From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Fifteen

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I’ve been looking for the water looking for the sea
Searching for my trouble but my trouble finds me
Everybody breaks
Everybody breaks
Everybody breaks sometimes
- “Everybody Breaks” - Ivan & Alyosha 

 

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The rest of the day was quiet. Fëanor spent most of it in his room, distracting himself with a book in between attempts to reply to Findis and Fingolfin’s letters. He did not want to worry them, and he was certainly not about to share what had happened between himself and Maedhros with anyone outside of Imloth Ningloron—that was for Maedhros to decide—but even aside from that he just didn’t know what to say. 

In the end he wrote about Ambarussa and their mountain home, and made a few jokes about Fingolfin’s forced involvement in the upcoming feast, though he feared they fell rather flat. 

He avoided the dinner table, but Celebrimbor came with Náriel and Calissë to cajole him downstairs for music and stories afterward. Fëanor agreed, though he couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in his chest when he stepped into the room and saw Caranthir and Curufin sitting together across the way with Rundamírë. Caranthir glanced toward him and then away quickly, but Curufin smiled at him.

Maglor sat with Elrond, who looked tired, leaning his head against Maglor’s shoulder as he played. They were speaking quietly together; Maglor also looked tired, though his fingers did not falter over the harp strings. His music that evening was gentle and unobtrusive, adding a layer of soft noise underneath all the other music and conversation, and if he sang at all it was only for Elrond’s ears.

Fëanor sat by Celebrimbor with Náriel on his lap and tried to ignore everyone else in the room. Calissë still had much to say about her time in Taur-en-Gellam, which Fëanor had not yet heard. She had had a wonderful time and made many friends among Daeron’s students, and she had heard many stories, several of which she claimed she didn’t believe even though both Daeron and Maglor insisted they were true.

“The world is a very big and strange place, Calissë,” Celebrimbor laughed. “I think you’ll find many more things are true than aren’t!”

“Tyelpë, Grandfather, you haven’t heard the story about the enchantress yet!” Náriel exclaimed. “Have you?”

“Only what you’ve told us,” Fëanor said. “But that’s all right—”

“Oh, but you have to! I don’t care if it’s true or not, it’s really funny!” Náriel slid off of Fëanor’s lap before he could stop her, and ran to tug on Maglor’s sleeve. Fëanor watched Maglor turn to her with a smile, and saw also that that smile was not one of his usual ones. He rose to his feet alongside Elrond, though, and when Náriel turned away Elrond said something that made Maglor’s expression soften. They spoke quietly for a moment before Maglor put an arm around Elrond and kissed his cheek—not unlike the way Curufin often kissed Celebrimbor. 

“Uncle Cáno’s going to tell the story!” Náriel announced as she climbed back onto Fëanor’s lap.

“You didn’t have to come tell the story tonight,” Celebrimbor said when Maglor and Elrond came to join them. Maglor didn’t quite meet Fëanor’s gaze, and the apprehension had returned to his eyes, but Fëanor thought he could only tell because he already knew to expect it. “We can wait to hear it some other time.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Maglor said brightly. “What are such adventures for, if not to tell the story later?” And with that he launched into an absurd tale of a strange enchantress dwelling in the northern wastes some miles inland from the Ice Bay of Forochel. She had, he said, very nearly turned him entirely into a statue of ice to join the others in her collection—among which were many strange and fearsome creatures, but no other Elves. He had been rescued by a pair of beavers and later aided by a fox, all of whom could speak as Men and Elves could—and who had much to say on the subject of Maglor’s foolishness in straying so far into such dangerous lands—and eventually he had, still half-frozen, found his way far enough south to be rescued properly by Elladan and Elrohir, who had brought him to Rivendell so Elrond could thaw him out the rest of the way with some clever enchantments of his own. 

Maglor remained an excellent storyteller, even in plain speech rather than verse, and this story was a very silly one. He had not made himself the hero of it—rather he was the one in need of rescue, and escaped mostly unscathed due to a great deal of luck and the kindness of both animals and Elrond and his family. 

“And that’s really how it happened, is it?” Celebrimbor asked Elrond.

“Oh yes,” Elrond said, speaking very seriously but with eyes sparkling with mirth. “You do have to watch out for foxes, though. Not all of them are as friendly as the one in this tale.”

“They don’t get on with hedgehogs, either,” Maglor added, winking at Náriel. 

