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Chapter Text

“Ah!  Mister Felagund!”

Finrod smiled as he turned, hands clasped before him.  “Mister Baggins.  Good morning to you!” 

“And a very fine morning to you, sir!” Bilbo came down along the garden path with his walking stick and a book tucked under his arm.  The light fragrance of blooming flowers wafted along beside him as he walked.  Carefree bees lazily crossed his path, and the occasional butterfly flitted about.  “I was on my way to return this volume to Lord Glorfindel.  You look to be on your way to the stables as well.”

“Indeed, though not to visit the esteemed horselord of the valley,” said Finrod.  His bright clothing had attracted more than one insect to land on him that morning and have a go at collecting pollen or nectar.  At least one garden cat had approached, curious about the shiny things he wore.  “I have plans to travel tomorrow, to see my sister and grand-niece in Lothlórien.  As I have myself no horse to travel with, Master Lindir has kindly given me leave to take his mount on the journey.  I thought I might pay her a visit today.”  He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out two small apples.  “Master Elrond warned me she can be feisty, but I am not above bribing horses.” 

“Ah, yes.  Well, I prefer ponies myself, and not just due to the size.  Cheerful, agreeable creatures, ponies are.  Horses have minds of their own sometimes.  Much better suited for Elves and Men,” said Bilbo.  

He was now caught up to Finrod, and the pair continued along the path–Bilbo with his walking stick digging into the dirt, shuffling along as they chatted, and Finrod stepping lightly as he went, still of interest to the creatures of the garden.  “I imagine the book is for the translations you have been working on,” said Finrod.  

“Of course, dear boy, of course it is.  I have been working on Gondolin this month.  I find it rather fascinating that they had so many different houses and governmental systems in one place.  And such a small place!  Lord Glorfindel has explained to me how they would build up, up, up, and later, digging down, down, down, because they had established the borders and walls early on, and then just grew beyond their expectations. I was truly surprised when he told me the population was over one hundred and seventy thousand!  Can you imagine?”

“I–yes, I can,” said Finrod.  “We had close to a quarter of a million people in Nargothrond.” 

“I have seen the maps, dear sir,” said Bilbo.  He paused and used the tip of his walking stick to draw in the middle of the road.  “Here was the expanse of Beleriand.  And here you were,” said Bilbo, defining the borders of Nargothrond on the ground.

“Quite right,” said Finrod as he watched.  A robin flew down from one of the trees and watched as well. 

Bilbo then hovered the walking stick over his crude map.  “And Gondolin, by Glorfindel’s accounts, would have been…here.” He poked the ground with the walking stick, and created a divot in the dirt. “Clearly, the land you had was vast.  Gondolin, on the other hand, was a single city, with everyone packed into what space they had.”

“Also true,” agreed Finrod as the robin hopped away to gather dry blades of grass from beneath a bush. . 

Bilbo continued on, stepping directly upon the map as he went.  Finrod stepped carefully around what was left of the map.  “I do believe I have a growing affinity for one of the Houses of Gondolin.  But we musn’t inform Lord Glorfindel of my loyalties.”

Finrod lifted his brow.  “Most of the Houses of Gondolin have excellent reputations.  The House of the Hammer of Wrath were known to be loyal; the House of the Fountain and the House of the Harp each were renowned for their appreciation of the arts, especially music.  I could go on, but I am sure you have learned much from Lord Glorfindel already if you have formed opinions about them.”

“I have, and that is why we musn’t tell,” said Bilbo.  “I am certain it comes from my heritage, and my appreciation of cozy places to live.  I do wish I might have seen Nargothrond.  Parts of it sound like a very large Hobbit hole.  Anyhow, Lord Glorfindel may refuse further interviews if he found out I was developing a connection to the house of his enemy.” 

“I think I have the answer to your riddle,” said Finrod.   “There were many positive qualities of the House of the Mole.  The later actions of one individual should not sully the reputation of an entire House.  I also caution against the belief that someone is evil or an enemy–yes, enemies exist, as does evil, but there are always additional circumstances to consider.”

“Interesting,” mused Bilbo.  “You would forgive Maeglin’s transgressions?” 

They had reached the stables and stood outside.  Finrod titled his head.  “You assume I have not already forgiven him.”  Finrod placed his hand on the handle of the door.  “His actions and words were not becoming of a Lord of Gondolin.  Yet, he is kin to me. Family is important. How long will we hold onto grudges, and how does that help us with the time we have?” 

Bilbo considered this.  “Some transgressions do not deserve forgiveness.”

Finrod shrugged.  “It is your decision to take your ire over the spoon incident to your grave.  Your choice.”  Finrod began to open the door, but Bilbo’s walking stick came up and kept the door from being opened. 

“How did you know I was referring to the spoons?”  Bilbo narrowed his eyes.  “You are not using your special mind powers on me, hmm?  Reading my thoughts?”

“No need.  You bring up the spoons at least twice a week.  Truly, I should commission Master Lindir to write the Ballad of Bilbo’s Silver Spoons.  Or perhaps it should be the Lament of Lobelia’s Luck?”

“Hmmph.”  Bilbo lowered his walking stick, and Finrod opened the door.  “It would play better as a jig, I think,” he said as he entered the stables. 

