From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Six

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There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sink through fading colors deep
To the sub aqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
- “Sonnet” by Elizabeth Bishop

 

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Fëanor hadn’t really expected to see the twins the next day, but Amras came to find him in his workshop where he was busy with the minute and often fiddly work of stringing together a delicate golden chain for a necklace he’d been working on in fits and starts over the last few months. 

“Is this my hour’s notice?” Fëanor asked as Amras sat down and poked his fingers through a bowl of small opals. 

Amras laughed. Even though both twins laughed so easily, it was always worthwhile to know himself the cause. “No—I promise, we’ll give you more than an hour. Maglor asked me to pass on a message.”

Fëanor’s hands fell still and he looked up. “Yes?”

“It’s not bad,” said Amras. He leaned his elbows on the table. “He said to tell you he’s going to go back to avoiding you, more or less, but it’s not because of you. You didn’t say or do anything wrong yesterday—he wanted me to make sure you knew that. He just can’t think about anything else while he’s got this song all in his head. He doesn’t feel as though he can have another heavy sort of conversation yet.”

“…Oh.” Fëanor didn’t really know what he had expected—he hadn’t thought that the conversation had gone badly, all things considered, even if he didn’t think it had gone particularly well either—but now he wondered if he had revealed more of himself than he’d meant to, if Maglor was sending his brother with such reassurances.

Amras was preoccupied with other concerns. “He’s talking about it like it’s terribly important, this song,” he was saying, “and acting like it troubles him horribly.”

The image of Maglor pressing his thumb into his painful scars came back into Fëanor’s mind. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been told not to worry by both Daeron and Elrond, and aside from Nelyo they know Cáno best. But he was very unhappy last night. But,” he added very quickly, “again, he told me to tell you it’s not because of you.” Fëanor couldn’t tell if it was Amras who was so concerned that he knew this, or if Maglor had really been so insistent as well. “When this song is all done with and he’s performed it either here in Tirion or at Ingwë’s party, or wherever it’s wanted, he’ll be able to turn his mind to other things.”

That, of course, made perfect sense. “I understand that, Telvo,” said Fëanor. “You don’t need to make excuses to me for a craftsman’s focus upon his work. It is important, this song, and he should be giving it all of his attention.” A part of him still wished it wasn’t being written, but that was selfish—just another manifestation of that avoidance he and Fingolfin had spoken of. Finwë did deserve such a song, and deserved all the care and effort that Maglor was putting into it.

“Oh.” Amras blinked, and dropped the opal in his hand back into the dish. “I suppose that is it, isn't it? Usually such things aren’t so…” He trailed off as though seeking for the right word. “Unhappy?”

Fëanor shrugged. “The subject is not a happy one. I hope this will be the last song your brother writes of its kind.” There had been a time when Maglor’s best works were the most joyful, when he avoided serious subjects and delighted most in absurd jokes and wordplay that would make his brothers laugh, and bright and quick melodies that showed off his skill on the harp or the lute. If Finwë deserved to have this song written for him, Maglor then deserved to be able to return to those other kinds of songs afterward—to sing of joyful things and set aside his lamentations.

“He has said it will be. Would you like me to carry any message back to him for you?”

Fëanor shook his head and picked up his pliers. “You don’t need to be playing messenger between us. I will see Cáno again when he is ready. Just knowing that he wants to speak again is enough.” He’d waited this long for even the smallest chance at reconciliation—he could wait a little longer. 

Amras lingered through most of the afternoon, chatting and asking questions, until he left to prepare for dinner that evening. Lalwen came to find Fëanor a little while later. “What are you doing, Fëanáro? You’ll be late for dinner!”

“So? I just want to finish—”

“You don’t want to miss tonight! Macalaurë and Daeron will be singing for us afterward.” Lalwen paused to peer at the sketch of the necklace on Fëanor’s drafting table while he blinked at her in surprise. “That’s quite nice. Who’s it for?”

“No one in particular.”

“Then can I have it?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you!” Lalwen bestowed a sun-bright smile on him. “I do so love having a brother willing to make me whatever jewelry I wish.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Now go wash up! You don’t want to miss the singing, do you?”

“I do so love having a sister to hover over me like a mother hen. Yes, I’ll be there—I might be a little late, but I won’t miss it.”