By then it was getting late, and Curufin came over to take the girls to bed. He glanced between Maglor and Fëanor, but didn’t say anything. Maglor also got to his feet. “I’m also for bed, I think. Goodnight, Tyelpë, Elrond.” A fraction of a second’s pause. “Atar.”

“Good night,” Fëanor murmured, alongside Celebrimbor. 

Elrond also excused himself, going to join Celebrían. Celebrimbor sighed and leaned his head on Fëanor’s shoulder. “I think we’re all tired,” he said. 

“It’s been a tiring couple of days. What have you been doing?”

“Keeping my sisters occupied. Calissë will figure out that Maedhros wasn’t just called away unexpectedly sooner or later, but hopefully everything will settle down a little bit first. Are you staying?”

“Yes,” Fëanor sighed. “Curvo insisted I stay as long as you do.”

“Good.”

“I’m not sure it is.”

“Well, the rest of us are.” Celebrimbor raised his head and smiled at him. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So just trust us, all right?”

“I do. That’s why I’m staying.”

Over the next few days he kept to his room, reading and idly sketching out designs for towers and absurd pieces of jewelry and other things he would never actually make, and avoided all the places he would be most likely to run into one of his sons. That didn’t stop his granddaughters from requesting he join them outside for games, or the twins from insisting he dine with the household. More often than not, neither Caranthir nor Celegorm appeared—in fact Fëanor had not seen Celegorm at all since that morning by the oak tree. According to Curufin, he had finally made peace with Maglor, and had since scarcely left his side, the two of them to be found either in Maglor’s room or in the library. After that first evening Fëanor did not see Maglor either. 

“What are they doing?” he asked Curufin.

“Maglor’s been writing, and Celegorm has been keeping him company,” Curufin replied. They were out walking through the meadows beyond the gardens, fragrant with spring blossoms and fresh grass. Náriel and Calissë had joined them, but had run ahead chased by Huan. Curufin kept his gaze on them, arms folded over his chest. “I think he’s trying to teach himself to spin, and it’s going even worse than the knitting.”

“Knitting?”

“He says he likes having something to do with his hands, though I’m not sure he’ll keep it up when he finds something he likes more. I have a hideous scarf at home that he made me over the winter.” Curufin hesitated for a moment, and then said, “He tried to rejoin Oromë, when he came back. It didn’t go very well.”

Celebrimbor was not the only one having trouble picking up the things he used to love, Fëanor thought. “In what way?”

“It’s not that he wasn’t welcomed back—he was, from what I understand. It’s…it’s not that he can’t do it anymore—he can and he won’t hesitate if he must, but the joy is all gone from it. He’s been trying to find something else. Nelyo suggested he learn knitting from Grandmother Ennalótë, and Ammë had him carving stone all last autumn.”

“Did he take to it?”

“Somewhat. He’ll get there.”

Early the next morning Fëanor went out alone into the gardens. He walked through the apple orchard, which was quiet and just putting out flowers at this time of year, pale pink and sweet-smelling. The cherry trees would also be in bloom soon in Tirion, he thought, sighing as he stopped to stare up at the flowers. 

His route back toward the house took him past the small memorial garden behind its high hedges, and without really knowing why, he stepped through the gate. It was not a place he usually visited—in fact he hadn’t set foot inside since that very first time, the summer after he had come from Mandos, when Elrond had explained its purpose.

Then, he’d only felt the horror of all the death. Now—he had learned more, understood a little better the comfort such a place could bring, even if he felt none of it himself. He stood before the three small graves under the mallorn tree, and tried to determine why it felt different there than it did at Formenos. Perhaps it was the manner of their deaths—the hobbits had died as mortals were meant to, going to peaceful rest after long lives well spent. Perhaps it was the fact that they were meant to die, that this was not—as he had first thought—an aberration, but a culmination. Not everyone remembered there had had such a peaceful death, but most had. There were names carved into stones or sculpted out of clay in that garden that were not remembered anywhere else, in history books or in songs—only in the hearts of those Elves who had known and loved them while they lived out their quiet and peaceful lives. The grief poured into the carvings and the flowers and the graves there was a gentle thing. 

Fëanor understood it in a distant, uncomfortable sort of way, and envied it. In his own experience, grief was violence: it was the result of something torn away, ripped out of him to leave behind a gaping wound that would never heal. 

