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Chapter Text

Valinor
The Darkening

The light outside the windows shifted—slowly at first, then more swiftly. It grew sickly, gold turning to yellow and silver to green—before it suddenly dimmed. Finwë went to a window just in time to see the Light go out, and a great cloud of darkness billow up from the direction of Ezellohar, as though the darkness itself was something real, like a storm cloud. It covered the sky—the stars—and dread filled him at the sight: dread and sudden horrible grief, and fear such as he had not felt since before Oromë had first brought him to these shores alongside Ingwë and Elwë. 

The Trees were gone, their Light destroyed. The promise of safety and bounty and beauty, for whose sake Finwë had parted from his own nearest kin and led his people across all the world—just like that, it was gone. 

His thoughts went then to his grandsons, who he had sent out of Formenos to get fresh air and to escape the tension that remained there even in their father’s absence. He thought of his other grandchildren, at the festival of the Valar, and of his sons and daughters—of Indis, too, all of them so dear and beloved, all of them now plunged into darkness, and he not there to offer the reassurance and protection a father and grandfather should. 

Anger arose in him, as sudden as the darkness had fallen over Valinor, at the broken promises and the inability of the Valar to keep their brother in check, and he gripped the sill so tightly his fingers ached, clenching his jaw until it hurt as he tried to see what was happening, what had caused this, whether there was any movement in the darkness. He tried to see if his grandsons were near at hand—but a wave of even deeper darkness rolled suddenly up over Formenos, like a fog over the sea, and horror gripped his heart. 

Better for his grandsons if they remained lost, far away from Formenos, and the thing that had come to it. Finwë knew what it was—who it was—without even having to think. It was the Dark Rider, it was the monster that had filled everyone with fear when clouds hid the stars by the waters of Cuiviénen, when loved ones who ventured away from the waters and the fires to hunt, to look for food, or even just to explore—when they left and did not come back. And the Dark Rider was Melkor, who had never repented at all, who had just put on a fair face and form and smiled so brightly at them all, offering knowledge, friendship, though those like Finwë who remembered why they had left the lands across the Sea were unable to set aside old fears entirely. Finwë had tried—oh, how he had tried, tried to trust the wisdom of the Valar, to the promises they had made—and it was all for naught. 

He turned from the window and strode through the dark halls, finding his way by touch and by the way his footsteps echoed off the walls. As he went he summoned all the anger in him again, until his spirit burned with it, and he began to sing, chanting in an ancient tongue, words of strength, words of protection, of defiance against the dark, letting his voice sink into the stones of the walls and the wood and iron of the doors, words that his grandfather had taught him long ago before he too had vanished, combined with the arts he had learned of the Valar in the long years since his coming to Aman. Finwë had only narrowly escaped the clutches of the Dark Rider’s fell servants himself, when they came not to take but to hack and burn and destroy, filling the shadows with their gleeful malice, and he had wept tears uncounted for his grandfather—and his father, and his brothers, and all the others who had been lost. And now, he knew, as a power arose outside the doors to challenge his own, his own grandsons would do the same. 

But if they stayed away, if they kept away long enough, if he could withstand the horror of the dark for just a little while—surely someone else would come, someone stronger than he, and they would live to weep those tears. And someday, perhaps, he would return to them—unless Melkor had indeed arisen in all his might to slay not only the Trees but the Valar too, to plunge all the world into this foul and unnatural Unlight that blotted out even the stars. Finwë sang songs of light to chase away the darkness, and around him the crystal lamps that his son had made flared to life, and the Unlight was chased back, retreating back beneath doors and through the window panes. He lifted his voice again and again against the one that roared like thunder outside of the doors—its song of breaking and bending, of melting stone and splintered wood, of the stars falling from the sky and the Trees withering, of the Sea flowing with blood to stain the fair beaches of Eldamar black—until his throat burned and his head ached. Backwards and forwards the music swayed; Melkor had not expected resistance, and for a few astonishing minutes Finwë could feel him falter.

Then a great shout shattered the doors and ended all the song, plunging Formenos into ringing silence. The force of it threw Finwë to the ground. He could not get up again, could hardly catch his breath as the figure that embodied all of his childhood fears stepped over the threshold. Laughter like boulders tumbling down the mountainside echoed around him, shuddering through his very bones. Heavy footsteps crunched over the flagstones and the pieces of wood and iron, until one came to rest on top of his chest. Finwë looked up, unblinking, into eyes that burned in a face made all of shadows.

“Finwë Noldóran, King of the Noldor—of fools and of thralls. Did you really think you could forever escape the dark?” 

Chapter Text

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes…
- “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver

- - 

Valinor
Fourth Age 175

Maglor woke to warm sunshine on his face and the smell of flowers all around him. When he opened his eyes it was to blue skies peering through the canopy of the towering beeches of Lórien, high overhead, and to red and white poppies bobbing in the breeze closer at hand, with queen’s lace swaying alongside them. He liked queen’s lace—in his youth it had been called Queen Míriel’s lace; in Beleriand it had been Queen Melian’s; in the Shire he had heard it named for Queen Fíriel. Perhaps somewhere, he thought idly, watching a butterfly alight on one delicate umbel, it was now named for Queen Undómiel. 

Arwen would have laughed at such a thought. Maglor sighed and let his eyes fall shut again. It was years and years now since she had passed beyond the Circles of the World, and he had come West, following Elladan and Elrohir and the promise he had made to Elrond. He did not know how long precisely—in the Gardens of Lórien it was impossible to count the seasons, let alone the years. It had been long enough for the weight of that grief to lift, though, at least a little. 

Long enough for many such weights to lift—or at least for Maglor to learn how to carry them. Many old wounds had been reopened upon his coming to Valinor, to find not only all of his brothers returned before him but his father too. He had seen Fëanor only once, and it had not gone well. He had met his brothers again not long afterward, all of them fleeing Tirion and its surrounding countryside as far as the shores of Ekkaia. That had gone better—not by very much, but at least well enough that Maglor had agreed to go back home with them all, to his mother’s house. 

So much about that summer had been so very hard, had been painful in ways both expected and not. He had not come to Valinor expecting to need to seek Estë’s help—nor had he wanted to. He had just wanted to see Elrond again, and to settle into his and Celebrían’s little realm of Imloth Ningloron as he had settled in Rivendell before. It hadn’t been enough, in the end, and so here he was, drowsing amid Irmo’s poppies and feeling more like himself than he had in centuries. He’d forgotten what it was to be himself, without the burden of all the years and all the shadows and all the blood weighing him down like chains; all of that was something he could carry now tucked into a corner of his heart where it would not trouble him. It would always be there, alongside the grief that accompanied it, but it would not be forever at the forefront of his mind. His voice no longer tried to turn every song he sang into a lament. 

Scuffling in the grass heralded the arrival of the hedgehogs. Maglor had brought one with him to Lórien, a companion found on the road to Ekkaia—one of two companions, really, for he had met Daeron even before Leicheg. Much about that summer had been hard, but falling back into friendship and then into love with Daeron had been so easy, as easy as playing the notes of the scale upon his harp, easy as breathing. Daeron had not come to Lórien, but had returned to Thingol’s realm and his own people. Leicheg had come, and had lived a very long life for a hedgehog, but of course even in Lórien hedgehogs did not live forever—although it seemed that cats might, for Maglor had brought Pídhres too, who had been a stubborn kitten when he brought her aboard the ship at Mithlond, and who had since grown into a sleek young cat, and then seemed to grow no older. Maglor had caught her once in the arms of Estë herself; Estë had laughed softly, winked at him, and kissed the top of Pídhres’ grey head before setting her down and dissolving into a burst of flower petals to flutter away on the breeze. But like the cats of Rivendell, Leicheg’s descendants had decided to keep him, and now three of them scurried out of the flowers to climb up onto his chest. Pídhres followed, licking her rough tongue across his cheeks and nose. “Good morning,” he murmured, reaching up to scratch her ears without opening his eyes again. 

“Are you awake, Cáno?” Maedhros appeared above him, his shadow blocking the sunshine for a moment.

“Mm. No.” He felt very comfortable, and like he could fall back asleep with ease—maybe he would. It had been a long time since his dreams had been troubled by darkness or cold, but he still marveled at it a little every time he woke up feeling refreshed rather than afraid. It still felt like a luxury to fall into sleep without fearing that the past would reach out to grasp at him.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to eat all the raspberries myself.”

“Raspberries!” Maglor opened his eyes. “Why didn’t you say so before?” He held out his hand and Maedhros, laughing, pulled him up. The hedgehogs went tumbling into the grass. 

As Maedhros hauled Maglor to his feet, a noise on the wind made them both pause. “Was that music?” Maedhros asked. 

“A flute, perhaps?” Maglor said. They both listened, but did not hear it again. Perhaps it did not matter. Maglor often heard voices somewhere out of sight, singing or laughing, though he’d never heard instruments before, except his own harp. Lórien was never empty, but it was rare to meet anyone else. He had even gone long stretches of time without being able to find Maedhros. 

“It isn’t only raspberries I found,” Maedhros said, leading Maglor over to a picnic basket, filled with bowls of fruit and flasks of a drink Maglor could not name, but which tasted clean and clear as spring water, while bringing new strength and warmth to one’s limbs. It was always to be found somewhere nearby after he woke from dark dreams. Those were rare, these days, and promised to grow even rarer in the future, though they would never go away entirely. Estë described them as scars; his spirit was healing, but it would always be marked by what had happened to him, what he had done, just as his body bore the scars of battles and torment—just as Maedhros, even returned from Mandos into a body made new, was still missing his right hand, and bore the memory of burns on his palm from the Silmaril. The important thing, though, was that even when the dreams did return, the lingering dark moods that used to follow would trouble him no longer. They would be like any other bad dream, easier now to forget about in the light of day. 

Maglor took a handful of raspberries from the bowl, savoring the sun-warmed sweetness of them. “What’s that over there?” he asked, seeing something else resting on the grass nearby.

“Saddle bags,” Maedhros said. “Ours.” 

“Oh.” Maglor lowered his hand. They had been speaking lately of leaving Lórien, both of them feeling as though they were ready to return to the outside world—to their brothers and friends and kin. It seemed that Estë agreed. “I suppose today is the day, then.” Maedhros smiled and nodded. He was still often somber and grave, but when they had first come to Lórien he had been almost incapable of laughter, hardly able to smile. He had been filled with dread at their father’s return to life and to Tirion, which lay so close to their mother’s house and their grandfather Mahtan’s estate, where Maehdros had lived since his own return from Mandos. “Where will we go, when we leave?” Maglor asked.

“Do you not want to return to Imloth Ningloron?” Maedhros asked. 

“Certainly. But do you want to go there?”

Maedhros picked up a strawberry, but didn’t take a bite. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I cannot and do not want to continue as I have been. I owe Elrond, at least, another apology.”

“He might not agree.”

“Then thanks, at least. I would have come here regardless, because it was you that asked me, but—it was his words that made me understand what was wrong, and if I had come here without that…I don’t think it would have made any difference. He did not have to do me that kindness.”

There had never been much love between Maedhros and Elrond—and Elros, when he had lived—and it had grieved Maglor for a long time. It had been Maedhros that had held himself apart, sinking ever deeper into despair and desperation as the War of Wrath raged in the north, and the Oath grew heavier and heavier, and the dangers of Beleriand increased. Since his return from Mandos and Elrond’s coming West, the pattern had held. Elrond would not intrude where he felt he was not wanted, and Maedhros had withdrawn from nearly everyone, save their mother and Caranthir.

Until Fëanor had come. 

They had not spoken of their father in a long time, though of course they had spoken of everything else. So much lay between them, good and bad, and with the help of Nienna they’d had many difficult conversations—many arguments—and shed many tears over the course of their stay in Lórien. It was known as a place of rest, but such healing was not always restful—and even when it was, the dreams Irmo sent were not always soothing. They were both better for it, stronger, but Maglor did not feel very differently about Fëanor now than he had when he had left Imloth Ningloron on that fateful journey to Ekkaia—except that he did not think he was afraid anymore. Not of Fëanor, and not of losing his temper either. He had no desire to see his father, but he would not flinch, he thought, from any chance meeting. 

“Are you afraid, still?” he asked quietly. 

Maedhros did not have to ask what he meant. “Yes,” he said, equally quietly. “But…it is not the sort of fear that will keep me up at night, as it did before. I feel stronger now.”

“Good.”

“If I do meet him, though…I hope I will not be alone. I do not want to do that again.”

“Nor do I.”

They finished breakfast and gathered up their things, finding the saddle bags neatly packed with clean clothes and their cloaks. Maglor had his harp in its case, and a larger basket to replace the one that had once carried Leicheg. “All three of them are coming along, then?” Maedhros said, amused, as Maglor set the basket down to call the hedgehogs to it. They all came scurrying out of the grass and into the basket without any fuss. Pídhres jumped up onto Maglor’s shoulder as he straightened. 

“I think Aechen will be following you home,” Maglor replied, laughing. 

“I haven’t the first idea how to care for a hedgehog,” Maedhros protested, but not very strongly. 

“Neither did I, when Huan brought Leicheg to me. I’ve found they mostly take care of themselves.” 

As though summoned by the speaking of his name, they came upon Huan himself before long, splashing in one of the many streams that flowed through Lórien, as they began walking down the first path that they found. The nature of Lórien was such that any path would take them wherever they needed to go; Maglor had long ago gotten hopelessly lost, but he had also never worried about it. 

“Huan!” Maglor exclaimed, as the great hound bounded out of the water, barking a greeting. Pídhres made a disgruntled noise and shoved her nose into Maglor’s ear as Huan greeted them with enthusiastic kisses. Pídhres hissed at him and jumped from Maglor’s shoulder to Maedhros’. “What are you doing here?”

After he sniffed them thoroughly—including the hedgehogs—Huan turned and trotted away down the path, glancing back over his shoulder with that familiar expectant look. “Someone’s come to fetch us home,” Maedhros said. “Tyelko must be here somewhere.”

“Better not keep him waiting, then. Oh stop it, Pídhres,” Maglor added as Pídhres voiced her discontent. Maedhros picked her off his shoulder to hand her back to Maglor. Celegorm had sent Huan to keep an eye on Maglor upon his first coming to Valinor, and Pídhres had never been happy about it. She was not fond of sharing, except with the hedgehogs. “We’re coming, Huan!”

Huan led them through the winding pathways, past berry brambles and honeysuckle thickets, through flowering glades where bright golden sunbeams pierced through the canopy overhead, and alongside the many little streams and rivers and ponds that populated Lórien. None of it was particularly familiar to Maglor, but after a while he heard the flute music again, more than just a snatch on the breeze this time, and the sound of it made him come to a halt. “Cáno?” Maedhros glanced back at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Maglor said. “It’s just—that sounds like—” Huan barked, and the flute cut off abruptly. 

“Come on.” Maedhros grabbed his hand and pulled him along down the path, both of them quickening their pace now, until the trees opened up into a wide meadow filled with flowers, bright yellow celandine and dandelions and sweet-scented pale chamomile mingling with cornflowers and irises. On the other side of it was a larger party than Maglor had ever seen in Lórien—five figures sitting in the grass. No, seven figures, he realized, for there was a pair of children with them. Huan barked again, and they all looked up. “It seems everyone has come to fetch us home,” Maedhros said, laughing, as all their brothers scrambled to their feet.

“Nelyo!” Celegorm was the fastest, and he lunged at Maedhros, nearly knocking both of them to the ground. “Did you just laugh?”

“Cáno!” Caranthir reached them on Celegorm’s heels to throw his arms around Maglor, who dropped the hedgehogs in their basket just in time. “Did you find what you needed?” Caranthir asked him, voice muffled by cloth and hair where he had his face pressed into Maglor’s shoulder. Maglor could feel something damp soaking into his shirt. 

“We did,” he said, tightening his own grip around Caranthir. “I promise, we did.”

The twins came to them next, and Curufin just behind them, and for several minutes everything was confusion, a tangle of limbs and hair and laughter and tears—a much merrier meeting than Maglor’s first reunion with them, far away on the shores of Ekkaia. There had been very little laughter then, and none at all from Maedhros. Now he laughed so much more freely, and Maglor could see the astonishment in all their brothers’ faces. They, too, were brighter than when Maglor and Maedhros had left them, more at home in themselves and with each other. The years, it seemed, had been kind to them all.

Then suddenly there were two new voices joining the chorus, a pair of young girls demanding to be picked up and introduced to their uncles. Curufin and Celegorm obliged, laughing. “Nelyo, Cáno, these are my daughters, your nieces,” Curufin said. “Calissë is the elder, and Náriel the younger.”

“Nieces!” Maglor exclaimed. He held out his hands to clasp their small ones, and as the girls giggled he kissed their cheeks. They looked like Curufin, with dark hair and grey eyes, but Náriel had her mother’s sharp features and Calissë the freckles that ran in Nerdanel’s family. “This is the best surprise! I am so glad to meet you.” Maedhros echoed him, and also kissed the top of Curufin’s head. Maglor hadn’t seen Curufin smile so freely since Celebrimbor had been small. 

“Uncle Nelyo, why have you only got one hand?” Náriel asked.

“Náriel,” Curufin began, alarmed. 

“I lost it,” Maedhros said.

“But how?”

“I was stuck in a very frightening and uncomfortable place,” Maedhros said, “and my cousin Findekáno had to come rescue me—and I lost my hand in the process. But it’s all right; I can do almost everything just as well with my other hand. There have been many songs made of it since, for Findekáno was very valiant, and I’m sure you’ll hear them when you’re older.”

“All of the best stories are ones we have to wait to hear until we’re older,” Calissë said, sticking her lip out in a pout that was so like Celebrimbor’s at that age that Maglor couldn’t help but laugh. “But could not Lady Estë help you get your hand back?”

“That’s enough, Calissë,” Curufin said. “We talked about this.”

“It’s all right,” Maedhros said. 

“It’s rude,” Curufin retorted. Maglor laughed again and covered his mouth when Curufin glared at him. “The two of you are supposed to be the good influences, to make up for Tyelko and Ambarussa!”

“I am an excellent influence,” Celegorm protested. “Aren’t I, girls?”

“The best!” Náriel agreed immediately. 

“Ammë says you’re terrible,” Calissë said, “and Atya says Ammë is always right.” Then she exclaimed, over everyone’s laughter and Celegorm’s mock-indignant sputtering, “Are those hedgehogs?” 

“Cáno, you have more?” laughed Amras as the three of hedgehogs came back out of the grass to sniff around their feet now that the chaos of their reunion had passed. The girls squirmed until they were let down to see them up close.

“Aechen, Annem, and Aegthil,” Maglor said.

“No Leicheg?” asked Caranthir. 

“Hedgehogs don’t live for fifty years, Moryo,” said Celegorm. 

“Neither do cats, and yet here is Pídhres,” Caranthir retorted, gesturing toward Maglor’s shoulder. Pídhres meowed. 

“Has it been that long?” Maglor asked, lifting a hand to pet her. “What else have we missed?”

“Not very much,” said Amrod. He took Maglor’s arm and Amras grabbed Maedhros’ as they made their way back across the meadow. Caranthir remained at Maglor’s other side. Amrod went on, “Except there’s been some talk of another Mereth Aderthad, or something like it. King Ingwë heard the idea and thinks it would be a fine excuse to bring all of the Eldalië together—the Noldor, the Vanyar, and the Teleri, and all the Avari who’ve made their way here too, if someone can convince them. It’s been rather long in the planning, though.”

“They’ve been waiting for Cáno,” said Curufin, “that’s why.”

“For me?” 

“They can’t have only two of the three greatest singers there to perform,” Caranthir said, “obviously.”

“But you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Celegorm added quickly, with a worried glance at Maglor. 

“And if Ingwë doesn’t wish to take your no for an answer,” Amras added, “we can just ask Elrond for help. No one will argue if he says no.”

Maglor hadn’t even thought about performing since he’d come to Lórien. He’d once loved it, had thrived on it. That had all changed after he’d wandered too close to Mirkwood and fallen into the clutches of the Necromancer. 

Now, though… 

“Maybe,” he said. If he were to perform with Daeron and Elemmírë, it would not be so bad. He could feel a knot forming in his stomach at the thought of standing up before such an audience as all the kindreds of the Eldar gathered together, not to mention the Valar—but if he would not be alone, it would surely be different. “If—” 

There it was again, the sound of a flute, so lovely it made the breath catch in his throat. Maglor turned toward it without thinking. “Go on, then,” said Amrod, laughing as he and Caranthir pushed Maglor in that direction, Amrod snatching Pídhres off his shoulder in spite of her yowls of protest. “Just don’t get lost!”

“It’s very hard to get truly lost here,” Maedhros said as Maglor left them, following the sound of the flute. The song was unfamiliar but the playing wasn’t. He quickened his pace, passing out of the meadow and back under the cool shade of the trees. 

After only a few minutes he spotted a dark figure ahead, seated on one of the enormous roots raised up out of the ground at the base of one of the towering trees, with purple flowers in his hair and a flute in his hands, his long pale fingers dancing over it as he played an intricate melody that brought to mind birdsong in the early dawn and water flowing over smooth stones. For a moment Maglor just watched him play, listening to the music, as new and as familiar as springtime—for it was impossible not to; the forest had all fallen silent around him, as though the trees themselves were listening—and drinking in the sight of him. There would be time to both listen and to make music together soon enough, though, and the moment Maglor stepped forward, out of one of the deeper shadows, Daeron saw him and abandoned the song in an instant, throwing himself off the tree roots, hitting the ground already running. “Maglor!” They were of a height but Daeron was smaller, more slender, and Maglor caught him up in his arms, spinning with the momentum of it so they didn’t go tumbling into the leaves. Daeron wrapped his arms around Maglor and kissed him so deeply he thought he’d drown in it. When they parted they were both breathless, both with tears on their faces. Daeron kept his arms around Maglor’s neck. “I’ve missed you,” he said. 

“I missed you, too,” Maglor replied. They had exchanged a handful of short notes over his time in Lórien, whenever Maglor could find a bird willing to carry a bit of paper for him, but it wasn’t enough. He tightened his arms around Daeron, burying his face in his hair at the crook of his neck. “I missed you so much.”

“I found it much harder than I thought to be patient,” Daeron said. He pulled back just enough to take Maglor’s face in his hands to look into his eyes, searching for old shadows. His own eyes were dark as the midnight sky, lit with ancient starlight; Maglor thought he could drown in them, too. “Oh,” he breathed, “there you are, beloved.” Maglor smiled at him, and Daeron kissed him again. “The light in your eyes is back.”

“The shadows aren’t all gone,” Maglor said. “They never will be—but I can live with them now. The past doesn’t feel so heavy.”

“You’re ready to leave this place?” Daeron asked. “Your brothers all seem to think so. They sent Huan to fetch me in the middle of a banquet in Taur-en-Gellam—” 

Maglor laughed. “Oh no—”

“—but if you aren’t yet ready—”

“I am ready.” Maglor kissed him again; he never wanted to stop. “I don’t think Lórien would have let you all find us if we weren’t. Have you been often with my brothers since I left?”

“Oh yes. Your mother has practically adopted me. She and Caranthir built a new addition onto their house so everyone can stay there more comfortably, and the room meant for you has been called Daeron’s room, more often than not.” Daeron smiled when Maglor laughed again. “They really do all feel like my brothers too, now, and not only because we all missed you.”

“I’m glad. I’m so glad.”

“I met your father, though—he isn’t nearly as fond of me as your brothers, or your mother.”

“Oh no—what did he say?”

“It doesn’t much matter. I can tell you of it later—it was years ago now, anyway.” Daeron sighed and tightened his arms around Maglor, pressing his face into his hair. Maglor did the same, and they stood for several minutes like that, finally together again and not needing words to fill the silence. Daeron was warm, smelling of flowers, his hair softer than silk against Maglor’s face. “We should return to the others,” he said finally, voice slightly muffled, “before I lose all restraint—and then it will surely be one of your nieces who comes looking for us, and Curufin will never forgive me.” He did not move, though. 

Maglor laughed softly—it felt so good to laugh with Daeron again—and tightened his arms round him, but Daeron was proved right a few seconds later when both Calissë and Náriel came around the tree roots behind them. “Daeron!” Náriel exclaimed, darting forward to fling herself into his arms. Calissë was just behind her, and Maglor scooped her up, settling her on his hip; it was as easy and natural as it had been long ago when Celebrimbor had been small—and later, Elrond and Elros. “Atya said no one is supposed to wander off!”

“I think he was talking about you,” Daeron said, “and yet here you are!”

“We weren’t wandering!” Náriel protested. “We were looking for you!”

“We were just coming back.” Daeron shifted Náriel in his arms so he could reach for Maglor’s hand, sliding their fingers together. 

“Have you been crying? What’s the matter?” Náriel wiped at Daeron’s face with her small hands, making him laugh again. “I thought everyone was happy to see Uncles Cáno and Nelyo.”

“I am happy,” Daeron said. “That’s why I have been crying.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Calissë protested, as she wiped at Maglor’s own damp cheeks.

“Tears are not always sad,” Maglor said. He was done crying for the moment, but he could feel the tears still behind his eyes, waiting to escape. He would gladly take these joyful tears over the countless bitter ones he had shed over the centuries. “Sometimes one’s heart can feel so full that it overflows—and tears are the only way it can. Tears and laughter.”

“Or song,” Daeron said. 

“I do not think there is any song that could contain the joy I feel right now,” Maglor said.

Daeron squeezed his hand. “We’ll have to write one, then.”

Chapter Text

After spending so long in the quiet solitude of Lórien, coming upon all their brothers—and Daeron, and their nieces—all at once was almost overwhelming. Not in a bad way, though, Maedhros found as he was pulled down onto the picnic blanket in between Ambarussa. Pídhres tried to curl up on his lap, but was chased away by Náriel and Calissë, neither of whom were at all shy, and both very eager to see if all the things they had heard about their two absent uncles were true. They had all sorts of questions, and not just about his missing hand, and Maedhros could hardly answer one before they asked him three more. 

Neither, though, were they content to remain still for long. When they ran off in search of Maglor and Daeron, Celegorm said, “You two are really ready?”

“Yes,” Maedhros said. “We were looking for the way home when Huan found us.” Pídhres returned to curl up on his lap, and he ran his hand over her silky fur. “Is there really nothing else we’ve missed?” Fifty years both was and was not a long time, in Valinor. Anything might have happened, and nothing at all. And though he did not want to, he had to ask, “What of Atar?”

“He’s recently started tearing down our old house in Tirion, with the thought of rebuilding it,” said Curufin. “I think mostly for something to do, since he says himself he doesn’t really need a whole house for just him. I tried to help, but it was harder returning there than I had thought it would be.”

“We’ve seen him,” said Amras, gesturing between himself and Amrod, “and spoken a little, but it’s always been during larger gatherings, so none of us have said anything that means much.”

“I’ve seen him but not spoken to him,” said Caranthir. Celegorm just shrugged and looked away. “It’s easier to talk about him, now, but—well. Not much else has changed.”

“What of Ammë?” Maedhros asked, glancing toward where the girls had disappeared around a large tree.

“She sees him often in Tirion,” Curufin said, “but it’s…difficult for everyone, I think. For me, too. We fought before I left Tirion.”

“About what?” Celegorm asked, frowning. “You didn’t tell us that.”

“When was I gong to mention it, with Náriel and Calissë there?” Curufin replied. “It was about something stupid, just old frustrations bubbling over again. He’s trying to be better. That does not mean he always succeeds—or that I do.”

“You’re far more forgiving than I can be,” Celegorm murmured, plucking a bit of grass and some flowers to weave together.

Curufin shrugged. His look was troubled. “Calissë has started to wonder why all her uncles avoid her grandfather, though, and I do not know what to tell her.”

“I’m sorry, Curvo,” Maedhros said quietly.

“It’s not your fault. It’s his. He loves them, though, the girls, and they adore him. It’s almost like when Tyelpë was still very small, before all the whispers started.” Curufin shook his head. “I have no regrets. It’s just…hard, sometimes. Arimeldë and I will sit down with Calissë sometime after we get home.”

Maglor and Daeron returned then with the girls. Daeron pulled Maglor down to sit in front of him so he could wrap his arms around him from behind, resting their heads together, while Náriel and Calissë chased after the hedgehogs again. All talk of Fëanor was abandoned as Maglor cheerfully demanded to know what other small and unimportant bits of news and gossip they had to share. They talked mostly of Nerdanel’s efforts to expand her house so that all of them—including her grandchildren—could stay there comfortably without having to share rooms or retreat to Mahtan’s house on the other side of the plum orchard just to find a bed. Caranthir had many funny stories of the building efforts. There were tales too of Tirion and of the things Curufin and Celebrimbor were making, and of their cousins and old friends who lived there. 

They did not leave Lórien that day or the next, for there was too much to talk about and no one wanted to hurry. There was a sense of separation there in Lórien, as though the outside world was farther away than just a short walk through the trees, and could not touch them. It was perfect for taking the time to fall in with each other again, for Maedhros and Maglor to assure their brothers and Daeron that they really were well, and for them to see a little of the ways in which everyone else was different too. Celegorm was quieter and more thoughtful, but the anguish that Maedhros had seen in him before they’d last parted seemed to be gone. Caranthir had always been steady, but he could laugh about things now that he hadn’t before. Ambarussa were mostly unchanged, as cheerful and unconcerned as ever, and Curufin was of course a father again and so clearly thrilled to be so. In return Maedhros could tell how shocked and relieved they were to find him and Maglor able to laugh and smile so much more easily than they had before, to be able to speak of the past without pain—even to speak of Fëanor without faltering. 

Maedhros still feared encountering his father again, but it was not a fear that would cripple him. Not anymore. Whether anything would change going forward remained to be seen. He couldn’t even begin to guess one way or the other, not until he saw Fëanor again, whether those fears were still as founded as they had once been. 

When at last they left Lórien, they stepped out of the trees into bright summer sunlight that left both Maglor and Maedhros blinking for several minutes, so used were they to the gentler sunbeams and the shadows of the woods. The world seemed suddenly enormous, the wide fields and rolling hills stretching out before them, all green and gold and glowing under the bright blue sky. A river wound lazily through them, like a glittering ribbon. At Celegorm’s sharp whistle horses came trotting up, alongside a pony for Calissë. Náriel was yet too young to ride long distances on her own, and she perched before Curufin, who kept a practiced and steady arm around her, holding the reins with his other hand. Maglor hooked the hedgehog’s basket onto his saddle, and Pídhres jumped onto Maedhros’ shoulders before he swung himself up into his. 

“Really, though,” Caranthir said, glancing toward Pídhres. “How is that cat still alive?”

“Estë did something, I’m almost certain,” Maglor said. “I think she might be rather like Huan now.” Pídhres meowed. “She’s certainly able to make her opinions known the same way he does.” Maedhros reached up to scratch Pídhres, who purred into his ear. Maglor went on, “Even Leicheg lived longer than hedgehogs normally do, I think—it really is impossible to count the years in Lórien, though. You could tell me we had been gone ten years or ten hundred, and I would believe you either way.”

“Where are we going, then?” Maedhros asked as they started off, crossing a meadow filled with a rainbow of wildflowers to reach a road. The last time he had asked such a question they had been leaving on a very different journey, from a very different place—and they had had no destination at all. Now, though…

“Imloth Ningloron is closer than Tirion,” said Caranthir. “And we all assume that’s where you at least most want to go, Cáno.”

“It is. Does Elrond know we’re coming?” Maglor asked. 

“No one does,” said Curufin, “except Rundamírë, and Tyelko was pacing the length of the house the whole time I was telling her about it, trying to drive us both mad.”

“I certainly told no one, for I had no idea where I was going!” Daeron said, laughing. “One does not argue with Huan or ask many questions when he comes to drag one away from the banquet table. I’m surprised he let me change out of my robes and pack a bag.”

“You didn’t even tell Ammë?” Maedhros asked, surprise. “Or Tyelpë?”

“Oh, Tyelpë knows,” said Curufin. “He would have come too, but he is in the middle of a project he can’t just set aside.”

“Ammë is in Avallónë, teaching,” said Caranthir. “I left a note for Grandfather, but Tyelko was as impatient with me as he was with Curvo.” 

Maedhros glanced at Celegorm, who was unrepentant. “How did you even know it was time?” he asked. 

“I just did,” Celegorm said, flashing a grin. 

“Tyelko’s been very mysterious about it,” said Amrod. “But Galadriel is at Imloth Ningloron more often than not, and she always knows more than you’d think.” 

“She’s not there now,” Daeron said. “Or at least she was at the banquet in Taur-en-Gellam when Huan came to fetch me. Maybe she guessed what he was doing, but I was rather distracted at the time, trying to keep my sleeve from ripping while everyone laughed at me.”

“Huan wouldn’t have to rip up everyone’s clothes if you’d just follow when he comes to get you,” Celegorm said. 

“It was the middle of a banquet, have I mentioned? I was meant to perform before Thingol and Melian and Olwë that night!”

“Don’t worry about Elrond,” Amras said cheerfully, as Daeron and Celegorm continued to bicker over Huan’s timing and Daeron’s clothes. “He’ll be much too happy to see you to care about all of us descending upon his valley at once.” Maglor laughed. “We can write to Ammë from there—and Fingon, and whoever else you want to know you’re back.”

“I’m very eager to be back at home,” said Maglor, “but I wouldn’t mind it if we told no one but Ammë right away. I didn’t even see everyone before I went to Lórien, and I can only imagine it will be as overwhelming again as it was when I first came.” 

“I would like to see Fingon,” said Maedhros, “but I don’t think I’m ready for all of Tirion to descend on us at once, either.”

“Of course not,” said Amrod, wrinkling his nose. “That sounds awful.”

“Will Cousin Findekáno tell us how you lost your hand?” Calissë asked.

“Calissë Elenárë,” Curufin exclaimed, exasperated. 

“No, probably not,” Maedhros said, smiling at her. “Curvo, I really don’t mind. I didn’t even mind before. It’s just my hand.”

“It’s still rude.”