“Which one?”

“Either,” replied Bilbo.

Finrod chuckled and followed in after Bilbo.

Further back along the path, a lone figure stood looking down at the remnants of the map on the ground.  He pointed his toes and used the tip of his boot to outline several other realms from the First Age, lingering on his own.  Then he looked at Nargothrond, which had the imprints from Bilbo upon it.  He crouched down and cleaned up the map, then redrew the borders of Nargothrond.  Once done, he stood up and looked down at what he had recreated.  “I wonder if you will ever forgive me for what I did–what we all did to you.”

Chapter Text

“A merry morning to you, Mister Felagund!”

Finrod smiled to himself and paused his inner contemplations.  “Mister Baggins,” he said before he even turned around.  “I wish a most invigorating day to you as well.”

Bilbo shuffled along, catching his breath halfway but determined not to dally to reach his friend.  “I am motivated for action!” he said once he was a few feet from Finrod.  He leaned heavily upon his walking stick.  “My good friend, the Elvenking, sent a parcel for me.  It contains accounts from Doriath, and I think it will fill in the missing pieces of my translations quite nicely!”

“That is wonderful news.  Did you decide how to order the last four chapters you translated?  I know you were uncertain exactly where you wanted to present the tale of Túrin Turambar.”

Bilbo shook his head.  “The more I learn of that most unfortunate man, the more I believe he requires an entire book.  All in good time, my lad.  One work at a time.”  Bilbo smirked, and then motioned for Finrod to come a little closer.  Finrod did, and Bilbo whispered to him, “Though, I rarely take my own advice when it comes to matters of a literary nature.  I already have a second project I have taken up.”

“A dangerous adventure,” agreed Finrod, continuing to smile.  “I wager your translations still require another fifteen chapters to complete the tale of the Silmarils.”

“Mister Fëanorion believes another twenty to reach the end of the First Age.”

“He would know better than I,” conceded Finrod.  “I missed some of the most exciting parts.”

“Oh, but you sir were at the center of some of the exciting parts.”

“Not in the way I would have liked to have been,” Finrod admitted. 

Bilbo nodded, and smiled again.  “Would you like to know what my secondary project is?”

“Absolutely, my friend,” said Finrod. “What great adventures are you documenting in this second work?”

The end of the walking stick was raised and pointed in Finrod’s direction.  “Yours,” said Bilbo.

“Oh!” 

“Well, and the whole incident with the stolen silmaril–though, could it really be stolen from Morgoth if it was never his to begin with?  Possession is, of course, part of the consideration of law, but Morgoth claiming silmarils to be his is right on par with Lobelia claiming my spoons! Those two would have gotten on famously, I suppose, with their philosophy of ownership.”  Bilbo stopped and frowned.  “Have I offended you, Mister Felagund?”

Finrod quickly shook his head, though his smile was gone and his brow furrowed.  “You have not offended me, but I daresay, you may have offended Madam Lobelia.”

Bilbo blew air through fluttering lips and rolled his eyes. 

“What do you intend to share in your story?” Finrod asked. 

“Well you see, I was making some adjustments to the chapter you helped me to record, and it came to me that there was far more than could be contained in a single chapter.  So I am working on it to expand all of the details–Master Elrond has knowledge passed down from his family on Beren and Lúthien Tinúviel, and with Mister Fëanorion here, I can find out what news  Celegorm and Curufin brought back with them.  He has already been quite helpful with many of my questions.  And, as you have been such an excellent resource for other parts of my work, I was hoping I might interview you further.  If you are amenable.”

“Umm…”

Bilbo adjusted his stance to gain better support from the walking stick.  “The truth, Mister Felagund, is that I am even more aware now of my mortality.  In the Shire, with funerals for my friends from time to time, I did not notice it.  But here, where death is rarer and residents look upon me as if I am upon Mister Mandos’ doorstep, well, I am highly motivated to finish these projects.  And I think your contributions to Middle-earth should not be overlooked.  I have read enough texts and spoken to enough people to know that every other major event connects back to you.”

“No, it–”

“Now listen to me, lad,” said Bilbo sternly, and Finrod folded his hands together and silenced himself.  “Beren and Lúthien had to marry in order for Dior and his descendants to be born.” Bilbo waved a hand up the path where Elrond was walking with Maglor and Estel.  “And look now where we are.  No Elwing, no Elrond.  No Elwing, no end of the wars of the First Age.  No Elwing, no Middle-earth.  No Elwing, no Elros.  And I do not need to go through the whole line for you for you to know your sacrifice is what has brought peace twice to Middle-earth.  And I daresay, it may bring it again.”

Finrod lifted his hand and wiped away tears from both cheeks.  “Your words are too kind, Mister Baggins.  I only did what anyone else would have done in a similar situation.”

Bilbo leaned in and in a very low voice said one word. “Poppycock.”

Finrod pressed his lips together and half smiled. 

“Believe what you like, but it is the truth.  And really, why else would the Valar have sent you back as they did with Lord Glorfindel?  I believe you shall both have parts to play here before the end.”

Finrod lowered his gaze to the ground.  

“If you wish me not to write it, I will place it aside and say no more of the tale,” offered Bilbo.