He walked around the garden, looking at the different small memorials, recognizing some names and wondering about others. He lingered before the statue of Gilraen. Now that he had seen some of Maglor’s years in Rivendell in the palantír, he easily recognized her face—she had been a friend of Maglor’s, as dear to him as she was obviously dear to Elrond and the rest of his household. Beside her was a relief carving of Arwen Undómiel and Aragorn Elessar, each of them in profile facing each other, rendered in delicate and loving detail. Fëanor ran his fingers over the letters of their names, and turned away.

When he left he found Calissë skipping down the path, humming to herself. “Grandfather!” She ran to him, and he scooped her up. “What were you doing in there?”

“Just looking. The malinornë is lovely this time of year.”

“There’s a whole grove of them in Taur-en-Gellam,” Calissë told him. “They’re much bigger than this one. Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I asked Atya, and I asked Uncle Cáno, and Uncle Cáno told me more than Atya did but they both really just said that it’s complicated, but is it really?”

Fëanor took a moment to parse that, and then asked, “Is what complicated, Calissë?”

“Why none of them want to talk to you. Except Atya.”

“Ah.” Fëanor stepped back into the garden, where they were unlikely to be disturbed. There was a bench on the other side of the mallorn tree, out of sight of the gate, and he went to sit there, settling Calissë onto his lap. “I don’t think it’s very complicated,” he said, “though I can see why they would say that.”

“Uncle Cáno said you hurt them very badly,” Calissë said, “but you wouldn’t.”

“I did.” Fëanor tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Did he tell you about the Darkening?”

“A little bit. He said everyone was angry and scared, because the Trees were gone, and Grandfather Finwë was gone. And then you died and there wasn’t a chance to make it right, and he was really angry for a long time, but he didn’t say what you did that was so bad.”

“That’s all true. I was very angry after the Darkening—angrier than any of your uncles have been, I think—and among other things, I took it out on them when I shouldn’t have.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have a good reason, Calissë. Nearly all of my decisions after I lost my father were very bad ones, and I ended up hurting the very people I wanted most to protect, and then—well, as your uncle told you, I died before I even realized how badly I was hurting them.”

“Is that why Uncle Nelyo left the other day?”

“No, not exactly.”

Calissë thought for a moment. Fëanor waited, watching how she wrinkled her nose a little as she thought, just like Nerdanel did. Finally, she said, “You wouldn’t ever hurt anyone now, though. Right? You never get angry.”

“I do get angry, sometimes. Everyone does. But I’m better now at ruling it rather than letting it rule me. But no—nothing like the Darkening will happen again, and I can’t imagine anything else that would make me forget myself in such a way. I love your father, and all of his brothers—and you—more than anything in the world, and the last thing I want to do is hurt any of you.”

“That’s what Uncle Cáno said, too,” Calissë said. 

“Which part?”

“That nothing like the Darkening is going to happen again—and that he knows you love them and that they all love you, and it’s just hard to stop being hurt sometimes.”

“It is hard,” Fëanor said, swallowing past the sudden tightness in his throat. “And I’m trying to make it right—but I have to go at their pace, not mine, or else things will just get worse instead of better.”

“So why do they say it’s complicated and you don’t?”

“I think they mean it’s hard to explain.” It was very simple at its heart, this rift between himself and his sons, but so many things had happened, and it was more complicated to try to find words to explain it so that Calissë would understand, without telling her more than she was ready to hear. 

“So why did Uncle Nelyo leave? Did you fight? Uncle Cáno said they didn’t, but he’s acting like he did when he and Daeron fought over the winter.”

Fëanor blinked, and then set aside the dozen or so questions that arose with that bit of information. “No one fought with Maedhros,” he said, “but—we did speak of the past, and it was difficult and upsetting, for many reasons. He’s gone to visit Findekáno, who knows better than just about anyone else how to cheer him up.”

Calissë looked dubious, but he had apparently satisfied all of her questions, and so she changed the subject to tell him all about how Maglor had promised that she and Náriel could have one of the kittens that his little grey cat Pídhres was expecting.

Later, he told Curufin about it. “She’s making the rounds, apparently,” Curufin sighed. “I suppose she thinks one of us will eventually give in and tell her the details.”

“She’s too clever to be satisfied with such vague answers,” Fëanor said. “Rather like her parents in that way.” 

Curufin didn’t smile. “It’s going to be terrible when she does learn the full truth.”

It would be, and Fëanor had to bite back the urge to apologize again. “It’s still years away, but when the time comes, perhaps it would be best if Daeron or Elrond spoke to her.”

