From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Twenty Nine

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From now on
These eyes will not be blinded by the lights
From now on
What's waited 'til tomorrow starts tonight
Tonight
Let this promise in me start
Like an anthem in my heart
From now on
From now on
- “From Now On” - The Greatest Showman

 

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“You went to speak to Arafinwë?”

“No,” Fëanor said, “I went to sit by the Sea, and he happened to have chosen that same stretch of shore to walk, and then he came to talk to me. Anyway, he wants you to visit him sometime before we all go west this summer. He seems to think it will end in a fight, and wants to get it over with.”

Fingolfin eyed him. “Did you fight?”

“No. Surely by now I’ve made it clear that I don’t actually want to fight with anyone.”

“It might actually do you some good, you know. To not always be so careful—”

“I’m not being careful. And when I want to have an argument I can just go find one among the scholars and loremasters. Someone’s always wrong about something there.”

Fingolfin snorted, and shook his head with smile. “And then they all come complaining to me about it.”

“I thought they all went complaining to Rúmil.”

“They come to us both, and then we meet to complain to one another. No, don’t apologize; it’s always an amusing afternoon, and nine times out of ten you’re right anyway.” Then Fingolfin asked more quietly, “How is he?”

“He seemed to me very tired and unhappy, though I can’t say whether he’s like that all the time or if it was just seeing me that made him so. He said even the thought of returning to Tirion exhausts him, and he is not looking forward to this summer either—but he’s willing to come and put on a smile for appearances’ sake. I don’t know—he also said that we can’t move forward without understanding one another better, but if he understands me I’m not sure I understand him. I don’t know what he wants.”

“To be left alone—or at least, that’s what he has wanted this last century or so.” Fingolfin sighed. “But he’s right that we should clear the air before we head west. Maybe it will even result in more than just keeping the appearance of friendship. I suppose I’d better write to arrange a good time for us both.”

A few days after his unexpected meeting with Finarfin on the beach, Fëanor came upon Maglor and Daeron in the park near Curufin’s house on his way to visit. Calissë and Náriel were also there, but they spared Fëanor only a brief greeting before running off to investigate some caterpillars. 

Maglor seemed almost entirely restored to his usual self, cheerful and even excited for the journey west, which he and Daeron would undertake the next day with Finrod and the rest of the musicians from Tirion and Alqualondë and Eressëa. Fëanor still had some questions for Daeron surrounding his support or lack thereof of Maglor’s going before the Valar, but the urgency of them had passed and he was content to speak of language and hobbits instead, which somehow landed on the variations of names for Queen Míriel’s lace—Melian’s in Doriath, and Fíriel’s later in the Shire. 

Inevitably, Pídhres leaped from Maglor’s shoulders and vanished into the trees after a squirrel. “Oh, not again—” Maglor took off after her, muttering a slew of words Fëanor recognized as Westron but suspected should not have been spoken in front of Calissë and Náriel. Daeron laughed and waved Fëanor after him before turning to join the girls beside a mushroom-covered tree stump. 

In the end, they found Pídhres high in a maple tree, and Fëanor discovered what Nerdanel had meant when she spoke of a specific sound she made when stuck. “I see how she got her name,” he remarked as they looked up at her. 

Maglor sighed and made a face. “At the time it was just because she liked to climb me. With all the times I’ve had to climb something after her, though, I think I might deserve an epessë for it.” With that, he jumped up to grab the lowest branch, and from there swung up into the tree with ease. Then on his way down a branch broke and he lost his grip, falling with a startled yelp. 

Fëanor caught him—more by luck than anything else, for it happened very quickly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Maglor glared at Pídhres, who had jumped to the ground, and was now acting as though she hadn’t started the whole thing in the first place. “One of these days I’m just going to leave you up there.” 

Fëanor glanced up at the broken tree branch, and was just thinking that it was good thing the tree wasn’t as tall as the ones Amrod favored—or as high as the roof from which Maglor had fallen once when he was young, and broken his arm—when Maglor added, “I’m all right, really. I would’ve been even if you hadn’t caught me.”

“I know.” 

As they turned back to rejoin Daeron and the girls, who were kneeling in the grass and giggling, Maglor said, his thoughts apparently having turned back to the hobbits now that Pídhres was safely on the ground again, “I do wish you had gotten to meet Frodo, Atya. He and I spoke of you once, in Minas Tirith.”