With a sigh, Finrod shook his head.  “No.  I would not have you do that.  There are many whom I would not trust to write the tale.  You have a talent for storytelling and for truth.”

“Well...truth to a point,” muttered Bilbo, and he scratched his neck.  “Of course, when it comes to riddles, perhaps some of that is better amended.”

“If you wish to speak more on the quest, I am at your disposal,” said Finrod. 

“And I shall be in your debt,” said Bilbo.  “Just as the rest of Middle-earth is,” he added quickly, and then said, “Good day!” and headed off before any additional polite debate could occur.  

Finrod watched Bilbo continue along the path.  After a few minutes, he looked over his shoulder.  Elrond had been watching him most intently of those gathered up the pathway of the garden, and he now excused himself from his foster son and foster father to join Finrod where he was still standing.  “When your demeanor changes, it can be both physically seen and felt.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“Glorfindel does it as well.”  Elrond looked down the path where Bilbo was now a tiny figure in the distance, about to round a corner of the topiaries.  “Did he tell you about his latest project?”

“He did.”

Elrond nodded.  “I believe he has enough information that he need not bother you for more.”

Finrod tensed.  “He has some.  He does not know all of it.”

“Does he need all of it to write what he is writing?”  Elrond placed his hand upon Finrod’s shoulder.  “You have not told him why you are here.  You have made great progress.  You must consider whether this will harm you.”

Slowly, Finrod nodded.  “Of course, even if I regress, I have time to regain my balance.  What time does Mister Baggins have left?”

“Only Eru knows,” said Elrond.

Finrod gave Elrond a sideways look. 

“And those of us with focused foresight.”

“Exactly.”  Finrod looked down the path.  Bilbo was no longer in sight.  “He seemed focused on death again today.”

“He is not the only one.  It has been a bad year.”

Finrod now looked the other way on the path.  “How is Estel doing?”

“As well as can be expected.  We all knew his mother would pass someday; none of us expected it to happen so soon.”  Elrond bowed his head.  “She was a wise and wonderful woman.”

“She was.  I shall miss our conversations,” said Finrod.  “She reminded me much of Andreth.”  Finrod sighed.  “I did not realize Bilbo was that close to her.”

“He was not.  He received several letters the other day.  One was from Thranduil; he sent some notes for him, but he also sent tidings from the Kingdom of Dale.  King Bain, son of King Bard, passed away.  Bilbo knew Bain when Bain was a child.  Thranduil offered an escort to bring Bilbo into Rhovanion to attend the funerary rites, but Bilbo already spoke to me about it.  He does not have another adventure in him, and even traveling from here to the Greenwood can be dangerous.”

“So he has chosen not to go,” said Finrod.  “What if I were to aid with the escort?  And Glorfindel?  Surely, the two of us–”

“Uncle, I do not think he wants to go,” said Elrond.  “The letter from Thranduil was not the only one he received.  A letter came from the Shire as well.  Saradas Brandybuck, a cousin I believe, has also passed away.  Saradas was one of the guests at the last birthday party Bilbo had in the Shire, and he spoke very fondly of him.  When he received the news of Saradas and of Bain, he commented that everyone was dropping like flies, and when would he be next?”

“Then I should help him with his academic pursuits.”

“I did not mean for my words to sway you,” said Elrond.  “I am still concerned for your health.”

“The last nightmare was at least six months ago.”

Elrond set his hand upon Finrod’s shoulder again.  “Pace yourself.  And tell him why you are here.  He should know what he is asking, even if you are agreeing to it.”

“I will consider it,” said Finrod.  He looked back again to observe Estel and Maglor.  “It is good that they have developed such a strong bond.  He is a good grandfather.”

“He was a good father, too,” said Elrond.  He looked as well and waited a moment before he added, “You should talk to him.”

“I do not think we have anything to say to one another,” said Finrod quickly. 

Elrond crossed his arms over his chest.  “Just because you have all the time in the world does not mean you have to act like you do.”

“I was not the one who wronged him.  If he has something to say to me, he can come to me,” said Finrod. 

“He is not going to do that.  He is staying out of your way because he does not think he is worth your time.  He wishes to atone, but he does not believe he should be the one to begin the discussions.”

“Then you have your answer, Elrond.”  Finrod rubbed his head.  “Excuse me.  I am going to see if I can find Mister Baggins.  Please let Estel know that I am very sorry for his loss, and that I will seek him out later.  I am at his disposal if he needs me.”

“Or, you could take thirty paces and tell him yourself.”

Finrod stared at a tree.  “Not with him there.  You said it yourself.  I have made great progress; I need to protect myself.  Good day to you, Elrond.”

Elrond watched as Finrod briskly walked in the direction Bilbo had gone.  A minute later, Maglor was standing beside him.  “How is he today?”

“He says the nightmares stopped six months ago.”

Maglor shook his head.  “The only reason the nightmares stopped is because he stopped taking rest.  You do see the darkness beneath his eyes, do you not?”

“I know,” said Elrond.  “He has made progress, but he has a long way to go.”

“Have you considered giving him sedatives?”

“Absolutely not,” said Elrond.  “It would lock him into slumber with his demons.  At least if it does fall asleep now, he can be roused from it.”

“Memory suppression?”