“Maybe.” Curufin sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face before remarking, “I think that’s the first time you’ve brought up Daeron’s name—I don’t know, since you met him.”

“Calissë let slip that he and Maglor quarreled over the winter. Is that why he isn’t here?”

“No—Tyelpë told you he’s gone out to the Avarin cities, to deliver invitations on behalf of Ingwë and Elemmírë. That was the plan all along, and the fight happened and was resolved all before Midwinter. I think it was touched off by something to do with Daeron’s family—his parents, or his brother, or something. Ours isn’t the only one with problems. Maglor didn’t want to speak of it, though, so I don’t know any details.” Curufin frowned at Fëanor. “But when Daeron does get back, please don’t—”

“I’m not going to pick any fights of my own, Curvo, especially not with Daeron. He and I made peace last summer, and I’m not going to be the one to break it.”

“You did? When?”

“While Maglor was away at Formenos.”

“He never mentioned it.”

Fëanor shrugged. “He said it wasn’t a secret, his coming to find me, but just because we’ve come to an understanding doesn’t mean I understand him.”

That finally got Curufin to smile. “I think he enjoys being mysterious in that way. Well—I’m glad. I liked him from the start, even aside from how good he is for Maglor.”

“He might feel differently when he gets back from his journeys.”

“However he feels, he’ll follow Maglor’s lead, and Maglor isn’t upset with you.”

“But he is upset.”

“Well—yes, of course. We’re all upset. But Ambarussa were right, you know. Morgoth did this, not you. Maybe your deeds made it easier than it might have otherwise been, but even that should ultimately be laid at his feet.”

“Have you been speaking to Rúmil?”

“No, but if he’s saying the same thing, then I must be right.”

That night, for the first time since he had come to Imloth Ningloron, Fëanor took out the palantír. He settled himself in bed with it on his lap, and ran his fingers over the smooth and cool surface, thinking about the morning under the oak tree. He had already looked for Maedhros’ years in Angband, and did not want to see any more than he had—what he had seen was more than enough. But he had not looked for Dol Guldur yet. His glimpses of Maglor during his long years in Middle-earth had skipped over that time, bouncing from his wanderings by the shores to his years in Rivendell, and later his visits to Gondor and Arnor and the Shire, where he was scarred but smiling, often laughing, hardly ever alone. 

Now Fëanor turned his thoughts to that fateful journey up the Anduin. As the image of Maglor walking along the eastern shore of the river clarified in the stone, Fëanor thought that he did not seem unhappy. His clothes were worn and much-mended, and he carried no sword, but he seemed to be humming as he walked, and he bore an air of curiosity rather than misery, or even the melancholy contentment that had settled over him during his long years of seaside wandering, as he looked around as though he was excited and eager to see what these lands new to him held in store. He took his time, lingering in some places while passing through others without stopping—as when he passed by a wood on the opposite bank comprised of many fair mallorn trees as well as beech and oak and fir. Lothlórien, Fëanor thought—Maglor did not want to be caught lingering near his cousin’s realm, not knowing then that Galadriel would have gladly welcomed him as a kinsman, rather than casting him out or worse. 

It would have been better if he had been discovered on Lothlórien’s borders. Fëanor watched as, many miles upriver and many days later, orcs melted out of the evening shadows to ambush Maglor, who fought but could not hope to win against so many of them when he did not even have a weapon, taken by surprise as he was. They bound him and dragged him back to the darkness of Mirkwood. It was only by the virtues imbued into the palantír that Fëanor was able to see anything at all when they passed under the trees. He kept his focus on Maglor, who seemed intent upon trying to escape if given half a chance—only that chance never came. 

And then Dol Guldur arose before them, once a stronghold of Elves, now a terrible place, fortified but broken, ugly and dark. Fëanor saw Maglor’s eyes go wide at the sight.

Like Maedhros before Morgoth, when Maglor was brought before Sauron he threw his shoulders back and raised his chin, eyes flashing in the gloom. Even bound and gagged with dirty rags, he remained proud and defiant. Fëanor watched, unable to breathe, knowing that terrible things were coming and knowing that Maglor knew it too. Strange and fell creatures lurked around the edges of the room, cloaked and hidden from view. Upon the throne, Sauron too sat cloaked—his body was a nebulous thing, for he was not yet strong enough to take full physical form. 