He still lost track of time, being almost finished with one chain and not wanting to just leave it, and had to rush to wash and change, arriving halfway through the meal. “I was about to send someone to make sure you hadn’t injured yourself in your forge,” Fingolfin said as Fëanor dropped into his seat beside him.

“I was busy,” Fëanor replied. He saw Maglor at the closest table, and when he looked up their eyes met. Maglor looked as nervous now as he had been in the cherry grove, so Fëanor just offered him a smile before deliberately looking away. 

Lalwen leaned forward to peer past Anairë at him. “I gave you plenty of warning, Fëanáro!”

“I was busy,” he repeated, “working on that necklace for you. And I’m here now, aren’t I? Unless something truly remarkable happened that I’ve already missed…?”

“No, nothing remarkable,” Fingolfin said. 

“Well, Elrond is here,” said Anairë. “That’s rather remarkable.” She nodded to where he was seated—not near Maglor, to Fëanor’s surprise, but also not terribly far. Fëanor tried not to look directly, but he saw Daeron leaning over to whisper to Maglor, who had his gaze fixed very firmly on his plate. He also saw others glancing Maglor’s way every so often, and could tell that he was the subject of much of the room’s more hushed conversations. He felt himself bristle, but Fingolfin touched his arm and shook his head minutely, so he turned his attention to his own plate and just quietly seethed. Didn’t anyone realize how much discomfort they were causing?

“He only has to deal with it tonight,” Fingolfin murmured, “and fewer are truly shocked at his appearance than it might seem. Anyone who went to Middle-earth knows better.”

“Should he be made to get up and perform in front of them, then?”

“No one is making him do it. I made a request, I did not give an order—and I made sure that he knew it when he arrived here. He insisted to me that he’s fine—that he and Daeron are happy to sing for us.”

Fëanor glanced at Maglor one more time, and found him shooting a glare across the table at the twins, who were entirely unfazed. Daeron put his hand over Maglor’s on the table as Curufin leaned forward to say something to Ambarussa. 

The meal passed quickly—because Fëanor had already missed the first half of it—and afterward there was the usual mingling and chatter as the tables were cleared and the evening’s entertainment was prepared. Elrond stepped up to greet Fëanor with a smile. “I had started to think you would not make an appearance tonight.”

“I was caught up in some work,” Fëanor said. “I am surprised to see you.”

“I don’t travel as much as I should,” Elrond said with a shrug. “Long habit—one I should try harder to break.”

“Where does this habit come from?” Fëanor asked.

“I put Vilya’s power and my own into my valley, and while leaving was never impossible, it left both myself and Rivendell vulnerable. So when there was need my sons usually rode out in my stead.”

Fëanor glanced up when he heard his own sons laughing nearby. “Do you regret it?” he asked. 

“No,” said Elrond immediately. “I did what I had to. Elladan and Elrohir understood.”

“Where are they now?”

“At home with Celebrían. They’ll all be going to Eressëa soon, and I’ll join them there for the winter.”

“Will Maglor go with you?”

“Yes, at least for a brief time. He wishes to speak to Finarfin in Alqualondë, and of course Idril lives in Avallónë.”

“For his song, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Has he asked you about it?”

Elrond smiled. He did not look at all like Finwë—Fëanor had heard it said many times over that he was the spitting image of Lúthien—but he had much of the same warmth. “He did, actually—of course I’ve never known Finwë, but I can see his legacy in Middle-earth as well as here. That’s what I told Maglor I would like to hear in this song.”

As he spoke Daeron and Maglor reappeared, now with their harps. Daeron’s was the one he always used, carved of dark wood inlaid with silver and blue. Maglor’s was a smaller version of the large driftwood harp Fëanor had seen in Imloth Ningloron, the wood bleached by years of sun and rain. As he stepped onto the small stage he ran his hand over the frame. The wood, Fëanor thought, would have come all the way from Middle-earth with him. 

Elrond was called away, and Findis and Lalwen came to join Fëanor as Daeron stepped forward. Maglor scanned the room, his gaze far away for a moment before he and Daeron bowed to Fingolfin, and Daeron announced that they would sing the first song they had written together, but which had not yet been sung before an audience. All the anxiety seemed to melt out of Maglor as he put his fingers to the strings and began to play. After a few notes Daeron joined him, and lifted his voice in the first verse. 