“We tried tinctures.  We tried hypnotism.  I feel so long as Sauron’s name is spoken in these lands, Finrod will get no rest.”

“I wish there was something I could do,” said Maglor.

“You could talk to him,” suggested Elrond.  

“He does not want to speak to me,” said Maglor quickly.  “I will not do that to him.”

“He is not going to come to you, but I think the two of you need each other.”

“He has Galadriel.”

“He was never that close to Galadriel,” said Elrond.  “They were years apart in age; he was a grown man before she even existed, before he even perceived her in the future.  He is more like an uncle or dare I even suggest a father figure to her.  It is not like you and your siblings, and the closeness of your bond and ages.  You are his only contemporary here.”

“There is Glorfindel,” said Maglor.

“The same Glorfindel who sits up in my oak trees singing Tra La La Lally with Lindir when the two of them get into their cups?  Glorfindel was very young when he died, and he spent far longer in the Halls of Waiting than Finrod.  He has not only the looks of youth, he has the spirit of youth within him.”  Elrond reached out and squeezed Maglor’s arm.  “Go to him.  Speak with him.”

“I cannot,” said Maglor.  “I will not interrupt what peace he has.  Many times I have considered leaving and returning to the shores so that he can find the respite he needs.”  Maglor sighed.  “He will need to come to me.  I must excuse myself; Estel was going to find Arwen, and then the three of us are going to go for a ride along the Bruinen.”  Maglor offered Elrond a hug, and then walked away, leaving the lord of Imladris at the crossroads alone. 

Elrond rubbed his head, mumbled something about unwise Eldar, and chose the path which would lead him back to the homely house.

Chapter Text

“Mister Felagund!  We really must stop meeting thusly!”

“Why, Mister Baggins, what makes you think such meetings are only by chance?”  As per usual, Bilbo was carrying a book with him.  Today, Finrod had one, too.  “I have something for you,” Finrod.  They were walking towards one another; Bilbo taking each step carefully, and Finrod moving at least three paces forward for each that Bilbo took.  “I thought about your proposal,” said Finrod.  

“My proposal?”

“Your plans to record the entire story of Beren and Lúthien,” said Finrod. 

“Oh!  Oh, yes, I remember now.  We had that conversation about a decade ago,” recalled Bilbo.

“Has it been that long already?” 

“Indeed it has, my boy, indeed it has.”  Bilbo hunched over, walking stick clutched firmly.  “What have you there?  I have not seen that book before.”

“It is my personal recollections.  It is–”  Finrod took a deep breath.  “It is a diary of sorts; a diary in reverse, if you will.  My memories and my...demons.”  Finrod held it out.  “I recorded everything in here.  I...I only ask that you be...discrete when you choose what to include in your book.”

Bilbo moved slowly to the nearest bench and sat down.  Finrod sat beside him and held out the book again, which Bilbo now took.  He retrieved his reading glasses from his vest pocket and situated them upon his nose, then opened the book and began to skim through.  Finrod picked at a sliver of wood that was sticking up from the bench.  Bilbo spent several moments looking over the text before he closed it and looked at the Elf sitting beside him.  “Felagund,” he said with deep affection, “this is more than a diary you have given me.”

Finrod nodded while looking down at the grass.  “I am not here for the reasons you might think.  Not for such noble pursuits as Glorfindel.  I am not well, Bilbo.  I have not been well for some time.”

Bilbo reached over and patted the back of Finrod’s hand.  “No one should expect you to be after all you went through.”

“I came back here because I could not live in peace in a land of peace.  Ironic, is it not?  I was protected from everything there–everything but myself.  Everything but the thoughts in my head that haunt me.  The phantom pain, the words he said to me–it all floods back in my dreams.”

“Is that why you do not sleep?” asked Bilbo.  “I hear you shuffling in the halls sometimes.  When I first arrived, I told Elrond I thought his corridors were haunted, but he told me it is only you when you are unable to sleep, walking the halls, keeping watch in the late hours of the night.”

“Sleep means being unguarded.  It means remembering that which I do not wish to remember.”  Finrod twisted at his fingers.  “When I was reborn, I walked into the perfect life.  My father was king.  My beloved had stayed loyal.  My life as it had been was better than before.  But Middle-earth changed me; I was not who I was.  I could not go back.  I was not happy in my father’s court, and one morning I woke to find myself alone.  She was waiting for me in the parlor, but she was packed and she was leaving.  I do not fault her for it; it was not only the nightmares.  Everything about me had changed.  I will never be who and what I was.  I came here to try to heal, to piece back together the scraps of a ruined life.  Elrond always tells me I am making progress.  All I see is a mountain before me, too big to climb.”

“Because you keep trying to climb it by yourself,” said Bilbo.  “I have known you long enough to see how proud and stubborn you are.  You need to ask others for help.”

“I used to do that.  And then I was betrayed.”

“With all due respect–I have learned there are two sides to every story.  Perhaps I find myself siding with an unpopular retelling of the tale on account of the spoon incident, but there is something which has been brought to my attention by another.”

“Is it something Maglor said?”

“Indeed, though not directly.  It was between the words he said, if you get my meaning.  As I have said before, I have great respect for what you did.  I truly believe you are a pivotal figure in the history of Middle-earth. But I also wonder how things might have played out, had you invited Celegorm and Curufin to join you in the hunt for the silmaril.”