“Not if I say it’s fine.” To Calissë Maedhros added, because he was supposed to be the better influence, “You shouldn’t go around asking strangers about their scars, though. I don’t mind, but others might.”

“Can I ask Uncle Cáno why he’s got bits of white in his hair?” she asked. 

“No,” Curufin said sharply.

“He didn’t eat his vegetables,” said Amras at the same time. Daeron snorted and had to cover his mouth with a hand to stifle his laughter. 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Calissë said. “I think you’re making that up to tease me. Anyway I like vegetables.”

“I don’t,” Náriel said, and stuck out her tongue. Curufin raised his eyes skyward, clearly struggling to remain stern. 

“I had many adventures away across the Sea,” Maglor said, smiling at Calissë, “and I ran afoul of an enchantress. She tried to turn me into a statue of ice and snow, but I got very lucky and escaped, and all she managed to do was leave bits of her magic in my hair. Maybe if you’re both very good, and listen to your father, and eat all of your vegetables, I’ll tell you the full tale sometime.” 

“You can’t tell a tale that you only made up on the spot,” Maedhros murmured a few minutes later, as Celegorm distracted Calissë with a short race down the road. 

“I certainly can, though I will admit I am out of practice—why do you think I put it off until later?” Maglor replied equally quietly, both of them aware that Náriel might still be listening, though she appeared to have dozed off, slumped against Curufin’s chest, for they had made an early start. On Maglor’s other side Daeron was still laughing quietly. “Anyway, I’m almost certain I got the idea from a tale out of the Shire. I only have to change a few details to make it sound like an adventure of my own once we get home and I can find it in the library.”

“Did you have any such adventures?” Caranthir asked. 

“Of course not. My wanderings were all very boring, until they weren’t. No, it’s fine,” Maglor added when everyone but Maedhros looked at him with concern. “I’m fine. Why do you think I went to Lórien in the first place?”

The road followed the river, meandering lazily through the fields. The day was warm but the breeze was pleasant. It was wonderful, Maedhros found, to be on the road again with his brothers—and with Daeron, who began a traveling song after a little while, and was joined immediately by Maglor. When Maglor had first come to Valinor there had been a thread of deep grief and mourning wound through his music, even when the songs themselves were merry ones. An echo of it was still there, but Maedhros was sure he only heard it because he was listening for it. Maglor had made music in Lórien, but it had been quiet and often private, wordless songs played on his harp where he sat hidden among the roots of one of the towering trees, or beside one of the many small ponds or streams. He’d played the same way that Maedhros had filled his sketchbook—most of the drawings ugly, many of them frightening, all of them as cathartic as tears. He hadn’t left that book behind, but it was shoved into the bottom of one of his bags, and when he was somewhere private he would burn them. They were not for any eyes but his, the way that much of Maglor’s music there had not been meant for any other ears. Now, though, he and Daeron harmonized as joyfully and effortlessly as though they had spent no time apart at all. They remained the two greatest singers of their people, and it was a wonder and a delight to listen to them.

This journey was much merrier than the last one they’d all made together. No one was angry with anyone else, and the past and its shadows was not dogging any of their heels. Even Celegorm seemed more at ease, though he was quieter and more thoughtful. When they made camp a few days into the journey, Maedhros caught his eye, and they walked away together along the riverbank. Maedhros put his arm around Celegorm’s shoulders. “How are you?” he asked quietly. “When we left…”

“I’m better than I was,” Celegorm said. They stopped, and he leaned against Maedhros. “I missed you, Nelyo. You and Cáno.”

“We missed you, too. But you seem different.”

“I went back to Ekkaia, a few years after you left,” Celegorm said after a moment.

“To Ekkaia? Why?”

“Nienna dwells there.”

“Did it help?” Maedhros asked. Nienna spent much time in Lórien, too, and he had spent many hours in her company. It had helped him, but he would not have expected the sort of comfort that Nienna offered to be something Celegorm would seek out. “What made you go back there?”

“I needed…” Celegorm paused—not hesitating, but as though he was putting his thoughts in order. That was different too. “I was so angry,” he said finally. “It was like…he came back and it was suddenly like I had never even left Beleriand. I hated it. I hated him, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Ammë told me I had to let it go. Curvo told me to find something that brought me joy instead, but I didn’t…I still don’t know what that is. I’ve left Oromë’s folk behind; the Hunt isn’t for me anymore.”

That was such a change that Maedhros didn’t understand the words at first. “Tyelko…”

“I remembered what Daeron had said—remember, just after we met? He called his old anger and hatred a poison, and said he’d left it behind long ago. I went to him and asked how he had done it.”

“Daeron never went to Nienna,” Maedhros said.

“No, but he put many years and miles between himself and—well, between himself and Maglor, and all of the western lands. I’d had years, and they didn’t help, so I thought the miles would have to do. And Cáno told me that he’d spoken to Nienna there, and whatever she said to him seemed to have helped.”

“She came to me, too,” Maedhros said, “that first night we were there.” She had appeared out of the mist when he’d slipped away from his brothers to go down to the water’s edge. He had still been too lost to really pay her words much attention, let alone believe them. “Are you still angry?”

“Yes. I don’t know if I can rid myself of it entirely. But it’s—it’s not something that rules me anymore. I can visit Curvo in Tirion and I can—I’ve seen Atar at a distance, anyway. I don’t know what will happen if I ever have to speak with him. I think, though, I can learn to be Nerdanel’s son rather than Fëanáro’s.”

Maedhros rested his hand on the back of Celegorm’s head, on his sun-warmed hair. They watched a flock of geese alight on the water upstream, and then watched Huan charge past and into the shallows to send them into flight again in a grate cacophony of fluttering wings and indignant honking. Behind them a burst of laughter erupted at the campsite. “I’m glad, Tyelko,” Maedhros said. “Are you finding happiness?”

“I am now—now that you’re back, and all of us are together again. But I just—I can’t be like Ambarussa. I need something to do, and I don’t know what that is anymore.”

“You’ll find it,” Maedhros said. “It doesn’t have to be any one thing.”

“I know.” Celegorm wrapped his arms around Maedhros, holding on tightly. “I’m so, so glad you’re back, Nelyo. I missed you so much.” He did not only mean Maedhros’ absence in Lórien.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” Maedhros whispered. 

They returned to the camp to find Maglor and Daeron playing music for the girls to dance to. Celegorm sprang forward to scoop Náriel up and spin her around in time to the song, as Calissë tripped and fell into Curufin’s lap where he grabbed her and tickled her until she squirmed and shrieked with giggles. Maedhros sat down between Ambarussa, who threw their arms around him, laughing. Everyone was laughing; Maedhros couldn’t remember when last his heart had felt so full. 

As the afternoon wore on, Maglor set his harp aside, and then lunged suddenly toward Caranthir, who had started to pull out ingredients for dinner. “Caranthir! What’s this?” He grabbed at Caranthir’s hand, holding it up to show off a glint of silver on his finger, a slender band unadorned by jewels. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Moryo, why didn’t you say something?” Ambarussa exclaimed, abandoning Maedhros to tackle Caranthir from either side to get their own look at the ring. 

“Oh, get off!” Caranthir protested from underneath them, face bright red. “I can’t breathe, Ambarussa!”

“I thought we hadn’t missed anything else!” Maedhros said. “Was anyone going to tell us that Moryo had fallen in love?”

“We were waiting for Moryo to tell you,” Curufin said, amused in the way only a brother who had already suffered the same kind of attention could be. “When did you ask them, Moryo? Or did they ask you?”

“Who are they?” Maglor demanded. 

“I was going to tell you, just not in front of everyone,” Caranthir said as he shoved Amrod off of him. Amras was harder to dislodge. “Their name is Lisgalen, and they live in Tirion.”

“They’re a member of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain,” Curufin added. “But when did you exchange rings, Moryo?”

“Right before Tyelko came to kidnap me,” Caranthir said.

“It’s not kidnapping if you come willingly,” Celegorm said. 

“I hope you didn’t plan on marrying before we came back,” Maglor said. “I would never have forgiven you if you did.”

“Of course not! Amras, if you don’t get off me I’ll throw you into the river—”

“Please let’s not throw anyone into any rivers,” Maedhros said, to general laughter. 

Celegorm got up and hauled Amras off of Caranthir, who pushed his hair out of his still very red face and glared at the twins. “How badly did I ruin your plans, Moryo?”

“You didn’t. We weren’t going to make a big deal of it. I was going to write to Ammë about it and then just tell you and Curvo next time I saw you—Maglor!” Maglor pulled Caranthir into an even more crushing embrace than the twins had managed. He whispered something in Caranthir’s ear and kissed him before letting go. “Can I please make our dinner, now?”

“Oh, stop pretending it isn’t an enormous bit of news,” said Curufin, as Caranthir finally unpacked his pans. “Ammë is going to be thrilled.”

“We’re thrilled,” Maedhros said, as Celegorm sat back down, leaning back against Maedhros, who looped his arms around his chest. Huan flopped down just behind Maedhros, who leaned back in his turn, grateful for the soft warmth of him. Pídhres and the hedgehogs appeared out of the grass to cluster around Maglor and Daeron. The talk continued to center around Caranthir and his engagement, and around Lisgalen, who everyone liked and who, it was clear, Caranthir was very anxious for Maedhros and Maglor to like too even if he would never admit it aloud. 

The sun sank into the west in a blaze of brilliant red and orange clouds limned with gold. Maglor took up his harp again and played quieter songs as the stars came out. Náriel fell asleep on Daeron’s lap while Calissë tried valiantly to stay awake later than she should. Curufin indulged her, but it wasn’t long before she too was asleep, curled up in blankets beside him as he stroked her hair. Maedhros lay back and closed his eyes, letting the quiet conversation and the music wash over him alongside the sounds of the river and the crickets and frogs hidden in the reeds. Someone lay down beside him. “All right, Nelyo?” Amras whispered.

“Yes. More than all right.”

Chapter Text

There was no hurry to be anywhere, so they broke camp late and stopped early each afternoon. After they stopped the day after Maglor had discovered Caranthir’s silver engagement ring, he pulled Caranthir away from the camp to sit by the river, hidden from the others by a patch of tall reeds and cattails. “I didn’t ruin any surprises or secrets, did I?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No, you didn’t.” Caranthir smiled at him, suddenly looking mischievous. “I was going to say something earlier, except no one noticed all the way to Lórien, so I thought I’d see how long it took, and then laugh at everyone for being so blind.” Maglor laughed. “But of course I wasn’t going to get married without you and Nelyo there.”

“I was only teasing. I know you wouldn’t.” Maglor hugged him. “I’ve missed you, Moryo.”

“It’ll be your turn next, you know,” Caranthir said as he leaned against Maglor.

“My turn for what?”

“I’ve been getting questions for years about when Lisgalen and I were going to wed. Next it will be you and Daeron.”

“Me and Daeron! That’s a little hasty, don’t you think?”

Caranthir rolled his eyes. “After several thousand years, of course you wouldn’t want to be hasty.”

“Most of those years were spend thousands of miles apart.” For most of those years, Daeron had hated him—and Maglor had deserved it. All that lay behind them now, but they had still been apart far longer than they had ever been together, even after coming to Valinor. Caranthir was only teasing, of course, but really Maglor and Daeron had only had a handful of years together, between the few weeks of the Mereth Aderthad and the few years after they’d come to Valinor and before Maglor had gone to Lórien. “There’s no hurry—not for us. Daeron says you’ve all halfway adopted him in my absence anyway.”

“He came to Tirion a few years after you left, and looked so lonely, like a lost kitten, that we had to do something.” Caranthir lifted his head off Maglor’s shoulder. “Well, that’s not wholly fair. He was a sad lost kitten with claws, and he did not hesitate to use them against Atar. Did he tell you about it?”

“He said they don’t get along, but nothing more—we’ll speak of it later. I don’t really care what Atar thinks, except that it might make things harder for Curvo.”

“I think Atar is trying very hard not to make it difficult for Curvo,” said Caranthir, “but the girls are old enough now to notice, and…that’s hard. They’re far too young to be told—well, anything. They only know our father as their doting grandfather—and he does dote on them, just like he did Tyelpë before everything went wrong.”

“Are you still angry?” Maglor asked quietly. 

“I don’t know. Mostly I try not to think about him, and mostly I succeed.” Caranthir looked away, out over the river. Dragonflies buzzed through the nearby reeds, and a handful of frogs were croaking at one another somewhere out of sight. “He has kept his promise, though. Not to seek us out if we don’t want him to. That’s…something, anyway. I know Nelyo was worried about it.”

Worried was an understatement, Maglor thought. Maedhros had been so very afraid, more afraid than even he himself had realized until they’d gotten to Lórien, far away from their father and any chance of him appearing unexpectedly. Fëanor had turned his rage on Maedhros after Losgar, and though Maedhros had not quailed outwardly then, it had left its mark—and surely the Enemy had used it, in Angband, the same way Sauron had used all of their faces in one way or another against Maglor in Dol Guldur. Some of that fear lingered even still, tangled up in hurt and the tattered remains of love that Maedhros still harbored for him, all of it barbed and thorny and painful. Estë and Nienna and Irmo—even they could not heal everything. There would always be scars, and some things had to be faced head on, at their source, before they could be entirely set aside. 

After some days more the lands began to look familiar again. They were nearing Imloth Ningloron, and it was hard not to charge ahead of everyone else, down into the wide stream-filled valley to find Elrond. Maglor missed him as much as he had missed his brothers and Daeron—and he missed the twins, too, and Celebrían, and the house itself and all the flowers and the orchards. Lórien was lovely and the journey had been wonderful, but he was ready to be at home. 

As they neared the fork in the road Maglor gave into his impatience and rode ahead. Daeron kept pace, and the others laughed. “Shall we ride into the valley singing, or would you like to surprise him?” Daeron asked. 

“I think I’d like to surprise him,” Maglor said with a grin, “if he really isn’t expecting me. I’d like to…” The road turning off into Imloth Ningloron came into view, and there was a party coming up from it, turning north toward Tirion. It was not a large party, but Maglor recognized his father’s banner, and a moment later Fëanor himself, turning to look at them. At the sight of his face the scars on Maglor’s right hand erupted, and he couldn’t stop himself hissing at the sudden, shocking pain of it, bringing his hand to his chest as he bit back a curse. He watched his father come to a stop, and behind him he heard Calissë exclaim in delight as the rest of their own party caught up and she saw her grandfather’s banner. She charged past Maglor and Daeron on her pony, and Fëanor dropped to the ground to scoop her up into his arms, laughing. 

The sound of his laughter made something ache somewhere in Maglor’s chest, and he looked away. Daeron reached out for his hand, turning it carefully to reveal the scars, usually pale, gone pink and inflamed. Maedhros rode up on Maglor’s other side, his jaw set in that way that suggested he was going to do what he had to, regardless of how he felt. There was a hint of the Lord of Himring in him, as hard and impenetrable as those high walls had been, that Maglor had not seen in a very long time. If his own hand hurt, for it held the memory of the same scar that Maglor bore, he gave no sign. 

Calissë, back on her pony, seemed to be insisting that Fëanor come back with her to greet everyone else, and of course there was no refusing her. Maglor turned his hand to grasp Daeron’s, needing that reassurance in spite of the tenderness in his palm, but he put on a smile for Calissë’s sake, and out of the corner of his eye watched Maedhros do the same. The rest of their brothers had caught up fully by then, Curufin trotting a little ahead with Náriel, who was also delighted to meet her grandfather so unexpectedly. “Does he often come to Imloth Ningloron?” Maedhros asked as Caranthir halted beside them, on Maedhros’ other side; Fëanor swung himself into his own saddle to trot down the road to them, following in Calissë’s wake. 

“No,” Caranthir said. “He does not leave Tirion much, except sometimes to visit Valmar or Avallónë.”

“Well met, my Lord Fëanor,” Daeron said as Fëanor reached them, bright and cheerful, in the way that some poisonous insects were bright and colorful. Maglor saw Fëanor look at their joined hands and then away, something going tight in his jaw for a moment. Maglor tightened his grip and Daeron squeezed back.

“You see?” Calissë was saying, all beaming smiles and excitement. “We went to Lórien to fetch back Uncles Nelyo and Cáno to surprise everyone!”

“It is indeed a surprise,” Fëanor said, with a smile for Calissë, though it didn’t reach his eyes as he looked and Maglor and at Maedhros, and their brothers around and behind them.

“Atar,” Maglor and Maedhros said, inclining their heads just slightly, only enough to be polite; the rest of their brothers echoed them. “What brings you to Imloth Ningloron?” Maglor asked. It was hard to keep his voice even, let alone cheerful, but he tried. 

“When one has a question of lore, one goes to the greatest loremaster of the age,” Fëanor said. He spoke lightly; he sounded almost like himself, the Fëanor of old that Maglor still loved and missed. He looked between Maglor and Maedhros, but his gaze lingered on Maglor, on the scars on his face and the strands of white in his hair—precisely the sort of staring that Maglor had once tried to hide from, and which he found he still intensely disliked. “Did you find what you sought in Estë’s gardens?”

“We did,” Maedhros said, his voice even. Maglor did not reach for his hand, because that would betray something neither of them wanted to show their father, but he wanted to. Maedhros’ horse shifted under him and shook her head a little. 

“I’m glad of it,” Fëanor said. “I will not keep you longer from—”

“Won’t you come back to Imloth Ningloron with us, Grandfather?” Calissë asked. 

“No, not today I’m afraid,” Fëanor said, smiling at her. “I am already late returning to Tirion. You’ll have to tell me all about your adventures when you return yourselves.” He kissed both Náriel and Calissë farewell, and murmured something to Curufin, resting a hand on his shoulder for a moment, before leaving at a canter, waving over his shoulder at the rest of them, his small party falling in behind him, riding away up the road toward Tirion. Only then did Maglor look at Maedhros, who shook his head minutely. 

Before Calissë or Náriel could ask any of the questions that Maglor could tell were swirling in their heads, he urged his own horse forward, calling out as brightly as he could, “Well, come on then! No reason to tarry when we’re practically on Elrond’s doorstep!” Fëanor was not quite out of sight, and Maglor caught a glimpse of him looking back over his shoulder before he turned away himself, down the long gentle road into Imloth Ningloron. It was a wide valley, as unlike Rivendell at first glance as it was possible to be, bowl-shaped and shallow. The Pelóri rose up behind it, with the forested foothills closer at hand, dark with thick and tall pine trees. Many streams and little rivers flowed out of those hills into the valley, watering the irises for which it had been named, and all the other flowers and trees that Celebrían had planted there. The house was large and open, with a scattering of workshops beyond it, and beyond them lay Celebrían’s orchards—peaches and apples, beside a wide field for strawberries, and another where blueberry bushes were all laden with fruit. It was peach season now, and Maglor could see figures moving about beneath the trees, singing harvest songs. The sight of it made it immediately easier to breathe; the pain in his hand ebbed away, almost as though it had never been.

It was much the same as when he had left it, except that there were the beginnings of a new orchard on the other side of the peaches. Maglor swiftly outpaced the others, cantering into the courtyard before the main entrance. The doors opened and Celebrían emerged, ready to greet the newcomers. She stopped short, though, upon seeing him. “Maglor!” she cried. 

“Celebrían!” he replied, laughing as he jumped out of the saddle as she hurried down the steps to embrace him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got all my brothers with me.”

“Of course I don’t mind! Oh, it’s so good to see you!” She kissed his cheeks, and took his face in her hands to look more closely at him, just as Daeron had—as many would. “Lórien was good to you, I see.” Her smile was knowing; she had spent many years there herself, long ago. “But I won’t keep you—Elrond is out in the apple orchard. Elladan and Elrohir are not here, though, but they’ll come back as soon as I write to tell them you’re home.”

“Thank you.” Maglor kissed her cheek. “I’m so very glad to be back.”

“Go on, go to Elrond! I’ll make sure your things get where they need to go.”

“I have three hedgehogs as well as my cat, this time!” Maglor called over his shoulder as he left the courtyard. Celebrían’s silver-bright laughter followed him, and once he was past the hedges he broke into a run, flying down the familiar paths, past the lilacs and the vegetable garden, past the workshops and forges, over little bridges and past the ponds, where ducks quacked at him and friends called out surprised and delighted greetings. Maglor waved but did not slow, not until he reached the apple orchard. It was quiet there and cool in the shade, the fruits all still small and round and green. He paused to catch his breath, inhaling deeply the scents of earth and leaf and grass, before passing farther under the trees. It was a good place to come to seek solitude and quiet—there were many such places in Imloth Ningloron, but the orchards gave the illusion of retreating to a small forest without having to cross the whole of the valley to the pine woods in the hills. 

He saw Elrond before Elrond saw him, walking slowly with his hands clasped behind his back, apparently deep in thought. He was clad in soft blue robes, and his hair was loose, held out of his face only by a few small braids joined together behind his head with silver clips. “Elrond!” Maglor called, and watched him halt and spin around, eyes wide. 

“Maglor?” Elrond gasped, and then they were both running. Maglor caught Elrond up in his arms. Tears stung his eyes. Now he was home. “When did you arrive?” Elrond asked. “We had no idea—”

“Only just now. My brothers and Daeron all came to fetch us from Lórien, but of course they did not bother telling anyone where they went.” Maglor drew back to let Elrond look at him properly. Whatever he saw brought tears to his own eyes. “Of course,” Maglor added, wishing for laughter and not tears, “that means you have all eight of us in addition to Curvo’s daughters now as house guests.” Elrond laughed, and threw his arms again around Maglor. “And three hedgehogs, a cat, and Huan,” Maglor added.

“You could bring an oliphaunt with you and I wouldn’t mind,” Elrond said, voice slightly muffled where his face was pressed into the crook of Maglor’s neck. “Oh, I missed you.”

“I missed you,” Maglor said softly, “so very, very much. I’m so glad to be home.”

They did not immediately leave the orchard. Instead they sat under one of the trees to talk a while. Elrond asked about Lórien, and Maglor told him some of it. Much that had happened he didn’t think he could speak of yet, if he ever could to someone other than Maedhros—and there were some things even Maedhros would never know. He and Elrond had once spoken of healing, in this very orchard, and while Elrond had spoken of festering wounds needing to be lanced before proper healing could begin, Maglor had talked of bones needing to be rebroken after having not been set correctly—or at all—the first time. His experience of Lórien had been much like that. It had hurt at first, and for a long time, but he felt that he had come out of it stronger as a result. Elrond did not ask more than he was willing to share, and he had plenty of small pieces of news of his own to share, bits of gossip and funny stories from the valley, and from Tirion. 

“Your brothers have all been frequent guests,” Elrond said. “I’ve been very glad to get to know them over these last few decades—and Lady Nerdanel, too.”

“I’m glad too,” Maglor said. “Maedhros wishes to speak with you sometime. I don’t know about what.”

“I very much want to speak with him, too,” Elrond said. “I’ve long wished that I had made more of an effort to reach out to him before.”

“I don’t think he would have appreciated it much, if you had,” Maglor said. “But Lórien helped him as much as it helped me. Maybe even more. We saw our father on the road, as we arrived.” He flexed his scarred hand without thinking, and saw Elrond frown at it.

“He came ostensibly to consult my library, but I think he really just wanted to know if I knew where all your brothers had gone. Since I didn’t know they had gone anywhere in the first place, he left rather disappointed.”

“Have you seen much of my father?”

“Not really. He writes sometimes—that’s usually how he asks questions of lore and such things—and I’ve seen him in Tirion a few times, but Celebrían and I have done very little traveling since you left. Elladan and Elrohir have done more—they’re getting to know Turgon, now, in Alastoron.”

“Has Elladan gotten to go sailing with Eärendil yet?”

Elrond smiled. “He has, and is already looking forward to doing it again. Elrohir thinks he’s mad.” Maglor laughed. “How did it go, though? Seeing your father?”

“Calissë and Náriel were there, so we all had to put on smiles,” said Maglor. “It’s…it was both harder and easier than I thought. He did not linger, or try to speak much to us—but I’m sure the girls could feel the tension, and I don’t know how Curvo is going to explain to them. They’re too young to know the full truth.”

“I’m not sure there is a good way to explain, even when they are older,” Elrond said. “In some ways that is a blessing—that they will never know that kind of grief—but in other ways it is a whole new sort of grief.”

“I wish that he didn’t have to explain at all.” Maglor looked away through the trees. He glimpsed Huan sniffing around a few rows over, and after a few minutes more Pídhres appeared, jumping onto Elrond’s lap to sniff at his hands and purr when he pet her. “I think Estë did something to Pídhres. I’m told it’s been fifty years or so since we went away, and that’s far longer than a cat should live.”

Elrond laughed quietly. “I know better than to question such things—of the Valar, or of cats.” He scratched Pídhres behind the ears. “Do you have an immortal hedgehog, too?”

“No. Leicheg also lived longer than a hedgehog should, I suspect, but I think hedgehogs take a different view of that sort of thing to cats. I do have three of her little ones, though. There’s a dozen others that wandered off into Lórien over the years, but Aechen, Annem, and Aegthil refused to be left behind. Aechen is particularly attached to Maedhros.”

“Speaking of your brother, we should not linger too long. I’m being a terrible host.” Elrond made no move to get up.

“Celebrían is making up for it, I’m sure. Anyway, you don’t have to stand on ceremony with any of my brothers.” Maglor held out his arms and Elrond leaned against him. “Have I mentioned how much I missed you?”

They lingered under the apple trees until Huan came to shove his nose into their faces. Elrond laughed as he got to his feet; Pídhres hissed at Huan and jumped into Maglor’s arms. “Very well, Huan, we’re coming.”

Back at the house, Maglor left Elrond and made his way to his own room, eager to be in a space of his own again, and to change into clean clothes and brush the dust of the road out of his hair. He found Daeron there, playing the harp that Maglor had left behind. He’d carved it, and the smaller one he took traveling, out of driftwood collected from the shores of Middle-earth. He loved working with wood, and driftwood most of all, twisted and smoothed and discolored as it was in so many interesting ways. The rest of the room was much as he had left it, if a little tidier, and with a few more personal touches of Daeron’s. The sight of them made him smile. “There you are,” Daeron said, smiling himself as he rose from the harp. “You found Elrond?”

“I did.” Maglor dropped Pídhres onto the bed, though she immediately jumped off and vanished, heading off to reacquaint herself with the house, and then sank down onto it himself, falling back with a sigh. “Oh, I’ve missed a proper bed.”

“No mattresses in Lórien, then?” Daeron asked, amused.

“There were bowers filled with blankets and pillows and things, if we wanted them, but none of them were my own bed. Come here.” Maglor held out his arms, and Daeron joined him. “You weren’t there, either.” 

“I’ve had the luxury of proper beds, but I have found them uncomfortably big and empty, since you left,” Daeron said. He smiled, but it was wistful. “I missed you terribly.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No! Don’t apologize.” Daeron kissed him. “You needed to go, and I’m glad you did. Seeing you again now—it is worth all the years of empty beds.” 

“Will you tell me what you said to my father? Caranthir said you had words, and I saw how he looked at you on the road.” Maglor brushed a few strands of dark hair out of Daeron’s face.

“He seemed rather insulted on your behalf by my own reputation, and then I think I confused him greatly by saying that I did not care about such things. He also told me that he had seen my face in Mandos upon that tapestry that showed our leaving Middle-earth.”

“I remember you wondered about that,” Maglor said. Fëanor had written to him of it; he hadn’t thought about that letter in years. It would still be tucked into a drawer at the bottom of his desk, just across the room, full of sentiments Maglor still didn’t know if he really believed or not. 

“That was our first meeting, at the start of that year’s Midwinter festivities—and it was among company, so we were both on our best behavior. Our second meeting was the day before I left Tirion again; we had no audience then, and he…” Daeron stopped, a frown passing over his face—the first bit of real anger that Maglor had ever seen in him. “He objected to my wearing the pendant you gave me. I suppose he could tell at a glance it was your work. He accused me of being a stranger to you and thus unworthy of such a token, simply because I had admitted our friendship in Middle-earth had been short-lived and then only lately renewed. That was far more offensive than anything he might have said about my talents or my music, and I spoke harsh words in return—pointing out that I was far less a stranger to you than he was, and it was by his own doing. I did not linger to hear what he might have said in reply.”

“It isn’t your fault if the truth sounds harsh,” Maglor said. 

“Well, I did certainly did not go out of my way to try to soften it. I suppose it was all coming from a place of care,” Daeron said. “And Curufin had told him nothing—he didn’t think you would wish for him to share such things with your father—which I am sure was frustrating.”

“I wouldn’t have, then. I don’t think I care so much now—I’ll have to tell Curvo that, so he doesn’t keep feeling caught in the middle. My father, though, lost the right to question to whom I give my heart long ago,” Maglor said softly. He did wonder whether it really was from a place of concern, or if it was only a matter of pride that made him object to Daeron, one who had the audacity to claim—as Fëanor would surely see it—to be mightier than any of his sons in anything, or for one of the Moriquendi to surpass a Noldo. He doubted whether his father’s pride had really been so dampened even by such a long stay in Mandos, whatever he had said and done immediately upon his release. “I’m sorry, though. You should not have had to face his scorn alone.”

“I am more than equal to it,” Daeron said, smiling at him. “I know my own power and my own skills, and I have my own pride. Your father doesn’t frighten me. We’ve met many times since, always in company, and it usually goes about as well as it did earlier today.”

“As long as you aren’t bothered, then, I won’t be either.”

“It only bothers me insofar as it might make things harder for you. You’ve seen him once, though,” Daeron said. “It can only be easier from here—and I am not going anywhere, beloved.” He kissed Maglor again, more deeply, and murmured against his lips, “And now let us put all such things out of our minds, since there’s no longer any fear of our privacy being invaded…” Maglor laughed and pulled him closer. 

Chapter Text

Elrond always found himself thankful that Fëanor’s visits to Imloth Ningloron were rare. He had been quiet and withdrawn through much of that first summer after his return from Mandos, but that could now be safely attributed to—well, to having just come from Mandos, to adjusting to life again on top of reconciling with his brother and facing some of the lasting consequences of his actions after the Darkening. He was well settled into life now, and Elrond found him a very impressive person—and also one very aware of his own talents, and so self assured that it bordered on arrogance. 

It probably had been arrogance, once, but Elrond did not think it was quite that bad now. Still, Fëanor remained unused to being seriously argued with, and Elrond often found himself arguing with him, which was often exhausting—especially if it was the sort of spirited debate that Fëanor seemed to think was fun, at least when he won, but which Elrond hated. However confident he was in himself, Fëanor still had much to catch up on and to learn, for the world had changed many times over during his time in Mandos. It seemed to frustrate him greatly whenever that lack of knowledge tripped him up. 

On this visit he’d wanted less to consult Elrond’s library than Elrond himself, concerning his sons; he was determined to leave them be, but that did not seem to extend to a willingness to remain ignorant of all their doings. Elrond had not even known they’d all gone off somewhere, and wasn’t sure why Fëanor had been so surprised. He had said himself it was sudden and apparently unplanned. They had all visited Imloth Ningloron a great deal since Maglor had left for Lórien, and Elrond was glad to have come to know them, but that certainly did not mean he was privy to all their plans or secrets.

After bidding Fëanor farewell, Elrond retreated to the apple orchard, wishing for solitude and quiet and also room to walk and to breathe. He hadn’t been there even ten minutes, though, before Maglor appeared, with such a smile on his face as Elrond had never seen before. It was never possible to guess how long someone might need to stay in Lórien, but Elrond had been prepared to wait far longer than only a few decades. The scars were still there, of course, but the shadows in Maglor’s eyes were gone, and they shone with Treelight brighter than Elrond had ever seen in him. Maglor even spoke of his father with ease, with a rueful smile rather than the tight, pained look that had always accompanied Fëanor’s name before. He did flex his scarred hand as though it pained him, and though Elrond knew it was foolish to expect every old wound to have been entirely healed, he still didn’t like to see it—but even that was easy to set aside in the face of Maglor’s easy laughter and bright smiles, and the way he held himself—so differently than he had in all the time that Elrond had known him from Beleriand onward; it was as though some great weight had been lifted off of him. 

Back at the house Maglor kissed Elrond’s temple before heading off to his room to change out of his traveling clothes—and probably not to emerge until supper time, if Daeron was waiting for him. Elrond went in search of Celebrían, and found her bringing a platter of pastries filled with peaches and drizzled with honey out onto the large veranda that overlooked the duckpond and the vegetable garden. “Maglor found you?” she asked.

“He did.” Elrond kissed her. “And he’s brought all his brothers back with him, he says.”

“Yes, they’re all gathering outside. Maedhros is here too, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“He’s very different than he was when we last met. No more wallowing in old miseries for him! It was a great relief to see.”

Maedhros was not outside when Elrond followed Celebrían onto the veranda. Curufin was, and the twins followed just behind Elrond and Celebrían. Calissë and Náriel were, of course, out by the pond. Caranthir was with them, crouched by Náriel as Calissë tossed treats out to the ducks and the fish. After greeting Elrond, Amras went to join Caranthir and the girls by the water, and Amrod sat cross-legged on the ground by Curufin’s feet. “So your sudden and mysterious journey was to Lórien?” Celebrían said as she set the platter down. “How did you know it was time?”

“You’ll have to ask Celegorm, for it was he that came to collect all of us,” said Amrod as he picked up a pastry. “Maybe Huan could tell. Neither Maglor nor Maedhros had sent any messages, though, if that’s what you mean. They were very surprised to see us!”

“As we were surprised to see all of you!” Celebrían laughed as she sat down. “I confess when we heard you’d left I was a little worried, recalling the last time you all set off together.”

“That was quite different,” Amrod said. “If something had happened, we wouldn’t have taken Curvo’s girls.”

“They insisted on coming on an adventure,” Curufin said with a smile, “and a trip to Lórien is as safe an adventure as I can think of. Arimeldë was very happy to have the house to herself for a few weeks, but she will come meet us here after I’ve written to tell her we’re back. Tyelpë may come too, if his work allows.”

“They are both more than welcome of course,” Elrond said. “The journey was good?”

“It was excellent,” said Amrod. 

