west of the moon, east of the sun

Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: T
Characters: Maglor, Elrond, Maedhros, various others
Warnings: References to torture and trauma
Summary: Maglor keeps a promise, and comes to Valinor, only to find the ghosts he thought he'd left behind are alive and waiting for him.
Note: This fic is a sequel to Clear Pebbles of the Rain, which is itself a sequel to Unhappy Into Woe.

Prologue / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

 

As Maglor disappeared into the distance, and Fingon turned to make his way back, Elrond looked back into the valley; Fëanor had disappeared. Elladan and Elrohir retreated inside, speaking together in low voices; Celebrimbor lingered, looking unhappy and uncharacteristically uncertain. Something of that thought must have shown in his own face, because Celebrimbor grimaced at him. “I should speak to my grandfather,” he said, “but it feels wrong to do so when not even my father will see him.”

“Did your father ask you not to see him?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then it is no betrayal to do so.” Elrond glanced back to where Fëanor had been. “But I think I would like to speak to him first.”

“You’ve spoken to him already, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but I was trying to dissuade him from going after Maglor. I spoke nothing untrue, but I was not…kind.”

“If the truth is unkind, that is no fault of yours,” said Celebrimbor. “But go on—I want to talk to Fingon and Galadriel first, anyway. I don’t trust Maglor’s assurances about himself.”

“He was doing well,” Elrond sighed. “He was happy, but I suppose that was only in ignoring the storm on the horizon.”

“I don’t like that he’s gone off alone.”

“Huan is with him, and I think Huan has plans of his own.” Elrond had also seen Maglor pause by the roadside, and the telltale smoke rings floating up from the person he’d stopped to speak with. Perhaps Gandalf only wished to say farewell—but Elrond knew the old wizard well enough to suspect he, too, had some sort of plan. He would ask later, but he also knew Gandalf well enough to not expect an answer. “I am worried about him, too,” Elrond said, looking back at Celebrimbor, “but I don’t think he will come to harm.”

“You don’t think he’ll fall into old habits?” Celebrimbor asked quietly. “Six thousand years is a long time to wander.”

“I think he will keep his promises, and he will return before the start of winter,” Elrond said. Maglor was was in pain, but he was not in danger of losing himself, or forgetting that he had a home to return to when he was ready. “Or, if his plans change, he will send a message. Almost I hope his plans will change, if he finds himself at Nerdanel’s house.”

“Maybe.” Celebrimbor still seemed doubtful. “Good luck speaking to my grandfather. He let Maglor have his say, and I doubt he’ll have much patience for anyone else.”

“That’s all right,” said Elrond. “I can at least show him to the room Erestor picked for him.”

“Which room?”

“One on the opposite side of the house from Fingolfin’s.”

“Your wisdom is unparalleled,” Celebrimbor said with a grin.

Elrond smiled. “Not my wisdom,” he said. “It was Celebrían’s decision.”

They parted, and Elrond walked back out into the gardens, following the path that Maglor had come from when he’d returned. He did not find Fëanor out among the flowers, or by the ponds; he went to the workshops, thinking he might retreat there, but they all stood empty. It was very quiet; Maglor’s voice had shivered through the air of the whole valley, though they hadn’t caught the words—those had been meant for Fëanor’s ears alone—and even the birds had fallen silent. The nightingales in the hedges had started to sing again, but anyone who had fled inside had not yet reemerged. 

Elrond paused in the pottery workshop to look at the bowl Maglor had made that morning, sitting on a shelf to dry before being fired. He’d carved a pattern of waves around the rim. By now Elrond could tell the difference between things Maglor made when he was unhappy and trying to distract himself, and things that he made for the pleasure of the process and the satisfaction of making something lovely. This was the latter, and the sight of it made Elrond sigh. It had been a good day, before Fëanor had come. 

In the end he found Fëanor in the memorial garden, which both was and was not surprising. He stood before the statue of Gilraen, as though examining the workmanship. It was a strange echo of Elrond’s encounter with Maedhros in this same garden; he had been standing in the same place in almost exactly the same stance. As the gate clicked shut behind Elrond, Fëanor turned. He had been weeping, though his eyes were mostly dry now. “This is a place of death,” he said, and Elrond could not tell what he thought about it. 

“It is a place of memory,” Elrond said. He took a handkerchief from his pocket as he crossed the garden, one of the many that Bilbo had brought of been given over the years—he had allays carried extras, ever since that momentous spring morning in the Shire long ago—and offered it to Fëanor. Fëanor looked at it, and then at Elrond. There was neither fire nor fury in his gaze now, only sorrow and weariness and wariness. “It is only a handkerchief,” Elrond said. “It isn’t going to bite.”