“Then we would all have been dead.”

“Perhaps.  Perhaps not.”  Bilbo leaned back on the bench.  “I expect you are familiar with the expression ‘the grass is not always greener on the other side’?”

“I am,” said Finrod.

“There are those who learn this to be true, and those who find the grass is greener on the other side,” said Bilbo.  “And there are those who never find green grass.”

“I am not sure I follow, Mister Baggins.”

Bilbo opened the diary again.  “I do not need to be a healer to know depression when I see it.  You say much while saying little.  But this is not something that manifested after your return, or even when you reached Middle-earth.  This has been your life for a long time.  I would wager this has always been your life, or significantly so.  For long I wondered why you would leave Valinor, and then why you would embark upon a quest you knew would take your life.  And then, why leave Valinor again?  You are not chasing happiness; you are running away from sadness. You are looking for your green pasture, but do you even know what you are looking for?”

“Mister Baggins!” 

Both Bilbo and Finrod looked up upon hearing Estel’s summons.  Estel was waving; Maglor was beside him, doing his best to look elsewhere.  “Estel, my boy, good day!  What news?”

“Maglor and I are going fishing.  Would you like to join us for luncheon this afternoon?”

“I shall be there!” 

Estel gave a nod from the top of the hill.  Then he added, “You are welcome to join us, too, Uncle Finrod!” 

Finrod gave a slight nod of understanding, but did not otherwise answer.  

Estel and Maglor walked away in the direction of one of the many ponds that were good for fishing in Imladris. 

Bilbo observed Finrod.  “Why do you never speak to Maglor?”

The bridge of Finrod’s nose turned red and spread to his cheeks.  “It is complicated.”

Bilbo stared at Finrod for a second.  “Complicated?”

“Very complicated.”

“You like him.”

Finrod’s eyes widened and he focused on Bilbo, but said nothing.  

“You really like him.”

“I would–I would never,” stuttered Finrod. 

“Alright, then explain yourself and this complication.”  Bilbo pointed at the diary.  “And explain the little notes in the margins of this book.  I do not need to be a bounder to know who ‘he’ is in those ‘complicated’ little bits you have written as asides.”

Finrod looked back down at the grass. 

“Incredible.”  Bilbo shook his head.  “Your green pasture is right before you, and you repeatedly watch him walk away.”

“I told you.  It is complicated.”

“I am listening, my friend.”

Finrod leaned back and slid down just slightly in a huff.  His eyelids were drooping; the darkness under his eyes revealed shades of blue, plum, and grey.  “He was my mentor.  He taught me how to play harp.  At that point in my life, music was the only thing I enjoyed.  I was terrible at every craft I tried, I never really liked girls but I felt pressured to find someone because I kept getting asked when I was going to get married, and I was awkward in conversations.  I never seemed to know when to stop.  But Maglor–”  Here Finrod sighed.  “Maglor taught me how to play, from scales to the most complicated pieces, and he would listen to my random babbling about this, that, and everything.”

“And you never told him.”

“I tried to do the proper thing.  I went to his father to ask permission.”  Finrod rubbed his forehead.  “I just kept talking, and some of what I was saying was so stupid, and finally he cut me off and told me I was too young and too impulsive and some other things I cannot remember because by then my face was hot and I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, and the worst part was not knowing that some of his brothers were near enough to hear everything.”

“Was it Celegorm and Curufin?”

“And Caranthir,” added Finrod.  “Caranthir was good enough never to mention it again, but the other two…that was what they had to hold over me.  They would threaten to tell Maglor.”

“But you never told Maglor.”

“No.”

“Why not?  I have been over these translations hundreds of times, and from what I can tell, Daddy Feanor is not going to show up to scold you or break up an engagement.”

“I told you–it is complicated.”

“You are both single, lonely Elves with a lot to discuss, and clearly a past friendship.  My dear boy, I might not entirely understand Elves, but I understand life.  And life is too short, for Hobbit or Elf, to worry about some sneaky snickering cousins from ages ago.  He is here, and you are here, and all you need to do is go and talk to him!”

“It is not that easy.  It never is.”  Finrod patted the book in Bilbo’s lap.  “Let me know if you need clarification of anything you find in there.  I hope you have a lovely rest of the day.”

“You should come to luncheon with us!” called out Bilbo as a final effort, but Finrod was already walking away. 

Chapter Text

“This fish was superbly seasoned, Mister Fëanorion,” complimented Bilbo.  “I would love to get your recipe to send to my cousin, Molly.  Well, she is my third cousin twice removed, but I still keep in contact with her, and she loves a good fish recipe.”

“I will write it down for you when we return to the house,” said Maglor.  

“Thank you kindly.”  Bilbo, who was sitting on the ground, leaning back against the trunk of a maple, retrieved his pipe and began to pack it.  “Such a pity Mister Felagund could not join us for the meal.  I think he would have liked the company.”

Estel, who was also packing his own post-meal pipe, glanced from Bilbo to Maglor and back again.  “It is his choice, and he does have business of his own.”

“Everyone should make it their business to take some time to relax and refresh now and then,” said Bilbo.