Celegorm and Maedhros came to join them then. Elrond rose to greet them, hiding his sudden apprehension behind a smile. He’d seen and spoken to Maedhros only once since he had come to Valinor, just before Maglor had arrived, and it had not been a pleasant visit for either of them. Maedhros had been wrapped in misery and guilt and all sorts of other things, hardly changed from the person Elrond had known in Beleriand, and Elrond himself had been mourning both Arwen and Aragorn, worrying about his sons and about Maglor. That visit had ended with the news of Fëanor’s imminent return, and it had not been long afterward that they’d heard that Maedhros and all his brothers had left their mothers house for the western wilderness. 

Now, Maedhros seemed almost like a different person. He was still quiet, but he smiled when his brothers spoke to him, and the fire of his spirit had been banked. Even his voice seemed different, no longer weighed down by fear and grief and pain; he seemed younger, brighter, and much more like the Maedhros so many had spoken of, rather than the one that Elrond had known as a child. He held himself less tightly, his limbs looser and his shoulders relaxed. When Calissë and Náriel returned to join them, Náriel climbed onto his lap without hesitation, and Maedhros put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head, every inch a doting uncle. 

He still didn’t quite look Elrond in the eye, though. Much still lay between them, but it could be sorted out later; it was not the sort of conversation, or series of conversations, to be had in front of others, especially young children. Elrond did not say more to Maedhros beyond a greeting. “Where is Maglor?” someone asked after a little while. 

“With Daeron, I think,” Elrond said. 

“We won’t see them again until dinner, I’m sure,” Celebrían said. “How long do you intend to stay? I hope at least until Elladan and Elrohir return.”

“We’ll stay as long as you’ll have us,” said Amras, reaching for a pastry over Amrod’s shoulder, “and eat all of your peaches. I don’t think any of us have any pressing matters awaiting us.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Caranthir. “You just go off and sit in the woods.”

“We follow Vána’s teachings,” Amrod said.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Dinnertime came around, and as predicted that was when Maglor and Daeron reappeared. Maglor was still not in the habit of dressing in finery—many centuries of lonely wandering with no thought to his looks made returning to jewels and fine robes a struggle, sometimes—but he had ribbons in his braids that evening, and small silver and sapphire rings in his ears. His brothers teased him a little, but he laughed at them right back. Dinner was always a merry and busy meal in Imloth Ningloron, though it was quieter that evening than usual; many had gone traveling that summer, or were away on errands to Tirion or Alqualondë or Tol Eressëa. After dinner, as the stars came out, there was as always call for music—and especially for Maglor’s music. He had been missed by everyone in the valley, and he obliged with a brilliant smile, singing with Daeron and with Lindir, and others, and alone. Elrond’s own harp was also brought out, and the two of them sang together, songs that Maglor had taught Elrond as a child, and songs that Elrond had taught him in return upon his coming to Rivendell. 

It was a lovely evening—merry and joyful and starlit. After nearly everyone drifted away to their beds, or to other parts of the valley, Maglor lingered, sitting by Elrond and playing quiet and simple melodies on his harp. “I missed this,” he murmured. “Singing with everyone.”

“Does it still worry you, playing in front of others?”

“Certainly not here. I think it won’t be something I seek out again—performing before a larger audience, I mean—but it doesn’t frighten me as it did. I won’t refuse if I am asked.” Maglor smiled a little crookedly. “Which is just as well, since I hear that there is some great feast being planned, and that I’m sure to be called upon for it. Another Mereth Aderthad, one of my brothers called it, though I can’t imagine why Ingwë would take an interest in such a thing only now.”

“I don’t know either,” Elrond said. “I think plans are being laid for some sort of great celebration of something, but the particulars haven’t been shared with anyone here. For my part, I am very happy to let all the great kings and princes make their plans without me.” That made Maglor laugh. “I had quite enough of plans and schemes in Middle-earth.”

“Not such merry ones, though,” Maglor said.

“The merry ones are worse, for then everyone feels free to argue about every little detail.”

“Instead of just listening to you as they should,” Maglor teased. He tugged on one of Elrond’s braids as he spoke, the way he often did with Elladan or Elrohir. “Whatever they’re planning, I'm curious but quite content to only go where I’m instructed and sing whatever they wish of me.”

“You and Daeron and Elemmírë will be much in demand, I think,” Elrond said. “You know your father will also be in the middle of it.”

“Of course he will. I can face him without flinching, at least in company.”

“Your feelings haven’t changed, though?”

Maglor shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think about it much anymore—or at least I hadn’t until we left Lórien—but there are things even Estë and Nienna cannot mend, and I suppose whatever lies between my father and me is one of them.”

“And Maedhros?”

“The same. He…” Maglor lowered his voice, “The tales all speak of how he stood aside at Losgar, but they do not tell what our father said to him afterward. It was ugly—as ugly as anything he’d ever said to Fingolfin. Maedhros met him earlier today and remained steady enough, but I have not yet had the chance to speak with him about it.” Maglor glanced across the hall to where Maedhros sat, Caranthir on one side of him and Celegorm the other, all three of them laughing at something Lindir was saying. “Have you spoken to him?”

“Not yet. You’ve only all just arrived.” Elrond leaned against Maglor. “There’s no hurry.”

“No, of course not.” 

“I’d never seen you with all of your brothers until today. I’m very glad they’re all here with you. Especially Maedhros.”

“I am too,” Maglor said. “He has been apprehensive about seeing you again. You never did tell me what you quarreled about when he was last here.”

“I don’t know if quarrel is the right word. It was not a good time for either of us, and we both said some unkind things.” The past had been a heavy thing on both of their hearts then, though Elrond knew how to carry it a little better than Maedhros had—and he’d had Celebrían to help him. Maedhros, at that time, hadn’t had anyone. He allowed himself no one, until his brothers had all taken him away west. “I told Celebrimbor once that I wished I could have known the Maedhros he and others spoke of so fondly.”

“You can, now,” Maglor said softly. “He isn’t the same—that’s impossible—but he’s so much more like himself now than he was in all the time you knew him both here and in Beleriand.”

“I’m glad of it,” Elrond said. He knew it had both grieved and worried Maglor that Maedhros had held himself apart when Elrond and Elros had been young. They’d been afraid of him from the start, and unlike Maglor he had done very little to quell those fears. Only time, and seeing the closeness that he and Maglor still shared then in spite of everything, had eased those fears. It was impossible to like someone who made it difficult on purpose, but Elrond hoped now that they could leave all of that behind them where it belonged. 

He woke early the next morning, and ventured out into the gardens. Gentle mists hovered over the waters, tinged golden by the rising sun, glowing among the blooming water lilies. As he passed over one of the many bridges that spanned the various ponds, Elrond saw Maedhros was awake also, seated in one of the gazebos built in the middle of the water, with a book of some kind on his knee and a pencil in his hand. He lifted his head as Elrond approached, and straightened. “I don’t mean to disturb you,” Elrond said, pausing by the gazebo. 

“You aren’t,” Maedhros said. There was a pause, somewhat uncomfortable, in which Elrond tried to think of something to say. Finally Maedhros spoke again. “This valley is beautiful. I don’t think I said that to you before.”

“Celebrían built it, and planted the gardens,” Elrond said. “Your grandmother helped, I think.” He stepped into the gazebo. “I was glad to hear that you went to Lórien with Maglor. I wasn’t sure you would, having refused for so long.”

Maedhros looked away, out over the water. Birds were singing in the bushes and grass along the banks. “I never thought it would help,” he said, “though I couldn’t explain why. You understood, though, even when I didn’t.”

“I should have seen it sooner,” Elrond said, “but I did not look. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I wouldn’t have listened. I still don’t understand how, though—we only spoke once, and I don’t think either of us were in the mood to understand the other, then.”

“I’m sorry for that, too,” Elrond said.

“Please don’t. It was wrong of me to come here as I did, at that time. I knew you were grieving.”

“So were you.” Elrond sat down on the bench, leaving a few feet of space between them. “As for how I knew—I realized what the root of the problem must be when Maglor came back here that autumn. We weren’t speaking of you, but of him—of his own fears. I knew the root of them, as did he, and once I made the connection to you it seemed so obvious.” Maglor had been the prisoner of the Necromancer, and Sauron had wielded fear like a blade, wounding with deadly precision and leaving lasting harm. Maedhros had, long ago, been a prisoner of Morgoth—and unlike the Necromancer, Morgoth had been at the height of his powers, though he had not wielded any of his weapons with the same precision. He hadn’t had to. “Of course you would be afraid of the Valar,” Elrond said. “Are they not cut from the same cloth?”

“Estë is as unlike the Enemy as it is possible to be,” Maedhros murmured. “I knew that.” They both knew, though, that fear did not often care about what one knew.

“Námo, perhaps, is not so different though.” Maedhros had held himself apart in Mandos, too, refusing any aid or comfort that was offered to him, until the Valar decided that those halls were not a place he could find healing. They had been right, though perhaps not in the timing of it. 

“In life we only see him as the Doomsman of the Valar. In the Halls I think he is very different, but I wasn’t interested in seeing that, or understanding any of it. I only wanted to be left alone. I didn’t realize then how afraid I still was; I’d thought I left it all behind me.” Maedhros dropped his gaze to the sketchbook on his lap, moving his pencil idly as he shaded in part of what he had been drawing. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I would have gone with Maglor regardless, because it was he who asked, but I don’t think it would have helped if I still hadn’t understood what it was I feared.”

“I’m glad,” Elrond said. “Truly.” Maedhros smiled at him; it was a small smile, but real. “Maglor says you would only have withdrawn if I had sought you out earlier, but I’m sorry I didn’t. If I had known that you’d seen Maglor in the palantír, I would have told you much sooner that he’d been brought out of that place, that he was safe.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Maedhros said. “I spoke of it to no one but Finrod and my mother, and neither of them would betray a confidence. My brothers were furious with me for keeping it from them, but I still think it was the right thing.”

“It was a heavy burden to bear alone,” Elrond said. 

“No heavier than any other I’ve carried.” Maedhros shrugged. “I won’t ever apologize for trying to protect them. It drives them to distraction.”

“I’m sure it does,” Elrond said. He understood that desire, to protect everyone he loved from as much as he could, and he understood too how it felt sometimes to be on the receiving end. “When is it their turn to protect you?”

That made Maedhros laugh. Like his smile it was quiet, but it was no less startling for it. “They told Maglor and me that summer it was their turn to ‘be the oldest.’ Mostly I think it was an excuse to scold us—and maybe we needed the scolding. I did, anyway.” His smile faded away after a few moments, and they sat a little while in silence, listening to the water and to the birds. Someone began work in one of the forges, and to sing in time with the hammer falling upon the anvil. Finally, Maedhros said, “Elrond—at Sirion…”

“You needn’t apologize again. I’ve forgiven you all of it already.”

“I know. Afterward, though—I’m sorry. I know you were afraid of me, you and Elros. I didn’t know how to reassure you, then—and I thought it better if I didn’t, if I kept what distance I could. I was not…”

“I know. I understand, now, and looking back I can remember the ways in which you did care for us. Learning to wield a blade with both hands saved my life later, more than once. You insisted on that, didn’t you?”

“I did tell Maglor it would be best if you learned that way, as many skills as possible. He agreed—I didn’t need to insist.”

“Still. Thank you.” 

Small footsteps heralded Calissë’s arrival. Maedhros’ smile was much brighter as he closed his sketchbook and lifted her onto his lap without hesitation. “Uncle Nelyo, have you seen the fish?”

Elrond left them, Maedhros being appropriately impressed by Calissë’s favorite fish, and Calissë as happy and delighted with her uncle as it was possible for a child to be. Náriel sped past him over the wooden bridge, and he heard Maglor calling after her to slow down, to be careful. “The pond isn’t deep,” Elrond said as Maglor caught up to him.

“That isn’t as reassuring as you think it is,” Maglor said. “I remember pulling you out of plenty of waters we thought were shallow.”

“That was Elros’ fault,” Elrond said.

“What, every time?” Maglor laughed.

“Of course! But really, I know just how deep the water is here—and both Náriel and Calissë learned how to swim in this very pond.” Celebrimbor had taught them, alongside Elladan and Elrohir, while Rundamírë had dragged Curufin away to the workshops so he wouldn’t hover and make anyone else as nervous as he had been. “You don’t have to worry; they’re with Maedhros.”

Náriel and Calissë were both laughing, just out of sight in the gazebo. Maedhros’ deeper voice joined them after a moment. “I know,” Maglor said, glancing toward the sound. “Small children, though—it’s hard not to worry.” His look back at Elrond was soft and fond and a little sad. “Teaching you to swim was necessity, not play.”

“You still made it fun—and we knew a little already.” He’d spent the vast majority of his life dwelling far inland, at the feet of mountains, in river valleys, but Elrond remained a child of the seashore, of sands and foam and waves; one of his clearest childhood memories of his father was learning how to float in the calm waters of Balar, Eärendil’s hands big and steady under his back and his hair shining like gold in the summer sunshine. His most treasured possession from those years was a small box of seashells, somehow rescued in the chaos of Sirion’s burning—he could not remember how. The box was newer than the shells; Elros had made it, as Elrond had made the one he had carried away to Númenor with his half of the shell collection. Elrond didn’t know what had happened to that, whether it had been passed down through Elros’ family, its significance eventually forgotten, perhaps the box itself lost or destroyed. The thought made his heart ache a little, as so many things about Númenor did. “How are you?” he asked Maglor, wanting to think of something else.

“You don’t have to worry anymore either,” Maglor said. “I’m fine, truly. I slept wonderfully last night, and am still very happy to be home.” He embraced Elrond, holding tightly. “I spent too short a time here before I left for Lórien.”

“You went when you needed to,” Elrond said, “and now there can be nothing to call you away again—not for such a long time, anyway.”

“No, nothing,” Maglor agreed.

“You still intend to make your home here?” Elrond asked. It had been Maglor’s plan from the start, but that had been before he’d seen his brothers again, let alone reconciled with Maedhros.

“Yes, of course. In the future I suppose I’ll split much of my time between here and my mother’s house, but I would call this place home as long as you’ll let me.” He smiled to show he was teasing. “I’d apologize, for that means my brothers will all be forever coming and going, but they’ve been doing that in my absence anyway.”

“I’ve been glad of it,” Elrond said, “and I’m glad that Maedhros is here now too.”

“You spoke?”

“A little. It went well.” Elrond put his arm through Maglor’s, and they left the wooden bridge and followed a path that wound around the edge of the pond. “I think what you both really needed was each other, as much as what Lórien could offer.”

Maglor hummed agreement. “I have been thinking of Elros,” he said softly after a few minutes. “I wish he could have met Maedhros—this Maedhros, the one who laughs.”

“Were Elros here,” Elrond said, “he would push Maedhros into the deepest part of the pond. And then he would fish him out, soaking wet and covered in algae and duckweed, and laugh at him.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?” Maglor didn’t laugh, and his smile was small and wistful. “I remember thinking once that he would have pushed me into the Sea, only to drag me back out and yell at me afterward.”

“That was our plan,” Elrond said, and that did get a laugh, small and quiet though it was. The grief of Elros’ absence was familiar and well-worn by now, the edges of it dulled by time; it was easier to laugh about him, to play guessing-games about what he might do if he were to somehow return to them, but the heartache was still there, the shape of his absence one Elrond had had to grow around, like a tree growing around a wound. 

Maedhros’ absence was not a wound that Maglor had ever recovered from before coming west, no matter what he had claimed or even believed. Their reunion had not been a joyous one, both of them still reeling from Fëanor’s return and still aching from their own pasts—but the joy was there now, trust rebuilt and love renewed. There would be no great feast held for it, but Elrond thought that a greater cause for celebration than anything Ingwë might be planning.

Chapter Text

Once he parted from Elrond and satisfied himself that the girls were with Maedhros and not likely to fall into the pond—it was both surprising and not, how those old habits of worry had resurfaced, even knowing there was nothing in Valinor that could ever compare to the dangers of Beleriand during the War of Wrath—Maglor wandered away to the workshops, to reacquaint himself with wood and clay and to see what had changed there and what hadn’t. He greeted old friends and laughed at the renewed jokes about Pídhres and Huan, both of whom appeared at various times to check on him as he wandered through the valley. It was high summer and the gardens were flourishing, the orchards and fields overflowing with peaches and strawberries. The new orchard was for oranges, though the trees were too young yet to bear much fruit. Celebrían had planted a lemon tree near her herb garden, too, and was talking of mangoes. 

As he wandered the garden paths he hummed to himself, and when he returned to the fishpond he found Maedhros still there, alone now with his sketchbook. Maglor crossed the wooden bridge to join him. “You spoke to Elrond this morning,” he said, sitting and leaning against Maedhros’ shoulder to peer down at the page, which sported a few studies of the fish swimming about below, and one quick sketch of Náriel, still rough and lacking detail. 

“I’m sure he told you all about it.”

“No, we were distracted by Náriel and Calissë. I was worried about Náriel falling into the water, and Elrond was trying to tell me not to.”

“Náriel tells me she is an excellent swimmer,” Maedhros said.

“Well yes, she would. I think I said the same thing at her age, right before I fell into a lake and nearly drowned myself before Uncle Linquendil fished me out. But…?”

“It went well, as you must have guessed.” Maedhros leaned his head against Maglor’s. “It’s still surprising to me how kind he is.”

“He’s always been that way.” Elrond hated it when Maglor tried to downplay his own influence on Elrond’s life, but truly, Elrond and Elros both had been kindhearted and good from the start—kind as summer, had been Bilbo’s phrase for Elrond—and that had nothing to do with Maglor and everything to do with them. “He told me that he is glad you’re here.”

“That’s very kind of him, since it sounds like all our other brothers have been making nuisances of themselves ever since we left.”

Maglor laughed. “That makes me happy, too—to have everyone I love getting to know one another, to have you all like each other. What did you talk about with Elrond?”

“Fear, and regrets. He apologized to me, which would be ridiculous even if he had done something wrong.” Maedhros put his arm around Maglor and kissed the top of his head. “I think only you could’ve raised him the way you did and managed to shield him so well from anything that might turn him bitter.”

“I don’t know about that. He endured much after we parted.”

“But he met it all with the skills you taught him,” Maedhros said, as implacable as Elrond himself on the subject.

“I just loved them,” Maglor said quietly. He spared a moment to wish again that Elros could have had this chance, too—to meet Maedhros once more, to see him as he really was rather than what the Oath and years of torment and centuries of war had made him. He wished, too, that Arwen could have met Maedhros, as Elladan and Elrohir soon would. The closest she or any of her children had come was riding with Maglor up the coast north of Lindon, within sight of Himling Isle, where the towers of Himring still stood, mist-wreathed, only slowly succumbing to the ravages of time. Maybe someone had gone out to the island since, but Maglor never had. It would have hurt too much, to see that familiar place so changed, to walk the old halls that his brother had built loved and to see them crumbling and pitted, overgrown with moss and vines. 

“Did your hand hurt, when we saw Atar yesterday?” Maedhros asked after they sat for a little while in comfortable silence, listening to the water and the other sounds of the valley—laughter and singing, and the ringing of hammers, and the birds in the trees. Somewhere in the distance Huan barked. 

“Yes. Did yours?”

Maedhros sighed. “As though I were holding a Silmaril again. I thought it would be different, but it wasn’t.” Maglor reached for his hand, turning it over. The scar pattern there had faded again, almost invisible unless you knew what to look for. Maglor’s own scars had also lost the pain and last bit of lingering tenderness overnight. “I thought I’d be able to just…see him in company the way Ambarussa do. Be polite but nothing more. I don’t think I can.”

“Maybe it’ll be easier next time,” Maglor said, though he had his own doubts. They were the only two of their brothers to have touched the Silmarils, after everything. The only ones who followed the Oath to the very end—the end of it, the end of the world, long after they’d lost or tried to bury any love they might still have harbored for their father. Maglor had wept many bitter tears over it in Lórien, and Nienna had consoled him but had been unable to offer any real guidance. He knew that he should try to find a way to forgive his father. He’d once thought he’d never be able to forgive Maedhros for what had happened at the end—for having had to watch as he disappeared into the fire, and then to find his own way, somehow, through the breaking and drowning lands and then through the long years afterward. He had, though, and here they were, both of them so greatly changed, but learning all over again how to be brothers, how to find their way back to the closeness they’d once shared. 

Fëanor, though. That felt different. That hurt went even deeper—but at least it wasn’t one he had to bear alone. 

When they left the pond to walk back to the house the hedgehogs came scurrying out of the grass. Aechen went to Maedhros, who scooped him up and nestled him in the crook of his right arm. Leicheg had always liked to be carried like that, too. The other two followed along at Maglor’s heels, vanishing into the flowers and then reappearing a few minutes later as they went. They came to a wide open space in the garden near the house, and found Celebrían just arriving there as well—and not alone. “Galadriel!” Maglor exclaimed. He sprang forward to embrace her. “Did you just arrive?”

“I did,” Galadriel said, laughing. “Huan came so suddenly to drag Daeron away that I suspected it must be because you had returned, or were about to.”

“And you were right, as usual,” Maglor said. Galadriel smiled at him, catching and holding his gaze. Whatever she saw there made her smile even more. “It’s good to see you again,” he said.

“And you, Macalaurë. And you, Maitimo,” Galadriel added, turning to Maedhros, who inclined his head in greeting. “Is that a hedgehog?”

“Oh yes,” Maglor said. “There are three of them now. I don’t know where Annem and Aegthil have gotten to, but Aechen is particularly fond of Maedhros.”

“For reasons that remain mysterious,” Maedhros said, with a small smile. He did not quite meet Galadriel’s gaze, but Maglor hadn’t really expected him to. 

“Oh hello, Galadriel!” Daeron appeared then, coming up from another one of the many garden paths. “Good morning, Celebrían,” he added.

“Good morning!” Celebrían said. “Breakfast is inside for anyone who is hungry, though I’m afraid we haven’t anything on the table suitable for hedgehogs.” 

“I think Aechen has had his fill of breakfast already,” Maedhros said. He smiled at Daeron and followed Celebrían inside. 

“How much of a stir did Huan cause?” Daeron asked once they were alone with Galadriel. “I was rather distracted, trying to keep him from ripping my favorite robes.”

“Not much, really,” Galadriel said, laughing. “Everyone thinks you’ve just gone haring off into the wild again with Maglor’s brothers again. We all just shook our heads and laughed at you, and some bets were made on when you would be back.”

“Betting on me! I’ll have to write to Beleg to find out when it would be the funniest time for me to return.”

“But gone haring off again?” Maglor said. “Has that happened often since I’ve been away?”

“No, but they weren’t entirely wrong this time,” Daeron said, laughing. “Though when I leave to visit your brothers I don’t usually do so in the middle of a banquet—I may be somewhat lacking yet in manners, but I’m not that rude.”

“I’m not sure the road to Lórien really counts as the wild,” Maglor said. “What’s the latest gossip from Tirion, Galadriel? What is Finrod doing these days?”

“Finrod has been on Tol Eressëa these last few years,” Galadriel said. “Tirion is quiet, but Daeron has been making a name for himself among the loremasters, and causing something of a stir.”

“I was a loremaster in Doriath long before most of them were born,” Daeron said. 

“Of course,” Galadriel said with a smile, “but I was referring to your refusal to use the tengwar in any of your writings.”

“I think it’s good for the Noldor to have to translate another’s alphabet, and remember that they are not the pinnacle of all learning,” Daeron said airily, “and anyway I don’t only use my cirth. There are several Elvish alphabets and modes of writing that were developed in the east that predate even my own, and I have written several treatises on them in the last decade, since none of those who use them have come into the West.”

Maglor couldn’t help but smile. “And it is coincidence, of course, that you have done so much work in a field bound to interest my father, in a mode of writing that he had no part in creating.”

“I had no idea when I began that work that your father had any particular interest in it,” Daeron said. “Anyway, it doesn’t hurt anyone and I’ve heard no complaints, and it should not be surprising.” He slipped his arm around Maglor’s waist and leaned against him. “I use my letters because I made them and I like them best.”

“And if you can spite Fëanor, all the better?” Galadriel asked, amused. “I admit I am a little surprised, Daeron. I didn’t realize you had exchanged more than a handful of greetings.”

“It took very little more than that for Fëanor to take a rather decided dislike to me, and I am afraid the feeling is mutual. But what of your decided dislike of Fëanor, Galadriel? As I recall it was rather famous.”

“He continues to avoid me, for the most part,” Galadriel said. “For myself, I long outgrew such things. I won’t pursue a friendship, but I will not turn him away either, if he wishes to speak to me. But what of you, Maglor? What are your feelings, having now been to Lórien?”

“Much as they were before,” Maglor said, “though I think I spent all my anger the first time we spoke. I hear he does not often leave Tirion, and as I have no plans to be there much, I think I can survive the occasional meeting.”

“You’ve no wish for reconciliation?”

“Maybe when seeing him does not make my scars burn.” That made Galadriel frown, but it was as good an answer as Maglor had. Daeron slipped his hand into Maglor’s, his fingers rubbing over the scars there, as though to soothe any lingering ache. 

“Does it hurt Maedhros too?” Galadriel asked softly.

“Yes. Worse than me, I think.” As he spoke Maglor felt Daeron’s arm tighten a little around him. Galadriel sighed. “Mandos can work wonders, it seems, but it cannot entirely remake a person. My father is still himself, must still have a temper, and his pride.”

“He has it under control now, at least as far as I have seen or heard,” Galadriel said. 

“He and Curufin fight, at times,” Daeron murmured. “Curufin says sometimes it is ugly—but they have reconciled afterward, each time, and it seems to only bring them closer. Curufin remains hopeful.”

“Even so. It’s best…it’s best is our father continues to keep his distance, as he promised he would, and for us to keep ours.” 

It was something he still needed to speak to Curufin about. Maglor did not begrudge Curufin his own desires, or his love for their father. How could he? It grieved him, though, that they were all so divided. Ambarussa seemed entirely ambivalent; Celegorm was still resentful, even if he was somehow quieter and calmer about it. Caranthir was more difficult to read, but he could hold a grudge longer than any of them. 

He did not get a chance to speak to Curufin, for several more days. The girls made it hard to get him alone, and there were many demands on Maglor too as he found his way back into the rhythms of life in Imloth Ningloron, as one who lived there rather than as a guest. Finally, though, Maglor was able to catch him in a moment when Náriel and Calissë were entranced by a story Daeron was telling, and no one else wanted either of them for anything. “Curvo, can we speak?” he asked.

“Of course. Is something the matter?”

“I don’t know.” Maglor put an arm around Curufin’s shoulders as they walked outside. “Come this way, where it’s quiet.”

Celegorm and Maedhros came upon them just outside the memorial garden. “Is something wrong?” Celegorm asked, looking between them. 

“I just want to speak of Atar,” Maglor said. 

“Alone, or…?”

“No, just away from small ears.” Maglor opened the gate, but found his brothers hesitant to enter. “What’s the matter? Surely you’ve seen this place before.”

“But can we…?” Curufin asked. “Isn’t it meant for—”

“It’s quiet and private,” Maglor said. “Come on. It isn’t haunted.” He slipped inside, and shut the gate with a soft click behind them. “I came here once with Galadriel to talk about all of you. No one will care if we talk about our father here, least of all the hobbits.” The garden had been first made when Bilbo had died, laburnums and snapdragons planted over his grave, and a mallorn tree beside it. Frodo and Sam had followed in their own time, and a small memorial to Merry and Pippin had been erected between their graves, Frodo’s covered in soft blue forget-me-nots, and Sam’s shaded by a rose bush grown from a cutting he had brought all the way from Bag End, sweet-smelling and pink. 

“You spoke of us with Galadriel?” Celegorm said, startled, as Maglor went to the new memorial that had been made in his absence. It was a relief carving of two silhouettes in pale granite, easily recognizable even at a glance, with names carved neatly beneath them. Arwen and Estel—this place was not for kings and queens or princes or lords, but for dear friends and loved ones; there was no need for any title or regal epessë here.

“Yes,” Maglor murmured, as he ran his fingers lightly over the names. He turned to the statue of Gilraen beside it, brushing the fingers of her clasped hands too in silent greeting. “As I said, it’s quiet. I was trying then to decide whether I wanted to go to see you.” He looked over his shoulder at the three of them, standing near the gate still. Maedhros was looking at Gilraen’s statue, an unreadable look on his face. “Then Atar arrived that afternoon and—well, that rather decided my course for me. Come sit.”

Curufin paused by Gilraen’s statue, peering into her face. “Who was she?” he asked. “She seems familiar.”

“Gilraen,” Maglor said as he sat on the bench under the mallorn tree, on the opposite side from the graves. Sam’s rosebush had grown, and Frodo’s soft blue forget-me-nots swayed in the gentle breeze between it and the laburnums that covered Bilbo’s grave. “She was Aragorn’s mother, and descended herself from the royal line of Arnor. You might see something of Elrond in her; she was Elros’ many times great-granddaughter.”

“Did you know her well?” Curufin came to join them on the bench; Maglor pulled him down between himself and Maedhros; Celegorm sat on the grass at their feet. 

“Yes. She was a dear friend. But I want to talk about you, Curvo.”

“Me and Atya, you mean? I’m fine.” Curufin looked surprised. “Really.”

“You said you fought before you left,” Maedhros said quietly. “Do you fight often?”

“No,” Curufin said.

“When you do fight, is it about us?” Maglor asked. “Daeron says at times it it ugly.”

Curufin shook his head. “Only sometimes. He’s—I think he did not expect everyone to stay away, really. I think he thought—he told me that you said, Cáno, the worst thing he’d done was die, and…well, he isn’t dead, now.”

“I did say that,” Maglor said. “And I meant it. That does not mean his mere presence in life again is enough to make up for all the rest.”

“I’ve told him that,” Curufin said. “But it’s—it’s so hard to make someone understand what it was like when they weren’t there. Tyelpë has had the same trouble in trying to speak to him of Middle-earth. It’s the same trouble we’ve all had with Ammë, except Atar believes he does understand because he did cross the Sea.”

“It’s hard, I think, when the person doing the telling has also come back from Mandos,” Celegorm said. He leaned his head against Curufin’s knee. “You don’t have the scars to show him. There’s nothing but your words, and so it only sounds like a story.”

“Elrond has also spoken to him, and he did not come here by way of Mandos,” Curufin said.

“Elrond doesn’t have visible scars, either,” Maglor said, “and I doubt he’s interested in sharing the ones he does have with our father. I have scars, but I don’t…”

“I wouldn’t ask it of you,” Curufin said. He reached for Maglor’s hand, turning it over to reveal the scars. “It hurt again, didn’t it?”

“Lórien healed much, for us,” Maedhros said, “but not everything.” Maglor reached for his hand with the one Curufin wasn’t holding, and Maedhros squeezed his fingers before letting go. “The Silmarils hold the Treelight and the blessings of Varda, but they are still the works of his hands, and…I think that’s what hurts now.”

“Speaking of things he has made, what of the palantíri?” Maglor asked, having a sudden thought. “You all looked for me in one of them, once—into my past. Let Atar look for all of us, let him see all that happened in Beleriand through the stones.” There were nine palantíri in a chest at Nerdanel’s house, the first ones Fëanor had made long ago—attuned to the seven of them and their parents, never showing anything else except with great effort of will. In their youth Fëanor had been endlessly frustrated with his sons’ continual forgetfulness to take at least one when they went traveling, so he and Nerdanel could speak with them at need. 

“I hadn't thought of that,” Curufin said, startled. “I don’t…that is asking a lot of him, and he did see much in Mandos—”

“And much of what he saw will have faded away by now,” Celegorm said, “the way it has for all of us. The palantír is a good idea. Let him see what we became, since it’s impossible to explain it to him in words.”

“He might see things we don’t want him to see, though,” Curufin said. “Private things—”

“If it means he understands, after,” Maedhros said softly, “let him see.”

“I’ll suggest it,” Curufin said, but he still sounded doubtful. “It will hurt him, to see it more clearly than in Vairë’s threads.”

“I’m sorry that you’re caught in the middle, Curvo,” Maglor said. He closed his fingers around Curufin’s. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

“He is different,” Curufin said quietly. “He’s—he does love us, all of us. But it’s…me telling you is, I know, the same as trying to tell him what Beleriand was like. He also hates Daeron, which really doesn’t help.”

“Is it because Daeron is the mightier singer?” Maglor asked. “He told me he thought Atar was offended by the distinction given to him over me.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, though maybe that’s part of it. Daeron doesn’t respect him, is I think the problem. Not as your father and not as…himself.”

“Respect is earned,” Celegorm said, “and I don’t think Atar has done anything to earn Daeron’s respect. Don’t worry though, Cáno,” he added, smiling up at Maglor. “Everyone else loves him.”

“That might be part of it too,” Curufin said. “He has to grit his teeth and be polite whenever Daeron comes to Tirion and they end up in company together, but Daeron is so unconcerned with what anyone thinks that he doesn’t have to try very hard to be pleasant. You can only tell that he dislikes Atya if you know him well.”

“Daeron also said that you don’t talk about me at all,” Maglor said. “Don’t feel that you have to keep doing that. I don’t care anymore what Atar does or doesn’t know—except maybe don’t tell him that our scars hurt.” It felt like a weakness that he did not dare let Fëanor know about. Curufin nodded, and squeezed Maglor’s hand briefly.

“What does Ammë say about all of this?” Maedhros asked.

“We don’t speak much of it,” Curufin said. “She sees and speaks to him, but she’s only a little quicker to forgive than any of you. You remember how they parted. It was very terrible, and she hasn’t forgotten. I don’t know what Atar will have to do to make up for it, if he ever can.” 

She might forgive more quickly if the rest of them could, Maglor thought. “I’m sorry, Curvo,” he said again.

“Please don’t be. It isn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry too, but mostly because of the girls,” Celegorm said. “They should not be caught in the middle either.”

Celegorm and Curufin left the garden first. Maglor lingered, because he liked it there, and he suddenly missed Gilraen in particular a great deal. He had never really confided in her, but she had understood much without having to ask. They’d spoken a great deal over the years of grief and pain and other things, she offering him the wisdom of the Dúnedain and he sharing something of what little he had learned for himself. 