Fëanor took the handkerchief, though he didn’t use it, instead running his thumb over the neat and tiny stitches of the monogram in the corner. “What does this mean, BB?” he asked.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Elrond said. 

There was a pause. “What…” Fëanor said finally, “is a Bilbo Baggins?”

This was not how Elrond had expected this encounter to go; he had to suppress a smile as he answered, “A hobbit.” The look he received was so exactly like the one Maglor made when he was growing exasperated that he only just managed to keep from laughing, in spite of everything. “Bilbo was a dear friend.” Elrond nodded toward his grave, overrun with colorful snapdragons. “He was very practical about things like pocket handkerchiefs. As for hobbits—there is no simple explanation for them, I have found. Bilbo’s own words would be better than any of mine. We have several copies of his book here in the library.” It was a peace offering, alongside the handkerchief. Elrond hoped Fëanor would see that and accept it. “Bilbo was also a good friend of Maglor’s.”

“And who are you to my son?” Fëanor asked. He still hadn’t used the handkerchief for its intended purpose, instead folding it over and over in his fingers as though he could not bear to keep his hands still. “Child of Sirion, lord of Imladris—I remember your face. I have seen it in the tapestries of Vairë.”

It was very strange to imagine his own face adorning the walls of Mandos, of being woven into the story of the world by Vairë’s own hands, though he knew he should not have been surprised; he’d been on the edges of or at the center of too many things for that. Still, he could not picture his own face rendered in thread. “If you have seen me in the tapestries, you must know that your son raised my brother and me.”

“I know he took you from the ruins of Sirion after he and his brothers set them aflame.”

“He did,” Elrond said. He found himself unsure how to explain—every other time he’d had to, it had been to someone who already knew him well, who would understand at least something of the things he could not put into words. “He also loved us,” he said finally, thinking of those rare days of sunshine when they’d find a hillside to sit on and sing together, Maglor guiding their small hands over the harp strings; of the soft lullabies and quiet reassurances in the dark, when the wind had been sharp and cold, and wolves had howled in the distance. Maglor had braided their hair and taught them the names of the stars and of all the trees and flowers and herbs they encountered, and how to take the first steps in harnessing the power that lay coiled in them, how to bring it forth into their music and their voices; he had been forever stepping between Elrond and Elros and whatever dangers they encountered in war-torn Beleriand, whether it was orcs or beasts or just a thunderstorm.

He remembered, the same day they had parted, after Maglor had refused to go with them to join Gil-galad, how a storm had swept over them and they only barely managed to find shelter before the downpour hit. Elrond had not been a child then, but he had still reached for Maglor, more than once, before remembering that he was no longer there. It was not something he regretted, going to join the fighting—for he had witnessed the downfall of Ancalagon and the breaking of Thangorodrim, had seen Morgoth brought out in chains—but it had been difficult to learn to live with that particular empty spot in his heart. It had been worse after Elros had sailed away, when Elrond had gone looking as long and as far as he could, and had not even heard the echo of a voice on the sea breeze. 

“I don’t know how to explain it in a way you will understand,” he said finally, aware that Fëanor was watching him, his gaze as sharp as the swords he had once forged. “He was not our father, and he never tried to be. But he raised us and he loved us, and we loved him—I love him as I love my parents and my children. My children love him, too, and my grandchildren—” 

“Grandchildren?” Fëanor repeated quietly.

“I have never met them,” Elrond said, “and I never shall. My daughter—we are peredhil, Fëanor. I and my children are descended from both Elves and Men through both Elwing and Eärendil, and when my parents first came to these shores they were given a Choice. They chose the life of the Eldar. My brother Elros chose the Gift of Men, and so did my daughter Arwen.” He lifted his gaze to Fëanor’s, and saw his jaw go slack with horror. It was not unexpected: Fëanor had never known a world where death was not horrific, was not something that went against the proper order of everything. He had died before the first Men ever awoke beneath the first sunrise. “There is no one who lived in Middle-earth who is not familiar with such grief,” Elrond said. “That is the purpose for this garden. We carry the memory of those we loved with us, always, and this is a place to come to remember that we do not bear the weight of that sorrow alone.”

“But how can you…” Fëanor faltered, as Elrond suspected no one else had ever seen, except perhaps his father or Nerdanel. “How do you bear it, such a separation—forever? From your own child?”

