

“I think I met him once or twice, when I was a child,” Daeron said softly, “but I do not remember clearly. I’m sorry. I can see you loved him.”

“I did. I do.” 

A knock at the door was all the warning they got before it opened just enough for Calissë to slip inside. She shut it behind her and pressed herself back against it, giggling. “Is it your turn to hide?” Maglor asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “Can I, please?”

“Well, you’re here already, aren’t you? Go on then—we won’t tell.” Daeron settled back down against Maglor’s chest as Calissë ran to climb into the wardrobe. Maglor tangled his fingers in Daeron’s hair, and they fell silent, listening to the rain on the window and to Calissë shuffling around behind the clothing. “It’s a good thing we weren’t doing anything more than talking,” Daeron murmured. Maglor snorted. “I think we’re going to have to start locking the door.”

“And maybe start using different languages when little ears might overhear,” Maglor whispered back. “Do they know Westron?”

“Not yet,” Daeron said in that tongue. 

“Have you written to Mablung or your aunt and uncle yet?”

“I did, yes. They have not written back yet—but that is why I told you of Galathil. I do not know if he will seek to come here with them, but there is a chance of it. I told him you would speak with him when you returned from Lórien.”

“Try not to worry. It will be fine—I am forewarned, and won’t be caught by surprise.”

It took ten minutes for Náriel to come into the room seeking her sister. She did not knock, and was very thorough in her searching, even though Maglor and Daeron both professed complete ignorance to Calissë’s whereabouts. She even opened up the chests tucked into corners and beside the bookshelf. 

“Uncle Cáno, why do you have a bunch of wood?” she asked, frowning into the chest nearest the window seat. 

“I just like it,” Maglor said, smiling when she wrinkled her nose. 

“It looks all funny.”

“It’s driftwood, sweetheart, like what my harps are made of. I picked it up off the beach. Anyway, you can see that your sister isn’t in there.” 

Náriel closed the chest with a thump, and wandered off to another part of the room, dragging her little fingers along the strings of Maglor’s larger harp as she went. Daeron laughed quietly into his chest, and Maglor watched her get closer and closer to the wardrobe without ever quite deciding to look inside. He remembered games of hide-and-seek in his own childhood; he’d won, more often than not—except when Maedhros was the one looking. His cousins and younger brothers had hated it. 

In the end Náriel did not look into the wardrobe, but Maglor thought it was only because she wasn’t quite as tall as Calissë, and couldn’t reach the handle. When she left he heard giggling inside, and it wasn’t long before Calissë peered out. “Aren’t you supposed to stay put until Náriel gives up?” Daeron asked. 

Calissë giggled. “No! That’s no fun. You gotta keep finding new spots, and if you get found they gotta catch you!”

“Ah,” Maglor said, as Calissë jumped down from the wardrobe and went to peer into the corridor. “That explains some things.”

“I was shocked to learn this wasn’t how you all played the game yourselves,” Daeron said.

“Ours wasn’t a good house to run around like this in,” Maglor said. “It didn’t stop us running, of course, but we could never have made a game out of it.” He heard a shriek in the corridor outside, and then two sets of rapid footsteps charging past the door. 

Another knock a few minutes later heralded Amras. “Rundamírë and Lisgalen are here,” he said, poking his head into the room. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course.” Daeron sat up. “We’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Carnistir is very nervous about you and Nelyo meeting Lisgalen,” Amrod added, looking at Maglor. 

“He needn’t be,” Maglor said. “I have every intention of liking them as much as I like Rundamírë.”

“Were you nervous about your brothers liking me?” Daeron asked as Amrod left and they picked themselves up, reluctantly, off the window seat. 

“No. I was too busy being nervous about everything else.” Maglor pulled his morning’s braid free and ran his fingers through his hair, before gathering part of it back to secure with the hair clip Daeron had given him after their arrival on Tol Eressëa. It was silver, set with purple enamel asters, and it had become one of his most treasured possessions. “What do you think of Lisgalen?”

“I like them very much. Caranthir was also very nervous about me liking them, which I found very funny at the time. Whenever I am in Tirion, Rundamírë invites both me and Lisgalen over to sit in her rooftop garden and drink tea and talk about all of you behind your backs.” He smiled when Maglor laughed. “I hope you know that means I know all of the most embarrassing things you did when you were young. Rundamírë has made sure of it.”

“In that case, I’ll just have to ask Mablung about your embarrassing exploits when next I see him,” Maglor replied, grinning when Daeron grimaced dramatically. “Come on. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

As he had predicted he would, Maglor liked Lisgalen immediately. They were only a little shorter than Caranthir, but broader and with the well-defined muscles of a smith, with soft brown curls and brown eyes above an easy smile. Their nose had been broken at least once in the past and healed slightly crooked. If they were nervous to meet Caranthir’s eldest brothers, they did not show it. As Elladan had said, they were quiet and soft spoken, but they were not shy. When they greeted Maglor their grip was strong and firm.

Rundamírë greeted both Maglor and Maedhros with warm delight, kissing them both before turning to greet Calissë and Náriel, who barreled down the stairs into her arms. It was a merry meeting all around; Maglor kept his eye on Caranthir, and was glad to see him relax as it all went well. As they were called to dinner, Maglor caught him alone for a moment. “Ambarussa said you were worried. I hope you aren’t anymore.”

“No,” Caranthir said. He was smiling, and when he caught Lisgalen’s eye from across the room his whole demeanor seemed to soften. Maglor had never seen him so perfectly content. “But you really—”

“I like them very much, and so does Maedhros, I promise. We’re happy that you’re happy, Moryo.”

“I am.” Caranthir sounded almost surprised as he said it out loud. “I feel so very lucky.”

Maglor embraced him for a moment, and then pushed him ahead into the dining hall. “Go on, then.” He watched Lisgalen take Caranthir’s hand, and watched his other brothers laughing with each other, and Elrond taking his seat at the high table beside Celebrían, and Daeron lifting Náriel into her seat as Elladan and Elrohir teased Calissë. Before he had gone to Lórien, Maglor could have never imagined such a scene, a little chaotic, everyone smiling, everyone happy, with nothing to overshadow or complicate it. He hung back for a few seconds longer just to look, to commit the sight to his memory, before Celegorm turned to call out to ask what was keeping him.