Maedhros stayed because Maglor did. He watched as Maglor rose to return to the memorial for Arwen and Aragorn. “When I came here before,” he said, “I was surprised to see nothing for Elros. Elrond only said that he has his monument on Tol Eressëa.”

“He does,” Maglor murmured. “I saw it when I was in Avallónë. I think Finrod carved it. Tar-Minyatar, though, looks quite different from our Elros.”

“Why nothing here, though?”

“I don’t think Elrond can bear it. Even this is very new.” Maglor traced the lines of Arwen’s hair with his fingertips. Part of it looked like Elrond’s own work, but it had been finished by other hands. Elladan and Elrohir’s, maybe. Celebrían did not work with stone. He knew that Elrond had made the statue of Gilraen, which was also relatively new. “They looked for us, you know.”

“I know. Elrond told me.”

“I had no idea until I came to Lothlórien and Galadriel told me of it.” Maglor sighed, and turned to go sit on the grass by Bilbo’s grave, between it and the bench where Maedhros still sat. “I had thought I’d come back here with a better idea of what I wanted.”

“I thought so too,” Maedhros said softly. “I hoped…” He looked away, farther into the garden. Other statues and little memorials were scattered throughout the flowers and small bushes, bearing names or symbols or the likenesses of dear friends whose memory was carried still in the hearts of those who lived in Imloth Ningloron. “I should’ve known better than to hope for anything, really. I knew what it felt like to have those kinds of hopes dashed.”

“It’s never wrong to hope,” Maglor said. He himself was still learning how—how to hold onto it again, to really believe that the future would be brighter than the past, that there would be good things that did not have to end, the way everything else had ended. It still felt like such a fragile thing, something he did not dare grasp too eagerly or too hard, lest it slide out of his hands like sand or seawater. He found that he still could not hope for anything at all when it came to Fëanor. 

Elladan and Elrohir arrived after another week passed, galloping down the road and leaping out of the saddle almost before their horses had come to a halt. Maglor had heard them coming and come to the courtyard to greet them. “Maglor!” Elladan reached him first, Elrohir only a step behind. “We almost didn’t believe Naneth’s letter!” Elladan said. He pulled back to look Maglor in the face. “Did it help?”

“Yes, of course.” Maglor kissed them both and held them tight for a moment. “I missed you, though, so very much.”

“I hope you’re here to stay, now,” said Elrohir.

“I hope so, too! And next time I get it into my head to wander off across Valinor I’ll be sure to take you both with me.”

“Is Maedhros with you?” Elladan asked. 

“All of my brothers are here,” Maglor laughed, “but I do want you to meet Maedhros at last.”

“Is that Pídhres?” Elrohir exclaimed as she came trotting out of the garden. “Hello, little one, I was not expecting you!” He picked her up, laughing. “Lórien was kind to you indeed!”

“Fingon asked us to tell you—to tell Maedhros, really—that he’ll be following as soon as he can get away,” Elladan said to Maglor as they walked into the house. “And I’m sure Finrod will be coming as soon as word reaches him in Avallónë.”

“It should have reached him already, since we’ve already written to our mother there,” Maglor said. “I think she is quite busy, though—and really, there’s no rush. No one is going anywhere.”

“And you’re really all right?” Elrohir asked as Pídhres climbed up onto his shoulders to shove her nose into his ear. “You found what you went looking for in Lórien?”

“Yes, I did, and I am. No matter how many times you ask, Elrohir, the answer won’t change.”

Chapter Text

Maedhros would have been perfectly happy to avoid Galadriel as he had in all the years since he’d returned from Mandos and she from Middle-earth, but she came looking for him. “Are you still afraid of me, Cousin?” she asked, smiling to soften the question and turn it into something teasing.

“Should I not be?” Maedhros replied in the same tone.

“Certainly not now,” Galadriel said.

They stood in the large dining hall, before one of the many tapestries that lined the walls. Maedhros had been looking again at it, at the depiction of Imladris as seen from the top of the path that led into it, down an almost-sheer cliff face. It was a beautiful tapestry, and a beautiful place. He had seen it in his own mind’s eye, brought to vivid life by Maglor’s songs, and could imagine the scent of pine and the sound of water flowing all around—in that respect much like Imloth Ningloron. Sometimes Maedhros wished he had gotten the chance to pass over the Ered Luin into Eriador and the lands even farther east, to see what lay beyond Beleriand. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if they had thought to try for it, if he and Maglor had retreated over the mountains either with the twins or after they had parted, the two of them just vanishing from all the histories, wandering as Maglor had later wandered—but together, in freedom instead of despair. A useless thing to think of now, especially since the Oath would have never allowed it. He felt a pang of envy—very small, but still there—that Galadriel had gotten to do just that, even as he was glad of it for her sake.

He and Galadriel had never really been friends. He was the eldest of Finwë’s grandchildren and she the youngest, and by the time she had reached adulthood the discord in their house and among their people had been so deeply rooted that there had been no hope, as Maedhros had thought then, of ever being rid of it. Even he and Fingon had ended their long friendship in bitter anger, both of them too loyal to their fathers to keep trying for peace. It had hurt and Maedhros had regretted it deeply afterward, but then—well. It had taken a mountainside and a prayer answered beyond all expectation for that rift to begin to close. And by the time he had recovered enough to give much thought to anything else, Galadriel had vanished into Doriath, and he had seen her only once more in Beleriand, at the Mereth Aderthad, where they had not spoken beyond cool greetings. Maedhros had spent much more time with Finrod, both then and since his return to life.

After the War of Wrath Galadriel had remained in Middle-earth, and like Gil-galad, like Elrond, she had thrived, surpassing all their family and all their people in wisdom and in power. Only Elrond, with the blood of Melian in his veins, could rival her. Maedhros had heard the tales of how Galadriel had fought for so many years against Sauron, a never ending battle of wills and of minds. He could not imagine even attempting such a thing, let alone emerging victorious.

“Thank you—for what you did for Maglor,” Maedhros said quietly, after the silence had stretched between them. Elladan and Elrohir, so shockingly alike to their father and uncle in face that even forewarned Maedhros had not been able to stop himself from staring upon their first meeting, had brought Maglor out of the darkness of Dol Guldur, but it had been Galadriel who offered him shelter and safety and a chance to begin to heal. It was her golden realm of mallorn trees where he had rediscovered light and beauty, still within his grasp if he only reached for it.

“There is no need for thanks. He is my cousin—the only one I had left on those shores. If anything I should apologize for not acting sooner, but Maglor has already told me not to.” Galadriel’s smile was fond and a little rueful. “I’m glad to see that Lórien helped you as much as it helped him, Maedhros. Will you come now more often to Tirion and among our people again?”

“Maybe,” Maedhros said. He had not given it much thought, and did not find the idea very appealing. He had once been his father’s heir, the king’s eldest grandson, a shining prince able to smile and speak with anyone, even able to—for a while—do something to hold their people together alongside Finrod and Fingon. He was older now, and knew better the weight of power—and the relief that came from giving it up. Maedhros did not think he wanted to return to anything like he had once been. Since his return from Mandos, going to Tirion had been almost impossible, leaving him feeling like he couldn’t breathe until he escaped it again back to the quiet of his mother’s house and his grandmother’s gardens. He thought it would be different now, but he would never love it. He would never feel at home there again.

Certainly not while his father remained there.

“I would like for us to be friends,” Galadriel said quietly after a few moments. “I do not wish to be someone you fear.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Galadriel,” Maedhros said. He offered her a smile, as one of his brothers called from across the room. “I’m sorry friendship wasn’t possible before.”

“I am, too.” She reached for his hand, squeezing it briefly before going to speak to Celebrían.

Maedhros joined Caranthir and Ambarussa as they went outside. Aechen appeared to follow at Maedhros’ heels down the path until he stopped to scoop him up. “You’re going to be as bad as Maglor soon, just covered in small animals,” said Caranthir, watching Aechen settle into the crook of Maedhros’ arm.

“I hope not,” said Maedhros.

“Were you making friends with Galadriel this morning?” Amras asked.

“She was asking if I intend to go to Tirion more often, now.”

“Do you?”

“Probably. Sometimes—to visit Curvo and Fingon, at least. Are you gong to live there, Moryo, after you and Lisgalen marry?”

Caranthir shrugged. “We haven’t decided yet. We might split the difference between Ammë’s house and Tirion and build something in between, but we’re both comfortable where we are, so we might just go back and forth for a while before deciding. There’s no real reason to hurry.”

“Does Atya know about Lisgalen?” Amrod asked.

“I don’t know. Probably—I told Curvo he doesn’t need to keep any secrets for me, but Lisgalen hasn’t ever mentioned meeting him.”

“Maybe he learned his lesson after Daeron,” Amras said.

Caranthir made a skeptical face, wrinkling his nose a little. “Maybe.”

“What did Daeron do?” Maedhros asked. He was sure that Maglor and Daeron had spoken of it privately, but all anyone else had said was that Daeron and Fëanor did not get along. It wasn’t a surprise, exactly, but Maedhros couldn’t think of any real reason for it. Daeron was as impressive as Fëanor himself, and a loremaster—surely they had many interests that aligned, more reasons to get along than not.

“You’ll have to ask Daeron,” said Amras.

“I was in Tirion when he and Atar met, and he came to Curvo’s house after they had words,” Caranthir said, “but he didn’t tell us exactly what he said. I don’t think Atar really liked him even from the start, though. You saw how he looked at him and Cáno when we met on the road.”

Maedhros had noticed, he supposed, but he had been more concerned with trying not to show how badly his own hand hurt as their father had approached. “It’s because of Cáno that Atar dislikes Daeron?” All three of his brothers shrugged. It seemed Fëanor had not been any more forthcoming than Daeron had, or that Curufin had not shared in his own turn. Maedhros sighed.

“It’s not a problem for you to try to fix, you know,” Amrod said. “Daeron can obviously handle both himself and our father. Easily.”

“Atar could make things difficult for Daeron, if he wanted,” Maedhros said.

“Not unless he wants to destroy the Noldor’s relationship with the Sindar,” said Caranthir, “and whatever our own feelings, it must be acknowledged: he is going about things differently this time.”

“That’s true,” Amras said. “Daeron is a favorite of Elu Thingol, and I do think Atar really values Thingol’s friendship, because he was such great friends with Grandfather Finwë.”

“So was Olwë,” Maedhros said.

“Everyone is thinking clearly, now,” said Amrod. “Everyone wants to move forward in peace. Even Atar—I know we all still feel…I don’t know how to name my feelings, but we must be fair and realize that he is as committed as we are, as Caranthir said, to doing things differently, to being better. Maybe it makes no difference to us, but it makes a difference for the world, and for everyone else in it.”

“Our feelings are for our father as his sons, not as the Eldar for Finwë’s eldest son and brother of the King,” said Amras. “I don’t know how Fingolfin can manage to be friends with him now, but for everyone else it isn’t nearly so personal.”

“Fingolfin holds the power, now,” Caranthir said quietly. “He can approach our father from a place of strength—and, well, Finwë isn’t here. I think his absence is what’s really brought them together.”

Maedhros missed Finwë, suddenly and painfully. He hadn’t thought of his grandfather in a long time, that grief buried under so many others. It was one he had not spoken of with Nienna in Lórien. He hadn’t thought to, and now he regretted it. After so many other battles, so many other losses, so many dead—the finding of Finwë’s body remained the worst, because it had been the first—the moment when his entire world had come crashing down, shattered like the doors of Formenos. Aloud he said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter why—only that they are getting along, and not falling back into old feuds. As long as we are not asked to return to Tirion as princes ourselves, I don’t much care what goes on at Fingolfin’s court. I don’t even really care what Atar thinks of Daeron, except that it might make things harder for Maglor.”

“I don’t mind going back to court sometimes,” said Amrod. “But every time someone addresses me with a title it feels strange.”

“The less time I have to spend anywhere near the palace, the better,” Caranthir said.

“Even the gardens?” Amras asked.

“I have my own garden.”

Celebrían found them then, and called for help with the peaches. There was more fruit coming out of her orchards than she knew what to do with, and so she intended to send as many baskets as they could fill to Tirion and Alqualondë. Amras seized Maedhros’ hand to pull him away down the path to the orchard. He and Amrod kept doing that—grabbing Maedhros to drag him along as though they expected him to resist—because before he had gone to Lórien he would have.

Picking peaches in Imloth Ningloron reminded him of the plum harvests in the orchard by their grandparents’ house. When they were young Maedhros used to lift Ambarussa onto his shoulders so they could reach higher than anyone else. Now he found himself hoisting Calissë up instead, so she could pick the fruit from the highest branches to hand down to Caranthir. It was a bright day, with white clouds drifting lazily across the clear blue sky. Birds sang in the trees alongside the elves, who sang songs of bountiful harvests and sweet-tasting fruits, of strong roots and boughs. When Maedhros put his right wrist against the tree to steady himself he could feel the life humming within it, could catch a few of its slow and satisfied thoughts as it shed its ripe fruits into their hands, pleased with the songs and with the soil and sun and the breeze passing through its leaves.

It was a good day, a joyful day, but once summoned there Maedhros found that Finwë was never far from his thoughts. He thought of the plum orchard, but also of the cherry trees that Finwë had planted, and how Finwë had once lifted Maedhros onto his own shoulders to pick them by the handful, long long ago when Maedhros had been small enough to be lifted, and to feel utterly safe with his grandfather’s strong hands resting on his knees, the same way that he now held Calissë steady. When he heard laughter on the way back to the house with baskets full of fruit he thought for a moment it was Finwë, but it was only Elrohir. Elrond and his children all took after Elwing’s line, but in their laughter and sometimes in the way that Elrond spoke or gestured, Maedhros saw small glimpses of Finwë, or of Fingolfin.

He slipped away to his room after dinner. It was near Maglor’s, cozy and airy at once, lit with soft yellow lamps, and with wide windows and soft rugs scattered across the floor. The rugs and the hangings on the walls were all soft greens and browns. He had found two sketchbooks and a set of pencils waiting for him on the desk, and the bookshelf held a small collection of books that he might have chosen for himself off of Elrond’s library shelves. He still did not know how Elrond had known—or Celebrían—unless they had consulted with his brothers or with Fingon, and that felt equally strange, to imagine Elrond asking such questions about him with such an aim. Maedhros ran his fingers along the spines of the books, and picked one more or less at random before going to the window seat. Twilight had settled like a soft purple blanket over the valley, and the stars were coming out, glimmering on the water. Maedhros could hear singing somewhere out by the largest fishpond, where Elrond had found him the morning after their arrival.

Finwë would have loved Elrond and his family—would have loved this valley and the home they had made there. Maedhros blinked back the building heat behind his eyes and tried to turn his attention to the book on his lap, but rustling in the ivy that climbed up the wall outside heralded Celegorm’s arrival. “This,” Maedhros said, as Celegorm swung himself through the window to join him on the cushions, “is why Curufin thinks you’re a bad influence.”

“I can’t be a bad influence if they don’t see me,” Celegorm said. He fell back against Maedhros’ chest. “What’s troubling you? I thought Lórien would cure you of brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” Maedhros said. He had a feeling he was going to be repeating that quite a lot in the future. Celegorm tilted his head back to frown at him. “I’m just—Moryo mentioned Finwë earlier, and I’ve been thinking about him. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Celegorm sighed. Maedhros set the book aside and settled his arms around Celegorm. “I miss him too,” Celegorm said quietly after a little while. “You know Curvo won’t eat cherries?”

“I don’t either,” Maedhros said. They tasted like plums did—like childhood and the warmth of Laurelin and the sort of joy they could never know again. There would be joy in the future—there was joy in the present—but it was of a different kind, something found again in spite of grief, rather than lived in ignorance of it. It felt now like something they had to hold onto as hard as they could lest it slip away again, where before they had been able just to be joyful, careless and fearless and free.

A knock at the door heralded Maglor, carrying his small harp. It was made of driftwood, and Maedhros thought Maglor brought it with him traveling for more reasons than just music—the wood had come from Middle-earth, picked up from far flung, desolate strands that no one else had ever visited except him. “Nelyo, is something the matter?” he asked as he shut the door behind him.

“We were just talking of Finwë,” Celegorm said.

Maglor’s worried frown softened, and he came to join them. “I was thinking of him today, too.”

“How bad was it really?” Celegorm asked. “When you found him.” He stretched out his legs over Maglor’s lap.

Maedhros looked at Maglor, who met his gaze only briefly before turning away. “Bad,” Maedhros said quietly. “He had fought, but…” Morgoth had not put forth his power yet into Angband or into the very earth as he had done later in Middle-earth. He had not yet been bound to only one form, not yet burned by the Silmarils. Fingolfin had only managed to wound him, later. Finwë had stood no chance—and yet he had not fled. The lamps had all been lit, though. Maedhros remembered that vividly, how all of Formenos, all the world, had lain in shadow but for the entryway where Finwë had made his last stand, speaking or singing words of light against the dark—and they had worked, had chased it back, at least a little. It had made it all the worse to find him, broken and unmoving, eyes still open and staring unseeing and empty toward the ceiling.

Maglor had been just behind Maedhros as they entered through the broken doorway, so Maedhros hadn’t been able to stop him seeing. They’d both, though, kept the sight from their brothers. It felt like the last thing Maedhros had really succeeded in protecting them from, even as he suddenly learned there were things from which they needed protection. They’d even managed to keep Fëanor from seeing the body later, though he’d been almost mad with grief and it had taken all three of them—Maedhros, Maglor, and Celegorm—to hold him back. Maedhros wasn’t sure Fëanor had ever forgiven them for it.

“Don’t ask us more, Tyelko,” Maglor said. “I know we all saw terrible things afterward, that on the face of it were so much worse, but—it was different.” Finwë had loomed so large in their lives, a bright and kind and warm presence—and to see him so utterly broken…Maedhros felt like it had broken something in them, too.

“We’ve talked about this,” Celegorm said. “You shouldn’t have to carry—”

“It isn’t that,” Maedhros said.

“We cannot speak of it,” Maglor said. “There aren’t any words, even if we wished to share it with you. There aren’t even…I was never even able to write a lament for him. Findis did, but I never could.”

“When did Findis write anything?” Celegorm asked, sounding startled.

“I don’t know. Finarfin took the song with him over the Sea, and shared it with Elrond. Elrond wrote it down for me.” Maglor kept his gaze on the window. “Maybe it’s time I tried again.”

The door opened again and Náriel darted in, and clambered up onto Celegorm’s lap, giggling. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” Maedhros asked her.

“No!”

“Did your atya say you could stay up past your bedtime?” Maglor asked, smiling.

“Yes!”

“Well, that’s all right then,” said Maglor.

Celegorm laughed. “What happened to being a good influence?”

“What’s the point of being an uncle if I can’t indulge my beloved niece’s every whim?” Maglor asked. He picked up his harp. “Náriel, what song shall I sing for you?”

“The one about Uncle Nelyo losing his hand,” Náriel said after a few moments of thought.

“Náriel,” Celegorm protested, sounding so like Curufin that Maedhros couldn’t stop himself laughing, ducking his head so he could press his face into Celegorm’s braids to try to stifle it.

“I don’t think your atya would be very happy with me if I sang one of those,” Maglor said. He put his fingers to the harp strings and played a few chords. “I do have a song about Tyelko and Huan from when we were all very young—”

“Oh no, not that one!” Celegorm cried.

“It’s almost as exciting as Nelyo’s rescue by Findekáno,” said Maglor with a grin. “Would that do for you, Náriel?”

“Oh, yes!” Náriel said. Maedhros put his hand over Celegorm’s mouth to stifle any further protests as Maglor began to play a song he had written very long ago, long before they knew anything about trouble or discord or unrest, about an unfortunate incident involving a lake and a very large fish and an even larger rambunctious puppy. By the end of it they were all laughing, but Náriel was also fighting back yawns. Maglor adjusted his fingers just slightly and began to play another song, moving seamlessly from the silly story put to verse just to tease Celegorm to a lullaby, though not one Maedhros had heard before. His voice gentled and softened, and it did not take long before Náriel’s eyes grew too heavy to keep open, and she slumped against Celegorm’s chest. Maedhros felt himself yawning, too, before Maglor let the last notes fade away into the quiet room.

“I’ll take her to bed,” Celegorm said, getting up carefully. He leaned down to kiss Maedhros’ forehead. “No more brooding tonight, Maedhros.”

“I wasn’t brooding to begin with,” Maedhros said. “Goodnight, Tyelko.”

“Goodnight.”

Maglor lingered as the door shut behind Celegorm, and started to play again, quiet and wordless songs to fill the silence. As he played they both watched the night deepen outside. Clouds passed overhead, gathering slowly, promising rain in the early hours of the morning. Slowly, the whole house quieted, lights going out one by one, or dimming and softening. The sound of flowing water wove in between the notes of Maglor’s harp. Maedhros sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Will you really try to write something for Finwë?” he asked after a while.

“Maybe. But maybe it’s been too long, and there will be no one now who wishes to hear it.”

“I want to hear it.”

“Then I’ll try.”

They stayed up most of the night, talking here and there, mostly just enjoying one another’s company. Eventually, Maglor asked, “You really aren’t bothered by Náriel’s curiosity about your hand?”

“No.” Maedhros shook his head, and laughed a little. “I wouldn’t have been bothered before, either—not by that.”

“The questions will change, you know, as they grow older and learn more,” Maglor said.

“Yes, I know. It still won’t trouble me. My hand is the one thing that has never troubled me as much as everyone thinks.”

“I know. Or I did know, before.” Maglor leaned back, letting the last notes he’d played fade away as he rested his hands atop the harp’s frame. “I just didn’t know if that had changed, since…”

“It hasn’t. It’s…I’m glad that I came back without it. It was never like any of the other scars I had, and…now that I don’t have them, it’s the one thing that really shows that I am not the same. No one can look at me and deceive themselves that they see who I was before.” Maedhros had spoken of scars once to Curufin, in the early days after Maglor’s return after his reunion with their mother’s family had not gone as well as anyone had hoped. The scars made it harder in many ways, but returning in a body devoid of them was a difficult thing of its own.

“I’ve often wished that I did not have such visible scars,” Maglor said without taking his gaze from the window, “and I still do not like the way people stare, when they realize what they mean.” The most visible scar he had was on his cheek, just above his cheekbone. Up close one could see the smaller scars around his mouth, marks left by a needle and thread—a tale of horror in themselves. There were others too—marks on his wrists, and even worse ones more easily hidden by his clothing. “But you’re right, it would be harder to meet those who knew me long ago and have them expect me to be unchanged, just because I might look the same.”

“I also wish you didn’t have the scars,” Maedhros said, “but that’s because I wish such things had never happened to you in the first place. You never did tell me what took you so close to danger to begin with.”

“I thought to follow the Anduin north—and I thought it would be safe enough if I kept away from the wood and close to the river. There was no particular reason. I did finish that journey later though, after Elrond left and the world was made safe.” Maglor smiled at him. “I went all the way to its headwaters in the Ered Mithrim.”

“You know that I don’t know where those are,” Maedhros said.

“Elrond has maps. I’ll show you sometime.” Maglor rose, and leaned down to kiss Maedhros in the same place on his forehead that Celegorm had. “I’m for bed. Goodnight, Nelyo.”

“Goodnight.” Once Maglor had gone, Maedhros made his own way to bed, falling into the pillows with a sigh. When he slept he dreamed of Finwë, but not of the end—instead he dreamed of the cherry trees behind the palace, almost glowing in the golden light of Laurelin, and of his grandfather’s deep laughter and strong arms lifting him up to pick the highest fruits. 

Chapter Text

Maglor’s dreams were quiet, but he woke in the early morning still thinking of Finwë. Daeron still slept, so Maglor slipped quietly out of bed and dressed. Aegthil trundled out of the cushioned basket at the foot of the bed where the hedgehogs slept in a pile, and followed him outside, all the way to the woodworking shop. It was a large building, with wide windows and skylights set into the roof, though the day was cloudy and a misty rain was falling, so the light was pale and cool. Maglor finger combed the raindrops out of his hair and braided it firmly back before he went to look through the wood for one that spoke to him. He didn’t know what he wanted to make, only that he wanted the smell of sawdust and the feeling of wood rather than clay taking shape under his fingers.

Finwë, he remembered, had made a cradle for every one of his children and grandchildren before they were born. He’d had to scramble to make a second, larger one after Ambarussa surprised them all, because they cried and cried if ever separated. He had made toys, too, and the first instruments that Maglor had learned to play, and many clever little figures of animals and people. They had been delightful, and Maglor had once had a shelf in his room filled with wooden horses that Finwë had made for him in all different sizes and poses. He had left them still there when they’d gone to Formenos, never imagining that he would never see them again, never receive another such gift to add to the collection. All of them now were probably broken, piled into a box somewhere, or else rotted away along with the rest of the house as time and nature took its course. 

His hands found a piece of cherry wood that felt right, and he went to pick the tools he would need. There was a set of woodworking tools—and one for clay—in his bedroom, tucked away in a drawer at the bottom of his desk. Fëanor had made them, after their ill-fated meeting and after Maglor had fled the valley with Huan and Pídhres. He’d found them awaiting him when he’d returned, alongside a letter. The letter had spoken of deep regrets, and of love. He didn’t disbelieve the letter, but he couldn’t fully believe it either, even if Fëanor did seem to be keeping his promises—to leave them all be, to let them choose whether to come to him, even as the years marched on and surely there were whispers about it in Tirion, speculation and rumor. Maglor didn’t care much about that, for he did not intend to be often in Tirion, but there was a part of him still that missed his father desperately. The other, larger part of him remembered only too well what it had felt like to pick up the Silmaril at the end of the world and feel the white-hot burn of it. They had been hallowed things, holy, precious, unstained and still as bright as they had been upon their first making, even after so many centuries held in the darkness of Angband. Of course they, the greatest works of Fëanor’s hands, had not suffered his touch, or Maedhros’. 

It wasn’t the holy power of the Trees that still burned in his memory and awoke in the scars on his palm whenever he came face to face with his father, though. He thought Maedhros had the right of it, that it was the heat of Fëanor himself, of his own power that he had used in their creation, the same heat that had burned his body into ashes upon his death so there was nothing even for his sons to bury except melted armor and a broken and twisted sword. He had been all fire and heat and rage by the end, and even after so many years in Lórien trying to untangle all the thorny vines of his memory and his fear and his past, Maglor’s mind still returned, again and again, to the flaming Eye of Sauron. They were so very different, and he knew it was unfair, but in his memory they were also so very alike. 

The last and least of the Sons of Fëanor, Sauron had called Maglor once, taunting him even as he tried to cajole him into entering his service. Maglor shuddered away from the memory, but he couldn’t stop hearing the words in his father’s voice—and he did not know whether it was something he imagined on his own or if it was something Sauron had put into his mind. In Fëanor’s letter he had praised Maglor’s strength, and Maglor could look back and see now that he was stronger than he had thought himself, could see the lies of his own self-doubt and self-recrimination for what they were. Fëanor had praised Maglor’s throwing away of the Silmaril, too, but if anything in his letter was a lie it was surely that. Fëanor had sworn vengeance for those jewels and had doomed them all in their pursuit. Maglor didn’t believe for a moment that his father had really forgiven him his casting away of it at the last. 

“I thought neither you nor Nelyo were supposed to be brooding anymore,” said Amras from the doorway. Maglor looked up from contemplating the piece of wood on the bench in front of him. Amras leaned on the doorway, Aegthil in his hands, his head tilted a little as he regarded Maglor. “What’s the matter?”

“I came out here to try to avoid brooding,” Maglor said, sighing. “Then I remembered Atar made me a set of woodworking tools, and…”

“Oh.” Amras set Aegthil down, and came to perch on a stool across the bench from Maglor. “Are they out here?”

“No, I have them locked away in my room.”

“He gave me a set of prisms,” Amras said. “Like the ones Curvo made when I was little.”

“I remember those.” Ambarussa’s room had been always full of rainbows, and Amras had begged Curvo to make ever more of them, even as he tried to move onto more challenging projects in gem craft—and he had always obliged. “What did you do with them?”

“Hung them in the window. But Cáno, I thought you found healing in Lórien.”

“I did. Just…some things can’t be healed that way, that’s all. Whatever is between me and Atar is one of those things.”

“Does your hand hurt?”

“No, not now.”

“Would you tell me if it did?”

Maglor sighed again. “Yes, Ambarussa, I would. I feel fine. I just…I’m missing Finwë, and it’s all tangled up in missing Atar, too.”

Amras leaned his elbows on the bench as Maglor picked up the tools at last and started to carve away bits of wood. “Maybe you should go speak to him again,” Amras said after a few minutes of watching. 

“There’s nothing left to say.”

“Maybe you could listen? I know he wrote all of us letters, but that was years ago now, and…maybe it would be worth trying.”

“Are you going to speak to him?”

“I’m thinking about it. But it’s…Amrod and I, it’s different. When you used to talk of Atar, back in Beleriand when it didn’t hurt quite so much, all the things you talked about, you and Maedhros and Celegorm and everyone, it was all things Amrod and I had done with you—you and Maedhros, mostly.”

Maglor set the wood down. “Amras…”

“I never realized until afterward that he hadn’t—as he was when we were growing up—that he hadn’t always been like that. I don’t know how to miss someone who wasn’t there the way he was for you.”

Daeron had spoken similarly of his own parents, though that was very different—they had disappeared, lost on the Great Journey when he had still been a baby. Fëanor had just withdrawn, all on his own. Maglor had noticed, of course, but he hadn’t realized it had been so bad. “You told me you weren’t unhappy, growing up,” he said.

“We weren’t.” Amras smiled at him, but it was a small and sad smile, not his usual sunny grin. “And it’s not as though he was wholly absent—he wasn’t, but…but it means…it means that Amrod and I don’t really have strong feelings now one way or the other about Atar. It feels strange and it feels wrong. We both love you, all of you, and we love Ammë, but Atar…he feels like a stranger. And he knows it—he wrote about it in his letters to us. I don’t know, maybe it could be a good thing. We can start all over again and maybe it will be better than before. Amrod spent a few years visiting Grandmother Míriel, and he thinks he wants to try to talk to Atar—really talk to him, not just exchange pleasantries about the weather whenever we happen to meet in company.”

“I know Curufin was worried about what we all thought, before he went to Atar,” Maglor said. He picked up the wood again, needing to be doing something with his hands. “I hope you don’t feel that way.”

“I don’t, and I don’t think Amrod does. We’ve even talked to Celegorm about it, and he didn’t get nearly as angry as he did at Curufin. Did he tell you he went to Nienna? He was gone almost as long as you were.”

“He didn’t,” Maglor said, “but I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

“I hope it goes well,” Maglor said after a few more minutes. “When you see Atar, I hope it goes as well as it did for Curvo.”

“Will you think about talking to him, too?”

“I think about it all the time,” Maglor said. “I just…”

“You didn’t think you could move forward with Nelyo either,” Amras pointed out. 

“I know. The difference is that I wanted to. I don’t…I don’t know what I want from Atar anymore.” Maglor focused his gaze on the wood in his hands, slowly carving into it and letting the curled up slivers fall to the bench top. “I know now that I can meet him without flinching, without losing my temper or running away, but I think that is all I can hope for.”

“Can I tell you what he said, after Amrod and I talk to him?”

“Of course, Amras.”

Amras got bored of watching Maglor work after a little while, and left to find something more interesting. Maglor kept going until his hands hurt and he’d formed the rough shape of a horse in mid-gallop. It had been a long time since he’d made anything that wasn’t useful, something that would just be pleasing to look at. Not since he had come out of Dol Guldur, at least, though he didn’t quite know why. 

He found Elladan nearby when he emerged from the workshop, which had slowly filled with other woodcarvers and teachers and students over the course of the morning. The rain had stopped, though it remained cloudy. “Good morning,” Maglor said as Elladan fell into step beside him. “Is anything interesting happening today?”

“Letters came from Tirion and Valmar and Eressëa—including some for you.”

“From Eressëa?”

“And Tirion, and Valmar.”

“Who’s writing to me from Valmar?” Maglor asked, surprised.

“Elemmírë?” Elladan guessed with a shrug. “I think we are expecting Rundamírë and Lisgalen later today as well, unless the rain delays them another day.”

“Oh, good.” Maglor liked Rundamírë—he’d always liked her, thought her a perfect match for Curufin, but he had met her again even before he’d seen his brothers after he’d come west, and she hadn’t looked twice at his face; he loved her all the more for it. “What’s Lisgalen like?”

“Much like Caranthir. Quiet, kind. They’re a silver- and gemsmith who once lived in Eregion, and escaped the destruction by chance, having gone to Lindon just before the war started. I think they came west just after the Last Alliance, but all the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were a bit scattered, Ada says, before Celebrimbor returned to Tirion. You’ll like them,” Elladan added. He draped an arm over Maglor’s shoulders. “How are you this morning?”

“Perfectly well, and if you keep asking me how I am in that tone, I’ll toss you into the fish pond,” Maglor said. “What do you think of Maedhros?”

“He is also quiet, and kind,” Elladan said. “Mostly I am glad that Elrohir and I did not shock him quite as badly as we shocked you upon our first meeting.”

“And what of Celegorm? You and he did not meet under the best of circumstances.”

“I think he’s been avoiding me, more or less,” Elladan said. “And Elrohir—I think he isn’t sure which one of us it was in the workshop with you that afternoon. If you can tell him that neither of us will bite if he says hello, I would be grateful.”

“I’ll make sure he knows.”

“You never did say what he was so upset about, or what you fought over.”

“We didn’t fight. He was upset over our father—what else?”

They found Elrond and Celebrían in one of the cozy parlors overlooking the rose garden. Elrond had a book and Celebrían sat beside him with her legs draped over his lap, assorted embroidery threads scattered about her. “Good morning!” she said, looking up at them with a smile. “Is it still damp outside?”

“A bit,” said Elladan. “Where is Elrohir?”