Fëanor blinked. “Of me?”

“I tried to apologize to him on Tyelpë’s behalf, because I knew Tyelpë would have felt terrible if he knew what Frodo had had to endure because of the Rings he had helped to make. Frodo refused to accept it—and then he turned it all around on me, saying that he and Sam would have never survived the journey into Mordor without the star-glass that Galadriel made for him. And that star-glass held the light of Eärendil’s star, which is the Silmaril that you made—and, so he said, he owed all three of you thanks for it, and if I was going to try to apologize on Tyelpë’s behalf, would I accept his thanks on yours.” Maglor glanced at him, and smiled at whatever Fëanor’s face was doing. “It shocked me, too. I did, though—accept his thanks. I couldn’t really refuse—and now I’ve passed it on to you.”

That the Ringbearer would want to thank him for any reason was almost the most shocking thing Fëanor had heard in years—and he had heard quite a few shocking things recently. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then tried again. “I’m not used to thinking of the Silmarils as something good, anymore. They’re just—the source of my deepest regrets.”

Maglor’s smile faded. “Their making wasn’t a bad thing,” he said, lowering his voice and slowing down a little, so the girls wouldn’t overhear. “They were always beautiful, and Eärendil’s star is still a symbol of hope for many.”

He didn’t include himself, Fëanor noticed. “Was it ever that for you?”

“No. But I haven’t been very good at holding onto hope for a very long time—not since…oh, I don’t know when.” Maglor shrugged. “I’m starting to learn how, again, but it’s hard. But that doesn’t take away from what it means to others. Especially to Frodo and Sam.”

And it was no small thing to have aided the Ringbearer in his quest, however indirectly. 

Fëanor got a chance to speak to Daeron in relative privacy soon after they reached Curufin’s home, while Maglor gave Calissë a harp lesson and Maedhros sat with Náriel on his lap while she practiced her penmanship. Rundamírë was busy in her workshop, and Curufin was out in the forge trying to finish a few things before they all had to leave. “Did you never try to talk Cáno out of going before the Valar?” Fëanor asked. When they had spoken before Daeron had seemed to appreciate frankness, so just coming out and asking seemed like the best course.

“No,” Daeron said. “When he told us of it—Maedhros and me, I mean—we were in Imloth Ningloron, and I could hear a change in the Music that the waters sing there. It was subtle, but I have long learned not to ignore such things. He didn’t hear it at the time, but he could feel the importance of it too. Did you try to talk him out of it?”

“I can’t believe you wouldn’t have, if you had seen him…”

“I heard about it,” Daeron said, expression darkening for a moment. Fëanor resisted the urge to step back, recalling the last time he’d seen that sort of look on his face. He was not the target this time, however, and the moment passed. “Maglor would have borne up much better had Eönwë not been so careless—coming upon him unawares and in full blazing glory, it sounds like. That is a separate matter from the song—even from going before the Valar.”

“Is it?” Fëanor asked, skeptical. “The Valar were also arrayed in all their splendor.”

“And Maglor knew to expect it—he was prepared for that. I cannot say more on the matter—indeed, I know very little more of what Eönwë actually said, only that Maglor would have been deeply distressed by it even if he hadn’t had to leave for the Máhanaxar immediately afterward.” He turned to regard Fëanor, expression softening a little. “He’s all right now, though—truly. The fear was familiar, and he knew already how to overcome it. He just needed to be reminded that he could.”

“He will be on the stage very often this summer, though.”

“Yes, but it will be very different, and there are very few songs that he will be performing entirely alone. I understand your worries, but he will be fine.” Daeron paused, and then said, “I did think that I would be here when he went before the Valar, you know. He didn’t expect to finish writing the song so quickly, though he did want to finish by the autumn, when I had originally expected to return, and from what I have been told I do not think anyone expected the Valar to answer his request for an audience so swiftly.”

“I’m glad you were waiting when we returned,” Fëanor said.

“I wish I had gotten back sooner—but I won’t be leaving his side again any time soon.”

The atmosphere in the house was busy and excited. All of Fëanor’s sons were coming and going, but for Caranthir who had remained outside the city with Nerdanel. He didn’t leave until late. “I likely won’t see you tomorrow,” he said to Maglor as he took his leave. “Safe travels, Cáno.”

