A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Eight

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Celegorm had spent far less time in Imloth Ningloron than his brothers had, in the years since Maglor had left it for Lórien. Mostly it was because he’d himself spent many years away, having returned to Ekkaia to seek Nienna’s halls. He’d gone out there many times in his youth, before the Darkening, and he’d never so much as glimpsed them—but when he’d gone looking, they had been terribly easy to find, white-walled and white-roofed, with quiet gardens filled with greenery but few flowers, except for white Evermind and pale roses climbing the walls. There had been very few other elves there, and if there were Maiar they went mostly unclad. Celegorm had been grateful for it; he hadn’t really known what to expect, or what he wanted, except for space and solitude. Even Huan had not gone all the way with him, leaving once they reached the heather-covered hills that glowed under the setting sun, just before Ekkaia itself came into view. 

He’d wandered through the gardens and up and down the shore, under clear skies and through the mist, listening to the quiet wash of the waves over the stones and missing his brothers and his mother, and missing even more all of the things he could never get back—all the things that had been lost alongside the Trees, all the things that could be gathered under one word which he had not thought of before Nienna had spoken it to him. 

Innocence. That was the thing he missed. Nienna had also pointed out the ways it had been fracturing even before the Darkening, as he’d clashed with his father amid the growing paranoia and unrest in Tirion, and how his friendships with his cousins had soured in the face of the rumors none of them believed fully but did not disbelieve, either. 

At the root of it lay Morgoth, of course, but Morgoth was no longer there, and Fëanor was. Morgoth had murdered Finwë after setting in motion all the things that had destroyed their world and their lives, but it was Fëanor that had sworn for the Silmarils, and not only for vengeance; Fëanor that had passed on the worst of himself to Celegorm, long before either of them knew it; Fëanor that had cared so little for them all that he’d laid their dark and bloody path before them and then left them to walk it alone, in his name. Others called it madness, but Celegorm knew exactly what that kind of rage felt like and he knew exactly how clear-headed his father had been. He’d known what he was doing—he just hadn’t cared, just like Celegorm had ceased to care later, to the point that even Huan’s departure hadn’t made him stop. 

“He cares again now,” Nienna had told him, sitting with him under a locust tree in her garden, “just as you do. Your father loves you, Tyelkormo. It was for that love that he pleaded at last to be released from Mandos, and it was also for the sake of that love that Námo relented.”

“I’m not sure that was ever really true,” Celegorm had replied without looking up from his hands, lying on his lap, clean and empty but still sometimes feeling, in that place, like they were covered in blood. He’d had a letter tucked into the bottom of his bag that said echoed Nienna’s words, but it was as hard for him to believe as it was hard to imagine his father weeping. 

“You know it is,” Nienna had said. 

Maybe she was right, but Celegorm hadn’t gone there to be convinced of his father’s love. He’d gone to find a way to heal his own heart—only it seemed that he couldn’t do it without making peace with his father, and he still couldn’t bring himself to meet him face to face. There was still a small child inside of him somewhere that remembered how it felt to watch his father turn his back because the sight of Míriel’s silver hair was too much to bear—and that child still expected it to happen again, and again, and again, even if the reasons now were different. He could, though, find ways to let go of the still-simmering anger, bit by bit. Nienna had helped him to learn how—how to look at it as something done for him and not for his father, for his own sake, for his own peace. It would be the work of many more years, and maybe he would never be able to let go entirely—but at least he could stop himself from sliding back into his worst memories and worst fears.

He’d then come back east to find Dior Eluchíl returned to life, as though to test that resolve. They’d met there in Imloth Ningloron almost by chance. Elrond had introduced them, and retreated a little ways—within sight, but out of hearing. Someone had told Celegorm once that he’d done the same for Fëanor and Fingolfin, offering privacy while remaining nearby to be sure no one got hurt. In this case it had not been necessary; Dior had been wary but kind. “Whatever anyone else says,” Dior had said, holding out his hand, “Daeron likes you, and I have found him to be wise in many other matters.”

“Daeron likes me for my brother’s sake,” Celegorm had replied, but he’d taken Dior’s hand, aware of the power of Lúthien’s line humming through his veins just under the skin, aware that both of them were remembering the last and only time they had met before, both of them raging like wounded animals, teeth bared and blades deadly sharp as smoke gathered in the great hall of Menegroth.

Beneath the bright sun of Valinor, Dior had smiled, under hair like shadows and eyes the soft blue-grey of a misty dawn. “No, he likes you for your own sake—else he would not defend you as vigorously as he does. I am glad we can meet again in peace, whatever anyone else might say. Maybe someday we too might even find ourselves friends.” 

“That would shock everyone,” Celegorm had said, and had been shocked himself when Dior had laughed.

Celegorm had also come back east to find two little nieces for him to spoil, and that had done more than anything else to lift his spirits. It was hard to be angry when he had two children climbing all over him and demanding to ride Huan like a pony. Huan was very good natured about it, just as he had been when Celebrimbor had done the same long ago. It made even visiting Tirion and risking an encounter with his father worth it—and the way that Curufin always smiled when Celegorm turned up on his doorstep, no matter how late it was or how unexpected.