Fëanor had heard Daeron sing many times over the last few decades. His voice was powerful and bright, and this song in particular was filled with joy and wonder—singing of a traveler whose feet had carried him across the world and over the seas, coming at last to the farthest edge of the world where the waters of Ekkaia were dark under the bright summer sun, beautiful and calm. 

When his verse ended Maglor began his, the response of another traveler who was no stranger to those shores, who had seen them before long ago, when only starlight had ever touched them.

His voice was different, of course, than when Fëanor had last heard him sing. It had grown and strengthened, and when the tales compared it to the Sea they were not wrong. This song, too, was not like any of his that Fëanor had heard before—but it suited both of them, Maglor and Daeron, two wanderers who had walked alone for so long before their paths joined. They sang together like they had been made for it, voices blending and harmonizing effortlessly as they traded verses. Fëanor did not even need to close his eyes to see the things they sang of—of glorious sunsets through billowing clouds across the dark waters, of the smooth round stones on the beaches, of the water itself, calm and cool as it washed over weary feet—to feel both the joy of discovery and the delight of familiar places revisited after many years. 

When the song ended and the applause began, Maglor blinked a few times as though he’d forgotten he had an audience. Daeron turned to him and they shared a smile like they were sharing a secret. When they stepped down off the stage they were surrounded by a crowd of people—to praise them, and to welcome Maglor back to Tirion. 

“I told you it would be amazing,” Lalwen said beside him. “What did you think, Fëanáro?”

“Of course it was amazing,” Fëanor said, blinking away the tears that were threatening to fall. He had heard many of Maglor’s songs played and sung since his return from Mandos, but hearing Maglor himself was very different—so much better, especially since he had never really expected to get to hear him sing again at all.

“Macalaurë has grown a great deal since he last sang in these halls,” said Findis. “And it surprises me not at all that he would come back to sing of the sea—though I would not have expected Ekkaia.”

“I’ve never seen Ekkaia,” Lalwen said. “Did you ever travel so far, Fëanáro?”

“Once,” said Fëanor. He hadn’t liked it—it had been too quiet, too still. The stars shining on the waters had been beautiful, but he and Nerdanel had only gone there so they could say afterward that they had. There were more interesting places to see and explore. Now he thought perhaps he should make his way west again, someday. Maglor had so clearly grown fond of those kinds of quiet and lonely places, and Fëanor wished, suddenly and strongly, to understand why. “I have not seen it under the sun, but under the stars it was just as Macalaurë has sung it.”

After a few minutes Lalwen turned away from Fëanor abruptly, beaming. “Macalaurë!” she exclaimed. “That was marvelous! It was even better than when we first heard the two of you together at the Mereth Aderthad!”

“Thank you,” Maglor said. Fëanor hadn’t noticed him approach. He smiled at Lalwen as he said, “We’re more practiced now at performing together.”

“That’s a fascinating looking harp, too,” said Lalwen. “What sort of wood is it?”

“Driftwood.” Maglor held it out and Lalwen took it, turning it this way and that to see how the pieces fit together. “I don’t know what any of the pieces were originally. I found them in different places on the coasts of Eriador.” When Lalwen handed it back he wrapped an arm around it, almost cradling it against his chest as though it were something very precious to him. Findis drew Lalwen away to speak to someone else, and that left Fëanor alone with Maglor. He was aware of eyes on them—it was no secret in Tirion that Fëanor was estranged from nearly all of his sons. Maglor seemed aware of the eyes as well, and that was likely why he had come over in the first place—so as not to be seen publicly avoiding his father. When he looked at Fëanor all the apprehension and anxiety that had faded way when he sang was back.

“It was a beautiful song, Cáno,” Fëanor said. “I’ve missed your music.”

“Thank you.”

Fëanor thought about leaving it alone, but couldn’t quite make himself. “I’d heard, though, that you don’t like performing before large audiences anymore.” He doesn’t like to be seen, Elrond had said. That had been long ago, but it did not seem to Fëanor that much had changed in that regard. 

Maglor shrugged in a poor attempt to seem indifferent. “I don’t dislike it, exactly—but it’s not so daunting now as it was before I went to Lórien.”

If this was Maglor undaunted, then Fëanor was glad he hadn’t seen him struggling before. He offered a smile and put a hand on his shoulder, hoping it was more reassuring than not, and kissed his temple as he would have done after any other performance of Maglor’s before the court in Tirion, long ago when the Trees had shone through the windows. “I’m so proud of you, Canafinwë,” he whispered. That probably didn’t mean much—Maglor had made it very clear long ago that he did not need anything of the kind from Fëanor, but he wanted him to know it anyway.