Before either Elrond or Celebrían could answer, Náriel raced by in the hallway behind Maglor and Elladan, and a crash and a bitten-off curse answered the question of Elrohir’s whereabouts. “Playing hide-and-seek,” Elrond said calmly. “Or at least that’s what they said they were doing ten minutes ago.”

“I don’t remember hide-and-seek involving any chasing,” Maglor said, moving into the room lest Elrohir crash into him next as he flew past after Náriel. 

“It doesn’t, usually, but it seems Náriel is making up new rules as she goes,” said Celebrían. 

“I don’t think that should really surprise anyone,” Elrond said. 

“I think I’ll stay out of all of that,” Elladan said, and went to sit on Celebrían’s other side. 

Maglor left them to it and retreated upstairs to change and look at the letters that had arrived for him. As he shrugged on a clean robe, Daeron came into the room. “There you are,” he said. “Where did you go this morning?”

“Just out to the workshops to do some woodcarving. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I don’t mind being woken—I’d rather you woke me, in fact. What are these?” Daeron picked up the small bundle of letters. “Who’s writing to you from Valmar?”

“Elemmírë is Elladan’s guess—and he was right, this is her writing.” Maglor took the letter and broke the seal. It was not very long—the extra pages were two songs she had been writing, and on which she wanted his opinion. “She wants to come to Imloth Ningloron next year, perhaps in the spring,” Maglor said, “and she hopes that you will be here also. Have you not yet visited Valmar?”

“I haven’t had occasion to,” said Daeron. “I’ve been keeping myself busy with my songbirds and my writing.” He took one of the songs to look it over. “My student Pirineth would like this,” he said. “She is greatly skilled on the viol and loves a challenge.”

The other letters were from Fingon and Finrod—short notes to express their happiness at his return from Lórien and a promise to come to Imloth Ningloron soon—and from his mother. “Ammë cannot get away from her students in Avallónë just yet,” he read, “but she was meant to return home in the autumn anyway, and will come straight here instead.”

“Good.”

They went to sit by the window, Daeron leaning back against Maglor’s chest. It had begun to rain again, harder than the fine misty rain of that morning. Pídhres appeared to curl up on Daeron’s lap, and together they looked more closely at Elemmírë’s music, humming pieces aloud and talking of what they might do differently were it their own song. 

“I think I will like Elemmírë very much,” Daeron said after a while, as he folded the papers together. “I have liked all of her music that I have heard, and she must be a great teacher indeed, having taught you.”

“I think you will both like each other,” Maglor said. He looped his arms around Daeron, gazing out of the window, all the flowers and hedges made blurry and indistinct by the rain on the glass. “I am so very glad to have returned to find everyone I love coming to love one another too,” he murmured. “You and my brothers, and all of you and Elrond…”

“I’m glad too,” Daeron said. “I felt so very lonely for the first few years of your absence. It did not help that everyone in Taur-en-Gellam kept looking at me askance. It got much easier after I started writing to Caranthir regularly, and visiting Tirion more often.”

“Looking at you askance—because of me?”

“More because of your brothers. And I myself am different. I don’t have the same patience for the sorts of games and whispers people play at, even at a court as harmonious as Thingol and Melian’s is here. But speaking of those we love knowing and loving each other—my aunt and uncle are returned from Mandos. That was the real reason Mablung came to drag me back when you were preparing to leave for Lórien. I very much want you to meet them.”

“I would like to meet them, too.”

“They were rather startled to hear about you and me, and I think my aunt has some reservations still.” Daeron sat up and turned so they were facing one another, so he caught the look on Maglor’s face before he could say anything. “No, don’t apologize!”

“But if—”

“She is only thinking of how I reacted to the news of Alqualondë, but it was so long ago now—and I introduced her to your mother, and they like one another very much. There’s just so much only my own and Mablung’s reassurances can do. Aunt Lacheryn has always been protective.”

“Of course she has,” Maglor said. “She is your father’s sister, is she not?”

“Yes.” Daeron paused, a small frown passing over his face. “There are also others in Taur-en-Gellam who wish to meet with you. Galathil is one.”

“Galathil? Celeborn’s brother?”

“And Nimloth’s father. And…I suppose it would be a bit much to expect you to remember him, or even to have known who he was. He died in Menegroth.”

Maglor blinked at Daeron for a moment, uncomprehending—and then he realized. “Oh. Oh, I—” He started to draw back, but Daeron reached for his hands. “Daeron—”

“He wishes to see you, to speak to you. He isn’t angry, Maglor.”

“But I killed him—”

“And Celegorm killed Dior, and they have since met and made peace. That’s all Galathil wants. Nimloth has been less forgiving, but since Dior’s return even she has softened.”

“Of course I will speak to him if that’s what he wishes. I just—I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Daeron said. “Just let him speak first.”

“Does Celeborn know?”

“He does. He’s known all along.”

Maglor closed his eyes, astonished all over again at the welcome and care shown to him in Lothlórien long ago, and the friendship afterward offered by Celeborn. All of it done in full knowledge of all that Maglor had done, and not just the generalities. “Whatever Galathil asks of me, I’ll do it of course, if it is in my power.”

“He will ask nothing of you, I think, except to look him in the eye. He just wants to speak with you so you can both put the past where it belongs. Maglor, beloved.” Daeron took his face in his hands, and Maglor opened his eyes. “Everyone seeks to put the past where it belongs. Do not pick up these burdens again after you’ve just learned how to shed them. I meant only to forewarn you that he might come here seeking you when he learns that you’ve returned from Lórien.”

“I haven’t shed them,” Maglor said. “I’ve just learned how to carry them. I did what I did, and there is nothing that can change it. I do not want to let it go entirely. Let me be reminded sometimes—let me feel the weight of it, now that I know how not to let it rule me.”

Daeron searched his face, expression grave. “Very well,” he said finally, very softly. “I still hate to see these shadows return.”

“They will pass.”

“I hope so. If they do not, I will have words for Estë.”

That was meant to make Maglor smile, he knew, but he couldn’t manage it just then. Instead he leaned forward to rest their foreheads together. “There is a reason,” he whispered, “that the greatest of my works will forever be the Noldolantë. It does no one any good to deny or to forget the past, even as we seek to leave it behind and look forward.”

“I do not believe that, that your greatest work must be the Noldolantë.” Daeron kissed him, very softly. “You will write many songs greater and more profound than that, of the joy that comes after sorrow and the hope that rises out of despair.”

“I don’t know about that—”

“I do. Surely the time is come now to leave lamentation behind.”

Maglor shook his head. “Almost,” he said. “I’ve one more lament to write, one I should have written long ago—I just never could find the words. For my grandfather.”

“Ah.” Daeron smoothed a strand of hair out of his face. “Of course you must write what your heart tells you to write. But your music cannot be forever only lamentations and grief, whatever the old tales say of you.”

“It isn’t. I don’t think I have written anything of grief since I came here. The song for Finwë is just…long overdue, and he has been on my mind of late. I don’t intend to write anything great, or anything I will even sing aloud except to my brothers, and maybe some of my cousins.”

“I think I met him once or twice, when I was a child,” Daeron said softly, “but I do not remember clearly. I’m sorry. I can see you loved him.”

“I did. I do.” 

A knock at the door was all the warning they got before it opened just enough for Calissë to slip inside. She shut it behind her and pressed herself back against it, giggling. “Is it your turn to hide?” Maglor asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “Can I, please?”

“Well, you’re here already, aren’t you? Go on then—we won’t tell.” Daeron settled back down against Maglor’s chest as Calissë ran to climb into the wardrobe. Maglor tangled his fingers in Daeron’s hair, and they fell silent, listening to the rain on the window and to Calissë shuffling around behind the clothing. “It’s a good thing we weren’t doing anything more than talking,” Daeron murmured. Maglor snorted. “I think we’re going to have to start locking the door.”

“And maybe start using different languages when little ears might overhear,” Maglor whispered back. “Do they know Westron?”

“Not yet,” Daeron said in that tongue. 

“Have you written to Mablung or your aunt and uncle yet?”

“I did, yes. They have not written back yet—but that is why I told you of Galathil. I do not know if he will seek to come here with them, but there is a chance of it. I told him you would speak with him when you returned from Lórien.”

“Try not to worry. It will be fine—I am forewarned, and won’t be caught by surprise.”

It took ten minutes for Náriel to come into the room seeking her sister. She did not knock, and was very thorough in her searching, even though Maglor and Daeron both professed complete ignorance to Calissë’s whereabouts. She even opened up the chests tucked into corners and beside the bookshelf. 

“Uncle Cáno, why do you have a bunch of wood?” she asked, frowning into the chest nearest the window seat. 

“I just like it,” Maglor said, smiling when she wrinkled her nose. 

“It looks all funny.”

“It’s driftwood, sweetheart, like what my harps are made of. I picked it up off the beach. Anyway, you can see that your sister isn’t in there.” 

Náriel closed the chest with a thump, and wandered off to another part of the room, dragging her little fingers along the strings of Maglor’s larger harp as she went. Daeron laughed quietly into his chest, and Maglor watched her get closer and closer to the wardrobe without ever quite deciding to look inside. He remembered games of hide-and-seek in his own childhood; he’d won, more often than not—except when Maedhros was the one looking. His cousins and younger brothers had hated it. 

In the end Náriel did not look into the wardrobe, but Maglor thought it was only because she wasn’t quite as tall as Calissë, and couldn’t reach the handle. When she left he heard giggling inside, and it wasn’t long before Calissë peered out. “Aren’t you supposed to stay put until Náriel gives up?” Daeron asked. 

Calissë giggled. “No! That’s no fun. You gotta keep finding new spots, and if you get found they gotta catch you!”

“Ah,” Maglor said, as Calissë jumped down from the wardrobe and went to peer into the corridor. “That explains some things.”

“I was shocked to learn this wasn’t how you all played the game yourselves,” Daeron said.

“Ours wasn’t a good house to run around like this in,” Maglor said. “It didn’t stop us running, of course, but we could never have made a game out of it.” He heard a shriek in the corridor outside, and then two sets of rapid footsteps charging past the door. 

Another knock a few minutes later heralded Amrod. “Rundamírë and Lisgalen are here,” he said, poking his head into the room. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course.” Daeron sat up. “We’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Carnistir is very nervous about you and Nelyo meeting Lisgalen,” Amrod added, looking at Maglor. 

“He needn’t be,” Maglor said. “I have every intention of liking them as much as I like Rundamírë.”

“Were you nervous about your brothers liking me?” Daeron asked as Amrod left and they picked themselves up, reluctantly, off the window seat. 

“No. I was too busy being nervous about everything else.” Maglor pulled his morning’s braid free and ran his fingers through his hair, before gathering part of it back to secure with the hair clip Daeron had given him after their arrival on Tol Eressëa. It was silver, set with purple enamel asters, and it had become one of his most treasured possessions. “What do you think of Lisgalen?”

“I like them very much. Caranthir was also very nervous about me liking them, which I found very funny at the time. Whenever I am in Tirion, Rundamírë invites both me and Lisgalen over to sit in her rooftop garden and drink tea and talk about all of you behind your backs.” He smiled when Maglor laughed. “I hope you know that means I know all of the most embarrassing things you did when you were young. Rundamírë has made sure of it.”

“In that case, I’ll just have to ask Mablung about your embarrassing exploits when next I see him,” Maglor replied, grinning when Daeron grimaced dramatically. “Come on. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

As he had predicted he would, Maglor liked Lisgalen immediately. They were only a little shorter than Caranthir, but broader and with the well-defined muscles of a smith, with soft brown curls and brown eyes above an easy smile. Their nose had been broken at least once in the past and healed slightly crooked. If they were nervous to meet Caranthir’s eldest brothers, they did not show it. As Elladan had said, they were quiet and soft spoken, but they were not shy. When they greeted Maglor their grip was strong and firm.

Rundamírë greeted both Maglor and Maedhros with warm delight, kissing them both before turning to greet Calissë and Náriel, who barreled down the stairs into her arms. It was a merry meeting all around; Maglor kept his eye on Caranthir, and was glad to see him relax as it all went well. As they were called to dinner, Maglor caught him alone for a moment. “Ambarussa said you were worried. I hope you aren’t anymore.”

“No,” Caranthir said. He was smiling, and when he caught Lisgalen’s eye from across the room his whole demeanor seemed to soften. Maglor had never seen him so perfectly content. “But you really—”

“I like them very much, and so does Maedhros, I promise. We’re happy that you’re happy, Moryo.”

“I am.” Caranthir sounded almost surprised as he said it out loud. “I feel so very lucky.”

Maglor embraced him for a moment, and then pushed him ahead into the dining hall. “Go on, then.” He watched Lisgalen take Caranthir’s hand, and watched his other brothers laughing with each other, and Elrond taking his seat at the high table beside Celebrían, and Daeron lifting Náriel into her seat as Elladan and Elrohir teased Calissë. Before he had gone to Lórien, Maglor could have never imagined such a scene, a little chaotic, everyone smiling, everyone happy, with nothing to overshadow or complicate it. He hung back for a few seconds longer just to look, to commit the sight to his memory, before Celegorm turned to call out to ask what was keeping him. 

Chapter Text

Celegorm had spent far less time in Imloth Ningloron than his brothers had, in the years since Maglor had left it for Lórien. Mostly it was because he’d himself spent many years away, having returned to Ekkaia to seek Nienna’s halls. He’d gone out there many times in his youth, before the Darkening, and he’d never so much as glimpsed them—but when he’d gone looking, they had been terribly easy to find, white-walled and white-roofed, with quiet gardens filled with greenery but few flowers, except for white Evermind and pale roses climbing the walls. There had been very few other elves there, and if there were Maiar they went mostly unclad. Celegorm had been grateful for it; he hadn’t really known what to expect, or what he wanted, except for space and solitude. Even Huan had not gone all the way with him, leaving once they reached the heather-covered hills that glowed under the setting sun, just before Ekkaia itself came into view. 

He’d wandered through the gardens and up and down the shore, under clear skies and through the mist, listening to the quiet wash of the waves over the stones and missing his brothers and his mother, and missing even more all of the things he could never get back—all the things that had been lost alongside the Trees, all the things that could be gathered under one word which he had not thought of before Nienna had spoken it to him. 

Innocence. That was the thing he missed. Nienna had also pointed out the ways it had been fracturing even before the Darkening, as he’d clashed with his father amid the growing paranoia and unrest in Tirion, and how his friendships with his cousins had soured in the face of the rumors none of them believed fully but did not disbelieve, either. 

At the root of it lay Morgoth, of course, but Morgoth was no longer there, and Fëanor was. Morgoth had murdered Finwë after setting in motion all the things that had destroyed their world and their lives, but it was Fëanor that had sworn for the Silmarils, and not only for vengeance; Fëanor that had passed on the worst of himself to Celegorm, long before either of them knew it; Fëanor that had cared so little for them all that he’d laid their dark and bloody path before them and then left them to walk it alone, in his name. Others called it madness, but Celegorm knew exactly what that kind of rage felt like and he knew exactly how clear-headed his father had been. He’d known what he was doing—he just hadn’t cared, just like Celegorm had ceased to care later, to the point that even Huan’s departure hadn’t made him stop. 

“He cares again now,” Nienna had told him, sitting with him under a locust tree in her garden, “just as you do. Your father loves you, Tyelkormo. It was for that love that he pleaded at last to be released from Mandos, and it was also for the sake of that love that Námo relented.”

“I’m not sure that was ever really true,” Celegorm had replied without looking up from his hands, lying on his lap, clean and empty but still sometimes feeling, in that place, like they were covered in blood. He’d had a letter tucked into the bottom of his bag that said echoed Nienna’s words, but it was as hard for him to believe as it was hard to imagine his father weeping. 

“You know it is,” Nienna had said. 

Maybe she was right, but Celegorm hadn’t gone there to be convinced of his father’s love. He’d gone to find a way to heal his own heart—only it seemed that he couldn’t do it without making peace with his father, and he still couldn’t bring himself to meet him face to face. There was still a small child inside of him somewhere that remembered how it felt to watch his father turn his back because the sight of Míriel’s silver hair was too much to bear—and that child still expected it to happen again, and again, and again, even if the reasons now were different. He could, though, find ways to let go of the still-simmering anger, bit by bit. Nienna had helped him to learn how—how to look at it as something done for him and not for his father, for his own sake, for his own peace. It would be the work of many more years, and maybe he would never be able to let go entirely—but at least he could stop himself from sliding back into his worst memories and worst fears.

He’d then come back east to find Dior Eluchíl returned to life, as though to test that resolve. They’d met there in Imloth Ningloron almost by chance. Elrond had introduced them, and retreated a little ways—within sight, but out of hearing. Someone had told Celegorm once that he’d done the same for Fëanor and Fingolfin, offering privacy while remaining nearby to be sure no one got hurt. In this case it had not been necessary; Dior had been wary but kind. “Whatever anyone else says,” Dior had said, holding out his hand, “Daeron likes you, and I have found him to be wise in many other matters.”

“Daeron likes me for my brother’s sake,” Celegorm had replied, but he’d taken Dior’s hand, aware of the power of Lúthien’s line humming through his veins just under the skin, aware that both of them were remembering the last and only time they had met before, both of them raging like wounded animals, teeth bared and blades deadly sharp as smoke gathered in the great hall of Menegroth.

Beneath the bright sun of Valinor, Dior had smiled, under hair like shadows and eyes the soft blue-grey of a misty dawn. “No, he likes you for your own sake—else he would not defend you as vigorously as he does. I am glad we can meet again in peace, whatever anyone else might say. Maybe someday we too might even find ourselves friends.” 

“That would shock everyone,” Celegorm had said, and had been shocked himself when Dior had laughed.

Celegorm had also come back east to find two little nieces for him to spoil, and that had done more than anything else to lift his spirits. It was hard to be angry when he had two children climbing all over him and demanding to ride Huan like a pony. Huan was very good natured about it, just as he had been when Celebrimbor had done the same long ago. It made even visiting Tirion and risking an encounter with his father worth it—and the way that Curufin always smiled when Celegorm turned up on his doorstep, no matter how late it was or how unexpected.

Now he sat by one of the many streams, shaded by an oak and surrounded by niphredil and queen’s lace and buttercups. He leaned back against the tree and turned the brooch his father had made for him over in his fingers. It was made of silver and mother-of-pearl, a round and full moon with a silhouette of Huan racing in front of it. It was beautiful, as were all the things Fëanor made with his hands, but Celegorm had never worn it. He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it, either. Caranthir had told him once that he’d burned Fëanor’s letter but kept his gift, too, tucked away in a chest where he didn’t have to look at it. Celegorm knew that Amras had hung the prisms that Fëanor had given him in a window where they would catch the most sunshine, but he wasn’t sure what anyone else had done with their gifts, or their letters. His own letter he had dropped into the forest on the way back from Nienna’s halls to molder away with the leaves. 

The rain had passed, and the sun shone bright in a cloudless sky overhead, sunbeams dancing across Celegorm and the brooch in his hands as the leaves swayed in the breeze. He heard laughter somewhere not far away—Caranthir and Lisgalen, and after a moment Rundamírë and Curufin too. Everyone had been in a bright and merry mood since they’d set out for Lórien, and it had only gotten better after they found Maedhros and Maglor. Celegorm didn’t know why he’d woken that morning thinking about his father, and with his mood dipping accordingly. 

“There you are, Tyelko.” Maglor and Daeron had come up the path, so quietly that Celegorm hadn’t noticed. “What’s that?” Celegorm held the brooch out rather than answer. Maglor sat on the grass beside him, and Daeron in front of both of them, crossing his legs and picking a few niphredil flowers to begin to weave together. “Is this what Atar sent you?” Maglor asked as he tilted the brooch so the mother-of-pearl moon caught the sunlight that filtered through the leaves overhead. 

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised you kept it.”

“I am, too.”

“It’s beautiful,” Daeron said, as Maglor handed it back to Celegorm. He slipped it into his pocket and leaned against Maglor when he put an arm around his shoulders. “I have not yet gotten a chance to ask you, Celegorm—did it help, going to Nienna?”

“Yes. Mostly.”

“I’m glad.” 

“I am too,” Maglor said.

“If we’re asking questions,” Celegorm said, “Daeron, I’ve heard that you’ve been going around defending me. Whatever for?”

“Who told you that?” Daeron asked, laughing. 

“Dior Eluchíl.”

“Ah, I should have guessed. Really, though, I have not been defending you so much as myself, because for a time it seemed that everyone I ever knew wanted to know why on earth I was friends with any of you. All I’ve really said is that you are not now who you were in Beleriand, and that I quite enjoy your company.” Daeron grinned when Celegorm frowned at him. “It’s true! Dior was the kindest about it, actually—kinder to me than he has any reason to be.”

“He was kind to me, too.” 

“I suppose all that time in Mandos affords one a great deal of time to think things over,” said Daeron. “Though we must also give Elrond credit for being a good influence on all members of all sides of his family. He does it without even trying.”

“He does,” Maglor agreed, voice full of fondness. He was smiling, but there was something sad in it. “He and Elros.”

It was strange—though not in a bad way—to see Maglor with Elrond, and with Elrond’s sons. There was as great a love between them and Maglor as there was between Curufin and his children, though Maglor was always so careful never claim the title even of foster-father. Maglor had always been like Maedhros—a warm and bright presence as an older brother, someone always able to be relied upon. Celegorm had thought before—a long time ago, before everything went wrong—that Maglor would have been a good father, but his fate had not turned that way. Except that it had, in a strange way filled with nearly as much grief as joy. 

“You seem steadier now,” Maglor said, turning the subject back on Celegorm. “But you say you haven’t even spoken to Atar?”

“I’m still angry,” Celegorm said. “I don’t know if I can ever let it go entirely.” Maglor made a quiet and sympathetic noise. “It’s…it goes deeper than just what happened at the end, I think.” 

“You fought often before the exile to Formenos,” Maglor said quietly. “Was it not just over Oromë, or your friendship with Irissë?”

“We never fought over Irissë,” Celegorm said. She and he had turned their backs even before Maedhros and Fingon’s friendship had soured. “I don’t think we were really fighting over Oromë, either. That was just…the thing I did he could get angry at.”

“What was it, then?”

Celegorm reached up to twist the end of one of his braids around his fingers, unsure how to answer. In the letter that Fëanor had sent with the brooch, Fëanor had spoken of his hair, the way it looked so like Míriel’s. He had apologized, had called it beautiful, had compared it to moonlight. Maybe it would be different if Celegorm could bear to speak to him in person, but the words on the page just read like the things Fëanor knew he should say, rather than what he really meant. Fëanor had never been one to admit fault, to admit mistakes. “Curvo was always his favorite,” Celegorm said, half-whispering. It would be horrible if Curufin came upon them in that moment and overheard. “I think that I was always his least favorite.” Curufin liked to say that he was most like Fëanor in all of the worst ways, but he also had all of Fëanor’s talents—his skill in the forge, his ear for language, his focus and his passion when he entered into a project that took up all his heart and all his thought. It was Celegorm that only had the ugly, burning anger, the rage that wouldn’t sleep, and the ruthlessness that made it deadly. Fëanor had looked at him and seen the mother he’d never really known and never stopped grieving; Celegorm had once thought that Fëanor had failed to see the ugliest parts of himself reflected in him, too, but now he wondered if he had seen it—maybe he hadn’t recognized their source, but surely he had seen and disdained what Celegorm had, even then, been on the road to becoming. 

“I am not a parent,” Daeron said after a few moments, “nor do I have siblings—but it seems to me very wrong that even if a parent has a favorite that they should show it so blatantly.”

“It did not seem so blatant when we were young,” Maglor said. “But I was neither the favorite nor the least favorite, and maybe I just didn’t see. I’m sorry, Tyelko.”

“Please don’t be. It’s not like there was anything you could’ve done about it.”

Daeron was frowning, though he kept his gaze on the wreath of niphredil and buttercup steadily taking shape under his hands. “I have wondered if perhaps I spoke too harshly to Fëanor,” he said, “but now I wonder if I did not speak harshly enough.”

“He probably wouldn’t listen either way,” Celegorm muttered. “He listens to Curvo sometimes, but I think that’s just because the novelty of Curvo fighting with him hasn’t worn off.” And, of course, Curufin would remain his favorite—especially since he was the only one willing to see or speak to him. 

“That might be unfair,” Maglor said quietly. “Elrond has said that he has made an effort to listen far more often than not, since his return—and I have not heard that he’s fallen out again with Fingolfin, or with his sisters.”

“No,” Celegorm agreed reluctantly, “but I still don’t trust it. Fifty years isn’t that long of a time.”

“It is and it isn’t,” Daeron murmured, glancing up at Maglor. Celegorm turned his gaze away; he didn’t need to see whatever private thoughts were passing between the two of them. “But you all saw him on the road, and no one came away from it either in tears or angry—angrier, at least. That must bode well for the future.”

“Only because Náriel and Calissë were there,” Celegorm said. He hadn’t looked Fëanor in the face at all, keeping to the back of the group behind Ambarussa with his head down. The last thing he had wanted was for Calissë to see his expression in those moments. Fëanor had looked at him, but Celegorm hadn’t met his gaze. He did not want to know what he would see there.

“Still,” Daeron said. “It’s more than you could have done before, is it not?”

“It is, but I at least already said all I have to say to him,” Maglor said. He had his left arm around Celegorm’s shoulders; his right lay in his lap, and Celegorm saw him flex his fingers a little. 

“Does it hurt, talking about him?” Celegorm asked, reaching for it. 

“No.” Maglor let Celegorm take his hand and run his fingers over the scars there. There was a place near the center of his palm that seemed different, like the scar was thicker there—like it had been opened again and again after the wounds began to heal. Celegorm thought of how Maglor had sometimes dug his thumbnail into his palm when he was upset or lost in thought, before he had gone to Lórien, and felt faintly sick. Unaware of his thoughts, Maglor went on, “I had hoped it wouldn’t wake up upon seeing him, but at least it didn’t last long. It really doesn’t hurt at all now.” Celegorm glanced at Daeron and saw him looking at Maglor’s hand too. Their gazes met, and Daeron’s lips quirked in a small, rueful expression. “Please don’t start worrying about me again.”

“Too late,” Celegorm said. “It’s only fair, if you’re going to worry about me.”

“Someday,” Daeron said softly, “none of you will have to worry about any of the others at all.”

The last time Celegorm had not worried about any of his brothers, he had been beyond worry about anything, too focused on the Oath and whatever it took to fulfill it, to wrapped up in his own anger to care. He knew that wasn’t what Daeron meant, but it still made him shiver to remember it. Fëanor had written to him to say that the Celegorm of Beleriand was someone unrecognizable to him, someone so unlike the Tyelkormo of Tirion of old—he had said also that he did not recognize himself in the records and histories that he had read and heard since his return. He still did not realize that it was an echo of him that Celegorm had turned into; he still tried to create distance between himself now and who he had become before his own end. Celegorm, looking back, could trace every single step that he had taken, and knew exactly how he had become what he had. In that, at least, he was not like his father at all. 

“Let us put Fëanor out of our thoughts, at least for now,” Maglor said. “I don’t know if it’s true that you were his least favorite, but whatever he thinks, or thought, does not have to rule us now.”

“It still hurts,” Celegorm whispered. It was an admission he would not have been able to make before going to Nienna. It felt too much like admitting weakness, to admit that he still cared even a little bit what his father thought, or had thought. Maybe that was no bad thing, though. If he did not want his brothers to pretend to be strong all the time, he could not turn around and demand it of himself. 

“I know.” Maglor kissed the top of his head. “I’m sorry, Tyelko.”

They had only a few minutes more of quiet before someone else came looking for them, but it was enough for Celegorm to be able to gather himself and to be able put on a smile by the time he had to. The brooch remained a heavy weight in his pocket, though—and he still did not know what to do with it. 

Chapter Text

In spite of Daeron’s words, Maglor couldn’t quite imagine a world in which he didn’t worry about any of his brothers, at least a little. In spite of his own words, he could not so easily put Fëanor out of his mind either. He watched Celegorm return to company with a bright smile on his face, hiding away the hurt that lingered in his heart—that had lingered, it seemed, for years and years—and wished that he knew how to take it away. He wished that he had known before, but thought maybe Celegorm himself hadn’t even known, or at least that he had not had the words. 

He thought of Amras talking so frankly about Fëanor’s increasing absence in his and Amrod’s childhood, trying to say that it didn’t matter because their brothers had filled that empty space, and he thought of Curufin balancing between them all and Fëanor still, trying to find his way to a space where he could be himself but also remain Fëanor’s son, and of Caranthir’s shrug whenever Fëanor’s name was brought up, the one that tried to be careless but didn’t quite succeed. He thought of his own scars burning at the mere sight of Fëanor in the distance, and of the stiff way that Maedhros had held himself during that brief encounter on the road. 

As he tried to sort out his thoughts, he wandered into the library, and found Maedhros there, looking at a shelf full of collected documents and records from Himring. “Why would they keep old inventories and harvest records?” he asked as Maglor stepped up beside him. 

“You’ll have to ask Elrond,” Maglor said. “I suppose such things answer questions the loremasters might have about what it was like to live there, in such cases where there is no one to ask.”

“But why would they care?” 

“The same reason we always asked our grandparents about the Great Journey, or Cuiviénen, I suppose,” Maglor said. “Elrond had these same records in Imladris—and all of that was taken to Annúminas before we left, so the loremasters of Arnor can now answer whatever questions they have about what you ate for breakfast.”

Maedhros reached up to take one volume down. It was a familiar one; Maglor had read through it many times in Rivendell. It was a collection of letters from all of them to Maedhros. The ones Maedhros had written in reply, of course, were lost—nothing had survived the burning of Maglor’s Gap, or Thargelion, or Himlad. Perhaps some things had made it out of Amon Ereb, but nothing from before the Dagor Bragollach. It was always strange to pick it up and see his own words in another’s hand. “If you want copies, Elrond would be glad to have them made for you,” he said, as Maedhros paged through the recreated letters.

“Maybe,” Maedhros murmured. He ran his fingers over a page that showed a letter from Caranthir, talking of harvests in Thargelion. “It just seems strange, seeing all this and knowing it’s…history. That it’s studied, learned from.” He sighed, and turned away from the shelves, looking at Maglor instead. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I mean, nothing new. I just—I’ve been thinking of Atar.” It had been so much easier not to, in Lórien, when they were far away and there was no chance of coming upon him even if he did break his promise and come seeking them. Now they were back among their own people, they had seen him, and the knowledge that Fëanor was so close felt almost like the Oath had during the Long Peace, hovering in the back of his mind, never to be entirely forgotten or discarded, even if it could be set aside for a time. 

“If you’re worrying about me, don’t.”

“I worry about all of us. I just—I just don’t know how to sort out how I feel and what I want.” Maglor looked at the book in Maedhros’ hand. “Do you think he read those letters?”

“I think it’s likely.” Maedhros set the book back on the shelf. “Were you really serious about asking him to look into a palantír?”

“Yes. Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

“I think it could be. We don’t know how he’ll react to…any of it.”

“It will only be confirmation of what he’s been told already,” Maglor said.

“It’s different, though,” Maedhros said, “to hear of something and then to see it…the palantíri, they…you’ve never used them, really. I don’t know if you remember just how close they bring you.”

“That’s what I want,” Maglor said. “I want him to see. All the horrors and all the joys—if he cannot understand by reading old records or hearing what Curvo and Tyelpë have to tell him, what else is there? I don’t care if it hurts him.” 

“Be careful, Cáno,” Maedhros said softly. “That veers close to cruelty.”

“I don’t—” Maglor faltered. “Would it not be worse if he could watch what befell us without feeling anything? In his letter to me he tried to tell me that he loved me. How can I believe him if he will not even—” His voice broke, which was just as well because the library door opened a second later, and Erestor and Lindir came into the library, debating something about a metaphor. Maglor turned away from them, not wanting to get drawn into it, or to be asked what was the matter. 

“I don’t believe what he wrote to me, either,” Maedhros said, half-whispering now that they were no longer alone. “But I know that he saw me, and he heard what I said. Maybe the palantír will do more, but maybe that is all we can hope for. Maybe just being able to meet sometimes without tears is as close as we can come to…something like peace.” He glanced over Maglor’s shoulder, and then took his hand. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“I know where we can go.” Maglor led the way, down the corridor and to a staircase half-hidden behind in an alcove behind a tapestry. The house was filled with such not-quite-secret doors and stairs and corridors; no room was without at least two exits. It had been built by many of the same hands that had made Imladris, and also Ost-in-Edhil and Gondolin and other cities now fallen and lost. There was no need for such measures here in Valinor, but they remained a comfort, and Celebrían had told Maglor once, laughing, how Bilbo had been wont to remind them all of the value of being able to escape unwanted visitors, especially since none of them had any magic rings that might turn them invisible. 

Maglor missed Bilbo; he would have had a great deal to say about Fëanor, little of it flattering and all of it funny.

This particular staircase led to a small balcony from which one could very easily climb onto the roof. It was not often used. “What’s the purpose of it?” Maedhros asked as he watched Maglor step onto the balcony railing and then hoist himself up onto the gently-sloping roof. 

“I’m told that Elrond often escaped to the roofs of Rivendell when it was first built when he needed a moment alone,” Maglor said as he leaned down to offer Maedhros a hand up. “I think Celebrían put this here as something of a joke. We won’t be disturbed up here, though. Hardly anyone remembers those stairs.”

The roof was not so steep that it was uncomfortable to sit on, and they moved away from the balcony into the shade of one of the chimneys. From there they could see the road stretching away out of the valley, and the fishpond closer at hand, and the gardens surrounding. Maglor looped his arms around his knees and watched Ambarussa kick a ball across a grassy lawn with Calissë. Maedhros leaned back on his elbows, sitting slightly lower on the roof so he could lean his shoulder against Maglor’s arm. “I don’t want to hate him,” Maglor said after a while. 

“Neither do I.”

“Did you know Ambarussa hardly feel anything at all for him? He was so absent when they were young—we were the ones…”

“I didn’t know. I suppose I can’t be surprised.” Maedhros leaned his head against Maglor’s arm. “It was the Silmarils, wasn’t it? He started that work when they were still small.”