“Maglor asked me that once,” Elrond said. Fëanor turned away. “It was many years before Arwen made her choice; we were speaking of Elros. My answer to him has not changed: I bear it because I must.” They had been speaking then, he and Maglor, of Maedhros and Maglor’s other brothers as well; Maglor had never expected to see them again, any more than Elrond would see Elros; Elrond had disagreed, but there hadn’t been much he could say to offer reassurance. They had not known, could not have known, that Maedhros had already been released from the Halls. There wasn’t much he could do or say now, either, when Maglor had arrived in Valinor to find all of them alive after all. “In Middle-earth I could care for Elros’ children, those who survived the fall of Númenor. I could not do the same for Arwen; I could not stay for her, after the power of the Rings was done. Here I can only carry the memory of her in my heart, as do all others who knew and loved her. Your grief, Fëanor, is not so singular now as it once was.”

“So I see,” Fëanor murmured. “I do not know if that is a comfort. I would not wish it upon anyone.”

“Maglor stayed, when I couldn’t,” Elrond said. “He stayed with Arwen and Aragorn and he knew their children; he did it for my sake, and also for theirs. He did many terrible things in Beleriand, but that was long ago, and even at the end he never fully lost himself. He has always reached out, ever since I have known him—he has never closed off his heart, not from anyone. No, not even from you,” he said when Fëanor shook his head. “He loves you; that is why his pain runs so deep.”

“I never meant for any of it to happen,” Fëanor said. “I never wanted any of that—not for my children.”

“It is what happened,” Elrond said quietly. “There is no undoing it now; you can only move forward. What will you do now?”

Fëanor’s expression turned briefly sardonic. “What would you advise me to do?”

“Would you take my advice if I gave it?”

“I should have taken it earlier,” Fëanor said. “Are you so surprised? I can admit when I am wrong.”

“That has, historically, not been the case,” Elrond said. 

To his surprise, Fëanor laughed. “And there are few who would say so to my face.”

“There may be more than you think,” said Elrond. “Fingon spoke truly when he said he had faced more frightening things than you. All of us have. But if you would hear my counsel, I will give it: take some time and rest; there is a room here for you if you wish to take it. Then, when you have rested, speak to your brother, and if you cannot be friends at least make peace.”

“Your counsel echoes Námo’s,” Fëanor remarked.

“Do not make your children take sides in this life,” said Elrond. “I do not think you will like which one they choose.”

“I have no desire for the crown; Nolofinwë can keep it. I have no desire either to take your father’s star from the sky,” he added, to Elrond’s surprise; he had expected the subject to be avoided entirely, at least for the time being. “I did not make the Silmarils to hoard them away, though I forgot that in the end. I did not come from Mandos to do any of the things you all seem to fear I will do.”

“Can you blame us?” Elrond asked.

“No.” Fëanor looked away, back toward the graves. “I will follow your advice,” he said, “if you will tell me what has befallen Canafinwë. He has scars that I do not recognize, and when I last saw him in the tapestries, when he boarded the ship…” He trailed off, gaze going distant, brow furrowing. “He was woven strangely. I do not understand it.”

“I will tell you,” Elrond said, “but it will go more smoothly, perhaps, if you read Bilbo and Frodo’s book first. It will explain much of what went on in Middle-earth at the end of the Third Age. Maglor does not appear in it, for he played no part in the Quest of Erebor or the War of the Ring, but it will help you understand what befell him—and for my part it will make the telling easier.”

Fëanor’s mouth twitched. “And this book will explain to me what hobbits are?”

“Oh, yes. It was written by hobbits, after all.”

Elrond showed Fëanor to the room prepared for him. It was not large, but it was cozy, decorated with warm colors and a tiled mosaic upon one wall that showed the sunset over Tirion. “I will find a copy of the Red Book for you,” Elrond said. “Will you join us downstairs this evening, or would you prefer to dine alone?”

“Alone, I think,” Fëanor said. “Thank you—for all you have done for Canafinwë.”

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” Elrond said. “He is my family.”

He retreated to the library to find the book, and after a moment’s thought he took two copies off of the shelf—one in Quenya, the other in Westron. If nothing else, Fëanor might enjoy learning a new language. “Doing a bit of light reading, Elrond?” Gandalf asked, coming around the corner. 

“I thought Fëanor might benefit from catching up on recent history. What did you say to Maglor before he left?”

“Only wished him a good journey,” Gandalf said. Elrond did not believe him for an instant. “How did your own talk with Fëanor go?”

“Better than Maglor’s, I suppose. I hope if you plan to meddle you’ll give me some warning beforehand.”

Gandalf laughed. “No, no meddling from me. Let Fëanor and Fingolfin have it out between them as brothers should. I am hopeful, though, that they will find common ground. I think I will stay a while and see how it all plays out. Will he be joining us for supper?”

“No. I rather think he wants to avoid Fingolfin until both of them are ready—and he’s already had a rather trying day.”

“I imagine being shouted at by Maglor would give anyone a headache,” Gandalf said. 

When Elrond left the library he found Celebrimbor waiting for him. “How is he?” 

