From That Rubble by StarSpray  

---

Twenty Three

---

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
- “O Me! O Life!” by Walt Whitman

 

- - 

 

The horses of Valinor were swift and tireless. They rode for most of the day without stopping, at times cantering, at times galloping, and stopped after sunset to camp beneath the stars. Fëanor fell asleep more quickly than he had expected, the previous night finally catching up to him. He didn’t know how well Maglor slept, but when they got up with the dawn he seemed calm—though calm in an almost dreamy sort of way, gaze unfocused, like his mind was far away. He did not speak.

They went more slowly that day. By noon Valmar came into view, and the distant ringing of bells reached them. Even at a distance Fëanor could see how busy it was—as busy as Tirion—and he could see riders and wagons coming and going from the west, carrying messages and materials away to the site Ingwë had chosen for his grand feast. 

To the north rose Ezellohar, where the Trees still stood. They were dark, now, towering and black against the cloudless sky. Fëanor had seen them once before when he had visited Valmar with Fingolfin, a handful of years after his return from Mandos. Then he had not wanted to look and at the same time had been unable to tear his gaze away, feeling again the horror of the Darkening. It was a little easier now, knowing what to expect—though the Máhanaxar was very close by. Fëanor could see it, and see shining figures moving about in between the circle of thrones.

The last time he had gone to the Máhanaxar, he had come away sentenced to exile, the tides of fate already turning, carrying them all toward disaster even the Valar had not been able to foresee. He wondered what, good or ill, would come of this visit.

Suddenly he realized Maglor was no longer beside him. “Cáno?” he twisted in his saddle, finding Maglor some distance back staring at the trees with wide eyes. This was the first time he would have seen them—not just since his return to Valinor, but since the Darkening itself. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Maglor lowered his gaze and urged his horse forward. He seemed to be struggling to control his breathing.

They stopped under a copse of trees some distance from the Máhanaxar—just close enough to walk to—so they could pull on clothes over their traveling gear that was more suitable for an audience with the Valar. Curufin had packed Maglor a set of robes that happened to be the same color red as the clothes Fëanor had chosen, clearly made by Míriel, with delicate golden embroidery along the neckline. He said nothing as he donned them and a few pieces of jewelry—a pair of simple gold earrings and a necklace of gold and amber worked in the shape of mallorn leaves and flowers. Fëanor recognized Curufin’s work in the latter—his greatest talents lay in that kind of delicate, realistic work—and was glad of it.

Maglor combed his hair carefully, but left it loose. Once upon a time such a plain costume for any performance would have been unthinkable—he had once loved to sparkle, dazzling with his appearance just as much as with his voice. That he eschewed most gems and fine clothes these days was only the most obvious outward sign of how much he had changed in the intervening centuries. Fëanor waited as Maglor got out his harp, and fell into step beside him as they approached the Máhanaxar. “Remember,” he said quietly, “you are singing for me, not for them. They just happen to be here.” Maglor nodded, but didn’t speak, and just before they came to the entrance, where the weight of the Valar’s presence was heaviest, he stopped, like his feet had gotten stuck, like he was torn between continuing on and turning to flee. Fëanor stepped in front of him and kissed his forehead. When Maglor met his gaze he said, “I’m so proud of you.”

“But I haven’t even—I can’t—”

“You can. You are so much stronger and braver than you think you are.” And because Fëanor never said something if he didn’t mean it—he’d never really been able to see the point—he knew that Maglor believed that he believed it, even if he disagreed. It seemed to help. A little of the steel of the Lord of the Gap returned to his eyes, and he took another deep breath, chin raising a little, and he walked steadily into the Ring of Doom. Fëanor followed a few steps behind.

The Valar were resplendent, shining and glorious, tall and fair and terrifying. Manwë shone like the sun in gold and blue, and beside him Varda glimmered like the night sky, stars adorning her hair like a net of diamonds. Námo was dark and severe; beside him Nienna sat, veiled and serene. Irmo on her other side also smiled, as his face and form shimmered and shifted, strange and never quite making sense in that particular way of dreams.

Aulë also smiled at Fëanor; Yavanna at his side regarded the scene as impassively as a tree. Ulmo sat robed in mists and sea foam, his bright eyes fixed upon Maglor expectantly. Tulkas and Oromë had been whispering together, and fell silent and still as Maglor stepped forward; Nessa and Vána were both clad in green, like springtime come to life; the smell of flowers filled the air around them.