“How do you come back from that?”

“You don’t. You try to build something new. Curvo thinks that’s what Ambarussa want to try to do.”

“Yes, Amras told me. I just—even then he was changing, and we didn’t see it.”

“How could we have? He had always gotten engrossed in projects like that. The Silmarils were different only in that they took longer. That they coincided with all the whispers.”

“He had never been so engrossed that he would ignore us, before,” Maglor said. But he wasn’t sure anymore if that was true. Maybe it was only his heart trying to turn his father into someone he had never been. Even so, all his memories of his own childhood in which he had gone looking for his father, no matter where he had been or what he had been doing, even if he had been meeting with someone important—Fëanor had always abandoned whatever it was, whether Maglor’s own wants or needs were really urgent or not. “And Tyelko…”

“Tyelko has been to Nienna. You can see that he’s steadier than he was.”

“Nienna can no more heal all hurts than Estë can,” Maglor said. Celegorm had sounded so very small when he had confessed his feeling that he was their father’s least-favorite son. Maglor hadn’t known what to say to comfort him; he wasn’t even sure now if he should tell Maedhros of it, or if Celegorm wished for it to be kept in confidence. “She told me in Lórien that some things must be settled between us Children.”

“I think she’s right,” Maedhros said quietly. “Have you spoken to Elrond about your hand hurting?”

“No. Have you?”

“I’ve barely spoken to him at all. There’s no hurry, you know. For me and Elrond, or for us and our father.”

“I know. I do. It’s just…still hard to think of time as something that won’t run out.”

“I know. I feel the same.” Maedhros looked up at Maglor and then sat up, putting his arm around Maglor’s shoulders. It was only then that Maglor realized he was weeping. He turned his face into Maedhros’ shoulder, and they sat in silence for a while, listening to Ambarussa and Calissë laugh below them. When the tears slowed, Maglor turned his head, and was just in time to see a small group of riders appear on the road. He sighed; there was a good chance those were cousins, or friends, come to see him and Maedhros. “That looks like Fingon,” Maedhros said almost as soon as the thought crossed Maglor’s mind. 

“Can you tell who is with him?”

“Finrod, I think. And someone with silver hair.”

Maglor sat up and raised a hand to shade his eyes. “Míriel,” he said. “That is Míriel—and Indis, too.” He looked at Maedhros. “Have you not met her, Míriel?” Maedhros just shook his head. “She came to meet me in Avallónë.”

“I avoided meeting nearly everyone for a long time,” Maedhros said. He spoke matter-of-factly about it, though Maglor knew it weighed on him, like a responsibility he had abandoned, even though no one had expected or asked anything of him. “I suppose she has come to remedy that.”

“Míriel isn’t someone we need fear,” Maglor said. “I suppose this means we should get down from here.

“Probably. Especially since Fingon has seen us.” Maedhros lifted his hand in a wave as Fingon’s voice reached them. Maglor looked and saw him waving back, the gold threads in his hair glinting in the bright summer sunshine. “You should wash your face.”

“I know.” Maglor wiped his sleeve over it, and then slid down the roof to the balcony, Maedhros following. 

They parted in front of Maglor’s room, and he retreated inside with a feeling of relief, able to close the door between himself and the new visitors for at least a little while longer. Pídhres was there, curled up on the rug with Aegthil and Annem and Aechen. Maglor splashed his face in the basin of water near the wardrobe, and sat down to spend a few minutes with them, letting the hedgehogs climb over his lap while he scratched Pídhres. She arched her back into his fingers and purred. Maglor heard the faint commotion of the visitors’ arrival downstairs, and sighed.

The door opened before he could get up, and Daeron came in. “Your grandmother is here,” he said. 

“I know.”

“What’s the matter?” Daeron knelt on the rug beside him.

“Maedhros and I were speaking of our father. It’s…I’ll be all right.”

“I thought Lórien was to help you put such things out of your mind,” Daeron said, tucking a strand of damp hair behind Maglor’s ear.

“Estë and Nienna cannot heal all things. Whatever this is between us and our father is something we must figure out on our own, I suppose. I found peace with myself in Lórien—that was what I needed most. And if it were only me I could put him out of my mind easily enough—I did it for centuries in Middle-earth—but it pains all of my younger brothers, and I don’t…I don’t know how to help them.”

“They know that you love them,” Daeron said, “and that you will never act as your father has. I think that is all you can do, and all that they need from you.” He pressed a kiss to Maglor’s cheek. “Do you want to hide away from the guests? Fingon is downstairs too—and Finrod.”

“No, I don’t want to hide. I’m done hiding.” Maglor kissed Daeron. “I just needed a few minutes. Is it so obvious I’ve been upset?”

“No, but let me fix your hair.” Daeron pulled the hair clip free and used his fingers to neaten the strands before putting it back. “There. Lady Indis is also downstairs.”

“I know. Maedhros and I were on the roof and saw them arrive.”

“Is it as overwhelming as it was when you first came?” Daeron asked as he rose, holding out his hands. Maglor took them and sent the hedgehogs tumbling over the rug, curling up into little indignant spiky balls. 

“Not yet, but I’m sure it will be. I hardly saw anyone really, before I went to Lórien. I saw Finrod, of course, but Fingon came the same day my father did, so I hardly spoke to him at all. I met my grandmother on Eressëa, but I have not seen Indis yet. Is anyone else with them?”

“A lady I did not recognize.”

“Dark or fair?”

“Dark.”

“Lalwen, maybe.” Maglor bent to pick up Pídhres, who was making herself a nuisance. “Of course you’re coming too, silly cat.” She climbed onto his shoulders and stuck her nose in his ear. 

“Come on, then. The sooner everyone has greeted everyone else, the sooner you’ll be at ease again.” Daeron opened the door to let the hedgehogs scurry out, all in a line. As they followed Maglor slipped his hand into Daeron’s. 

“Celebrían, are those hedgehogs?” Finrod’s voice floated up the stairs after a few minutes. 

“Oh, that just means Maglor is coming downstairs,” Celebrían laughed. “You see?” She gestured toward Maglor and Daeron as they appeared around the corner. Finrod and Fingon were there, alongside Míriel and Indis and the dark-haired lady that Daeron had not recognized—not Lalwen, but Gilheneth, Fingon’s wife.

“Maglor!” Finrod sprang forward to embrace him, just as Maedhros straightened with Aechen in his hands, to the great amusement of Fingon. Pídhres jumped from Maglor’s shoulder to Daeron’s arms with a yowl. “You took your time in Lórien, didn’t you?”

“I’m glad to see you, too,” Maglor said. “I hope you didn’t bring any wine,” he added, lowering his voice a little. “I’m not going to get drunk with you again this summer.”

Finrod grinned at him. “No, not this time!”

“Never again,” Maglor said, trying to sound stern.

“Mm, we’ll see about that. Hello, Daeron!”

As Finrod finally released Maglor to greet Daeron properly, Fingon and Gilheneth left Maedhros to come make their own greetings. “I hope you aren’t going to go running off again before we can actually speak,” Fingon said, embracing him tightly. “You’re looking much lighter; I’m glad.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Maglor said. “Well met, Gilheneth.”

“It’s good to see you, Maglor.” Gilheneth rose onto her toes to kiss his cheek. “Lórien was kind to you, it seems.”

“It was.”

“Are you going to explain the hedgehogs?” Fingon asked. 

“Explain what? They’re just hedgehogs. Maedhros has Aechen, and the other two are Annem and Aegthil.”

“All right, fine,” Fingon laughed, “I’ll ask him. Russo! Explain the hedgehogs?”

Maedhros glanced up from speaking with Celebrían and Míriel. “They’re hedgehogs, Fingon. What is there to explain?”

“I hate you both.”

Maglor laughed at Fingon, and moved forward to greet Indis, and then Míriel, who kissed him and smiled warmly. “I’m glad to see you again, Macalaurë,” she said. “You are looking much lighter than when we last met.”

“I feel lighter. I’m glad to see you too, Grandmother.”

Elrond came to join Celebrían in welcoming the newcomers then, and Maglor and Maedhros’ brothers all followed—or almost all of them. Maglor caught a glimpse of silver hair as Celegorm turned and slipped away. He started to go after him, but Finrod called to him and by the time he could get away, there was no telling where Celegorm had gone. He did manage to catch Curufin alone, as they all walked outside to the wide veranda. “Curvo, has Tyelko ever met Míriel?”

“I don’t think so. He’s never been in Tirion when she comes. I don’t know where he is now.” Curufin glanced around, frowning. “He was with us earlier.”

“I know visiting Nienna did him good, but I’m still worried.”

“I’ll find him. I think Míriel wants to speak with you.” Curufin squeezed Maglor’s shoulder before slipping away, out into the garden. Maglor watched Huan trot down one path and join him, before he went to sit beside Míriel when she beckoned to him. 

“Have you written many songs since you came west?” she asked as he sat. Pídhres jumped up onto his lap.

“I’ve written bits and pieces of many, but have managed to finish only a few,” Maglor said, “and most of those are ones I’ve written with Daeron.” He glanced over at where Daeron sat with Finrod and Galadriel, all three of them laughing at something. It was a very merry party out on the veranda. Maedhros sat a little apart with Fingon and Gilheneth, not laughing but still looking happy as they spoke together. “Maedhros and I have only just come from Lórien, and I’ve written nothing new in the last few weeks.”

“I would speak with you more of your music while we are here,” Míriel said. 

“Of course,” Maglor said. He did not quite understand the expression on her face, thoughtful and concerned at once. “I did not know you had any great interest in it.”

“Oh, I’m no musician—but we can speak of it later,” she said. “I did get your letter before you left, and what you asked for is waiting at your mother’s house.”

Maglor had almost forgotten. “Thank you,” he said. 

“It was a pleasure to make such a gift for one of my grandsons,” Míriel said, smiling. Then Indis called to draw them into the conversation between her and Ambarussa and Celebrían, leaving Maglor to wonder what it was Míriel really wanted to speak to him about. He glanced more than once toward the garden paths, but neither Curufin nor Celegorm reappeared all afternoon. 

It was not until that evening after dinner that Míriel sought to speak to Maglor alone again—or not quite alone, for she brought Indis with her. They stepped outside into a small courtyard that smelled of bluebells and rosemary, and sat on either side of him on a bench near the doorway. “It is good to see you again, Macalaurë,” Indis said, taking his hands and kissing his cheek. “We were all very glad to hear you and Maitimo had returned from Lórien.”

“I’m sorry that I went there before seeing everyone as I should have,” Maglor said.

“Oh, there’s no need for that. You needed peace more than you needed an army of cousins and kinfolk descending upon you.”

“What is it you wished to speak to me about?” Maglor asked, looking between them. “Is there some song of mine…?”

“It is a song we would like you to write for us, unless you have written such a one already,” Míriel said. “Have you ever written anything for Finwë, Macalaurë?”

“Finwë?” Maglor repeated. “I…no. I have tried, but I could never find the words. What sort of song would you have me write?”

“A lament,” Indis said quietly. “There are none that have been written, except the most private of songs that are not meant to be performed aloud. You are the mightiest singer of the Noldor, Macalaurë—inheritor of Finwë’s own great power of song, alongside Findekáno, Findaráto, and Artanis. Now that you are returned to us, it seems only fitting that it is you we should turn to.”

“I can try,” Maglor said. “But I’ve…I’ve tried many times, and have not been able to find the words even for a song I would sing only to the wind and the waves. So it has been for all my fallen kin that I should have been able to remember in verse.”

“If you cannot, you cannot. The grief remains heavy for all of us,” said Indis. “All we would ask is that you try.”

“For whom would I perform this song?”

“When it is finished, come to us in Tirion,” Míriel said. “We will speak of performance then.”

Maglor frowned at that, but found himself already thinking of what shape the song would take—it would be something very different from what he had been envisioning before. It would not be only a grandson’s song for his grandfather, but the song of a whole family—a whole people—lamenting the loss of their patriarch and king, leader and father and husband. “May I speak to each of you alone, before you leave?” he asked. “Of Finwë, I mean?”

“Of course.” Indis squeezed his hand and rose. “We will answer whatever questions you have.”

“Thank you, Macalaurë,” Míriel said, also rising. She kissed his cheek, just over the scar on his cheekbone. “And in a happier vein, I look forward to hearing you sing again—merry songs, I mean.”

Daeron came to take Míriel’s place beside Maglor as Míriel and Indis departed. “What were you speaking of?” he asked. 

“They wish for me to write a lament for Finwë.”

“You were planning to do so regardless.”

“Yes…that was a different kind, though. What I had in mind would not have been a song I would sing before anyone except my brothers. Maybe my cousins. The song they want…it will be something more. Not just for my grandfather but for the King of the Noldor”

“You are equal to it,” Daeron said softly. 

“I hope so.”

“I will not offer my help; this is a song for you, Canafinwë of the Noldor, to write, and not for Daeron of Doriath to have any hand in. I will listen, though, when you need an ear.”

“Thank you.” Maglor offered him a smile. “I will have to go to Tirion, and maybe other places. I need to speak to my aunts and uncles, and all of my cousins. It is not only my own memories of Finwë that must be put into this song. And…perhaps I should write to Elu Thingol, too.”

“I will see that your letter reaches him, of course, and I will go with you wherever you must travel.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Oh, don’t start that again.” Daeron leaned his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “I am where I wish to be, which is at your side. We have been apart far longer than we have been together, even since coming west, and I would like to change that count of years. Don’t remind me of my duties to Thingol, either. He’s managed quite a long time without me, and I can write my studies and chronicles just as well here as I can in Taur-en-Gellam. Better, even, with Elrond’s library at my fingertips.”

“Should I remind you then of your students?”

“The younger ones are in good hands under Pirineth’s instruction, not to mention my other older students. Maybe I will bring some here so they can learn of you and of Lindir and the rest.”

“Lindir would certainly like that, but you’ll be sending them all back singing verses full of tra la la lallies and making up very silly rhymes to tease Thingol.”

“Good. Kings need teasing, sometimes.”

“Maglor, Daeron?” Elrond appeared in the doorway. “We will be playing music and telling tales soon. You’ll both be wanted.”

“We’re coming,” Maglor said, as he and Daeron rose. Daeron went ahead, and Elrond fell into step beside Maglor. “I think there will be more travel in my near future than I had thought.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet. Nowhere until next summer at least—and then maybe only as far as Tirion. My grandmother and Indis have asked me to write a song for Finwë.”

Elrond looked at him. He knew already that Maglor had never been able to write such songs for those he loved. “You agreed?”

“How could I refuse? I’d been thinking of trying again anyway, and it seems that no one else has. If I find I cannot do it…then I cannot do it, and someone else will have to try. I’ll have to go to Tirion to speak to others, to know what they would wish to hear in such a song. I can’t only write it for myself, as I had been thinking, not if it’s to be something sung before others.”

“Well, at least this won’t take you all the way to Ekkaia,” Elrond said. “I have been hearing more talk of Finwë over the last few years than I have in all the time I’ve lived in these lands.”

“More and more of us are returning,” Maglor said. “Perhaps it is only that our thoughts now turn to those who still remain lost.”

“Perhaps,” Elrond murmured, frowning a little. His thoughts were surely with Gil-galad, who was among those that lingered still in Mandos—and, likely, with Elros and Arwen and those who had died and would never return. Maglor put an arm around his shoulders as they returned to the hall where the music was to be played and the stories were to be told. 

“Uncle Cáno!” Náriel ran over. As Maglor lifted her up onto his hip she said, “I ate all of my vegetables at dinner! So will you tell us the story of the enchantress and the bits of magic in your hair?”

“Of course!” Maglor said, as Elrond quickly turned a startled laugh into a cough. 

“What enchantress was this?” Elrond asked, a little hoarse and a little strangled. 

“The one that almost turned me into a statue made all of ice and snow, of course,” Maglor said, smiling brightly at him. “You remember.”

“Oh, of course, that enchantress.”

Náriel perked up. “Did you meet more than one?” she asked.

“Lots,” Maglor said, and Elrond had to leave them before he started laughing too hard and gave the game away. “Wizards, too! You have to watch out for wizards, even more than enchantresses. Have you heard the story about the wizard that sent the halfling Bilbo Baggins across the Misty Mountains and Wilderland to steal treasure from a dragon?”

“No!” Náriel said, eyes going wide. “Can you tell that story next?”

“Not tonight, I think,” Maglor said, “but sometime soon.” He went to sit by Daeron, settling Náriel on his lap, and Calissë came over to sit beside him, also demanding the story of the enchantress. Celebrían burst into giggles when Elrond whispered something in her ear, but Maglor ignored them and the incredulous look Finrod gave him as he began the tale. 

He had gone looking for the snow-enchantress story just after they had arrived in Imloth Ningloron, and found it in a book of Shire tales that Sam had brought with him, though it had been in the Shire itself that Maglor had first heard the story—from Pippin, telling tales of his ancestors’ adventures. Pippin’s version was about two Took siblings who had wandered off to have adventures in the far north, and escaped home again through cleverness and courage and sturdy hobbit-sense as well as help from kindly talking animals. It was a very good story, Maglor thought, as were so many that the hobbits told, and he looked forward to Calissë or Náriel finding it themselves someday. 

In the meantime he told his own version of it, starring himself being not so very clever at all, and escaping by means of luck—and also a few kindly talking animals—rather than bravery. He concluded with Elladan and Elrohir finding him half-frozen and taking him back home to their father in his beautiful and hidden mountain valley filled with flowers, who thawed him out and scolded him very soundly for being so foolish as to disturb such a powerful enchantress. 

By the time he was done it was time for the girls to go to bed, and after Rundamírë and Curufin took them upstairs Lisgalen asked, “Is any of that true?”

“No,” Elladan said, laughing. He and Elrohir had nearly spit out their drinks when Maglor had brought them into the story. 

“Well, the part about Elladan and Elrohir bringing me to Imladris is,” said Maglor, “though it was from the other direction and I wasn’t actually half-frozen.” It was also partly true that he’d gotten into trouble through his own foolishness—though perhaps careless was a better word—and the bone-deep cold that had clung to him for years was real enough too. He said none of that aloud, though, for it was too fine an evening for such memories. “I described Imladris precisely as I remember it upon first coming there, too.” Beside him Daeron took his hand, sliding their fingers together. Elrohir too glanced at him, less assured that the shadows really didn’t trouble him. When Maglor smiled at him, though, he relaxed a little more.

“So there really wasn’t any strange snow-wielding sorceresses living in the far north of the world?” Finrod asked with an arched eyebrow.

“There was according to Pippin Took,” Maglor said, “but I never went so far north.”

“I thought that sounded like a hobbit’s tale,” Elladan said. 

“So it is,” Maglor agreed, “but I did promise, and Náriel did eat all of her vegetables.”

“Yes, thank you for that,” said Curufin as he returned. “I hope you have more tales of your misadventures for the next time I need to bribe her into eating a few mouthfuls of asparagus.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Maglor said. Everyone laughed at him, and he leaned against Daeron, feeling warm and comfortable. The song for Finwë loomed before him, so different from a silly made-up story about enchantments and talking foxes, and a thing he would never have been able to contemplate before going to Lórien; however daunting the task, though, the more he thought of it the more he felt equal to it. It was the least he could do—for Míriel and Indis, and for Finwë.

Chapter Text

The morning after his arrival, Fingon came knocking on Maedhros’ door. “Come walk with me. Have you seen much of the valley?”

“Most of it, I think.” It was the sort of place, though, that would always offer something new to find, or something different in the gardens or even in the house. Maglor had told Maedhros that even the wide gallery of paintings and sculptures was always shifting and changing. It was never quiet, either. There was always singing or laughter somewhere nearby, and of course there was the sound of flowing water and wind through the grass and the flowers. “How are things in Tirion?” Maedhros asked as they walked along the pond, pausing as a family of ducks emerged from a cluster of blue and yellow daisies to hurry across the path to splash into the water. 

“Quiet,” Fingon said, “or as quiet as they ever get. Are you asking about Tirion or about your father?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Fëanor is also as quiet as he ever gets. He’s rebuilding your old house when he isn’t experimenting in the forge or whatever it is he does there. Daeron keeps writing interesting things about the languages of the Avari in the far east of Middle-earth, which I would have thought would endear him greatly to your father—I know he’s been reading every one of them—but every time they have to speak your father comes away looking like he just ate something sour.”

Maedhros thought of the dangerously-bright way Daeron had greeted Fëanor when they met on the road. “I think the feeling might be mutual.”

“I know he puzzled Fëanor greatly when they first met,” Fingon said, “but I don’t know where the dislike has come from—on either side, really.”

“Cáno, I suppose.”

“One would think that would only make Fëanor try harder to like Daeron,” Fingon said, “but I suppose that’s a problem for Daeron and Maglor to manage. I can tell you that your father and mine are getting along shockingly well. I would call them friends, if I were able to believe my own eyes.”

“What of Arafinwë? Is he still in self-imposed exile?”

“No, he’s come back once or twice, but his meeting with Fëanor was decidedly cool, and he much prefers his seaside estate to Tirion. He says he’s had quite enough of ruling, and he hardly even wants to run his own household, let alone the Noldor.” Fingon grinned. “I sympathize. I’m very happy to be only a prince again—and a landless one at that, except for my own very small estate.”

“I’m happier still to be only nominally a prince,” said Maedhros. The less that was asked of him, he thought, the better. He sympathized too with Finarfin, and was glad he did not even have a household to worry about. His mother had left all such trappings behind long ago when she left Tirion, and Maedhros would be more than content to return to her quiet house. For such a long time it had held only three of them—Nerdanel, Maedhros, and Caranthir. Now all his brothers would be coming and going, noisy and chaotic—but still quieter than Tirion, and far more welcome. All Maedhros had wanted before was to be left alone; now he just wanted peace. 

“Will you come to Tirion yourself?” Fingon asked. “Not to stay, but at least to visit? Your father will be there, of course, but he’s not that hard to avoid, and I know he has promised not to bother you and your brothers.”

“We met him by chance on the road here,” Maedhros said. “It…did not go as badly as it could have. I’ll visit Tirion sometimes—I’ll visit you, and Curvo, but I don’t think I will want to go to the palace, and I hope your father won’t ask anything of me.”

“He and my mother will invite you to parties and things, as they always have,” Fingon said. “I hope you’ll accept, sometimes.”

The thought of dressing in courtly finery, weighed down by jewels and brocaded robes, still made Maedhros feel hot and itchy, even if he thought that he could probably survive an entire evening instead of only a few hours now. “Perhaps,” he said, just to make Fingon roll his eyes. That had been his answer always before when pressed to go to Tirion—or to go anywhere, to do anything—and it had always just been a polite way of saying no. “Really, though—I’ll try to come sometimes, but I don’t think I’ll enjoy myself any more than I did before.”

“I see Lórien did not fully cure your pessimism. That’s all right; Gilheneth and I will help with that. You’ll come visit us, of course, outside of the city?”

“Whenever you wish.”

A call from back up the path made them both turn, and Finrod came running to join them, bright and shining with jewels in his hair and at his throat. “Good morning, dearest cousins!” he said brightly, slipping his arms through both Maedhros’ and Fingon’s. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” Fingon laughed, “not that you would care if you were. I’ve just gotten Russo to promise to come visit me.”

“Really! No perhaps-that-really-means-no? Does that mean I can invite you to my house on Tol Eressëa and expect you to actually come?”

“Perhaps,” Maedhros said, and laughed at the look on Finrod’s face. “By which I mean yes, of course.”

“Russandol, are you teasing me?” Finrod exclaimed, punching him lightly in the arm even as his face lit up with a sunny smile. “Lórien has done wonders for you, indeed!”

They wandered the paths, at times in silence and other times talking of inconsequential things like the hedgehogs or the journey back from Lórien. The last time the three of them had spoken together, Maedhros had asked both Finrod and Fingon to come to Nerdanel’s house so that he might warn them of Fëanor’s impending arrival. Now Fëanor still hovered behind their words, but he did not loom—there was no threat, not to either Fingolfin or Finarfin, or the peace among the Noldor, as they had all had reason to fear before. Now Maedhros was the only one who had any cause for concern, and even that was less than it had been. He had missed this, he thought as he followed Finrod across a fallen log that served as a bridge over one of the wider streams, passing out of the gardens and out into the wide meadowland beyond. He had missed spending time with his cousins with no purpose except to enjoy one another’s company. 

“You said earlier that you saw your father on the road,” Fingon said once he had also crossed the log bridge. Finrod turned around with a look of faint alarm on his face. “How did it go?”

“Náriel and Calissë were there,” said Maedhros, “and of course they were excited to see him. I don’t think he would have approached us if Calissë hadn’t insisted.”

“And?” Finrod asked. “What did he say? What did you say?”

Maedhros shrugged. It was almost silly how little had actually been said, when compared to the alarm he was greeted with whenever he told someone of it. “We exchanged greetings. He asked if Maglor and I found what we sought in Lórien. Calissë asked him to come back here with us, but he said he was expected back in Tirion, and so we parted. I can’t guess what he was thinking.” 

“What were you thinking?” Fingon asked.

“That my hand hurt and I couldn’t let him know it,” Maedhros said.

“Your hand?” Finrod reached for it, turning it over to run his fingertips over the ghosts of scars there. “Could Estë not cure this?”

“It isn’t…I don’t think it’s the sort of thing that will ever go away.” The touch of the Silmaril had marked him as deeply as had the rescue from Thangorodrim; Estë had not been able to give him back his right hand, either—she had apologized for it upon his return, even though she hadn’t needed to; he hadn’t wanted it back. He didn’t even really mind having the marks on his palm, most of the time. “It hasn’t hurt like that in a long time.” Dreams had once had him waking with his hand throbbing, but those dreams had mostly left him now, and when he did have a bad night he did not wake up in pain. “It was only seeing him.”

“That seems like something he should know,” Finrod said. 

“He might have guessed anyway,” Maedhros said. Maglor had been taken by surprise, and if Fëanor had not been distracted by Calissë he might have seen the way he had reacted, the way Daeron had reached for his hand the same way Finrod had just reached for Maedhros’ own. 

“You were afraid of seeing him again, I remember,” Fingon said quietly. “Has that changed?”

“I don’t know,” Maedhros admitted. “I had all of my brothers at my back, this time. If I were to meet him alone I think it would be worse. And if my hand is going to burn every time…”

“It is not the memory of the Silmaril that burns you,” Finrod said. He still held Maedhros’ hand in both of his, cupping it as though it were something fragile. The scars there were almost invisible, only noticeable to touch, and even then they were very faint. 

“It feels like the Silmaril,” Maedhros said. There was no pain like that heat. It was unforgettable, unmistakable. “But you are right, it isn’t…it isn’t the Silmarils themselves. My father put something of himself, of his own power, into them. His is a spirit of fire, and that is what burns still, I think.”

“Does Maglor feel it?” Finrod asked.

“Yes.”

“I hope Fëanor did notice,” Fingon said, his expression grim, his voice more akin to the commander of the Noldor in Beleriand than to his usual bright self in Valinor’s present. “I hope that he understands what his very presence does. Would that he could feel even a fraction of it.”

“I don’t want to punish him,” Maedhros said quietly. He thought of Maglor, who was still much angrier than he would admit even to himself, saying he did not care if looking into their pasts in a palantír caused their father pain. There was a part of Maedhros that agreed, but… “I want him to understand, but I don’t…”

“Some lessons hurt in the learning,” Finrod said. “None of us here are strangers to such things. Fëanor died before he could learn anything in Beleriand except a smattering of the language and what not to do when facing a host of balrogs.” Fingon snorted, and Finrod grimaced apologetically before going on, “If anyone should, here and now, feel an echo of this pain, it is not you, Russandol.”

“But I do, and…I don’t know what will change that. I don’t know what I need from my father, except—except that he keep his distance, I suppose. But neither of us can live our lives like that forever, never speaking, never seeing each other.”

“I don’t have any answers,” Finrod said. Fingon shook his head in agreement. They both loved their fathers, had never been so hurt by them. “I wonder if it would help you to speak to Fingolfin, or to my own father. One has reconciled with Fëanor, and one is almost as wary as the seven of you.”

“Your father did not bear the brunt of mine’s anger,” Maedhros said.

“Perhaps not, but he was left picking up the pieces afterward. His reunion with Fingolfin did not go so smoothly either—but neither of you heard that from me.”

A flock of birds erupted out of the flowers a little distance away, and the three of them turned to see Huan bounding through the grass and the irises, barking joyfully. Maedhros saw Celegorm following behind with Calissë on his shoulders. They saw Maedhros standing with Finrod and Fingon, and waved cheerfully.

Finrod sighed, and let go of Maedhros’ hand as Fingon waved back. “But if we are speaking of pain, I think Fëanor feels a great deal of it already—of heartache, at least. Whatever we may choose to believe, however little we may find ourselves able to trust him, I do believe he is sincere in his regrets.”

“I don’t think I can believe that,” Maedhros said.

“As I said before, that is no one’s fault but his,” Fingon said. “I am still surprised that Curufin gets along with him as well as he does.”

“It’s different for Curvo.”

“Because of Celebrimbor?” said Finrod. Maedhros nodded. “You know he gets along with Fëanor, too.”

“I know. It’s even more different for Tyelpë.” They’d all worked to keep Celebrimbor away from Fëanor at his worst, and of course Curufin had tried hardest. Even until they parted in Nargothrond, he had tried to shield his son from the worst of what they were all becoming. He’d come to Himring afterward furious and almost unrecognizable as the little brother Maedhros had watched grow up in Valinor—he and Celegorm both more like Fëanor in his wrath than any of the rest of them—but though he’d raged he had never raged against his son. It meant now that, though Celebrimbor was not ignorant of Fëanor’s final days, he did not have the same memories, the same fears. Maedhros was glad of it, and only wished he had been able to shield his brothers better, too. 

“Why were you afraid to begin with?” Finrod asked him.

“I don’t…” Maedhros took a breath. The fear had taken root before the exile to Formenos, but it had blossomed like a thorny, ugly weed the moment Fëanor ordered the ships burned. “I stood aside at Losgar, when I couldn’t convince him not to burn the ships.”

Finrod tilted his head, frowning a little. The sapphire beads in his braids clicked together softly. “Yes, we know.”

“Atar was furious afterward.”

“I would imagine…oh. Was it that bad?”

“It was.” Maedhros looked away again, back toward Huan. If not for the Oath, if not for the knowledge that his brothers would become targets next, Maedhros might have turned away from him then, and he would have been lying if he tried to say he hadn’t taken a certain bitter satisfaction in handing over the crown to Fingolfin later, knowing how his father would have hated it. Guilt still layered over it, because he was his father’s son and he had never known how to be anything else. Whatever Fëanor tried to say now, Maedhros knew there were conditions to be met in order to receive his love, as he had not known before Losgar. Maybe the conditions had changed, but they were still there. The burning in his hand felt like continued punishment—for giving up the crown, for standing aside, for destroying himself as soon as he got the Silmarils in the end, or maybe for only getting two out of the three. Maybe for all of it. 

“He did not mention Losgar in his letter to you,” Fingon said quietly.

“What letter?” Finrod asked.

“He wrote us all letters at the end of that first summer,” Maedhros said. “I think it was Celebrimbor’s idea. I don’t know if my father even remembers what he said at Losgar, or afterward. He was—he was terrible in his wrath, fell and fey, and…”

“You are still stronger than he,” Fingon said. “I told you so before, and it is only more true now.”

“I don’t want to have to be,” Maedhros said. 

“You shouldn’t have to be,” said Finrod, “but you have been, and you still are. Maybe it is only memory that burns your hand, and the more you see him the less it will hurt.”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe it is a wound your father gave you that only he can heal,” Fingon said. 

Then it was a wound that would never heal, Maedhros thought but bit his tongue to keep from speaking aloud. He said instead, “I’ll just—I’ll handle it as it comes, whatever the cause or the solution. Nothing else hurts. I am better—I’m so much better than I was. If I am afraid of my father still, I am not afraid of anything else.” Whatever shadows still lingered, whatever his father might do or what he might want, Maedhros would live his life on his own terms going forward. He had the support of his brothers and his mother, and his cousins—what was Fëanor compared to all of them? He was not worth the tears that Maglor had shed the day before, or that Maedhros knew he would weep later that night when he was alone in the quiet dark of his bedroom. 

When they joined Calissë and Celegorm, Calissë insisted on trading Celegorm’s shoulders for Maedhros’, which were higher and afforded her a greater view. It was hard to remain gloomy in the face of her irrepressible cheerfulness, and even Celegorm was able to laugh and speak with Finrod more easily than he ever had before. Finrod, for his part, appeared determined to try to bridge the gap that still lay between them, and teased Celegorm mercilessly for his messy and crooked braids made by a child’s hands, and the broken flowers stems that were caught in them. Then after a few minutes, Finrod said, “Actually, Celegorm, I wish to speak with you. Come on!” Without waiting for an answer he seized Celegorm’s hand and pulled him away, out toward one of the smaller ponds covered in water lilies. Celegorm glanced over his shoulder at Maedhros with a look of alarm, but there was no arguing or gainsaying Finrod when he was determined. 

It was nearing lunchtime by the time they returned to the house. Maedhros set Calissë down as Rundamírë came to call her in to wash up before the meal, and as Elrond also came out. “Legolas and Gimli have just arrived,” he told them with a smile, as though they were supposed to recognize those names. 

Fingon seemed to, at least. “I have been looking forward to meeting them!” he said. “They are returned at last from Aulë’s halls, then?”

“They left Aulë some time ago, and have spent the last few years wandering the forests of Vána and Yavanna. Now they are come here to stay awhile, and we are very glad to have them. They are inside with Maglor and Elladan and Elrohir.” Elrond lingered as Fingon went ahead inside, and he looked at Maedhros, who had also hung back. “Are you not going to join them?”

“I’m not sure who either Legolas or Gimli are,” said Maedhros, “though Gimli sounds like a Dwarvish name.”

“It is. Did you not hear when they arrived? It was a year or so before Maglor and my sons came—they caused quite a stir when they appeared in Avallónë. No one had expected such a thing.”