“I quite agree,” said Maglor. “However, I do not think Mister Felagund would be relaxed around me.”

“Whyever not?” asked Bilbo.  “I find I have a grand time around each of you.”

“It is rather complicated,” said Maglor.  

“What is so complicated about a fish picnic with friends?” asked Bilbo.

“Nothing, so long as one is surrounded by friends,” said Estel. 

“Excuse me.  I am going to clean the dishes,” said Maglor, gathering everything into the basket, which he then carried off to the nearby stream. 

Estel laid back in the grass, only his head propped up by a cloak he had bunched up and placed behind his head.  “He is pining for him.”

“Who is doing what for who?” asked Bilbo, acting quite innocent and unaware.

“What I tell you is told in confidence, Mister Baggins.”  Estel looked off to judge the distance between them and Maglor, and lowered his voice accordingly.  “Maglor is very reserved.  Almost shy.  He had an interest in Finrod when they were younger, in Valinor.  He agreed to tutor him even though he thinks himself a bad instructor to have the time to spend together.  Then suddenly, Finrod stopped seeking him out.  When he reached Valinor with his kin, he agreed to help burn the ships because he thought it would end whatever youthful desires he had.  It was after the ships burned that his father told him the truth–Finrod had come to him to ask permission to court Maglor.  He could not forgive himself for what he helped to do when the ships were burned, nor his part in the kinslaying.  He avoided speaking to Finrod for the rest of the time they were in Middle-earth until Finrod’s death.  He thought that was the end of it.  When Finrod returned, he found himself thinking back to his past decisions.  He wants to apologize, but he also does not think he should approach Finrod.  He does not think the interaction is desired.  He thinks Finrod hates him.”

“I should think not,” said Bilbo. “And he told you all of this?”

“He told Arwen.  She told me.”

Bilbo shook his head.  “Elves are strange creatures.”

“Strange and wonderful,” amended Estel. He set aside the unlit pipe and shielded his eyes with his arm.  “I think I shall take a nap, if you do not mind.”

“Not at all, my boy.  Not at all.”  Bilbo, too, closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze and the sound of the birds around him.  As soon as he heard the gentle snoring, he opened one eye.  Maglor was still down at the stream.  Slowly–part so as not to attract attention, and part because his joints said so–Bilbo took the diary Finrod had loaned to him and slid it into Maglor’s unattended satchel.  Quite proud of himself for the moment, Bilbo puffed happily upon his pipe, and plotted out other ways he might help. 

—

Later that afternoon, Bilbo received a knock upon his door.  It was just about time for him to have his afternoon tea, which was the only meal he preferred to have by himself, but he opened it regardless.  “Mister Feanorian!  What a surprise–I have jam and biscuits, and a kettle about to call.  Would you care to join me?”

Maglor shook his head and held out the book.  “I came to return this.  Somehow it slipped into my satchel when we were having lunch.”

“Oh dear–so it did.  Well, since you have it, if you would like to keep it awhile and read it–”

“I should not be reading this,” said Maglor.

Bilbo pressed his lips together.  “Or maybe you should,” he suggested. 

Maglor held the book further away from himself and closer to Bilbo.  “It would not be proper.”

“Did you check?”

“I shall not lie to you; I did open it.  And I did read some of the words.  And then I closed it,” said Maglor.  “This is private property.”

“So you read some of it–what did you read?” asked Bilbo.

“More than I should have.”  Maglor extended the book further.  “Please, Mister Baggins.  I should not have this.”

“But did you see–”

“Please.”  Maglor pushed the book into Bilbo’s hands.  “Have you ever wronged someone to the point where you no longer deserve their forgiveness?”

“How can you know what he will say if you do not ask?” Bilbo took hold of the book.  “He loves you,” he blurted out.

Maglor still had his hand on the book for a moment, and then he took it away as if burned by an object once again.  “He loved me,” he said, sad and low.  “He no longer does, and I no longer deserve it.  Good day, Mister Baggins.”  Maglor turned to leave. 

He was several steps down the hallway when Bilbo called out, “You are wrong!” as the kettle shrieked behind him.  Maglor stopped, took a deep breath, and continued to walk away.

Chapter Text

Young and old gathered in the Hall of Fire.  Elrond, Arwen, and Aragorn were all typically present during these weekly gatherings, but tonight all three were absent from the hall.  Often Lindir or Glorfindel would then be expected to host, but they, too, were not to be found this evening. It was Maglor who had taken their place, hosting and greeting, offering stories and songs, and general merriment to those who came to relax in the massive room. 

He was mid-song when one of the main doors opened, and into the room came Finrod alongside Bilbo Baggins.  They were conversing, clearly, from the movements of Bilbo’s hand and lips, and the way that Finrod nodded to him as they walked from the doors to a counter where one could find ale, wine, and strong coffee.  Bilbo had a frothy pint in his free hand almost as soon as he reached the counter; steam rose from the mug Finrod was given. 

It was only when the pair sat down and looked about that Finrod caught the gaze of one who had been watching him. 

Maglor quickly looked away and concentrated once again on his harp and the song he was playing.  He played with the tempo and the song began to race.  Some of the younger participants found this most pleasing for clapping or dancing, and to an open space they went to frolic as the song went on.  Instead of choosing to end the song, he segued into another tune, a piece meant for such activities, and played louder and with greater determination.