Maglor did not look at any of them. He bowed deeply before Manwë, his hair tumbling forward over his shoulders, as Manwë said, “Macalaurë Canafinwë—we are ready to hear your petition.”

“I have no petition, my lord,” Maglor said, voice shifting to the steady and slightly deeper cadence that signaled a performance to come, “except that you listen, please, to this song that I have written in honor of my grandfather, Finwë Noldóran.”

“We will listen with pleasure,” said Manwë. His gaze rose from Maglor to Fëanor, who stepped forward to bow as Maglor straightened. “Fëanáro Curufinwë—have you something to bring before us as well?”

“No, my lord. I have come only to hear my son sing.” As he straightened Fëanor caught Nienna’s eye. Her smile was warm with approval, and he looked quickly away, stepping aside to stand near Aulë’s throne, within sight of Maglor but not where he might be obtrusive.

Maglor put his fingers to the strings of his harp, and fumbled the first few notes. It was very quiet in the Máhanaxar, and he looked up toward Fëanor, something desperate in his eyes. Fëanor hoped he looked encouraging—and he must have, because when Maglor began to play again the music flowed from his fingers, beautiful and resonant, delicate melodies harmonizing seamlessly with one another as his fingers plucked the different strings, echoing off of the stones and filling the whole space.

Fëanor had heard Maglor sing many songs at Imloth Ningloron—some soft and sad, some bright and merry, others somewhere in between. But there was a vast difference between that music and this song—and Maglor’s voice sounded very different there in the Máhanaxar than it did in Celebrían’s gardens. That was only singing, in company and among friends, for entertainment and for fun.

This was a performance, even more than his singing before the court at Tirion. Even that had just been for pleasure. This, whether intentional or not—and Fëanor suspected it was not—was a showcase of the power he yet wielded in his voice and his words and his music. His voice was rich and resonant, winding through the air and conjuring up images of the stars that opened the song—the stars that gleamed over the waters of Cuiviénen far away, the ones that the first Elves had first seen, welcoming them into the world when they awoke. 

The song wound on quickly to Finwë himself, the fourth and youngest son, doted on by his older brothers, beloved by his parents and grandparents—until one by one his father and his grandfather and his brothers were all taken, lost to the shadows of the Dark Rider. The fear and the grief were visceral things; almost Fëanor felt himself back at Formenos as that terrible tight feeling welled up in his chest. He blinked the tears away and looked to the Valar instead, saw how intently they were watching and listening. Even Nessa who never stopped moving seemed to have stilled as though caught and enchanted.

Maglor sang on, of Oromë and the Great Journey, of the promise of light and safety waiting at the end—though the journey was long and even its bright ending under the light of Laurelin and Telperion was stained with grief, for there were many who had not made it across the Sea, whether by mishap or by choice. He sang of the building of Tirion, of all the delights and the knowledge the Elves had found in Valinor. He sang of Míriel and the love whose seeds had been planted in their youth by Cuiviénen, that now grew and blossomed under the Trees, and Fëanor had to close his eyes, tears again stinging them, when the song came to her fading and eventual death. The melody of those lines lingered through the coming verses that sang of Indis and of Fingolfin and Findis and Lalwen and Finarfin, that grief wound through all the joy that came afterward. 

That was the refrain of Finwë’s life, it seemed. Heavy grief haunted him, but ever he turned toward the light, ever he kept moving forward, reaching for happiness—firmly, determinedly. Just like Ambarussa did. 

When he opened his eyes again he watched Maglor, now with his own eyes closed, sing of Tirion at its height, of Finwë the king in splendor, and of Finwë the doting grandfather and the affectionate father, the friend always ready with a smile, a teacher with infinite patience.

The song did not shy away from the mistakes and the faults—of the refusal to think ill of any of his children, and the reluctance to publicly wield the power of his crown against his own family, of his righteous anger and the questionable choices that resulted from it. It was truly a full portrait of Finwë, even more than when Fëanor had read the draft of it—there was nothing of legends or myths here. 

It had probably been needless to worry about such things in the first place. Who would know better than Maglor what it was to be reduced to a mere story, alongside everyone he had known?

