Clear Pebbles of the Rain by StarSpray

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Fifteen

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“You mean it worked after all?” Elladan’s smile was sudden and bright.

“It did,” Elrond said. He hadn’t doubted that his power was enough to undo Sauron’s curse, but he had not counted on it fighting back in the way that it had—and he had not quite finished when Maglor had jerked back from him, so quickly and forcefully that he’d fallen and struck his head hard enough that Elrond had feared a concussion. The bruises that had formed later, Elrond suspected, were a recreation of Sauron’s own hand around Maglor’s throat—but he did not wish to ask Maglor about it. Perhaps one day it would become necessary for Maglor to speak of what had happened in Dol Guldur, but Elrond would not push him, for both of their sakes. He did not think he could bear to hear it; bad enough that he could see the scars and lingering pain.

“Ada, are you well?” Elrohir asked. They were walking through the rose garden, the three of them. Elrohir linked his arm through Elrond’s and leaned on his shoulder.

“Yes.” Elrond summoned a smile for him. “Of course I am.” He had just been unprepared for his own painful past to rear its head with Maglor’s arrival in Rivendell; his head was filled with memories that he usually kept locked away, of those bittersweet years when he and Elros had been raised by Maglor in the wilds, always looking for a place of safety and relative peace, but never finding it for very long. He’d dreamed of Elros the night before, as he had not done for many years. His brother was never far from his thoughts, but it was not often that the old grief sharpened itself as it had lately. The dream had been a pleasant one, though—they had been singing on a sunny hillside with Maglor as children, something they’d done as often as possible, whenever it was safe enough. The grief was in the waking. That was all his own burden to bear; neither Elladan nor Elrohir needed to be troubled by it.

And it was springtime, and Celebrían’s apple orchard was in bloom. That grief was sibling to the other, like but unlike, and newer—still at times as fresh as though she had departed the Havens yesterday. He missed her desperately, always; lately even the smell of the apple blossoms brought tears to his eyes alongside the memory of her bright laughter like silver bells, and the flash of her smile. She would have welcomed Maglor, and perhaps known even better than Elrond how to put him at ease.

Elsewhere in the valley preparations were beginning for Midsummer celebrations. Everyone knew that Gandalf intended to return sometime soon, and there was much talk of his fireworks and hopes that he would bring some in time for the holiday. It would last all the long day and all the short night, with singing and dancing and feasting; the kitchens were already busy. Elrond himself had little to do beyond his usual daily tasks (and even those were half taken over by Erestor, so he could turn his attention to other things), besides tell Estel that yes, this year he would be permitted to go hunting with Elladan and Elrohir.

He did so at lunch, and Estel leaped up from the table with whoop to throw his arms around Elrond’s neck, and then Gilraen’s, and then jump and spin around in excitement while Elladan and Elrohir laughed at him. “Why do you suppose we brought you a new bow and hunting knife, Estel?” Elrohir said, grabbing him as he went by. “You cannot go hunting unarmed!”

“But you must be careful,” Gilraen said; she had agreed to this trip only reluctantly, knowing that Estel would have to venture beyond the valley sooner or later, “and do what you’re told.”

“Yes, I know!” Estel said. “I will, I promise!” His eyes were shining, and he could not seem to stop smiling. “When are we leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” Elladan said. “So you can sit down and finish your lunch, Estel.”

“How can I eat when I’m so excited?” But Estel sat down, and in spite of his excitement he finished his meal and had seconds. Elrond smiled to see it, remembering when Elladan and Elrohir were of a comparable age, always on the edge of another growth spurt and always hungry. He remembered being eleven and always hungry—but those memories were not so kind, and he preferred not think on them. Instead he leaned back in his seat and listened to the teasing and the banter across the table between his sons and Gilraen, and sipped at his wine.

After lunch Elrond walked up to the orchard, and soon was joined by Estel. “Ada, I just remembered,” Estel said, taking Elrond’s hand, “that there were trolls on the road last year.”

“Yes, but they’re no more than statues now,” said Elrond. “Didn’t your friend Mr Baggins tell you about it?”

“Yes, but what if there are more?” Estel asked.