Now he sat by one of the many streams, shaded by an oak and surrounded by niphredil and queen’s lace and buttercups. He leaned back against the tree and turned the brooch his father had made for him over in his fingers. It was made of silver and mother-of-pearl, a round and full moon with a silhouette of Huan racing in front of it. It was beautiful, as were all the things Fëanor made with his hands, but Celegorm had never worn it. He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it, either. Caranthir had told him once that he’d burned Fëanor’s letter but kept his gift, too, tucked away in a chest where he didn’t have to look at it. Celegorm knew that Amras had hung the prisms that Fëanor had given him in a window where they would catch the most sunshine, but he wasn’t sure what anyone else had done with their gifts, or their letters. His own letter he had dropped into the forest on the way back from Nienna’s halls to molder away with the leaves. 

The rain had passed, and the sun shone bright in a cloudless sky overhead, sunbeams dancing across Celegorm and the brooch in his hands as the leaves swayed in the breeze. He heard laughter somewhere not far away—Caranthir and Lisgalen, and after a moment Rundamírë and Curufin too. Everyone had been in a bright and merry mood since they’d set out for Lórien, and it had only gotten better after they found Maedhros and Maglor. Celegorm didn’t know why he’d woken that morning thinking about his father, and with his mood dipping accordingly. 

“There you are, Tyelko.” Maglor and Daeron had come up the path, so quietly that Celegorm hadn’t noticed. “What’s that?” Celegorm held the brooch out rather than answer. Maglor sat on the grass beside him, and Daeron in front of both of them, crossing his legs and picking a few niphredil flowers to begin to weave together. “Is this what Atar sent you?” Maglor asked as he tilted the brooch so the mother-of-pearl moon caught the sunlight that filtered through the leaves overhead. 

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised you kept it.”

“I am, too.”

“It’s beautiful,” Daeron said, as Maglor handed it back to Celegorm. He slipped it into his pocket and leaned against Maglor when he put an arm around his shoulders. “I have not yet gotten a chance to ask you, Celegorm—did it help, going to Nienna?”

“Yes. Mostly.”

“I’m glad.” 

“I am too,” Maglor said.

“If we’re asking questions,” Celegorm said, “Daeron, I’ve heard that you’ve been going around defending me. Whatever for?”

“Who told you that?” Daeron asked, laughing. 

“Dior Eluchíl.”

“Ah, I should have guessed. Really, though, I have not been defending you so much as myself, because for a time it seemed that everyone I ever knew wanted to know why on earth I was friends with any of you. All I’ve really said is that you are not now who you were in Beleriand, and that I quite enjoy your company.” Daeron grinned when Celegorm frowned at him. “It’s true! Dior was the kindest about it, actually—kinder to me than he has any reason to be.”

“He was kind to me, too.” 

“I suppose all that time in Mandos affords one a great deal of time to think things over,” said Daeron. “Though we must also give Elrond credit for being a good influence on all members of all sides of his family. He does it without even trying.”

“He does,” Maglor agreed, voice full of fondness. He was smiling, but there was something sad in it. “He and Elros.”

It was strange—though not in a bad way—to see Maglor with Elrond, and with Elrond’s sons. There was as great a love between them and Maglor as there was between Curufin and his children, though Maglor was always so careful never claim the title even of foster-father. Maglor had always been like Maedhros—a warm and bright presence as an older brother, someone always able to be relied upon. Celegorm had thought before—a long time ago, before everything went wrong—that Maglor would have been a good father, but his fate had not turned that way. Except that it had, in a strange way filled with nearly as much grief as joy. 

“You seem steadier now,” Maglor said, turning the subject back on Celegorm. “But you say you haven’t even spoken to Atar?”

“I’m still angry,” Celegorm said. “I don’t know if I can ever let it go entirely.” Maglor made a quiet and sympathetic noise. “It’s…it goes deeper than just what happened at the end, I think.” 

“You fought often before the exile to Formenos,” Maglor said quietly. “Was it not just over Oromë, or your friendship with Irissë?”

“We never fought over Irissë,” Celegorm said. She and he had turned their backs even before Maedhros and Fingon’s friendship had soured. “I don’t think we were really fighting over Oromë, either. That was just…the thing I did he could get angry at.”

“What was it, then?”

Celegorm reached up to twist the end of one of his braids around his fingers, unsure how to answer. In the letter that Fëanor had sent with the brooch, Fëanor had spoken of his hair, the way it looked so like Míriel’s. He had apologized, had called it beautiful, had compared it to moonlight. Maybe it would be different if Celegorm could bear to speak to him in person, but the words on the page just read like the things Fëanor knew he should say, rather than what he really meant. Fëanor had never been one to admit fault, to admit mistakes. “Curvo was always his favorite,” Celegorm said, half-whispering. It would be horrible if Curufin came upon them in that moment and overheard. “I think that I was always his least favorite.” Curufin liked to say that he was most like Fëanor in all of the worst ways, but he also had all of Fëanor’s talents—his skill in the forge, his ear for language, his focus and his passion when he entered into a project that took up all his heart and all his thought. It was Celegorm that only had the ugly, burning anger, the rage that wouldn’t sleep, and the ruthlessness that made it deadly. Fëanor had looked at him and seen the mother he’d never really known and never stopped grieving; Celegorm had once thought that Fëanor had failed to see the ugliest parts of himself reflected in him, too, but now he wondered if he had seen it—maybe he hadn’t recognized their source, but surely he had seen and disdained what Celegorm had, even then, been on the road to becoming. 