The music changed as the song approached the Darkening. It was a strangely gentle melody for what it was Maglor sang of. It was haunting, mournful and heavy, that quieter strain from before brought forth in full. Fëanor lowered his head and covered his eyes as Maglor sang of the Trees and of how suddenly the world had been plunged into utter darkness—not only of the grief but also of the fear. And then Finwë’s own death—not just his death but his struggle. Fëanor had not known that he had fought so hard—that he had battled Morgoth with nothing but the power of his voice, for what seemed, in this singing, like a very long time. No one had ever told him, and he had never asked—he hadn't wanted to know what his father’s last minutes were like. When he had read the draft Maglor had given him he had skipped over that part, unable to bear it. 

Now the fullness of Maglor’s own grief—for Finwë most of all, but also for his brothers, for Middle-earth, for Fëanor himself—poured forth as his voice soared up through the Máhanaxar with the steady strength of the tides, passing from Finwë’s death to all that had come out of it, good and bad, from the wars of the First Age to the glories of Númenor and Lindon and Eregion, to the beauties of Rivendell and Lothlórien, to the reunification of the kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor after the War of the Ring. Fëanor’s eyes burned, and he let the tears fall, weeping for his father as he hadn’t in many years. This time it felt like he was finally able to let something go—like the tears were drawing something out of him that didn’t hurt but healed instead.

When he finally raised his head again he found that clouds had gathered and it had begun to rain, soft but steady—and he saw that it was not raindrops that had wet the faces of every single one of the Valar. 

Maglor softened his voice for the last few verses—singing of Mandos, of the wide and empty halls and the tapestries glowing upon the walls. The images conjured in his mind were familiar to Fëanor, reminding him of much that he had forgotten. There were no windows, but there was also no roof—the Halls lay open to the stars. He did not remember them being as lonely as Maglor sang them—but if he had not been among the first of their family to depart he was not one of the last. Ever Finwë had urged them all back toward life—and that left him, at last, utterly alone. If there was one thing this song of Finwë’s life had made clear, it was that he had never wanted to be alone—he had wanted his family around him, both the one he was born into and the one he had made. 

Now he had neither. 

Fëanor looked between the Valar again, from Ulmo’s solemn expression to the unreadable stern mien of Mandos, and finally to Manwë as he inclined his head, his tears falling like small drops of liquid diamond, shimmering in the grey light. 

Maglor’s voice broke at last on the final word of the song, and he took his fingers from the harp strings, letting the last notes fade away slowly. He did not look up at Manwë, or at anyone else. Instead he bowed deeply, hair hiding his face, and said into the sudden silence, “Thank you for hearing me, O Elder King.”

“It was well sung, Prince Macalaurë,” said Manwë as Fëanor stepped forward to make his own bows. “It has been too long since your mighty voice graced these lands. Welcome home.” As Fëanor straightened he looked up, and Manwë met his gaze and smiled. What that meant, Fëanor couldn’t be sure. 

Maglor took a deep breath, like he’d been unable to breathe before, as soon as they stepped out of the Máhanaxar. He hugged his harp against his chest like it was the one thing keeping him tethered to the world. 

Then he looked up, looked at Fëanor. He seemed dazed, as though he were waking up from some strange dream, and his voice was hoarse. “Atya?”

“That was beautiful, Macalaurë. It was perfect—and you moved every single one of them to tears. Even the sky itself is weeping.” As Fëanor gestured at the rain, Maglor ducked his head again, hiding behind his hair. 

He had done it—he had written the song and sung it, and whether it moved the Valar to more than tears was out of their hands. Once upon a time Fëanor would have resented that—but he had a lot of practice, since his own return, in letting go. Nearly everything these days was out of his hands, and there was was a grief in that, and there was so much uncertainty that he still struggled to live with—but there was also relief. He thought just then that Maglor felt only the uncertainty, but hopefully by the time they returned to Tirion he would feel the relief—or at least the relief of having completed such an enormous task. 

As they walked back down the road toward the trees were they’d left their horses, they found that someone else was waiting for them. Fëanor swallowed a sigh. “Mithrandir?” 

“Gandalf,” Maglor said, sounding much more like himself for a moment—half bemused, have amused. “What are you doing here?”

“Always so suspicious, Maglor!” Gandalf laughed. He puffed on his pipe before dousing the flame and emptying the ashes into the grass. “I came only to lend support to a friend—not that you needed it. That was very well sung.”

“Thank you.”

“You sound rather worn out, however—mind you take care, lest you lose your voice entirely! I look forward to hearing it again next summer.” Gandalf rose from the stone he had been seated on, and with a wink for Maglor he passed them by to head into the Máhanaxar himself. Maglor watched him go with a small frown creasing his brow. 