“I don’t think there are. I would have heard of it.” Elrond released Estel’s hand and put his arm around his shoulders instead. “And you will not be going north on your hunting trip, but south.” Elladan and Elrohir would never take Estel anywhere near the Ettenmoors—not until he was more than old enough to defend himself. And even then, Elrond knew he would always worry, and Gilraen would always fear—but he was not worried about this trip; the lands were as safe as they could ever be in these days. “There will be nothing to use your bow on but game. But I do,” he added with a smile, “want you to forage for healing herbs while you are out. Collect as many different kinds as you can, and show them to me when you come back.” There would be times when Estel would have no choice but to rely on what he could find in the wilds, and the sooner he grew accustomed to looking, the better. They had done this many times before within the valley, making a game of it, but it would be a greater challenge outside of it where he did not yet know the lands so well. Estel brightened at the idea, though it did not hold quite the same excitement as a hunt with his brothers. Elrond extracted another promise from him to stay close to Elladan or Elrohir when he was looking for his plants, which Estel gave over his shoulder as he left the orchard, his fear of trolls banished and his excitement returned.

It was only after Estel was out of sight that Maglor appeared, slipping out from behind one of the trees. Elrond had not known he was there, but he wasn’t surprised to see him. The orchard in springtime was a popular place to walk. They fell into step beside one another without speaking, heading deeper into the orchard. There were so many things that Elrond wanted to ask, so many things he had imagined himself asking, or demanding, when he finally saw Maglor again. When he had been younger those imagined conversations had been more like confrontations, when he had been angry, furious at Maglor—for not going with them to Gil-galad, for stealing the Silmarils, for disappearing without a trace. For not being there when Elros had sailed away, or when Elros had died.

That anger had faded long ago, replaced by grief, and then even that had dulled into a longing that he could set aside and put out of his mind for years at a time, though he had never forgotten it. He had always kept that room ready, just in case.

Now, though—there was too much to know where to start.

Finally, he settled on, “Why did you never come back?”

Maglor looked at him. It was so hard to read his face. “I would not have been welcomed in Lindon,” he said. His voice sounded better already, less hoarse, much closer to what it was in Elrond’s memory.

That was true enough, at least in the beginning. But— “Did you ever—didn’t you ever hear us? Calling to you? Did you never see the signs of us searching for you?”

“No. I didn’t…it never occurred to me that you would look. That anyone would look.”

Somehow that stung. “Of course we looked.”

“Galadriel told me.” Maglor looked away. He rubbed his thumb over the scars on his palm as he walked. “I have no good answers for you, Elrond. I am sorry.” He stopped, and Elrond’s feet carried him another couple of steps before he also stopped, and turned. “I’m sorry for all of it,” Maglor said. His eyes were bright with unshed tears as he met Elrond’s gaze. A glimmer of ancient Treelight remained in them, behind the shadows of guilt and the sorrow and the pain. The bruises on his throat had faded overnight to a sickly yellow.

“You are forgiven,” Elrond said. “I forgave you all of it long ago.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t care.”

They stared at each other for a few moments more. Maglor was the one to look away, a few strands of hair falling forward over his eyes, though it was not long enough to hide them entirely. “Did Elros?” The question was a whisper, the name hovering between them, quivering like the last lingering note in a song.

Elrond knew the answer, but he knew also it wasn’t his to give. “Come with me,” he said, reaching out to take Maglor’s hand, stopping him from digging his thumbnail into the scars. Maglor followed without protest, back down to the house and up the stairs to Elrond’s private study. It was not a large room; it had been his bedroom back when the house had first been built, when it was still a hodgepodge of rooms and slanting corridors built with only warmth and solid walls and roofs in mind. His bedroom now was the room next door, much more spacious and finely furnished. The furniture in the study was older and simpler, sturdy and plain. He went to a chest tucked between two bookcases, underneath a window that looked out toward the orchard. Maglor lingered by the door, looking around with curiosity and reluctance, as though he wasn’t sure he was really permitted to be there.

