Chapter Text
"That's weird," said Tuor. "There's a letter for us. I didn't think anyone knew we lived here, since we've only been around for two years."
Idril peered over his shoulder. "Looks official. Why don't you open it while I start making some bread, now that we've got ingredients?"
Tuor opened the letter as she bustled off into the tiny kitchen of their cottage to begin the day's baking. His eyes widened as he read.
"To Princess Itarillë Rehtarë Celebrindal and Lord Tuor Ulmondil, a message from the Halls of Mandos:
It is our duty to inform you that Maeglin Lómion is soon to be returned to life, barring unforeseen complications. As parties affected by his release from Mandos, you are asked to attend a meeting on the first of Nénimë at the Nuruo Nammar.
It is additionally our duty to inform you that Írissë Ar-Feiniel has, in expectation of this meeting, returned from Mandos, and been released into the care of the Hunt of Oromë.
Please contact us if you have any questions.
This letter sent by the Office of the Returned."
"My love?" said Tuor. "I think we need to start packing for a trip."
Idril settled in her chair at the meeting-place and cast an eye over the few others in attendance. Aredhel, of course, who had probably arrived first, Rôg who had been returned some time ago, as well as a number of the other Lords of Gondolin, Elwing standing in for Eärendil because he needed to rest, a number of former members of the House of the Mole, and Finarfin.
None of them were likely to argue that Maeglin shouldn't return, or at least none of them would say it unless someone else said it first, especially with Aredhel in the room.
Good.
A somewhat harried-looking Maia entered the chamber, carrying a number of files in her arms. She placed one of the thicker ones on the table at the head of the room, then cleared her throat.
"Excuse me!" she called, and the room quieted. "Welcome to the outer administrative center of the Halls of Mandos, my name is Huinelalmë. Thank you all for coming." She placed the stack of other files down and opened the one set aside earlier, scanning it with quick eyes, and looked up with a pleasant smile. "Now then, let us get started. Lord Námo has determined that Prince Maeglin Lómion, after long reflection and sincere repentance, is to be released from the Halls. This will occur in approximately a year's time in case any preparation is needed. If there is any concern or objection, let it be spoken."
Silence fell, but furtive glances around the room abounded. Idril stood to speak.
"I have no objection, and neither does my husband," she said, "but there is concern. I know that those in the Halls find their peace and healing at their own pace, but given how deeply unwell he was at our last meeting, this feels too soon. I'm sure I'm not the only one to be concerned for his readiness." She sat down again to a general murmur of agreement and tried to ignore how intently Aredhel was looking at her. She took Tuor's hand.
"Thank you, your highness," said Huinelalmë with a respectful nod. "I can assure you that he has made significant progress, and expressed a desire to return to life and make amends, which tends to indicate that further healing will most readily be done outside our Halls. For confidentiality reasons, I can't go into any more detail, but I hope this sets your mind at rest."
Elwing stood next. "I have two statements to give. First, as Queen of Doriath and his nearest kinswoman on the Sindarin side of the family, I approve of his return. Those of my people on these shores would appreciate his insight on aiding the survivors and returned victims of Nan Elmoth, and his testimony should it ever become necessary to prosecute someone who yet lives, or who by our laws may still be tried after reembodiment." She paused. "Secondly, I bring my husband Eärendil's statement. He wishes it to be known that he has granted his forgiveness to Maeglin and has no objection to his return."
"Thank you, your majesty," said Huinelalmë as Elwing sat down. "These wishes will be relayed to him. Has anyone else present any concern, objection, or condition?"
There was silence.
"Wonderful," said Huinelalmë. "Then things will proceed as planned. However, since the initial announcement, we have had other concerns raised about his return by those his actions harmed, who would feel unsafe were he given complete freedom. Therefore, Prince Lómion shall only be released if someone takes responsibility for him."
Aredhel opened her mouth to speak, and was cut off.
"Someone other than Princess Aredhel," she clarified. "Due to being his mother, there's a conflict of interest."
"What would this entail?" asked Idril.
"Confinement to a single house except when supervised," said Huinelalmë. "In addition, there would be a spell placed to keep him from escaping, causing increasing discomfort if he does not have some brief physical contact with his -- jailer, for lack of a better word, for more than four days. These restrictions will be relaxed in time."
"We can do that," said Idril immediately. "We'll build a nice tower with plenty of space, and he can move in."
Tuor squeezed her hand.
"Good thing I've already thought about the perfect tower design for the three of us," said Idril, spreading a blueprint across the table of the small cottage she shared with Tuor. "And that most people have no idea we were dating. Do you think we can give him the top floor, or would that be insensitive?"