“What’s the matter?” Fëanor asked. He didn’t think Gandalf had been any more or less—well, himself—than usual, but Maglor knew him better. 

“The last time I saw Gandalf wink at someone,” Maglor said a little ruefully, “I ended up traveling all the way to Ekkaia.”

“I doubt he has such a thing in mind now,” said Fëanor. All his past scheming aside, Fëanor thought that Gandalf really had been there just to offer support if Maglor needed it. Otherwise he would have started talking in riddles or something.

They reached their horses, and Maglor fumbled with the straps of his harp case until Fëanor caught it before he could drop it. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“For now. I think.” Maglor’s voice was still scratchy, and he wouldn’t look at Fëanor. He watched Fëanor hook the harp onto the saddle, but didn’t seem to really be seeing it. His thumb was digging into his scarred palm. “Here’s no hiding that I came here, is there?”

“Unlikely.” Fëanor kissed his temple, and went to mount his horse. The sooner they were away from there, away from the Valar’s presence, the better. “But no one will bother you about it.”

“Have you met the Noldor?” Maglor asked as he hauled himself into the saddle. It seemed to take a great deal of effort, and his question came out tremulous and halfway to terrified. 

Fëanor made himself grin. “I have,” he said, “and they have met me.” No one was going to bother Maglor because they’d have to go through Fëanor to do it—and if they managed that, they would have at least four of Maglor’s brothers to contend with as well as Rundamírë and Nerdanel. He pulled a flask of miruvor out of one of his saddlebags and handed it to Maglor. “Here. Mithrandir was right—you need to rest your voice.” Maglor grimaced as he took the flask. “Valmar isn’t far. We could rest there tonight and return to Tirion tomorrow, if you wish.” Fëanor had no preference one way or the other; he just wasn’t sure whether Maglor would want to seek a real bed—he was so clearly exhausted by the effort he had put forth that day—or if he would just want to get as far away from the Valar as possible. 

He chose the latter, and so they passed by the road leading to Valmar, and headed back east the way they had come. There was no need to ride hard, so Fëanor set the pace at an easy walk. Neither spoke for a time, and Fëanor’s thoughts wandered—back to the song, back to the Valar. They had not listened unmoved, not a single one of them. 

But would this change anything? Míriel and Indis both thought it would—or at least they thought there was a chance. Fëanor still intended to have words with his mother about it. Maglor had fought tooth and nail for the peace he had achieved first in Middle-earth and now here in Valinor, and it had been all upended in the space of two days. It would be so much worse if the Valar listened, wept, and then did nothing. He glanced at Maglor, who seemed lost in thought, looking ahead at the road without seeming to really see it. The rain had turned into something fine and misty, and drops clung to his hair and eyelashes and glimmered gently like tiny diamonds, a little like the starshine in Varda’s hair. 

When Fëanor looked ahead again he saw a figure in the mist. Nienna caught his gaze, smiled and nodded, and faded away. When last she had come to him she had encouraged him to hope. She had also expressed her own disagreement with the statute that kept Finwë in Mandos. His breath caught as tears burned his eyes again and he thought suddenly, maybe Findis was right. 

“Atya, will you talk to me?” When Fëanor looked over, Maglor had his gaze lowered to his saddle. 

“About what?” Fëanor asked. 

“Anything.”

Fëanor took this to mean anything but what just happened, so he started talking about jewelry and gems, because that had been almost all he had been making over the last few months. He wasn’t sure whether Maglor was even listening or if he just needed someone else’s voice to fill the silence; either way, he seemed to relax a little more with each mile they put between them and the Máhanaxar. 

The rain did not stop until after sunset, and when they finally stopped to make camp Maglor fell asleep almost immediately. He slept most of the night unmoving, but in the dark hours before dawn Fëanor woke to a soft, strangled cry. As Caranthir had said—Maglor’s nightmares made themselves known. 

Dawn came bright and clear and cloudless. As he rose Fëanor glanced to the east and saw Gil-Estel shining brightly over the horizon in the minutes before the sun rose and drowned the last vestiges of starlight. 

They rode more quickly that day. Fëanor didn’t need to be told that what Maglor needed most was to be at home, surrounded by his brothers. He could rest properly then. Daeron’s presence would be even better, but Fëanor still had no idea when he was expected back. 