“I had not heard, no. But why would a dwarf wish to come to these lands?”

“I forget that you kept yourself so separate for so long. Legolas and Gimli are two of the last three living members of the Fellowship of the Ring. Gimli came west for the sake of Legolas, after Aragorn’s death. Do you remember the song sung here of the Three Hunters?”

“No, I never did get to hear it in full.” Elrond had called Maedhros from the hall at the start of it, unable to hear it for one reason or another. Maedhros had wondered a little at the time, but he had had little curiosity for anything outside of his brothers in those days and had swiftly forgotten about it.

Elrond’s smile turned rueful. “I remember. You’ll hear it in full very soon, I am sure.”

“Was it because of Aragorn that you could not listen to it then?”

“The grief was still very near. I raised him as my own son. Estel, we named him in his youth, to keep him safe and hidden. Wingfoot, he was named later, after he raced many leagues across Rohan in pursuit of the orcs that captured Merry and Pippin.” Elrond looked away, out over the valley. A nightingale burst into song in a nearby juniper. “Hearing of his death was as hard as hearing of Arwen’s.”

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros said. 

“It is easier now to speak of him.” Elrond turned back to Maedhros, his gaze keen. “Are you well? You seemed troubled as you came in.”

“I was only speaking of my father with Finrod and Fingon,” said Maedhros. “It isn’t as though that trouble is anything new. I’ll be all right.”

“You and Maglor are both very fond of saying that.”

“At least now we can say it truthfully.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I remain skeptical for a while longer.”

How startling it was every time he realized that Elrond really cared. “I am all right,” Maedhros said. “Of course thinking of my father troubles me, but it’s—I don’t know how to fix it, or if it can be fixed at all.”

“You thought once there was no fixing what lay between you and Maglor,” Elrond pointed out. 

“I don’t know if I want the same thing now,” said Maedhros. “I just want to live my own life out from under his shadow.”

“You deserve no less,” Elrond said. “And I know of course I am one of the last people you would confide in, but if your hand continues to pain you, please tell me. Maybe there is nothing I can do, where even Estë could not bring full healing, but I would still like to try.”

“I will,” Maedhros said. He curled his fingers over his palm, feeling the faint markings there. Elrond smiled at him again, and led the way inside. 

Chapter Text

The arrival of Legolas and Gimli was as unexpected as it was delightful. Maglor saw Gimli bowing deeply to Maedhros, and speaking of the ancient friendship between Himring and Belegost that the dwarves of Middle-earth still remembered. Maedhros’ look of shock swiftly transformed into a smile as he returned the bow. 

Gimli was very old, even by the measure of the dwarves, with snow-white hair and golden beads and emeralds braided intricately into his thick beard, but he was hale and strong still, and further revived by his coming into the west. Legolas was as he had always been, cheerful and full of stories of the places they had visited and the things they had seen since coming west.

The afternoon passed brightly and cheerfully, and the evening was full of music. Many songs were sung of the Fellowship, and of Aglarond and the fair gardens of Ithilien. Gimli made quick friends also with both Curufin and Caranthir, who had had many friends among the dwarves of the Ered Luin long ago, and with Daeron, who had also known many dwarves, and who Gimli had greeted with as deep a bow as he had given to Elrond when Maglor had the pleasure of introducing them. Legolas fell in with Ambarussa just as quickly.

“I told you it would work,” Legolas said to Maglor, not a little smug, when they had a moment to speak after the flurry of introductions died down. “You were convinced we would wreck before we lost sight of the coast of Belfalas!”

“It was still a mad idea,” Maglor said, laughing, “but I am very glad you were successful. How are you finding it here?”

“It’s delightful to have a whole new world to explore—not to mention all the people to meet, and meet again! I have been trying to convince Gimli to go as far west as we can. Is it true what I have heard, that you went all the way to the westernmost shores yourself?”

“I did. It’s well worth the journey, but I don’t see why there is any hurry. Ekkaia isn’t going anywhere.”

“You went nearly as soon as you landed, or so I have heard—what was your hurry?”

Maglor smiled. “Have you heard of my family? So many cousins and brothers and uncles coming to see me at once—I needed to escape to Ekkaia just to breathe!” Legolas laughed, and turned his questions rather to the routes taken and what sort of country lay between Tirion and the westernmost shores. 

“It is very nice sometimes to be recognized for my runes before anything else,” Daeron remarked to Maglor as they retreated to their room late that night. “Gimli must be very remarkable, to have been granted leave to come to the Undying Lands.”

“He is,” Maglor said. “All of the Fellowship were remarkable.”

“Was that tale of the Three Hunters really true? My legs hurt just thinking about making a chase that far on foot—and in only a few days!”

“Yes, it’s true. There is very little that needs embellishing, when it comes to tales of the Fellowship.” They came to their room, finding Pídhres on the bed and the hedgehogs all curled up in their basket near the hearth. It was a warm night, and the breeze through the open window smelled of flowers, and carried the sound of flowing water. Maglor felt tired, but not unpleasantly so. His thoughts had been less weighty that day; he’d hardly thought of his father at all, or even of Finwë, though before Legolas and Gimli’s arrival he had intended to start jotting down notes for the song he was to write. 

Sleep came quickly and calmly, and he sank into dreams of the Sea, of the music of the waves and the wild beauty of the rocky shores of Middle-earth under wide and pale skies. Such dreams always felt a little like coming home, though that was a feeling he would never speak aloud in waking life. 

In the dark hours before dawn, though, he woke with a start. For a few seconds Maglor didn’t understand why, until he heard a soft sound beside him and turned to see Daeron caught up in a dream of his own, tangled up in the blankets and clutching at his chest, where there was an old scar from an arrow that had almost killed him once, long ago in Rhûn. “Daeron,” Maglor said, reaching for him. “Wake up, love. You're dreaming.” Daeron tried to pull away, muttering something in a language Maglor did not know. “Daeron, it’s me, it’s Maglor. Wake up.”

At last, Daeron’s eyes opened, though for a moment they remained unfocused, still caught up in the dream. Maglor smoothed his hair away from his face, and Daeron blinked, taking a sharp, shuddering breath. “It’s all right,” Maglor whispered. “It’s all right, Daeron, it was only a dream.”

“Maglor,” Daeron breathed.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Daeron rolled over to bury his face in Maglor’s chest, shaking all over. Maglor wrapped one arm around him as he used his other hand to tug the blankets back into some semblance of order. Pídhres, disturbed by all the movement, jumped down from the bed and vanished out of the open window. Maglor settled back against the pillows, gently maneuvering Daeron so that he lay on top of him, resting against his chest, as he stroked Daeron’s hair and hummed a quiet and soothing song until the tremors stopped, though Daeron did not lift his head or ease his almost desperate grip on Maglor, hands fisted in his nightshirt. After a little while he said something, but his voice was muffled and the language was still that of Rhûn. Then he sighed, and turned his head a little. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be.” Maglor kept stroking his hair. “What was the dream?”

“An ambush. In Rhûn. Going wrong in—in all the—” Daeron faltered, words failing him as they never had before. Something damp soaked into Maglor’s nightshirt. “Going wrong as it didn’t in—in life.”

“A memory with teeth,” Maglor murmured. “It’s all right; I’ll sing the dreams away.” Daeron exhaled shakily, pressing his face back into Maglor’s chest; his breath hitched, and he started to shiver again, just a little. Maglor started to sing very softly, songs of rest and and starlight and moonlight, of sunbeams through the trees and wildflowers blooming in spring. He kept singing as Daeron slowly relaxed and his breathing evened out and deepened as he fell asleep again. Outside it began to rain, and Pídhres returned, sitting on the rug to groom herself a while before jumping back up onto the bed to curl up by Daeron’s hand where it had slipped onto the blankets, purring as she rubbed her head against it. Daeron sighed in his sleep.

Morning came slowly, pale and grey. The rain did not stop, and Maglor suspected it would continue all day. When he ran out of songs he let himself doze, listening to the rain and to the sounds of the household slowly waking outside of their room. The hedgehogs stirred after a time, and Maglor very carefully extracted himself from the bed to open the door for them, so they could escape downstairs and outside for their foraging and whatever small adventures they might find in Celebrían’s flower gardens. He also asked someone he saw in the hallway for a tea tray to be sent up from the kitchen. 

Daeron stirred as Maglor slipped back under the blankets with him. “Maglor…?” He reached across the bed, already frowning even before he opened his eyes.

“I’m here.” Maglor caught his hand and kissed his fingers.

“Oh.” Daeron opened his eyes, and the relief in them was so clear that Maglor’s throat went tight for a moment. “Is it morning?” Daeron raised his head to look toward the window.

“It is. Come here.” Maglor pulled him back down onto the pillows. His own nightmares, when they had been very bad, had always left him cold afterward. It might not be so for Daeron, but Maglor pulled the blankets back up over them anyway. 

Daeron sighed as he relaxed against Maglor again. “I don’t think I’ve ever fallen asleep again after such a dream,” he whispered. “Thank you.” 

“You said once such dreams trouble you only rarely,” Maglor said. He pressed kisses to Daeron’s eyelids and to his cheeks. 

“Very rarely. Maybe they feel all the worse for it.” Daeron pressed his face into the crook of Maglor’s neck. “It helped. Your singing. But I’m afraid I won’t be good for anything today.”

“You don’t have to be. What do you need?”

“Just—just you.”

“You have me. Always.”

A knock on the door a little while later heralded the tea tray’s arrival. Maglor fetched it and coaxed Daeron out of bed and to the window seat, where they could sit and watch the rain as they sipped their tea. Daeron curled up against Maglor, quiet and weary. “What do you usually do after such nights?” Maglor asked after a while. 

“Wallow,” Daeron said, sounding just a little too tired to be truly wry. He sighed. “I should get up and seek out some sort of distraction, I suppose. It helped…not last time, but the time before.”

“Or,” Maglor said, “we can spend the entire day here, being extremely lazy and pretending nothing outside of this room exists.”

“That sounds nice.” Daeron sat up to set his empty cup aside, and then turned to kiss Maglor. “I would very much like to forget—” Someone knocked on the door, and they both sighed.

Maglor expected it to be one of his brothers, but instead it was Elladan. “A letter’s just come from Alqualondë for Daeron,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course.” Maglor took the letter and offered Elladan a smile. “We’re just going to take advantage of the rain and spend the day being very lazy and indulgent.”

Elladan looked skeptical. “All right, then. You might want to lock your door unless you want your nieces barging in to demand stories or games.”

“I’ll make a note of it, thank you.”

“Do you need anything?” Elladan asked before Maglor could close the door. “Is there anything Ada should know?”

Maglor shook his head. “It was a difficult night, but not for me,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry too much. We might join you for dinner, and we might not.”

“I’ll let Ada know.”

“Thank you, Elladan.”

Back at the window seat, Daeron took the letter with a surprised frown, pushing tangled and disheveled strands of hair out of his face. “From Alqualondë, he said? Oh, but this is Mablung’s hand. What’s he doing there, I wonder?” 

“You don’t have to open it now, you know,” Maglor said as he sat down. 

“It’s as likely as anything else to cheer me,” Daeron said as he peeled up the seal, “and I am curious now.” He unfolded the letter, which was not long and looked hastily written. As he read his faint smile turned to a look of dismay. “Oh, you were right. I should have left this for tomorrow. Or perhaps never.” 

“What is it? Has something happened?”

“My aunt has managed to find my parents.” Daeron folded the letter again, very carefully, though he looked as though he would rather ball it up and throw it across the room. “Her meeting with my father did not go as well as hoped.”

“Your parents live in Alqualondë, then?”

“Yes—they have been there since the Years of the Trees. It seems they are very displeased that my aunt and uncle did not bring me across the Sea with Olwë, rather than staying to seek for Thingol. As though I wasn’t old enough by then to make my own choices.”

“In their memory you are still only an infant,” Maglor said. “Did Mablung write to ask you to go to Alqualondë?”

“He says I should know that we have found them—Escelírë and Aldalëo, their names are, in the language of this land. I knew their names would not be in the same tongue as mine by now, as our languages changed and diverged, but it sounds strange, feels strange on my tongue. Did you spend much time in Alqualondë in your youth?”

“Some,” Maglor said, “but I do not recognize those names. I do not think I ever met them. You might ask Galadriel or Finrod; they spent far more of their youth in Alqualondë than in Tirion.”

“Maybe I will.” Daeron looked back down at the letter, turning it over in his fingers. “I do not want to think of this today. Or at all. If they take it into their heads to come find me—”

“Well, we can always flee into the wilds again. It worked when my own father came here unexpectedly.” 

Daeron’s smile was a brief flicker, mirthless and unhappy. “I am in too poor a mood for this. Tomorrow, maybe, I can laugh at how foolish I am being now.”

“It isn’t foolish, Daeron. It’s easy to speak calmly of finding them when you don’t expect to, and don’t plan to start soon. It’s another thing entirely to have such news thrust on you unexpectedly.”

“Yet they are my parents. I shouldn’t—”

“Give me that.” Maglor took the letter before Daeron could damage it as his grip on the paper tightened and twisted. “You were right when you said you should not think more on it today.” He caught Daeron’s face in his hands and kissed him. “When you see them, I will be with you, as you were with me when I saw my brothers, and my own mother.”

“You have your own task to complete. The song for Finwë—”

“Don’t you start. I can take pen and paper with me to Alqualondë, you know—and I’ll probably have to go there anyway, since my uncle Finarfin comes so seldom anymore to Tirion. Whatever it is you decide to do, you do not have to do anything today. Just be here, with me, and set aside the shadows of the past and of the future.”

“You’re right. I know you are.” Daeron closed his eyes as their foreheads rested together, and sighed. “Play me something?”

“Anything you want.” 

Maglor moved to his harp and began to play, mostly songs that he had learned or written since coming west, songs of bright and peaceful things, of sunshine and wildflowers, of flowing water and wind in the treetops. Daeron curled up on the cushions of the window seat with another cup of tea and watched the rain outside, and absently stroked Pídhres when she curled up on his lap. When he fell asleep Maglor stopped playing only long enough to fetch a blanket to cover him, for the day had turned cool with the rain.

By the evening the shadows were gone from Daeron’s eyes, but he was still weary and worried, thanks to Mablung’s ill-timed letter. The next morning, though, he was himself again, waking Maglor with kisses and going down to breakfast as though the previous day hadn’t happened at all—except that after they finished eating he whispered to Maglor that he wished for solitude, and then slipped away. Maglor watched him go, and saw Pídhres trot off in the same direction. Worrying about Daeron was not a thing he was accustomed to, but it niggled at the back of his mind even though he knew it wasn’t necessary. Daeron knew himself well enough to judge his own moods, and to know how to handle his own past—and his future. He wouldn’t thank Maglor if he tried to hover, or to go after him when he wanted to be alone.

Celegorm sat down in the spot Daeron had just vacated. “Is he all right?”

“Yes.” Maglor rolled his eyes when Celegorm frowned at him. “No, I’m not going to tell you more; you can ask him when he comes back, if you’re really worried—which you need not be. I do want to talk to you, though—all of you. Where is everyone?”

“Maedhros is in the library, I think, and I don’t know where anyone else has gone.”

“Then let’s find them and meet back in the library.”

“Has something happened, Cáno?”

“I have a song to write, and I’ll need all your help—and in the interest of not repeating myself six times, that’s all I’ll say for now.”

Maglor found Curufin and Caranthir, and Celegorm rounded up Ambarussa, and they all got to the library at the same time, and found Maedhros at the far end of it, sitting at a table looking over some maps. He lifted his head and raised his eyebrows at the sight of them all. “What happened?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” said Maglor, sitting down across from him. He waited until the rest of their brothers had dragged over chairs or perched themselves on the nearby windowsill to go on, “Míriel and Indis have asked me to write a song for Finwë.”

“You meant to try your hand at it anyway,” Maedhros said.

“This is different. The one I would have written would have been just for me, and for the six of you and maybe a scant handful of others to hear. This one will be for a much wider audience, and if I am to do it properly I am going to have to speak to many people for it.” Maglor had known Finwë as well as a grandson could know his grandfather, he thought, but there were many things he did not know, and many thoughts and perspectives that would differ from his. To write a song fit for someone such as Finwë Noldóran he would need far more than just a single grandson’s grief and love. 

“What do you want from us, then?” Celegorm asked. “I don’t think we know anything of him that you don’t.”

“It isn’t that I think you might know something different, it’s…” Maglor paused, tracing his finger up the line of the Misty Mountains on the parchment before him. “You don’t have to tell me right now—please don’t, please take time to think on it—but there is really only one question I would ask you: what is it you would wish to hear put into a song about him?”

Silence fell between them, all their thoughts turning to Finwë. Outside the window a lark burst into bright song; the sun was out in a cloudless sky, and the scent of roses drifted into the library to mingle with the parchment and ink and old paper. Finally, Celegorm said, “What if what we wish we could hear isn’t something you can put into a song?”

“Let me worry about putting it all into verse. Just—tell me what you want others to remember, what you think is important enough to be sung. I do not yet know what shape this song will take, and whatever you have to tell me will help.”

“Will you be asking Findekáno, and Felagund, and others, too?” Maedhros asked.

“Yes, I expect I will be speaking with everyone in our family, and then some, at sometime or another. There’s no particular hurry; I’m not planning to leave Imloth Ningloron for at least a full year, anyway.” He saw several of his brothers exchange glances, though no one said anything. No one asked if everyone would include their father—though of course it must. Maglor could not write anything such as Míriel and Indis had asked of him without speaking to Fëanor.

Maglor thought again of Fëanor’s coming to Formenos after the Darkening, after Maglor and Maedhros had done their best to clean up at least some of the blood, to sweep away the fragments of stone and wood and iron from the shattered doors, of the way Fëanor had collapsed in their arms, weeping as though he might never stop, might just dissolve all into tears to be washed away by the rain called forth by the Valar, after a struggle that had taken Celegorm as well as Maglor and Maedhros to hold him back from the linen-wrapped body. 

Those were the last tears Maglor knew his father to have shed. After they dried up, well after they had all managed to drag him away from Formenos, back toward Tirion, it was like he’d hardened, calcified, like he had taken his grief as though it were raw iron and passed it through a forge so that it was transformed into rage instead. It would be a lie now to say that he was not hesitant to approach Fëanor, even to speak of Finwë. He did not know whether to expect the tears or the rage—but it would be a disservice to himself and to Finwë and even to Fëanor to shy away from it just because he was afraid. This was too important.

“Is there anything else serious we must talk about?” Amrod asked after a moment. “Or can we ask Maitimo why he’s looking at old maps?”

“I like maps,” Maedhros said mildly, “and Maglor promised to show me some of the places he has visited.”

“So I did,” Maglor said, and leaned forward. The map was quite different from others he had seen before, depicting nearly all of the western lands of Middle-earth, from Lindon in the west to Mordor and the Sea of Rhûn in the east, from the Ered Mithrim in the north down to the northernmost part of Harad. No maps in Rivendell or in Gondor had ever encompassed so much, and when he looked at a note jotted down in the corner he saw that this map was one drawn by Eärendil, and copied and labeled by Elrond. 

“Here is the River Anduin, that I followed all the way from its mouths to its headwaters.” He traced the line on the map all the way from the far south at the Bay of Belfalas to the farthest north, where the Grey Mountains met the Misty Mountains. “There is a lake there, deep and blue and cold, fed by rains and snow melt, that flows out into the little streams that are the start of the river.” That had been what he’d thought to seek when he had first struck north long ago—when he had been waylaid by orcs near the Gladden Fields instead. Being able to complete that journey at last had felt like a victory, though not one that he could put into words or make a song out of. “Afterward I visited Erebor and Dale, and then went back down south with a party of dwarves—after the portage roads were repaired and Amon Hen and Amon Lhaw reestablished, trade opened up between Wilderland and the south. The river was very busy in those days, as it had not been for years and years before.”

Celegorm leaned over Maglor’s shoulder, frowning at the map. “Is this where…?” He traced his own finger up the Anduin’s course, and then pointed at the small tower symbol in the southern part of Mirkwood. 

“Yes,” Maglor said. “And there, just across the river, is Lothlórien.”

“So close,” Celegorm said quietly.

Maglor did not want to think about Dol Guldur. “Here, on the other side of the Misty Mountains, here is Imladris.” He pointed to the little dot nestled just beside the mountains before moving his finger even farther west along the Road, past the Blue Mountains and the coasts of Lindon. “And here, Maedhros—here is Himring still.” 

“Did you ever go back there, Cáno?” Caranthir asked.

“No. I saw it from the shore, but I never went out to the island. It’s crumbling now, wearing away little by little—but still tall and sturdy. Many birds nest there.” Maglor looked up at Maedhros, but Maedhros kept his gaze lowered to the map. He looked back down at it himself, running his finger down over the coastline, past the Gulf of Lhûn and Mithlond, from which he had set sail at last, down along the shores that he knew so well that he did not even have to close his eyes to picture them, wild and remote. A faint pang of homesickness struck him. In spite of everything, he missed those shores, missed the waves and the Sea and the birds, and the cold winds. He would not go back now, even if given the chance, but a little bit of that longing remained. 

As they parted, scattering back to whatever everyone had been doing before gathering in the library, Celegorm fell into step with Maglor. He had a strand of his hair twisted around his finger, a habit Maglor had thought he’d left behind in childhood. “What’s the matter, Tyelko?” he asked. 

“Why did Míriel and Indis ask you to write a song for Finwë? I mean, I know why they’ve asked you, but why now?”

“I suppose they feel it’s long overdue,” Maglor said, “and they are not wrong. And I was not here to ask, before.”

“Will you write of his death?”

“I must.”

“Does that mean you will go back to Formenos?”

Maglor hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Are you going to speak to Atar, too?”

“Yes.” Maglor glanced at him again. “Are you going to get angry about it?”

“No.” Celegorm kept his gaze on his feet. “Do you want to speak to him?”

“Not particularly, but I cannot write this song without him.”

“Can’t you just—just write to him instead?”

Maglor reached up and caught Celegorm’s hand before he started pulling his hair out. “I do not intend to write to anyone else,” he said. “This is…it’s such a heavy thing, this grief, and this song I am to try to write. I cannot treat it as anything less, whatever my own feelings about who I speak to. Whatever we might say about him as our father, he loved his own. I would not have been equal to it before I went to Lórien, but I am now.” Celegorm gave him a look full of doubt. “I’m not riding out to Tirion tomorrow, Tyelko.”

“Just—tell me when you do go? I want to go with you.”

“I don’t want to speak to him in front of an audience.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be nearby for when it goes wrong.”

How awful that Maglor couldn’t even argue—that it was when it went wrong, and not if. How awful that they still felt it necessary to protect one another from their own father. “You and Daeron can join forces then, and drive me mad with your worrying.” He tried to speak lightly, but Celegorm did not smile. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

The forge was empty but for Lisgalen when Caranthir went out there, and he took advantage of it to sit on top of one of the workbenches, idly swinging his legs while Lisgalen sorted through jars of pigments. “What did your brothers want?” they asked. 

“Maglor’s been asked to write a song for Finwë.”

“Aren’t there hundreds of songs for him already?”

“No. Or…maybe there are, but I’ve never heard any.” There hadn’t been much time for songwriting, or even grieving, between the Darkening and their departure. Surely songs were written in Valinor afterward, but it wasn’t as though Caranthir went to many places where he would hear them sung. “None have been written by Maglor, though. It sounds as though he’s going to be talking to everyone in our family and then some to put it all together.”

“That sounds like quite an undertaking,” Lisgalen remarked, glancing at Caranthir with a crooked smile. “Your family is…large.”

“At least everyone more or less gets along now,” said Caranthir, making a face so that Lisgalen would laugh. “What are you making?”

“I received a commission a couple weeks ago, only I didn’t get a chance to begin the work before Rundamírë came to fetch me out here, and since I don’t know when we’ll be going back I thought I might as well get something done here.” Lisgalen chose a few shades of red and began to spoon them into a crucible. Gem craft was something Caranthir had never been able to get the hang of, and he didn’t understand it now any better than he had when his father had finally given up trying to teach him, but watching Lisgalen at work was always both interesting and relaxing. “I like your brothers, by the way. I know you were worried about it.”

“I’m always worried about Nelyo and Cáno,” said Caranthir, “for one reason or another. I wasn’t really worried about you liking each other, though.” He’d been nervous, even though he knew there was no reason for it, but that was just—well, nerves. He remembered Curufin admitting once that he’d been horribly nervous about introducing them all to Rundamírë. All seven of them together could be rather a lot. Maedhros and Maglor were the oldest, and therefore the most likely to be intimidating, even if they didn’t mean to be—especially Maedhros, who could seem very grim at times, even now after so long in Lórien. 

“Well, this is one less thing. And really, they don’t seem to me like anyone you need to worry about.”

“You didn’t meet them before they went to Lórien.”

“Speaking of meetings,” Lisgalen said as they set the last jar down, “I met your father before leaving Tirion.”

That was something Caranthir had been worried about. Daeron’s introduction to Fëanor had not gone very well at all, and that knowledge had been hovering in the back of Caranthir’s mind ever since he’d first realized that whatever was growing between himself and Lisgalen was not mere friendship. “Oh no,” he said before he could stop himself. 

Lisgalen came over to stand in front of Caranthir, resting their hands on either side of him as they leaned in. Caranthir settled his hands on their waist. “It was an accident,” they said. “He arrived while I was visiting Celebrimbor.”

“What did he say?” Caranthir asked.

“Well he noticed my ring immediately,” Lisgalen said. Caranthir was meant to smile, he knew—he’d told Lisgalen about how none of his brothers had noticed it until after they’d left Lórien—but he couldn’t manage it. He could feel his cheeks getting hot. “He didn’t say anything about it, though, or about you, though I got the impression he was biting his tongue very hard to keep himself from doing so. He just asked about my work, and after we made pleasant and meaningless conversation for a few minutes I escaped and went home to pack my bags to come here. So it could have gone much worse, all things considered.” Lisgalen pressed a kiss to Caranthir’s cheek, and turned back to the workbench. “I still think we should elope.”

“My mother would never forgive me if we did,” Caranthir said. Nerdanel had strong opinions about doing certain things the proper way, and marriage was one of them. Curufin’s wedding to Rundamírë had been an enormous and lavish affair, but that had been during the Years of the Trees, and he the first of Fëanor’s sons to wed. Things were very different now, including Caranthir’s own standing among the Noldor—which he was very glad of—and the fact that Lisgalen had no living kin in Valinor. Their parents were Avari that had wandered westward toward the end of the First Age, and then followed Oropher back east, while Lisgalen had remained in Lindon with the Noldorin smiths, and then gone to new-built Ost-in-Edhil to join the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. They did not like to speak of that parting, and Caranthir hadn’t asked. He didn’t like to talk about his own estrangement with Fëanor, either—it was just less avoidable these days. Still—Nerdanel would insist at least on a formal ceremony and exchanging of rings before witnesses, including all of his brothers and his grandparents, and at least a handful of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain who would stand in for Lisgalen’s kin. Caranthir had no objections to any of that really, but he did not think the knot of anxiety that had just tied itself up in his stomach would go away until the wedding was over and his father had not done something, or made a surprise appearance, or…

“Your father is not going to ruin our wedding,” Lisgalen said, as they picked up some other substance to add to the crucible. 

“Well, he will now that you’ve said that out loud,” Caranthir said. Lisgalen rolled their eyes. “I just—it’s impossible to know what my father will do. And his initial meeting with Daeron went as well as yours too. Their second meeting, when no one else was there, went worse.”

“I’ll just be careful never to get caught alone with him,” said Lisgalen. “I do not have Daeron’s quick tongue—or his status. If your father takes issue with me, I would rather have someone to hide behind. Fortunately, Celebrimbor has very broad shoulders.”

“I can’t think of any reason he would dislike you,” Caranthir said, “except that you’ve taken up with me.” Lisgalen gave him a flat look. “Oh, don’t. I’m not—I don’t really care what he thinks. I just don’t want him to cause trouble.”

“Liar,” Lisgalen said, but not unkindly. Caranthir felt his face flush red again. “You care so much about everything—that’s one of the things I love most about you.”

“Fine, I don’t want to care, and I’m trying very hard not to.”

“It’s not shameful, you know, to want your father’s approval. Most people do.”

Most people never had cause to doubt their fathers. “Most people don’t have Fëanor for a father.”

“I suppose that’s fair. But you know Curufin and Celebrimbor get along with him just fine.”

“They had their own estrangement; they have a different view of it than the rest of us.”

Lisgalen set down the crucible and leaned against the workbench, looking at Caranthir. Their soft brown eyes were fond but a little sad. “I think this is the most you’ve spoken to me of your father since we met,” they said.

“Yes, well. You hadn’t met him before.”

“It really didn’t go terribly, Caranthir. He was perfectly polite and friendly—he’s just…well, I don’t have to tell you, I suppose. It isn’t even his reputation that makes him intimidating, it’s just his presence, if you know what I mean.”

“I do. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

It was, in a way. Fëanor had made his wishes clear: he wanted reconciliation, he was willing to do what it took to achieve it. So far Curufin was the only one who believed him. Caranthir did not begrudge his brother that, but he couldn’t let go of the past. It wasn’t even for his own sake. Every time he thought of Maedhros or Celegorm or Maglor—how troubled they all still were, how anguished they had been before they’d gone to Lórien or to Nienna—he got angry all over again. Caranthir had long ago accepted that of all his brothers he was the greatest disappointment in his father’s eyes, too unlike him, with no ambition or any particular talent, even when it came to the things he loved. He had more or less made peace with it. His brothers, though—whatever peace they had found in the last few decades, Caranthir feared that it was more fragile than it seemed. Even if it wasn’t, Fëanor was good at breaking that kind of thing. 

Still. If Caranthir were more forgiving, Lisgalen wouldn’t have to worry either—they would have been introduced long ago, and it would have been a happy thing, rather than worrisome. 

“You’re doing it again,” Lisgalen said. They had taken the crucible to the forge; its contents glowed. “Over thinking, I mean.”

“This is why I don’t like to talk about my father.”

“Then let’s not. What sort of help does Maglor want with his song for Finwë?”

“Different views, I suppose.”

“What will you tell him?”

“I don’t know yet.” Caranthir had loved Finwë—of course he had, they all had—but he had not been as close to him as Maglor, or Maedhros, or some of his cousins. He had most loved to listen to Finwë’s stories, to his tales of the Great Journey and the adventures their people had had along the way, or his more youthful adventures by Cuiviénen. Having been to Middle-earth, though, Caranthir wondered how much of those stories were true. He wondered what it was that Finwë had not told them, what sort of sorrows and fears he had been so careful to keep secret. Finwë had passed onto them some of the things his own grandfather had taught him—how to make spears out of stone and wood, for fishing or hunting, how to make arrows and bows—not nearly as good as what they could make in a proper forge or workshop, but useful in a hurry or an emergency. They’d all used those skills in Beleriand far more than Finwë had ever intended—in Valinor they were meant to be fun, to connect them to their people’s history, not real skills needed for survival. Caranthir realized, thinking about it now, that he did not even know Finwë’s grandfather’s name—or his parents’ names, or if he had ever had siblings of his own. 

“Caranthir?” Lisgalen had brought the crucible out to pour the melted contents into a mold, but they were looking at Caranthir out of the corner of their eye.

“Sorry. I’m—I don’t know yet what I’ll tell Maglor. I haven’t…I haven’t thought about Finwë in a long time.”

“His name is remembered still even among the Quendi in the east,” Lisgalen said. “He and Ingwë and Elwë—even those who did not wish to go west honor them for their courage.”

“I’ve never thought of him that way. He was just…he was just my grandfather.” But of course he had had enormous courage—he had faced down Morgoth at Formenos at the Darkening, when he might have fled. He had followed Oromë, a strange and terrifying being himself, across all the world and the Sundering Sea to see if there really was something there, for the smallest chance of finding a place where the Quendi could go and be safe, could live without fear, could thrive.

Once Lisgalen could set their gem making aside they left the workshop, abandoning serious subjects like Caranthir’s family, and talking of nothing more consequential than the flowers and the peaches that were so abundant that Celebrían was sending them away by the cart-full almost every single day, whether their recipients in Tirion or Alqualondë or Avallónë and other places wanted them or not. They came upon Gimli and Legolas near the memorial garden, but they looked too serious, speaking quietly together, to be approached. Nearer the house Caranthir heard shrieking, and both he and Lisgalen tensed before they passed by some bushes and saw Náriel and Calissë chasing one another around the lawn. As they approached, Maedhros emerged from the house, and the hedgehogs appeared out from under some nearby bushes to cluster around his feet.

Náriel came running at them, flinging herself into Caranthir’s arms. He hoisted her up onto his hip. In Elrond and Celebrían’s house, surrounded by laughter and sunshine, it was so easy to set aside thoughts of his father. As they sat down Maedhros asked Lisgalen what they had been working on, and somehow the conversation wound around to Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Caranthir had heard most of the stories before, but he never minded listening to them again, and Lisgalen was a good storyteller. On his lap, Náriel listened too, entranced by the descriptions of the marvelous things the Gwaith-i-Mírdain had made; she was already showing interest in forge work, though it would be some years yet before Curufin allowed her to do more than watch from a safe distance. Calissë had darted away to follow Celebrían, Galadriel, and Rundamírë as they walked together into the rose garden. 

After a while Caranthir noticed the faint sound of flute music coming from somewhere across the valley, drifting along on the breeze. It was a strange and almost haunting sort of sound, the sort of music he’d once expected to hear from Daeron, though until now he never had. He transferred Náriel to Lisgalen’s lap, and set off to hunt down the music’s source. Daeron had seemed cheerful enough that morning, except that he had been very quiet, but Caranthir had seen neither him nor Maglor at all the day before. Elrond had not seemed worried, and Maglor had been his new-usual cheerful self that morning, but Caranthir was used to worrying about Maedhros when he didn’t leave his room for hours or days, and it was a hard habit to shake, especially when someone like Daeron suddenly withdrew. 