“Oh, this journey will be much safer than any other I’ve taken in a long time,” Maglor laughed. “Goodbye for now, Atya. I’m sure we’ll both be surprised at how swiftly summer comes.”

The next morning Fëanor went back to the old house. It was entirely cleared out now. He’d removed all the glass panes from the windows—that had taken half the spring, and he’d needed Celebrimbor’s help as well as Ambarussa’s to finish. All that was left was to actually collapse the building—overdue, now, especially since it was starting to fall in on itself without him doing anything. He had the songs for it, but had been putting it off. It felt too final. But he did want to have it done before they left for the summer, if only so he knew with certainty what he’d find when he got back.

He did, though, think he knew what he wanted to do with the space afterward. Destroying the house was closing the book on that part of his life at last, which could never be returned to. But he could take parts of what remained and use them to make something new. 

And if all went well, he wouldn’t be working alone. 

He walked through the house one last time, though he couldn’t reach all parts of it because stairs had collapsed, or walls, or ceilings. He chased away a few animals that had come back to make nests, and then—finally, it was time. He walked around the outside of the house, chanting quietly the words that would loosen the mortar and weaken the stones and the wood, crumble the plaster. He could feel the house shudder under his fingertips as he brushed them over the outer walls. 

Finally, he completed the circuit, and before finishing the song he took several steps back. The final words buzzed on his tongue as he spoke them. For a few seconds nothing happened, and then all at once the house collapsed. The walls bent inward, the roof crumbled, dust went up in plumes like smoke. It wasn’t as loud as he had thought it would be, and it was all contained, falling in on itself rather than outward. Fëanor didn’t allow himself to turn away or close his eyes. At least this destruction, he thought, was something he had meant to do, that wouldn’t hurt anyone—that was a step toward something better. 

That space under his ribs still ached as he watched the dust settle over all that remained of what he’d built with Nerdanel, the place he had once thought would be the home of his heart forever. 

“Atya.” He started at the sound of Celegorm’s voice, and turned just in time to catch him, staggering back a step under the sudden weight of him. Celegorm threw his arms around him and buried his face in the crook of his neck. Fëanor glimpsed Amrod and Amras just before they disappeared out of the gateway.

“Tyelko?” he said. “What’s—”

“I’m sorry,” Celegorm said. “I’m—”

“Why do all of you keep trying to apologize to me?” Fëanor asked. 

“I don’t know. I just—I missed you but I hated you but I still loved you and and I was so angry but I didn’t want to be and—”

Fëanor tightened his arms around him. “It’s all right, Tyelko.”

“It’s really not.”

“It is. I love you, and if there is anything to forgive, I forgive it.”

Celegorm was silent for a few seconds. Then without lifting his head he asked, “Why did you climb up onto the roof last year to talk to me?”

“Should I not have?”

“That’s not—I’m glad you did. I just…”

“If I hadn’t gone up there then, I’m not sure I would have found another opportunity to speak to you, and—it seemed to me that distance was no longer the solution, but part of the problem. I think it may have been part of the problem all along between you and I.”

“I didn’t—when I was younger I didn’t feel it. Only when I got older and—angrier.”

“Everyone was angry by then,” Fëanor said. “I’m sorry, Tyelko.”

Celegorm drew back, gaze still downcast. “I don’t—don’t really know what to do, now.”

“That’s fine. Neither do I.” Fëanor wiped a stray tear from Celegorm’s cheek, and added, trying to lighten his tone, “I’m a little surprised you didn’t get dragged out here by Huan.”

Celegorm huffed a laugh, and rubbed his sleeve over his face. He was wearing the cloak brooch that Fëanor had made him, he noticed then—silver and mother-of-pearl, in the shape of Huan running in front of the full moon. It seemed that all his sons had kept the gifts he’d sent that first summer after his return—he wished he had known that years ago; it would have made the waiting so much easier. “Only because he’s not here,” Celegorm said. “He went with Aredhel and all the rest of the hunters.”

Fëanor had been vaguely aware of plans for a large hunt to precede the feast, but hadn’t realized they’d already left. “You didn’t?”

“No, I…I don’t really—I wanted to travel out there with all the rest of you.”