By the time they reached Tirion it was getting late, and it had started to rain again. Maglor kept flinching whenever someone called a greeting to him, and by the time they left their horses at the stable down the street from Curufin’s house he looked ready to bolt. Fëanor stuck close to him, wishing he could shield him from everyone else on the street somehow. “Cáno? What’s wrong?” Maglor just shook his head. “All right—come on, we’re nearly there.”

Curufin’s door burst open suddenly. Maglor stumbled to a halt in the street as Daeron came running out, barefoot and heedless of the rain. Fëanor grabbed Maglor’s harp case and got out of the way.

At the door he came face to face with Maedhros, and almost fell back off the step in surprise. “How did it go?” Maedhros asked. If he was surprised to see Fëanor, he didn’t show it, but he stepped back quickly to allow Fëanor to enter the house. From the parlor he could hear Pídhres kicking up a fuss, and other voices trying to speak quietly but not quite managing it.

“He was incredible,” said Fëanor, “but you knew that.” Maglor himself was the only one who could ever doubt that he would be less than amazing.

Maedhros smiled, a little, but it was fleeting. “How is he now?”

“Very tired. He hardly spoke all the journey home—he needs to rest his voice—and I’m glad to see that Daeron is here. And you.” Fëanor hesitated. Everyone’s thoughts were on Maglor at the moment, and Maedhros looked fine—he looked much better, in fact, than when Fëanor had last seen him. He still asked, “Maedhros, are you…?”

“I’m all right, Atya.” Maedhros paused in his own turn. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I am.” 

“Atya?” Curufin was waiting just inside the parlor. Across the room Pídhres seemed to have gotten her claws stuck in something, and was refusing to allow either Ambarussa or Caranthir to help her get loose. “How is he?”

“Tired—when did Daeron arrive?”

“Same day you left,” Curufin said, “along with Tyelko.”

Celegorm had had an errand to finish before summer’s end, Fëanor remembered. Well, now he knew what that was. He glanced around and saw Celegorm near the window with Nerdanel. Their eyes met and Celegorm looked away. 

“Is everyone well, here?” Fëanor asked Curufin.

“Yes, of course. We’ve all just been worried about Cáno.”

Fëanor thought he heard footsteps on the stairs behind him. “I think you’ll have to wait until the morning to see him,” he said.

“We thought that might be the case,” said Amras, coming over to accept a hug from Fëanor. “How was the journey?”

“Swift and fine. Did it rain here yesterday?”

“Yes. Daeron seemed to think it was significant.”

“It was.”

Somehow as everyone moved around the room Fëanor ended up replacing Celegorm by the window, where Nerdanel was waiting. “Is he all right?” she asked. “He was able to go before them?”

“Yes. I still don’t know exactly what happened in the hedge maze, though—either before we arrived or what it was you said.”

“I think Maitimo might have a guess,” Nerdanel said ruefully, “but he wouldn’t tell me.”

Fëanor folded his arms across his chest, and watched Pídhres finally free herself—scratching Amrod and Caranthir in the process. As Caranthir cursed colorfully, Pídhres fled the parlor, barreling up the stairs. Celegorm followed at her heels. “But you have spoken to Maedhros,” Fëanor said to Nerdanel after a moment. He watched a hedgehog trot over to a basket near the hearth to curl up with the little white kitten Lossë, and wondered who had brought one of the hedgehogs to Tirion and why.

“Yes.” She had also been watching Pídhres, and now turned to look at Fëanor. “It was both reassuring and worrying at once—but most conversations with him about the past are. But he did ask me not to be angry with you, at least about this.”

“You’re more entitled than anyone in the world to be angry with me, Nerdanel,” Fëanor said, keeping his voice low, “I just wish for it to be because of what I actually did.”

“I am angry,” Nerdanel said. “I had thought perhaps time would dull the edges of it, but it hasn’t. But Maitimo said he did not want to tell me, and he didn’t share many details, and—well. I am grateful for his sake that you followed his lead.”

“People change,” Fëanor said softly. “I’m trying.”

Maedhros returned with Celegorm then, to announce that Maglor was asleep, that he shouldn’t be disturbed, and come morning what he would need was for them all to act normally and to not speak of the Valar or the song at all. He disappeared again himself after that, claiming a headache. Fëanor didn’t really blame him; all their family in one place—plus various animals getting underfoot—had to be overwhelming after spending the last few months in relative quiet.

It was a good excuse to make his own retreat. Fëanor bid his sons and Nerdanel goodnight, and slipped away into the rain; it was cool and soft, and though he was soaked through by the time he got home, he felt better for it.