"We can go ask, can't we? She said to contact the Halls with any questions," he said. "Do we have a plan of what to do when he gets here?"
She flicked him on the shoulder. "I always have a plan! Step one is we get him here, step two, he apologizes, step three, we talk like adults and decide if we still want to be in a relationship."
"And step four is a full week of make-up sex."
"You said it, not me," she said. "And that's only if we do decide to get back together."
"The only reason for that to happen is him not apologizing," said Tuor. "You want him back as much as I do."
"Well, I want to punch him first. And make him cook dinner. Valar, I miss his cooking," she said. "We'll also need to schedule a time for him to apologize to Eärendil, but that can wait till he's settled in."
"Sounds perfect."
Maeglin hesitated on the threshold. "Are you sure?"
Huinelalmë sighed. "Yes. You are to return to life, and no harm will come to you. I know the restrictions have already been explained to you, so I will not be repeating them."
"Fine. Okay."
He stepped out into life, and immediately fell down.
A pair of familiar (too familiar, terrifyingly familiar, death-familiar--) arms caught him. He tried to remember how to breathe, looked up, and forgot all over again.
"Hello again," said Tuor, almost smiling. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Fine," said Maeglin, trying to gain composure. "Let me up."
He was soon set on his feet again, trying not to wobble. Hopefully walking would prove easier; it was just controlled and continuous forward falling, wasn't it?
(Was it his imagination, or had Tuor's hands lingered on him?)
"Thank you," he said, refusing to meet his former lover's eyes. "We should -- we should get going. It's a long way to the coast."
Tuor backed away. "Right. Let's do that."
They walked in silence for an hour before anyone spoke.
"We'll be passing through the Calacirya eventually," said Idril. "Do you want to stop to rest in Tirion that day or stay somewhere else?"
"I'd rather not go to Tirion," he said, forcing casualness to hide his terror at the thought of being in such a public and populated place. She was probably reading his mind anyway.
"If that's what you want," she said. He refused to analyze her tone.
It would be weeks before they reached his new prison, where he'd be obliged to share a house with people who no longer loved him and stay there forever. Tirion would delay that, but only at the cost of making his presence known.
(Besides, who would house him there? He had to be supervised at all times, but none of the family would want him around; it was a miracle anyone had agreed to be his jailer given that his mother had been barred from it.)
"It's time to rest," said Idril later as the sun began to climb in the sky. "The eyes are particularly sensitive after being returned, they say, so we'll be traveling at night as much as possible. We've got a tent so it's not too bright."
"I can sleep in daylight," said Maeglin. "Maybe in a tree so I'll have shade. It's not going to rain or anything." He couldn't be that close to them, so inconsiderate as to invade their space (bad enough they had to touch him every few days), and he wanted as much fresh air as possible before being locked up for good. This was the right choice.
"Will that be comfortable?" asked Tuor.
Why would that matter? "It can be. I'm used to it."
He had enough of his coordination back to scale the tree and find a place among its boughs, and once he'd lain down, enough mental presence to realize that they were traveling in darkness for his comfort. Why bother? He'd spent over a century in a blindingly white city; he could handle a few weeks of daylight, and it was far too kind of them to make such a concession when Tuor couldn't see in the dark. He was grateful for it, but there was really no need.
He woke that evening to his balance failing on the branch, the second reminder of his death in as many days as he toppled and only just managed to grab the branch before falling. He tried not to let out an undignified squeak.
This was not a cliff. He could climb back up, and even if he fell it was no great distance. So why was he frozen, unable to move?
A shaky gasp burst free of his lips, and he lost his grip. He shut his eyes tight. Last time he'd made the mistake of leaving them open, which had let him see, see every detail of what he had wrought, every bit of fear and hate on the faces of those he should've protected.
This was a tree. He would be fine. The ground wasn't far, it only felt like it was far because he hadn't hit it yet.
(He would be fine, yes. But there was something else he hadn't told anyone about, something else the first fall had also destroyed--)
It was different arms that caught him, this time. When he opened his eyes, Idril was holding him bridal style.
He did squeak this time.
"I don't think you should be sleeping in trees, if this always happens," she said.
He scowled. "I'm out of practice. Put me down."
She set him gently on the ground. "There. Do you want to eat now? Can you walk?"
"I am fine. And not hungry."
"Not even going to insult my cooking? You must be unwell."
He drew in on himself and said nothing. She could say what she wanted, and act like nothing had changed, but he never could; he'd be rightfully censured if he tried. Better not to talk at all.