“He is quite good,” remarked Bilbo to his companion.

Finrod gave two nods.  

“I do wonder if we should commission him to write that jig,” said Bilbo.  “I have heard him play many times, but so often the songs are slow and sad.  This is a new one.”

“Not to me,” said Finrod.  

“No?”

Finrod shook his head.  

“You have heard him play this one before?” pressed Bilbo.

“I have not.”

Bilbo gave Finrod a disbelieving look.  “What sort of riddle is this?”

Finrod sighed.  “I am familiar with the piece because I wrote it,” said Finrod.  “I did not know he knew how to play it.”

“Indeed,” said Bilbo, hiding his smile behind his mug.  “I should think it would be considered flattery, then, for him to play it.  Surely he saw us enter the room.”

“Surely.”  Finrod looked around.  “Everyone seems to be enjoying it.”

“It is quite uplifting,” said Bilbo. 

Finrod shifted his weight.  “I should like to hear your thoughts on stolen music, since I know you to have many opinions on theft in other situations.” 

Bilbo frowned.  “I do not think singing someone else’s song, or playing it, is meant to be theft.  It is a different interpretation, however slight, but an homage if you will to the original artist.”

The piece came to its natural conclusion, and Maglor gained applause from those around him.  One nearby lady made the observation, “You must be the best harper in all of Arda!  No one plays quite like you, Master Makalaurë.”

It seemed Finrod was ready to deliver further commentary to Bilbo, but Maglor began to speak in a voice that cut through all other noise in the room.  “That is simply not so,” he said, and his focus was already upon Finrod.  “There is someone else who should be given that title, for it is deserved in more ways than one.  The song which you heard me play was not my own creation, but a creation of his.  The style, in fact, is also not my own–I could never play as fast as he until I adapted to what he devised.  Yet he was once my student, and now, I believe, I am his pupil in a way.”

“Is it Master Elrond?” someone guessed. 

“No, ‘tis not,” said Maglor, still looking at Finrod.  Finrod had spent most of the time staring at the liquid in his cup or the legs of one of the chairs in front of him.  Maglor stood up slowly and extended his arm to motion in Finrod’s direction.  “I give you the greatest harper of Arda, one Finrod Felagund: musician, composer, and even conductor on occasion.  ‘Twas something I could never master; I kept losing hold of the baton.”

Some of the members of the audience chuckled; one of the rangers near the front stood with his glass raised.  “To Finrod Felagund, or as my foresires would say, to Nóm the Wise!” 

Several others joined in, with raised glasses and cheers, and Maglor lifted his own glass from where he had set it nearby on the floor and lifted it in Finrod’s direction.

Finrod gracefully bowed his head while clutching his mug, and Bilbo beside him clapped his free hand against the side of his leg and even gave a whistle.  Finrod cleared his throat, and lifted his own mug out and in Maglor’s direction, and then lowered it and stared down at the floor. 

“Perhaps you should join him up there,” suggested Bilbo.  “There is more than one harp there–you could perform a duet!” 

Finrod gave Bilbo a small smile, but said nothing.  Upon the platform at the front, Maglor drank some wine, and then sat down again before his harp.  As soon as the music began again, Finrod stood. 

“There you go!  This should be–”

“Mister Baggins, I am afraid I am feeling unwell.”

“Unwell?  You are an Elf.  Is it even possible to–”

“I assure you, I am,” said Finrod as he set the mug on the chair he had been sitting upon.  “I do apologize that I must cut our visit short.  Perhaps tomorrow we can arrange to speak.”

“Of course, but–”

“Good evening, Mister Baggins.”

Bilbo watched Finrod walk the shortest path from their seats to the doors that would lead to the main corridor.  The sound of the door shutting echoed through the room as Maglor played on.

Chapter Text

By the position of the moon, seen through each of the open windows Finrod passed, it was quarter past two in the morning.  He had strolled through the Hall of Fire twice, walked the halls of the main house, from sub-basement to attic, and was now in the corridors outside of the residential suites.  Fatigue was setting in; he could usually make it between eight and ten months before he had to sleep.  His reflexes and memory would suffer by the third month; his mood would deteriorate in the sixth.  By the eighth month, he had been known to lose his appetite, and that was typically when Elrond would intervene with an ultimatum of slumber on Finrod’s terms, or sleep via any means Elrond found necessary.  It had been three hundred and fourteen days since Finrod had last taken rest, and he was now regretting the pride he had been taking in this new record.  

During the daytime, it was easy to fend off slumber with light.  His strolls through the gardens began at sunup and typically did not end until dusk.  During the night, he had to keep moving.  Each step was a challenge now, his legs heavy and sluggish.  His back ached and his muscles were sore.  He swerved and almost walked into a portrait of Eärendil.  

Finrod held onto the frame and squeezed his eyes shut as he yawned.  There were padded benches every few doorways.  They were inviting.  Maybe a few minutes.  Just a few minutes of sitting, and he could get back up again.  He would recite poetry in his head, think through musical phrases, anything to keep his mind active and fight off slumber.  He had nearly made it a year without nightmares.  He was determined.  He could do it.  