“I am not a parent,” Daeron said after a few moments, “nor do I have siblings—but it seems to me very wrong that even if a parent has a favorite that they should show it so blatantly.”

“It did not seem so blatant when we were young,” Maglor said. “But I was neither the favorite nor the least favorite, and maybe I just didn’t see. I’m sorry, Tyelko.”

“Please don’t be. It’s not like there was anything you could’ve done about it.”

Daeron was frowning, though he kept his gaze on the wreath of niphredil and buttercup steadily taking shape under his hands. “I have wondered if perhaps I spoke too harshly to Fëanor,” he said, “but now I wonder if I did not speak harshly enough.”

“He probably wouldn’t listen either way,” Celegorm muttered. “He listens to Curvo sometimes, but I think that’s just because the novelty of Curvo fighting with him hasn’t worn off.” And, of course, Curufin would remain his favorite—especially since he was the only one willing to see or speak to him. 

“That might be unfair,” Maglor said quietly. “Elrond has said that he has made an effort to listen far more often than not, since his return—and I have not heard that he’s fallen out again with Fingolfin, or with his sisters.”

“No,” Celegorm agreed reluctantly, “but I still don’t trust it. Fifty years isn’t that long of a time.”

“It is and it isn’t,” Daeron murmured, glancing up at Maglor. Celegorm turned his gaze away; he didn’t need to see whatever private thoughts were passing between the two of them. “But you all saw him on the road, and no one came away from it either in tears or angry—angrier, at least. That must bode well for the future.”

“Only because Náriel and Calissë were there,” Celegorm said. He hadn’t looked Fëanor in the face at all, keeping to the back of the group behind Ambarussa with his head down. The last thing he had wanted was for Calissë to see his expression in those moments. Fëanor had looked at him, but Celegorm hadn’t met his gaze. He did not want to know what he would see there.

“Still,” Daeron said. “It’s more than you could have done before, is it not?”

“It is, but I at least already said all I have to say to him,” Maglor said. He had his left arm around Celegorm’s shoulders; his right lay in his lap, and Celegorm saw him flex his fingers a little. 

“Does it hurt, talking about him?” Celegorm asked, reaching for it. 

“No.” Maglor let Celegorm take his hand and run his fingers over the scars there. There was a place near the center of his palm that seemed different, like the scar was thicker there—like it had been opened again and again after the wounds began to heal. Celegorm thought of how Maglor had sometimes dug his thumbnail into his palm when he was upset or lost in thought, before he had gone to Lórien, and felt faintly sick. Unaware of his thoughts, Maglor went on, “I had hoped it wouldn’t wake up upon seeing him, but at least it didn’t last long. It really doesn’t hurt at all now.” Celegorm glanced at Daeron and saw him looking at Maglor’s hand too. Their gazes met, and Daeron’s lips quirked in a small, rueful expression. “Please don’t start worrying about me again.”

“Too late,” Celegorm said. “It’s only fair, if you’re going to worry about me.”

“Someday,” Daeron said softly, “none of you will have to worry about any of the others at all.”

The last time Celegorm had not worried about any of his brothers, he had been beyond worry about anything, too focused on the Oath and whatever it took to fulfill it, to wrapped up in his own anger to care. He knew that wasn’t what Daeron meant, but it still made him shiver to remember it. Fëanor had written to him to say that the Celegorm of Beleriand was someone unrecognizable to him, someone so unlike the Tyelkormo of Tirion of old—he had said also that he did not recognize himself in the records and histories that he had read and heard since his return. He still did not realize that it was an echo of him that Celegorm had turned into; he still tried to create distance between himself now and who he had become before his own end. Celegorm, looking back, could trace every single step that he had taken, and knew exactly how he had become what he had. In that, at least, he was not like his father at all. 

“Let us put Fëanor out of our thoughts, at least for now,” Maglor said. “I don’t know if it’s true that you were his least favorite, but whatever he thinks, or thought, does not have to rule us now.”

“It still hurts,” Celegorm whispered. It was an admission he would not have been able to make before going to Nienna. It felt too much like admitting weakness, to admit that he still cared even a little bit what his father thought, or had thought. Maybe that was no bad thing, though. If he did not want his brothers to pretend to be strong all the time, he could not turn around and demand it of himself. 

“I know.” Maglor kissed the top of his head. “I’m sorry, Tyelko.”

They had only a few minutes more of quiet before someone else came looking for them, but it was enough for Celegorm to be able to gather himself and to be able put on a smile by the time he had to. The brooch remained a heavy weight in his pocket, though—and he still did not know what to do with it.