He left the hall after that. There would be more music and it was possible someone would start an impromptu round of dancing, but he felt very tired. When he tried to go to bed, though, sleep wouldn’t come, and after a while he gave up and read a book that Celebrimbor had given him recently on the gem-making of Ost-in-Edhil. It kept him up late into the night. Maglor’s singing played over and over through his mind, making him itch to be gone—to go down to the sea, a desire that very rarely overtook him. When he did sleep at last, he dreamed of walking along a lonely shore of pale sand under flat grey overcast skies. He could hear a distant voice on the wind—far more mournful than the song Maglor had sung in waking life—but no matter how far he walked or how quickly, he could never catch a glimpse of the singer.

In the morning he got up early, still tired but also still restless. When the dreams of the seaside had faded at last it had been into a dream of his father—that dream had been so normal, almost mundane, just walking through the gardens and laughing at something he couldn’t remember upon waking. The memory of Finwë’s laughter, though, lodged in his chest like a hot coal, and Fëanor almost didn’t want to leave his bedroom, to step back out into a world where his father wasn’t. 

He wrote to his mother instead, talking about his latest projects, mentioning his talk with Maglor but unable to make himself write out his father’s name, even to Míriel. Then he dressed and went out to the old house, thinking he could yank out some weeds to get over the inexplicable feeling of wanting to punch something. 

When he got there he nearly ran into Maedhros as he came out of the gateway. Fëanor took several steps back, and watched Maedhros clench his hand into a fist. It was not like Maglor pressing his thumb into his scars at all, but somehow Fëanor thought the impulse came from the same place. He deliberately did not look directly at it, instead keeping his eyes on Maedhros’ face. 

Lately, he had only seen Maedhros in the palantír. In Beleriand. He looked so very different now—younger, without the scars or the other marks of war and torment, with his hair bound in a slightly crooked braid that lay over his shoulder. He wore no jewelry, though, not even earrings or a simple necklace, and there were lingering shadows behind his eyes. If Fëanor was surprised to see Maedhros, he was not surprised to see Fëanor. Almost it seemed like he had come there at this time on purpose, but Fëanor couldn’t quite believe that. Of all his sons, Maedhros would surely be the very last to seek him out. “Nel—Maedhros,” he said, stumbling a little in his surprise. Maedhros no longer answered to Nelyo. “What are you…?”

“I hadn’t seen it yet. Since I came back.” Maedhros tilted his head just slightly back toward the house, though he didn’t turn to look back at it. He had seen whatever it was he’d come for. “What are you going to do after you’ve torn it down?”

Fëanor wondered if he was dreaming again. This conversation seemed almost too—too normal, for all that still lay between them. “Build something new,” he said. “I do not yet know what.” It wouldn’t be another house, for there was no point, but aside from that…he’d been trying not to think very hard about that particular future. 

Maedhros looked at him like he was some kind of puzzle that couldn’t be solved. Fëanor tried to think of something else to say, but Maedhros said, abruptly, like the words were torn out of his throat, “Do you remember what you said to me after the ships burned?”

Fëanor blinked. “No,” he said. “I don’t—” He didn’t really know how to explain his perception of that time. “I remember very little, with clarity, after the Darkening.” A few moments stood out, as clearly as though they’d happened just yesterday, but the ship burning was not one of them. That was just a haze of heat and smoke and rage. He remembered being angry at Maedhros for speaking against him, but not what exactly he had said in response.

Whatever it was, it had been terrible. Maedhros’ expression closed off, as though he were carved of stone. “Have you looked for Losgar in the palantír?”

“No.” And he did not want to—he did not want to remember with any more clarity than he already did whatever it was he had said to Maedhros that had destroyed whatever love and trust had yet remained between them. Because that was what it was, he realized now as he looked into Maedhros’ face. It was what he had said at Losgar that had cut deep into Maedhros’ heart and stayed there, dealing a wound that was still bleeding even now.

“Maybe you should,” Maedhros said, and turned away. Fëanor watched him go, and then turned and went back home, going to his forge to hammer out some nails—because punching a wall would hurt more and be more satisfying, but it would also leave bruises that would trigger questions, and at least nails didn’t require him to think about anything.