He pushed on, forward to the nearest bench.  The cushion was soft and someone had left a pillow on the side of it.  He picked it up and stuffed it between his head and the wall, and then closed his eyes.  Certainly there were poems Bilbo had recited that he could think about.  There was one about a cow, a long one.  Surely it would…

Another yawn, and Finrod’s head dipped forward.  Soft, nasally snoring soon followed. 

—

Maglor was in his bed, staring at the ceiling, in a losing battle with insomnia once again. It was like this most nights.  The pages he had read in Finrod’s diary were not helping. He had not seen much, but he had seen enough.  Small messages of longing and even sketches–sketches of Maglor, sometimes with others, and sometimes alone.  It proved what he had thought false–that Finrod still had some affinity for him.  “No reason why you should,” muttered Maglor at the ceiling.  “You should hate me.  I hate me.”

A sudden moaning alerted Maglor to a disruption in the hallway.  He listened for it again.  Sometimes, it could be some rangers coming in late and drunk.  Another moan led Maglor to make the decision to investigate.  He pulled on trousers and walked to the door, where he pressed his ear to it to listen again. 

The moaning was more frequent, and then he heard them–the self-sacrificing words of a hero.  

“Take me, not them! Leave them alone!” 

Maglor flung the door open and looked to the right.  No one.  Then to the left. 

There he was, slumped on the bench in the hallway.  Finrod was restless, sweating and mumbling, his body jerking as he grunted and groaned, then whimpered and cried out. 

“Hey!”

Finrod jolted awake.  Instinct caused him to cover his face as the last shadows of the night terror drifted away and he realized he was in a safe place again.  

“Are you...no, you are not alright,” said Maglor, who was crouched down before Finrod, one hand on Finrod’s shoulder and the other holding his hand.  “But I am here.  I am here.”

As Finrod blinked his eyes open, he focused on Maglor, and tears pooled as his chin trembled.  “I am so lost and alone,” he babbled.  “I am so, so tired. And so alone.”

“You do not have to be alone.  I am sorry,” said Maglor, his own cheeks damp.  “I should have...said something years ago.  No one should be alone, especially not you.”  Maglor adjusted his position and lifted Finrod into his arms.  “I failed you a lot in the past.  I am so sorry.  I am here for you now.  As long as you need me.”

Finrod put his arms around Maglor’s neck.  “I love you,” he revealed. 

Maglor tried to tilt his head so that his tears did not land on Finrod.  “I do not deserve to be loved, least of all by someone so good as you.”

But Finrod was not deterred, and with what strength he had left, he lifted both hands and pulled Maglor’s head down so that he could kiss him.  “Sauron hurt me, and he meant to.  You never meant to hurt me.  I can forgive that.”

Maglor held Finrod a little closer and kissed him back.  “And I am going to make it right, starting now.”  Maglor carried Finrod back to his suite, and tended to him the rest of the night.  And for the first time in centuries, Finrod slept through the night. 

Chapter Text

“Has anyone seen Mister Felagund?” 

It had been three whole days since Bilbo had encountered Finrod, and he was beginning to worry.  For that matter, he had not encountered Maglor in that time, either, but Maglor was very wandery, and Bilbo worried about him less.  Finrod took a daily trip to the gardens, and not seeing him for three days was very concerning.  

Elrond shook his head; Arwen and Estel did the same.  

“No one has seen him at all?  Not for meals, or in the garden?”

“Now that you mention it, this is a concern,” said Elrond.  He motioned to one of the pages, who walked over.  Before he could give direction to check on Finrod, the doors of the Great Hall opened. 

“My word,” said Arwen.

“That is a change,” remarked Estel. 

Elrond waved off the page.  “I believe you have your answer,” said Elrond as Finrod and Maglor, holding hands, found a small table in the corner to sit at.  “And I believe they wish some privacy,” he added as he caught Bilbo starting in the direction of the pair.

“I just have a book to return,” said Bilbo without pause.  He weaved around the other tables, eyes kept on the pair in the corner.  Finrod was doing most of the talking; Maglor was listening intently, nodding and smiling.  There was even a little laughter just before Bilbo approached.

Even when he reached the table, they were still holding hands.

“Mister Felagund!  I have come to return your book,” said Bilbo, holding it out.  “I tried to return it sooner, but you have been missed these past few days.”

“I was asleep.  My apologies,” said Finrod.

“None needed,” said Bilbo.  He set the book down on the table.  “And might I say, you look quite well today–bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as it were.”

“Thank you.  I forgot how nice sleep is.  Actual sleep,” added Finrod.  “Not nightmares.”

“No more nightmares,” said Maglor.  He squeezed Finrod’s hand and Finrod smiled. 

“Excellent.  Quite excellent.”  Bilbo smiled to himself; whether or not he was the direct catalyst, he would count this as another win for Bilbo Baggins, secret matchmaker of Rivendell.  “I shall leave you to it, then,” he said, and he walked away, reminiscing about the time he introduced Arwen to Estel when she returned from Lothlórien.  

Bilbo scanned the Great Hall and caught sight of Lindir not-so-covertly eyeing up someone special.  Bilbo took firm hold of his walking stick and made his way over to the minstrel.  He might be one hundred and twenty-seven, but there was still time for another matchmaking adventure.