Hunting, then, was still a subject to avoid. “I will be glad to have you with us,” Fëanor said. 

Ambarussa peered back through the gateway then. “Hullo, Atya,” Amras said after glancing between him and Celegorm. “We didn’t know you were going to do that today.”

He’d almost forgotten about the house at his back, dust settling over the broken pieces of rubble. “There was no reason to keep delaying it,” he said. “Part of it fell in yesterday anyway.” He didn’t turn around to look—he would mourn for it all later, in private. 

“Do you know what you’re going to do with it now?” Celegorm asked. 

“Carnistir suggested a garden.” The idea had stuck, somehow—stubborn as the dandelions and crab apples. “Maybe next year, after I’ve gotten rid of all the stones and debris, though I’m not much of a gardener. But I’m not doing anything more this year.” They would be gone all summer, and then he didn’t think he would have it in him to come back to this place immediately afterward. There was no hurry, and he would use the winter to sketch out plans. Maybe consult with Caranthir, though Fëanor doubted he would be willing. If not, Nerdanel’s mother Ennalótë would surely have advice.

He did go back the next morning, just to make sure he hadn’t left any tools there, and found Amrod instead, lifting some stones from the pile. “Pityo? What are you doing?”

“Just—I want to keep part of it.” He straightened as Fëanor reached him. “I like the idea of a garden.”

“I do too, I think.” Something living, something green—something anyone could come and enjoy. 

“You should ask Moryo to help you.”

He had been thinking of it, but Fëanor still found himself shaking his head. “I’m not sure he would—”

“You said he suggested it. He’d help if you asked him. It might be like—like us helping you clear out the store rooms, only better because he knows what he’s doing and you said you don’t. So he can teach you.”

He liked the sound of that, but doubt lingered. Caranthir held onto anger much longer than his brothers, even Celegorm. “Maybe.” Fëanor squeezed Amrod’s shoulders before letting go. “I’m not getting rid of all of this, you know. I’ll keep some of the larger stones if I can think of something to do with them in…whatever sort of garden this becomes.” 

“That’s good. I still want a little piece just for me.” Amrod tucked the stone into his pocket. Fëanor glanced around, and then followed him back to Curufin’s house.

They found Nerdanel there, newly arrived in Tirion, looking puzzled as she asked after Caranthir and Lisgalen. “When were they supposed to get here?” Curufin asked. 

“They left a week ago.”

Curufin shrugged, and glanced at Amrod, who shook his head. “I haven’t seen them. Maybe Eredhir or Lostir know?”

“They don’t,” said Nerdanel. “I just spoke to them when I went to take Lisgalen something they forgot at my house. Neither Lisgalen nor Carnistir have been seen in Tirion since the winter.”

Curufin frowned, doubtless recalling the last time one of his brothers had disappeared without a word. “Should we look in the palantír?”

Celegorm, lounging by the window with Lossë on his lap, laughed suddenly. “Oh no, you don’t want to do that. They’ve run off to get married—they think we won’t guess what we’re up to, just because we didn’t notice the engagement rings quick enough.”

There was a story there that Fëanor hadn’t yet heard, but he thought he’d wait to ask. Nerdanel rolled her eyes. “So much for all Carnistir’s assurances that they would have a proper ceremony.”

Fëanor wasn’t at all surprised that Caranthir and Lisgalen had decided to forgo any ceremony, in the end. He wasn’t sure why Nerdanel was. “We don’t have a proper ceremony,” he said before he could stop himself, and regretted the words immediately when Nerdanel looked at him sharply. 

“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” Curufin said. “If they were going to follow tradition they would’ve been married ages ago.” 

“Don’t worry about it, Ammë,” said Amrod. “We can still make toasts and give embarrassing speeches and things at the feast when they finally turn up. If they’re hoping they get lost in all the rest of the festivities, they’ll be sorely disappointed.”

Nerdanel paused by Fëanor before she left. “We are not an example I want our sons to follow,” she said in a low voice. “In anything.”

“We aren’t the only ones to ever skip the old traditions,” said Fëanor, “and I am the last person Moryo will ever want to emulate—so I think you needn’t worry overmuch.”

This earned him a glare before Nerdanel departed. “Is everything all right, Atya?” Curufin asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“So you and Ammë…”

“It is what it is. We’ll be fine.”