There were few things inside the chest. One was a tattered satchel, and another a letter sitting on top of it, written on torn scraps of parchment fished out of the hold of one of Círdan’s ships. It was sealed with a thumbprint pressed into poorly-rendered beeswax, and the ink inside, Elrond remembered had been made of crushed berries. “He asked me to give this to you before he sailed away west,” he said, taking the letter back across the room to Maglor. Maglor took it, holding it as carefully as though it were made of delicate crystal. “I think he expected me to find you much sooner than I did.” And indeed, Elrond hadn’t found him at all. He had stopped looking. Perhaps if he hadn’t stopped…but no. Those kinds of what-ifs were never useful. Still, the thought that he might have prevented Maglor’s capture if he had just tried a little harder for a little longer remained in the back of his mind, like a painful itch he couldn’t scratch.

“Thank you,” Maglor said softly, as he traced the whorls of Elros’ thumbprint in the wax. All that he said was soft and quiet, as though he was afraid to speak any louder for fear of—what? Of being heard? This timid and fragile Maglor was still a stranger to Elrond, and he did not know how to help. Ridding him of Sauron’s final curse had been easier than Elrond had feared; banishing the clinging remnants of the Black Breath was easier still, for it was an ailment Elrond knew well. Most of the scars on his body would fade with time. But not all of his despair could be blamed on the Nazgûl, and for that there was only so much athelas—so much Elrond could do.

“Maglor,” he said, hearing the helplessness in his own voice and wishing he could hide it better. Maglor needed his strength, not his weakness. “Is there something—anything—what can I do?” It was an inane and meaningless question, but he couldn’t form a better one.

Maglor set the letter on the desk as he stepped into the room. This time he folded Elrond into his embrace, rather than the other way around. Elrond had almost forgotten that Maglor was still taller than he was, since Maglor held himself so small these days. It was a strange role reversal, to be the comforted rather than the comforter. Not since Celebrían—

He was clutching at Maglor in a manner not befitting the Master of Imladris, but rather in the same way he had as a child—always then there had been something to fear. He could not remember exactly when Maglor had stopped being one of those things, and started to be the one safe port in the storm of war and darkness that was Beleriand in those days. Maglor with his quiet lullabies and soft reassurances, who insisted upon teaching them penmanship and poetry alongside the dirtiest tricks he knew with a knife. Who had braided their hair and taught them the names of the stars and constellations, and who was always stepping between them and whatever danger they might encounter, whether it was orcs or wild beasts or even just the rain.

In adulthood, that was what Elrond had tried to become, to be a teacher and a healer and a shelter from storms of all kinds. Most days he thought that he had succeeded. But sometimes it felt as though he was still that scared child in the wilds of Beleriand, only without his brother or his guardian to hold on to.

“You have already done so much,” Maglor said. “All I can ask you for now is your patience. My ghosts and my past—they are my own burden to bear.”

“They do not have to be,” Elrond said.

Maglor drew back, a small sad smile crossing his face for a moment. “They are,” he said. “I will keep my shadows to myself. They have no place in this valley.”

“Maglor…”

“I am proud of you, you know,” Maglor said suddenly. He pressed a kiss to Elrond’s forehead. “Of all that you are and all that you’ve done—you and Elros both. I’m sorry that I was not here to say so before.” He took the letter up again and left the study. Elrond caught himself twisting his ring—not Vilya, his wedding ring—around and around his finger, and forced himself to stop. He turned to close the chest, pausing to run his fingers lightly over the worn leather of the satchel inside. It was all that the chest held, aside from a small box of seashells and one or two other oddments that Elrond had managed to keep from his youth. Elros had taken all of the important heirlooms; Elrond had had no use for them. These were just memories, good and bad. He shut the lid and locked it. The past felt too close just then for him to want to linger over the tangible remnants of it.

It used to be that he could seek out Celebrían, wherever she was, when the past grew heavy. She did not carry the weight of those dark years, but she knew how to banish it, with her flowers and her laughter, and the sunlight and starlight on her silver hair, and with softer words and quiet wisdom whispered in the darkest watches of the night. But she was not there, and somehow Elrond could still not remember what he had done before he’d met her.

He went to find Glorfindel and Erestor instead, to be distracted by merriment and the plans for Midsummer.