“Rather subdued,” Elrond said. “I did not tell him you are here, but I think he’ll be glad to see you. Do you want to take these to him for me?”

“The Red Book?” Celebrimbor looked amused as he took them. “In two languages?”

“I thought it would be a welcome distraction. It will also help him better understand Middle-earth, I think—better than Vairë’s tapestries maybe.”

“Yes,” Celebrimbor agreed. “The tapestries show much, but but that is all they do—there is rarely anyone there to explain who the strange faces are, or what precisely is happening or why. I will take these, and answer whatever questions he has, since I played no small part in it all.”

“I haven’t told him what happened to Maglor,” Elrond said. “I told him I would once he’s read these. It will make it harder to hear, maybe, but he’ll understand some things a little better.” Like why Maglor had been left to suffer for so long before the White Council had acted. Elrond was not eager to explain that. Maglor had never blamed any of them for it; Maglor had never imagined anyone would come for him at all. Fëanor would likely not be so forgiving.

“I can reassure him that Maglor is well, these days. Or mostly well, anyway,” Celebrimbor said.

“It has been hard for him to come here,” Elrond said. “To learn that all of his brothers and his father are alive again. I think he more than half-believed they had never come to Mandos at all. It’s…it’s hard enough to come and find the ones you’ve mourned for so long alive again, even if you know to expect it.”

“Yes, I know,” Celebrimbor said. “I feel that way myself sometimes—and I was one of the dead who returned.” He tilted his head a little, strands of hair falling across his forehead. “It’s strange how grief sinks in so deeply, compared to everything else. How it becomes a part of you, even when the reasons for it are no more.”

“It changes, I think, rather than going away,” Elrond said. “I don’t grieve the people anymore, but I grieve their absence in all the years that I lived without them, and I grieve that they died at all. It’s a lighter grief, though. Easier to carry. It’s just a matter of getting over the shock.”

“Do you think Maglor will? Get over the shock?”

“I hope he will.”

When Elrond retreated to their room he found Celebrían, and she breathed a sigh of relief when he told her Fëanor would not be joining the rest of them for dinner. “I think Celebrimbor might stay with him,” Elrond said. “At least I hope so.”

“At least someone is glad to see him,” Celebrían said ruefully. “Oh, what a mess.”

“It could be worse,” Elrond said. “At least no one is armed. And if we can maneuver them right, we can ensure that if something goes wrong when Fingolfin and Fëanor finally speak whoever is at fault can be pushed into the fishpond.” Celebrían tried valiantly not to laugh, but that lasted only a few seconds. “I’m sure Finrod will help,” Elrond added.

“Oh, stop!” Celebrían slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “We should take this seriously.”

“We can take it seriously and use the terrain to our advantage,” Elrond said. He did not feel like being serious anymore—he’d had enough of that for one day, and he wanted to hear Celebrían’s laughter.

“And what about the poor fish, hm?”

“The fish will be fine, I’m sure.” Elrond kissed her through the giggles. “And more to the point, it’s impossible to be dignified or threatening when you’re soaking wet with duckweed in your hair.”

“Surely there’s a better way to end an argument between them than that,” Celebrían said.

“I’m sure they’ve all been tried,” said Elrond. “I’ll do the pushing, if it comes to it—whichever one of them needs it. Or both of them! Do you doubt my wisdom, Celebrían? You were boasting of it to Finrod only this morning.”

She was laughing again. “No. I think others will, if they hear of this.”

“Surely true wisdom does not care what others think of it,” Elrond said.

“Well, at least we can laugh about it now. How was Maglor when he left?”

“Troubled, but trying to hide it,” Elrond said. “I heard him say something about not wanting to shatter all your windows.”

“Considerate of him,” Celebrían murmured, and sighed, leaning into Elrond’s arms. He kissed the top of her head. “He went alone?”

“Huan is with him.”

“But no one else?”

“He did not wish for company.” Elrond sighed. “He said to look for him when autumn is waning.”

“Do you think he’ll really come back?” Celebrían drew back, all traces of laughter gone from her. “It would not be the first time he disappeared.”

“I’m worried about Maglor for several reasons, but whether he will disappear is not one of them. He promised me once that he wouldn’t, and he invoked that promise again today. Either he’ll be back by wintertime, or he will send a message to tell me of his changing plans. And even if he had not promised, I do not think Huan will let him just disappear.”

“You know him best, of course,” said Celebrían, and sighed. “Well, I had hoped for a restful summer here with our boys, but I suppose we’ll have to have a restful winter instead if all goes well.”

“If it isn’t restful, at least it’s interesting. It’s too bad Fëanor did not come back years ago; Bilbo would have been delighted to meet him.”