But he was strong enough to engage Maglor in a battle of song—and to win, though Fëanor was certain that if it had gone on a little longer it would have been Maglor who had the victory. Still, watching Maglor collapse so suddenly was a terrible thing to see—his eyes rolling back and all his limbs going limp, so he crumpled to the floor. Unconscious, he seemed smaller than he really was. Sauron stood over him for several minutes before the orcs came back to drag him away; Fëanor could not see his face, but he could almost feel the satisfaction radiating from him—and that was the most frightening thing of all.

Things only got worse from there, seen in the stone in flashes and brief moments. Beatings and blood and long, long stretches of time left to shiver alone in the dark. The worst of it came after a figure that Fëanor didn’t think Maglor saw clearly, but which the palantír showed him to be Gandalf, appeared briefly at the door to his cell. He did not linger—but the orcs who arrived on his heels did not seem to know it. Maglor was taken and questioned, and—

Fëanor had seen the scars on Maglor’s face. The one on his cheek from a stray whip early in his captivity. The smaller needle marks around his mouth that he’d not noticed the first time they had met but which Elrond had later described to him, and which were painfully clear when one knew what to look for. Elrond had said nothing, though, of a brand, a livid eye burned into Maglor’s chest only minutes before Sauron himself attempted—something, which Fëanor could not see, even through the palantír. Whatever it was enraged Maglor, and for the first time in a long time he tried to fight back. He failed, and then came the needles and the thick thread—and his rage melted away into desperate fear. 

Angband had been terrible—in many ways far, far worse than Dol Guldur. But Maedhros had emerged from it with his spirit unbroken—he had still been young, new-come from Valinor, not yet worn down by centuries of fighting a war that could not be won, not yet choked by the Oath or carrying the weight of any crimes, save Alqualondë. 

Maglor was in many ways the strongest of all Fëanor’s sons, to have survived all that he did, but he was carrying the weight of years of war and grief; he had watched his father and then every single one of his brothers die before his eyes until he had been left utterly alone, to wander aimlessly for years uncounted before ever the servants of Sauron came upon him by the riverbank. Now robbed of his voice as well as his strength, he was left to lie in utter darkness, glassy-eyed with pain, soon succumbing to utter despair. 

Fëanor did not put the stone aside until he had seen Maglor rescued—though that was hard in its own way, knowing how long it had taken, seeing how Maglor shrank back from Elladan and Elrohir in fear and confusion, and then how he woke to pain in Lothlórien, as Galadriel carefully and methodically removed the cords that bound his lips shut. 

The last vision the stone showed him was of Maglor waking again, confused and weak and clearly in pain—but something outside his window made him turn to reach out of it, eyes wide with something very like wonder as he drew his hand back to see raindrops clinging to his skin, glinting gently in the lamplight. 

Fëanor set the stone aside and rolled over to bury his face in his pillow. He understood now why Maglor had spoken the way he had out by the oak tree, and why he was keeping to himself, rattled and more upset about the whole situation than Curufin would share. 

It was a long time before sleep came to him. 

The next day Fëanor went downstairs to learn that Maedhros had written to Maglor—a short note, only saying he had arrived at Fingon’s country home north of Tirion. It was Celebrimbor who relayed the news. “Maglor’s gone upstairs to write a reply, and when he’s done I’ll offer to take it with me—I want to speak to Maedhros myself.”

“You won’t just write?” Fëanor asked.

“It’s easier if I can speak to him face to face,” Celebrimbor said. “At the very least I want to see him, even if he doesn’t want to speak much to anyone. It’s not that I’m worried, exactly—Finrod is also there, and he and Fingon will have everything well in hand. Just…” 

Maglor and Maedhros were not the only two members of their family to have been put to torment. Fëanor hated to be reminded of it. He embraced Celebrimbor. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course—and after I see Maedhros I’m going back to Tirion, so I’ll see you when you come home with Ammë and Atya. They’ve agreed to stay here until the kittens are born.”

“Just take care of yourself, Tyelpë.” Fëanor paused. “If I wrote a letter, would you take it for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

It took longer than Fëanor wanted to get his own thoughts onto paper—mostly he just wanted to write down all that he had said in person, so that Maedhros could look at it and see that that was real, even when his mind might be telling him something else. He managed it in the end, and then escaped out into the gardens to try to clear his head. After all he had seen in the palantír the night before, he wanted to be out in the open, to listen to the birds and to watch the sunshine play on the flowing streams winding their way through the valley, until eventually it banished all the shadows lingering in his mind.