He was on time for dinner that night, and learned that Maglor had spent the day listening to anyone who would talk to him about Finwë. Rumors and speculation were already swirling about what had happened to him—the scars around his mouth were not very noticeable except up close, and plenty of people had finally gotten a good look at them. It made Fëanor want to punch things again—people rather than walls—and something must have shown on his face because the person closest to him speaking of Maglor very quickly grew quiet and then moved away. 

Most of them had been to Middle-earth. They should have known better. When Fëanor voiced this, Lalwen shrugged. Unusually solemn she said, “Battle scars are one thing. No one looks twice at those. The marks of—captivity—those are different. This isn’t very different from the whispers that went around Mithrim after Maedhros recovered enough to be seen in public—though even he did not have many visible scars, besides his missing hand, at least not on his face. It will pass—it’s just that relatively few of our people have come back to these shores by ship. Those who come from Mandos do not often return with scars.”

“But some do,” Fëanor said. 

“Some do,” Lalwen agreed. “I did.” When he looked at her in surprise she smiled grimly and rolled back her sleeve to reveal a pale and faint twisting mark around her arm. Fëanor recognized it instantly—he had suffered the exact same injuries just before his own death. “Damned balrogs,” Lalwen said, as though commenting on someone’s annoying pet. “I was trying to reach Findekáno—I was too late, though I died before I knew it.”

Fëanor never really knew what to say when someone told him something like this. He had not returned from Mandos with any scars—not visible ones, anyway—and the handful he’d acquired in the years since were only small burn marks that were the result of clumsiness or carelessness in the forge, very similar to what he’d sported long before he’d ever even thought of picking up a sword. 

“How is Maglor today?” he asked instead. 

“Oh, he hates all the eyes on him, but he seemed pleased with what he had been told of Atya, at least when he had lunch with Findis and me.” She paused, then added, “He seemed weary, as he did not when I saw him yesterday. He isn’t used to being around such a large crowd of people, I think. Imloth Ningloron is not a very small community, but it is certainly cozier than Tirion, and less formal. Even the jewels he was wearing today seemed to cause him discomfort. But at least Findis didn’t try poking her nose into his business this afternoon.”

“What do you mean?” Fëanor asked. 

“Didn’t you know? She’s been trying to get them to speak to you—I told her it was useless. They’re all still your sons, and unlikely to change their course because someone else says they should.”

Fëanor sighed, and looked to where Findis was chatting with Rúmil and Anairë. “I did not know,” he said. “If I had, I would have asked her not to.”

“She means well—”

“I know that.” Fëanor glanced back at her, and added, “I’m not angry, Lalwen.”

“Yes, I know. Findis doesn’t quite understand, I think, what it is to have a falling out with one’s father,” Lalwen said after a moment. The way she said it made Fëanor wonder if she had had a falling out with Finwë. He hoped not. “She also never saw Middle-earth. I do not mean to—oh I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Her grief has been no less than ours—in fact I think it has been all the heavier for having to be borne alone for so long. But she takes a different view of some things.”

“I know. But what lies between me and my sons should remain between us. I hope you don’t have any plans to stick your nose into it.”

“Of course not. I’m just glad to see them whenever they come to Tirion. They know that they can always come speak to me if they want a sympathetic ear, and that I won’t offer any advice unless they ask. I’ll stick my nose into all your other business, but not this.”

The next morning Fëanor found Findis in the library. He leaned over the table where she had a small pile of books and paper to take notes. “Findis, sister-mine, please stop interfering. If my sons want to speak to me, they will. If they don’t, that is their choice.”

Findis frowned up at him. “You think I can’t see how deeply it hurts you—”

“Of course it hurts—but the wound is one I inflicted, and it hurts them far more. Leave them be. Please.”

“All right, I will—I’ve already been told off for it several times. You don’t need to join in.”

“I know what you’re trying to do and why, and I am not ungrateful—but I would have my sons speak to me because they want to, not because they feel they must. They have had enough of their lives dictated by me in one way or another, haven’t they?”

“This is not like the Oath,” Findis said.

“No, it’s not,” Fëanor said. “That’s the point, Findis. If there is to be reconciliation it must happen on their terms, or else it will just make everything worse. I’ve waited this long, and I’ll continue to wait as long as it takes.”

“What if that is forever?”

He hoped he sounded more at peace with it than he felt when he replied, “Then it’s forever.”