He found Daeron in a ferny glade some distance into the wooded hills at the far end of the valley. “I’d thought the music for the breaking of the heart was just poetry,” he remarked as Daeron finished his song and lowered his flute. Pídhres was sprawled across his lap, tail twitching as she dozed.

Daeron’s smile was crooked, but he didn’t seem either offended or upset at being disturbed. “Depends upon my mood,” he said, “and there was a time when I was often in such a mood.”

“Are you in such a mood today?”

“It seems so.”

Caranthir sat down amid the ferns by Daeron. “Where’s Maglor?”

“Somewhere back at the house. We don’t always have to be connected at the hip.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” said Caranthir. He meant to tease, but it was true enough; Daeron had sorely missed Maglor, and hardly ever left his side these days. Daeron smiled but didn’t laugh. “Did something happen? You didn’t fight, did you?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. I just had a difficult night. There’s never any rhyme or reason. Last night was better, and I am feeling more myself today. Maglor is fine—you don’t need to worry about him.”

“I’m not,” said Caranthir. “I’m worried about you. What sort of difficult night?” He and Daeron had exchanged many letters over the last decades, in between Daeron’s frequent visits, and Daeron had alluded once or twice to low moods or unpleasant dreams, but Caranthir had never seen the effects of them in person. He’d thought, when they had first started to exchange notes, that it would be the same sort of epistolary friendship he’d enjoyed with Bilbo Baggins, who had written to him with questions of the Elder Days, or his not-always-flattering and often-cheeky opinions on various high and mighty figures among the Eldar, or just chatter about flowers and his nephew Frodo. Writing to Daeron had started out that way, but it hadn’t taken very long for that to change. By now Daeron felt more like an extra brother than just a friend, even if there were things he kept to himself and did not talk about—such as the darkest parts of his adventures in the far east, surely the source of whatever bad night he’d had. Caranthir had seen some of the scars he bore, but of course he’d never asked about them.

Daeron shrugged carelessly. “I’ve spent much of my life close to danger, or on the edges of war. Such memories have barbs that can never quite be excised. Surely you know what I mean.” Caranthir nodded; he knew exactly what Daeron meant. “The past does not weigh as heavily on me as it did on Maglor—I so very rarely have such dreams. This time, at least, I did not wake to an empty bed or a strange room.” He turned his flute over in his hands. “I woke up this morning, as I said, feeling almost entirely myself again.”

“So why are you out here playing such melancholy songs by yourself?” Caranthir asked. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, don’t go. I’ve had my sulk, and I should be returning anyway.” Daeron made no move to rise. “It isn’t the dreams that I have been dwelling upon. You and your brothers are not the only ones with somewhat fraught relationships with your parents.”

Caranthir raised his eyebrows. “Your parents?” he repeated. He’d never actually thought about whether Daeron had parents. He spoke often of his cousin and his aunt and uncle—and Lacheryn had come several times to visit Nerdanel—but of course he must have had parents too, if he had aunts and uncles. “What did they do? You have never spoken of them before.”

Daeron did not lift his gaze from his flute. “Vanished,” he said, “and then died, it seems—which, really, is better than the alternative. I have no memory of them; I was only a babe in arms then. Maglor knows the story, and I mentioned it once to Maedhros, on that journey back from Ekkaia. It’s no secret, there just isn't much point in speaking of those I have never known. Until yesterday I thought it likely I never would know them. Now, though, I have been told they dwell in Alqualondë, and are very unhappy with my aunt and uncle for never finishing the Journey.”

“I suppose that is rather fraught,” Caranthir said. “Are you going to Alqualondë, then?”

“I haven’t decided. I must decide soon and at least write to Mablung about it—I would rather meet them at a time of my own choosing, rather than have them come here unlooked for.”

“A good idea,” Caranthir said wryly. “I’ve had an estranged parent sneak up on me, and I do not recommend it.” That meeting had gone worse for Maedhros, because he’d sent Caranthir away almost immediately, and he hadn’t exchanged even a single word with his father. That was different, though. Fëanor felt like a stranger, after so long, after so many things had happened. Daeron’s parents were strangers. “But why didn’t they make themselves known before? You came west years ago.”

Daeron lifted one shoulder in another shrug, this one not so careless. “As our languages changed, so did our names. Daeron is not the name I was given at birth. When they heard of Daeron of Doriath they did not realize they heard of their own son, I suppose. I certainly did not recognize their names when I read Mablung’s letter. It was my aunt that tracked them down—my father’s sister. I don’t know how. Mablung only wanted to tell me that they had been found, and that I should make my way to Alqualondë, though I don’t think he really expects me to hurry, for he knows that Maglor is returned from Lórien.”

“Have you spoken to Finrod, or to Galadriel?” asked Caranthir. “They grew up in Alqualondë.”

“Not yet. I will. I must, I suppose.” Daeron sighed, and looked up at Caranthir, his expression now rueful. “I was too young when I lost them to either mourn or miss them, and I fear that they will expect both of me. And if they are angry at my aunt for not bringing me across the Sea, following Olwë, what will they say to my own decision to tarry in the east as long as I did after the way was made open again? I could have sailed then—I thought about it, though I do not regret my choices to stay, either for Thingol or for my own reasons later.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Caranthir said before he could think better of it. He winced. That was just what he told himself about Fëanor. “Sorry. Of course it matters.”

“It does and it doesn’t. They are my mother and my father, but they are also strangers, and I am unaccustomed to caring much what strangers think of me.”

“The timing of the letter doesn’t help, arriving on top of an already-bad day,” Caranthir said. “Maybe that’s what’s throwing you off balance so badly.”

“It certainly did not help my mood yesterday.”

“Give it another few days, then before you try to decide anything.” Caranthir got to his feet and held out his hand. Daeron grasped it and rose to his feet, scooping up Pídhres as he did so. She made a disgruntled noise, but settled quietly and comfortably into his arms. “And look on the bright side.”

“What’s that?”

“Whatever happens, at least they aren’t Fëanor.”

Chapter Text

Having spoken to his brothers, Maglor went in search of Míriel, and found her in the large workroom where the looms were, alongside baskets of wool and linen and other materials to be spun into yarns and threads, and sewing supplies and tables for cutting the fabric, and many comfortable places to sit and spin or sew. It was a large room with many windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, letting in the bright summer sunshine. Indis was there too; they both sat by one of the windows, Indis with a spindle and Míriel sewing some large panel of intricate embroidery, the threads all shimmering silk and silver against the dark fabric. “Good afternoon, Macalaurë!” Míriel said, smiling at him as he paused in the doorway. “Were you looking for us?”

“I was.” He’d thought to seek them out separately, but maybe it made more sense to speak to them together: Míriel and Indis, the two who knew and loved Finwë best, each in her own way.

“Come sit,” Indis said. Her smile was warm; it was strange to see them sitting there together. Maglor had heard it said many times that Indis was as unlike Míriel as could be, but he thought that could not possibly be true. They sat together as though they had been the dearest of friends all their lives—for all he knew, they had been. Maglor was realizing he did not know very much about any of his grandparents’ lives before they came to Valinor. He joined them by the window, sitting on the wide sill where he could cross his legs. “We missed you yesterday. Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Maglor said. Most people would of course be assuming he had been the one suffering from dark dreams or just a low mood—it had happened often enough before, that he’d retreated to his room for a day or several—and he didn’t mind. “I have been thinking about the song that you asked me to write. Will you speak to me of Finwë?”

“Gladly,” said Míriel. She paused in her stitching to take his hand. “What would you ask us?”

“The same question I will ask everyone: what is it you wish to hear put into song about him?” 

He did not expect an immediate answer, and did not receive one. Indis pursed her lips thoughtfully as her spindle spun, her fingers pinching the wool with easy precision to form soft and fine thread. Míriel squeezed Maglor’s hand before picking up her needle again. “The Statute, we have always thought, was unfair,” Indis said at last. “Finwë was not the first of the Eldar to lose a spouse, or to find love again afterward, though he was the first to do so after we knew more of Mandos, and the nature of death for the Eldar. We would never have gone through with our marriage, though, if Míriel had given any hint of wishing to return to life, then or in the future.”

“I truly did not think I ever would,” Míriel said. “Nor did Finwë, when he came to the Halls and insisted that I be released in his stead.” Maglor couldn’t stop himself shuddering. “There are some even now who doubt that he loved both of us, Indis and me, in equal measure—but he did. Not in the same way, for we are not the same, but the love was no less strong. That is what I wish to hear sung of him—the way he loved with all of himself, whether we speak of his wives or his children or his people. It was love that spurred him to come here with Ingwë and Elwë, and love that burned so brightly in him when he came back to speak to us of these lands, of the safety to be found here, of all the fears we would leave behind in the dark.”

“We were estranged at the time of his death,” Indis said quietly. “The strife between your father and Nolofinwë—the strife between all of the Noldor as they broke into factions—it was too much for me to bear, knowing there were so many that blamed me. I still loved him, though. That has never changed, and I know that he loved me. Had things happened otherwise, we would have returned to one another in time. We thought that we would—that we had time, even to cool such a temper as Fëanáro’s.”

They’d all thought they had time, right up until time ran out. Maglor drew his knee up to his chest and looped his arms around it. “Why did he go with us to Formenos?” he asked. 

“You remember what Fëanáro was like then,” Indis said, sighing. “Finwë feared for him, feared what he might do in such isolation with nothing to counter whatever thoughts and fears were building in his mind even after the deceits of Melkor were revealed. For my part, I wanted Fëanáro far away from my children—but I did not want to see him destroy himself, either. Neither of us thought that exile was the right course. There was no good choice; Finwë would be seen as rejecting one of his sons no matter what he did, and I cannot deny that Nolofinwë was hurt by it, even though I spoke to him at length, and I think he did understand. Lalwen was far less understanding; Arafinwë and Findis—well, they kept their thoughts to themselves, and had always tried to stay out of all the strife. But if anyone could have gotten through to Fëanáro, we were sure that it was his father, given enough time. The Valar, of course, had other ideas, though any parent could have told them that such a forced meeting would come to naught.”

Maglor did not remember Finwë making much headway in all the time they were at Formenos—but whatever discussions or arguments he and Fëanor were having then, they had been private. Maglor had spent most of his time trying to keep his brothers’ spirits up, with less and less success as time went on.

“It was in large part for Fëanáro’s sake that Finwë wished to wed again,” Indis said after a few moments. Her spindle kept spinning, slowly filling. “Did he ever speak to you of his own youth, by Cuiviénen?”

“He taught us some things his grandfather had taught him,” Maglor said. “And he told stories that I don’t think that I really believe anymore.”

Indis and Míriel exchanged smiles, small ones. “I’m sure most of them were true, or mostly true,” Míriel said, “but there is much he would not have told you. To love so freely and so deeply is to open yourself to great grief, and Finwë carried that in abundance.” Indis nodded agreement. “Yet for Finwë, the nearer the grief the harder it was to speak of. He told me once that it was not a matter of wanting to share or not—the words stuck in his throat and just would not come. I think Fëanáro suffers the same affliction—and perhaps you do as well, to some extent, since you say you have struggled to write any songs for your grief.”

“I’ve written many songs of grief,” said Maglor, “but it is true that they have all been either for our people as a whole, or just…grief itself. I still don’t know if I will be able to find words for this song.”

“Thank you, though, for trying,” Indis said. “It means a great deal, even if you can never finish the song.”

“What happened at Cuiviénen?” he asked. “To Grandfather’s family?”

“His grandfather was taken by the Enemy, or by his servants,” Míriel said. “As were his father, and his brothers. So many were taken…I do not think there were any among the Tatyar who chose to follow Finwë who had not lost someone. I lost my aunt and my grandmother. Finwë’s mother took another husband after his father vanished, and he had sisters too that he loved dearly—but they all chose to remain. There were many such partings, full of bitter grief.”

“I didn't know any of that,” Maglor said. He wondered if his great-grandmother yet lived, if his great-aunts did—if Daeron might have met them in his own travels among the Avari of the far east. He wondered if he might have found them himself, if he had dared to make the journey. Finwë had greatly desired a large family—and he had gotten it, for a little while. Maglor had never thought to wonder why, before. 

“I left behind a brother and a sister,” Míriel said. “I think of them often, but it is difficult to speak of them. We all parted believing it would be forever, and that is hard indeed.”

Maglor did know that kind of grief—of partings with no hope of reunion. His thoughts went to Elros, and he turned his gaze from his grandmother to the window. The room where they sat was on an upper floor of the house, and the windows gave a wide view of the valley. He glimpsed a pair of figures coming back from the wooded hills through the flowering meadows, recognizable even at a distance as Caranthir and Daeron. Closer at hand, Maedhros sat in the grass with hedgehogs crawling over his legs as Náriel spun in circles as fast as she could before collapsing onto Lisgalen’s lap, giggling with the thrill of dizziness. That sight brought to mind Arwen and Aragorn’s children; once upon a time their daughter Gilraen had played that exact same game, the way all small children did, and it had been Maglor who caught her when she stumbled over the carpet afterward.

“Has this helped you?” Indis asked after a little while in which all three of them sat lost in their thoughts. 

With effort, Maglor turned his thoughts away from Minas Tirith far away. “Yes,” he said. “I think I know what the heart of the song will be, now.” He rose and smiled at them both. ‘Thank you.” 

He returned to his room to write down some of his thoughts before he forgot the precise shape of them. There was nothing yet of words or rhymes or even of melody, but he thought he had the first inklings of the thread that would bind all the parts of it together. As he finished the last bit of his notes, Daeron came in, looking thoughtful and neither happy nor unhappy. “Is everything all right?” Maglor asked. 

“I thought I would be able to think more clearly of my parents today, but I find my mind just going in circles.” Daeron set his flute down and then dropped onto Maglor’s lap. “Am I interrupting?”

“No.”

“Good.” Daeron kissed him and then pressed his face into Maglor’s shoulder. “Your cat followed me out into the woods, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Did you ask her?”

“If I had she wouldn’t have done it.” Maglor wrapped his arms around Daeron’s waist and kissed his temple. “Is this your poor mood still lingering?”

“I don’t know,” Daeron sighed. “I’m too old for this. Maybe that’s the problem. I’m old and tired and in all probability and against all common sense my parents will be expecting a child, and—”

“I think this is your poor mood lingering,” Maglor said. “Put them out of your mind, Daeron. When you do meet at last, I’m sure it will go far better than you currently imagine. My meeting with my own mother did, you remember?”

“Not the one with your father.”

“You can’t compare your father to mine. If nothing else, you can be sure it will go better than that.”

“Caranthir said that, too.”

“Sometimes even little brothers can be wise. Come on.” Maglor got up, keeping a hold of Daeron, who yelped and clutched at his shoulders as he was lifted so abruptly. Maglor tossed him onto the bed and then sprawled across the blankets beside him. “I think,” he said, “you needed two lazy days instead of just one.”

“Is this wisdom you found in Lórien?” Daeron asked, smiling at him. “When in doubt, take a nap?”

“Oh yes.” Maglor kissed him, and Daeron sighed into his mouth, melting onto the bed as he relaxed. “Anything will seem better after a long enough sleep.”

“Mm.” Daeron slid his hands into Maglor’s hair, loosening the braids. “Or you could find other ways to distract me.”

“I could.” Maglor trailed kisses down Daeron’s jaw, but just as he reached down to grasp at the hem of Daeron’s tunic the door opened, and a pair of small footsteps darted inside, and after a moment they heard giggling from under the bed. Daeron sighed, and Maglor raised his head. “Or maybe not. We really need to start locking the door.”

“That’s my fault, I’m afraid,” Daeron murmured. 

Maglor sat up and leaned over to peer under the bed. “All right, what game is it this time?” he asked. 

“Trying to avoid learning to read,” said Rundamírë from the doorway. “I’m sorry, Macalaurë, Daeron. Náriel, Calissë, come on now.”

“Why in the world would you not want to learn to read?” Daeron asked, propping himself up on his elbows as Maglor reached under the bed, only to have the girls scoot back out of reach.

“It’s boring!” Calissë said. “And we aren’t at home, we’re on an adventure!”

“The adventure ended when you arrived in Imloth Ningloron,” said Rundamírë, sounding amused. 

“What if I promised to tell you the story about the wizard and the dragon later, if you go listen to your ammë?” Maglor asked them. 

“Is it a true story?” Calissë asked, narrowing her eyes at him. 

“Of course it is! And if you don’t believe me you can ask Gimli or Legolas.”

“You could ask Gandalf, too,” said Daeron, “whenever he next turns up, since he is the wizard in question.”

Exciting stories were apparently the best way to bribe both Náriel and Calissë into doing anything; they at last crawled out from under the bed. Maglor sat up, pushing his hair back out of his face. “Thank you!” said Rundamírë, smiling at him as she held out her hands for her daughters. “Don’t forget, Daeron, you promised me you would teach them your cirth after they mastered tengwar.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” said Daeron.

“There’s more?” Calissë exclaimed, horrified, as Rundamírë led her away. Maglor got up to shut the door—and lock it properly. 

“I think,” Daeron said as Maglor rejoined him on the bed, “that Calissë rather doubts your tale of the enchantress.”

“She’s very clever. As soon as she realizes that reading is not nearly as boring as it seems, she’ll discover that book of hobbit tales and figure out exactly what I was doing.” Maglor lay down and pulled Daeron with him. “And I’m sure she’ll come to scold me for it, and I will insist until the end of time that every word is true, and it will become a very silly and tired joke between us.” It would be one of many such jokes, he hoped, and he was a little surprised at how easy it was to imagine. It had not been so very long ago that thinking beyond the next week or even the next day was nearly impossible, let alone with enthusiasm. 

Daeron tucked himself against Maglor’s side with a soft sigh. “I think sleep does sound like a good idea,” he murmured, sounding halfway there already. “Sing something for me?”

“Of course, love.” Maglor tugged the ties out of Daeron’s braids and eased them loose off of his scalp as he hummed a quiet song. Daeron fell asleep quickly, and did not wake until Maglor roused him a few hours later to go down for dinner. “Do you feel better?” Maglor asked as he braided Daeron’s hair back out of his face again.

“I do. Much better.” 

“Good.”

The tale of Bilbo’s adventures was far too long for a single evening, but split into parts it made for excellent bedtime stories. Maglor thought Rundamírë might regret that decision after he sang the song about breaking all of Bilbo’s dishes for the girls just before they were meant to fall asleep, but that was his favorite part of being an uncle—indulging in silliness and causing minor problems for Curufin and Rundamírë. He said so when Curufin grumbled about it the next morning, and earned himself a tired and half-hearted glare. 

Having spoken to his brothers and to Míriel and Indis, Maglor went next in search of Finrod, and found him with Galadriel in the rose garden. “Will you walk with me?” he asked them.

“Both of us, or just your favorite?” Finrod asked. Galadriel rolled her eyes.

“Both of you,” Maglor said. “Since you are my second-favorite.”

“Oh well, in that case.”

“Is something the matter?” Galadriel asked as she slipped her arm through Maglor’s, and Finrod fell into step on his other side.

“No,” said Maglor. “Do you know that Míriel and Indis have asked me to write a song?”

“No,” said Finrod, sounding surprised. “What sort of song?”

“A song for Finwë.”

The three of them fell silent. The only sounds around them were the faint buzzing of bees, and a bluebird singing to itself just out of sight somewhere nearby. Finally, Galadriel said, “It is long overdue, such a song.”

“I tried to write one of my own once, long ago,” Finrod said, “but I gave up quickly. There were no words.”

“So did I,” Maglor said, “but I think maybe I can do it now. It cannot just be my own song, though. What would you wish to hear sung of him? You do not have to answer now.”

For a few minutes they walked in silence. The bluebird kept singing until it was interrupted by a cacophony of fluttering wings and cheeping as a group of finches burst out of a nearby bush to speed away over their heads. Finally, Galadriel said, “He was so very strong. That is what I remember most clearly.”

“Safe,” Finrod added. “When we were children I can remember no safer feeling than being held by him. When I heard what had happened to him…even more than the Darkening, that was what frightened me most, that even someone such as Finwë could fall thus.”

“I am not sure I can think of more to say,” Galadriel said. “He was safety and strength, and warmth and kindness—if he had a temper, I never saw it, but he was strong-willed and…so very brave. I spent so much of my childhood in Alqualondë, and saw him so much more seldom than the rest of you did. That is what grieves me the most deeply. It just—it did not seem to matter so much then. Oh, it is hard even in plain speech—even after all this time—to try to give voice to such a grief. ”

“Mm,” Maglor hummed agreement. “It may be the hardest song I ever write,” he said. 

“Will Daeron help you?” Finrod asked.

“No. He says he will offer an ear if I need one, but that this is not a song for him to take any part in. I might come to one of you if I find myself stuck.” Both Finrod and Galadriel were talented songwriters themselves; in their youth Finrod and Maglor had collaborated on many songs, though none of such importance or such a heavy subject. 

“Of course,” said Finrod. “Are you going to go around asking everyone what they want you to include?”

“Yes.”

“Even Fëanor?” Galadriel asked.

“Yes. It would be wrong not to, for many reasons. Don’t look at me like that,” Maglor said, glancing between the two of them and the identical frowns on their faces. “I’ll be fine.”

“Maedhros was not fine, when you saw him when coming here,” Finrod said, “and he said that you were not either.”

“I’m certainly better than I was the first time we met,” said Maglor. “You remember.” They had both been in Imloth Ningloron, and Galadriel had been with Maglor immediately after that first brief encounter, and leading up to what had turned into a confrontation. “I can speak to him of Finwë, and I’m already going to have Celegorm hovering nearby.”

“That,” Finrod said wryly, “is not reassuring.”

“Daeron will also be close,” Maglor said.

“Even less reassuring,” said Finrod. 

“Well, I can imagine Curufin will want to be there too,” said Maglor. “Honestly, Felagund, I’m not made of glass. I won’t shatter after one conversation with him, and I do not need an army awaiting me while I speak to him.”

“No, you aren’t,” said Galadriel, who knew what it looked like when Maglor already had shattered. “But it will hurt you.”

“All of these conversations hurt, in their own way,” Maglor said. “And—I don’t know. Maybe it will help to speak to my father of Finwë, instead of—anything else.” And maybe it would not. Maglor had thrown Finwë’s name in Fëanor’s face during that first meeting, and there wasn’t any taking it back, even if he wished to. “At least this meeting will be at a time and place of my own choosing, rather than something that catches me by surprise.”

Finwë would be so grieved to see them all, though, he thought as he parted from Galadriel and Finrod. All Finwë had ever wanted was for everyone to love one another—to be a real family. Maglor had once wondered at it, at Finwë’s stubborn belief that it could be possible for Fëanor to ever grow to love either Indis or his siblings; knowing now that Finwë himself had been a child of such a family, had loved his sisters and, presumably, his stepfather, he understood. Finwë would especially hate to see Fëanor so estranged from his own children, though Maglor thought—hoped—that he would at least understand. He wondered if it would be easier to find a way forward if Finwë were there. Then he wondered what Finwë would say of the Oath, and of what they had all done because of it, and he wanted to weep.

He made his way back out to the woodworking shop to continue carving the horse figure. He took it slowly, and thought of Finwë as he worked, of Finwë’s hands—warm, strong, safe—guiding his as he had first learned the shaping of wood. Finwë had been a very different teacher to Fëanor, patient and easygoing, caring little for anything like perfection. Those lessons had been precious time spent with his busy grandfather, when Finwë had shed the trappings of kingship to be only himself, to tell stories and to teach Maglor songs his own father and grandfather had taught him long ago, in the ancient tongues spoken on the shores of Cuiviénen. Maglor had asked once why Finwë’s family had not come with him to Valinor. Finwë’s smile had faltered, and Maglor had not recognized the look in his eyes then, before he mastered himself and answered—something brief and almost flippant about the Avari and differing desires—before swiftly and firmly changing the subject. Looking back, though—Maglor knew that look now. It was one he’d seen whenever he looked into a mirror for centuries, those shadows of grief mingled with old fears that were so hard to let go. Those shadows were why Finwë had led the Noldor across the whole world, so they could live in a place free from them, so none of them would ever have to know fear again, would ever have to know grief. 

Maglor did not want to think that hope foolish, because there was no way anyone could have foreseen the release of Morgoth and his treachery, any more than Míriel’s decline could have been foreseen. But they lived in Arda Marred, even there in Aman, and to live was to know sorrow. Were it otherwise, there would be no need of Nienna’s tears or comforts. He set his tools down for a moment, closing his eyes against the sting of his own tears. He had chosen a quiet and out of the way corner of the workshop, beside a window framed on the outside by ivy and partly shaded by a nearby yew tree, and half-hidden inside by a set of free-standing shelves. The other parts of the workshop were filled with chatter and the sounds of hammering and sawing and sanding, and he listened to the familiar voices, teasing and joking, and missed Finwë’s deep laughter. He missed what Finrod and Galadriel had spoken of, the strength of his embrace and the feeling of safety it promised, both when Maglor had been very small and when he had been grown. Even in Formenos, after Fëanor taught them all what fear was, Finwë had been there to offer comfort, in the form of quiet words, a warm hand on a shoulder, soft promises that this would pass, and they would return home to Tirion, and know peace again someday soon. 

He had not been able to keep those promises, in the end. It had not been his fault, though, and he had meant them—they were not like the promises that Fëanor had once made them and then overwrote with the Oath, breaking all bonds of love and care in one fell swoop. Maglor could remember standing up alongside his brothers to swear after him, hardly knowing what he did, swept up in the fire and fury of his father’s passion, desiring far more to avenge his grandfather than in any desire for the Silmarils. They were beautiful things, but he’d never cared about them for themselves. He had wanted to fight Morgoth, had wanted to rid the world of him as the Valar had not, had wanted to… 

Maglor sighed and picked up the horse again. They had all been foolish and foolhardy, too ignorant and too proud to listen to wisdom, and in the end they—he and his brothers—had only made themselves Morgoth’s own tools. It was in spite of them, not because of them, that there had been victory in the end. 

Fingon appeared at the window after a while, leaning on the sill, golden rings shining in his ears and on his fingers, though his hair was loose an unadorned. When he forewent the gold ribbons, Maglor thought, he looked very much like Finwë. “I hear you’re writing a lament for our grandfather,” Fingon said. 

“I am,” said Maglor. “Or I’m going to. I was going to tell you about it later.”

“To ask me what I want you to include, yes? That’s what Galadriel told me.”

“Yes.” Maglor set his horse down and looked up at Fingon. “Do you have an answer for me?”

“His laughter,” Fingon said immediately. “When I think of Finwë, that is what I choose to remember. Laughter and joy. Does that help?”

Maglor offered a smile. “It does. Thank you.”

Fingon leaned over his crossed arms on the sill, looking down at the carving in Maglor’s hands. “I just recently found some things he had carved for me, put away into a box by my mother after we left.”

“I don’t know what happened to mine,” Maglor said. “They must have gotten packed away too, but it’s been so long…”

“Worth going to look for though, maybe?”

“Maybe.” It would mean going back to the old house in Tirion—but apparently that was being torn down and rebuilt, and who knew what Fëanor had done with everything left inside. Maybe Curufin would know.

“I look forward to hearing this song, whenever you finish it,” Fingon said. “I’m glad you are the one to write it, Maglor.”

“I only hope I can do him justice,” Maglor said.

“You will,” Fingon said, all easy confidence and faith. “Let me know when you intend to go to Tirion, and I’ll tell Turgon to be there. You probably don’t want to go all the way to Alastoron.”

“Thank you.” Maglor paused, and then asked hesitantly, “Who among our family has not yet returned? I know Gil-galad has not, but…”

“Aegnor has not,” said Fingon, his smile fading, “and Irissë has not either—nor Maeglin. They are the only ones, aside from Gil-galad…and of course Finwë himself.”

“It is said Aegnor will never return,” said Maglor.

“The same was said of Fëanor, too,” replied Fingon. “I’ll keep hoping, anyway.” He propped his chin on one hand as he watched Maglor begin to carve the details of the horse’s mane. “Have I told you yet how glad I am you and Maedhros went together to Lórien? I told you that you needed each other.”

“We both knew that already,” Maglor said without lifting his gaze. “I was angry and hurt and…I know that I hurt him, but it’s so…it feels impossible to reach for something when it seems that it will just fade away as soon as you try.” That was what all his nightmares had done, for years upon years. “We’re past it now, but it was hard.”

“Most things worth doing are hard,” Fingon said quietly. Maglor nodded. “What of your father? Maedhros told me of your meeting with him on the road.”

“I don’t know what I want from him,” Maglor said. “I know why Maedhros did what he did, at the end. I know what despair is like. I don’t think my father ever despaired—I don’t understand him at all, and I don’t think he understands me. Not anymore.”

“Worth trying, though, isn’t it? Even only so your hand does not always hurt at the mere sight of him.”

“Maybe.” 

Fingon leaned suddenly in through the window, grabbing Maglor’s head to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I’m glad you’re back, Macalaurë. I hope you know we all missed you, all the time you were lost in Middle-earth. There was always someone waiting at the docks in Avallónë to ask for news of you. No one will be unhappy to see you when you appear to ask your questions about Finwë.”

Chapter Text

The summer wound on, lazy and warm. Maedhros spent most of his time with his brothers or with his grandmother, though he remained unsure how to really speak to her, but on one drizzly afternoon he slipped away to explore parts of the house that he had not yet seen. Aechen followed until Maedhros stopped to pick him up; once nestled in the crook of his right arm, Aechen purred happily. The light through the many windows was pale and grey, but lamps were scattered throughout the corridors and rooms, all in warm shades of yellow and gold. 

He came to a large room, with skylights as well as windows to let in as much natural light as possible while leaving plenty of space on the walls for paintings. There were dozens of them, in all sizes and of all kinds, and there were statues and sculptures scattered around the room as well. Maedhros spotted one of his mother’s works, a delicate stone sculpture that seemed to change its form as one passed it by. He remembered when she had first begun to experiment with such effects—it had been just before she’d left Tirion. It seemed that since then she’d fully mastered it, and he walked around the sculpture several times to see it from all angles. No matter how closely he looked, he could not quite tell how she had done it, how it was that from one side it looked like a horse rearing up, and from the other it was a dancer with her hands lifted above her head. 

Maybe when he returned home he would ask her to show him, even though he’d never be able to do it himself. 

Many of the paintings were by hands he did not recognize, and showed scenes and faces of Middle-earth rather than of Valinor. Maedhros paused before a painting of a courtyard where a traveling party had gathered. At first he had thought four of the members were children, but he realized quickly that was not so—they were halflings, and so the party must be the Fellowship. Gandalf was unmistakable, and having met them Maedhros could easily recognize Gimli and Legolas, though Gimli was much younger, with no hint of white in his hair. 

Maedhros had known that halflings were small, but it was strange to see. He looked into their faces, able to see at a glance which was Frodo Baggins by the way he held himself, by the protective hand that Gandalf had resting on his shoulder. Not only did he seem small, he seemed so young, though Maedhros knew that he wasn’t, not really—not by the measure of his own people. It was only the Ring that made him seem so. 

He walked slowly along the wall, looking at the other portraits and paintings, trying to guess who the people were, and probably failing. He stopped before one, a formal portrait of a family that could only be Arwen and Aragorn’s. Arwen looked so like Elrond—even more than her brothers—that it was startling. Maedhros knew the names of their children from stories Maglor had told, but with such a painting it was hard to see past the finery and the serious expressions to the people underneath. Aragorn looked grave, almost grim—so at odds with the picture Maedhros had had of him in his mind thanks to Maglor, of a laughing child with muddy feet and scraped up knees. His childhood had been a joyful one in the safety of Imladris; adulthood had taken him down dark roads, into deep shadows—and then out of it again, into a New Age. 

His feet brought him back around the large room to the painting of the Fellowship before their departure from Imladris. Maedhros looked not at the faces this time but at the backdrop, at the winter-brown trees and bushes, the pathways branching off of the courtyard into the gardens beyond. A statue of Nienna was visible just behind Aragorn’s shoulder. 

Footsteps behind him heralded Elrond’s arrival. “Arwen painted that,” he said.

“It’s beautiful,” said Maedhros, turning from the painting. He hadn’t given much thought yet to the painter, but now that he knew he could see the care with which every portion of the painting had been rendered, from the flagstones of the courtyard to the lines on Aragorn’s face. He glanced at few other paintings along the same wall, many of them done in watercolor, soft and dreamlike. “Those are her work too?”

“Yes. This painting she insisted I bring with me.” Elrond reached out to brush his fingertips lightly over the frame of the Fellowship’s scene. “The others came with Elladan and Elrohir. There were letters, too, and journals and sketchbooks.”

“She seems to have been very happy,” Maedhros said. 

“Yes, she was.”

“Was Elros?” It felt almost like a dangerous question to ask, almost as though he had no right to ask it. 

“Yes,” Elrond said, his answer quick and steady. “He had the same idea—letters and journals. A large chest full of them was awaiting me in Finrod’s keeping when I came west.” He looked at Maedhros then, a small and rueful smile on his face. “I still have not read through them all. But he was happy. They all were, in Númenor, in those early days. The sorrow and the shadow did not come until later. And it has been said and sung that the line of Lúthien will never end, which is also to say the line of Elros will never end. That brings me comfort—to know that his children will continue to live and laugh under the sun, even if I cannot see them again.”

“Your line, too,” Maedhros said quietly.

“Yes, I suppose so. Arwen’s line. She would have liked you, I think.” He looked up to see Maedhros blinking at him in shock, and laughed—quietly, softly. “Is that so surprising?”

“Yes,” Maedhros said.

“Would it surprise you to learn then that I like you?” Elrond asked him. “For yourself, not just because you are Maglor’s brother?”

“You know it would,” Maedhros said, “but now I feel as though I cannot admit to it without Maglor rolling his eyes at me later. Yes, just like that,” he said, as Elrond rolled his own eyes. He was still smiling, though. “Can I ask you something, Elrond?”

“Of course.”

“Fingon told me once that my father spoke to you about me.”

“He did. You wonder what I told him?”

“I had not made myself particularly likable then,” Maedhros said, aiming for wry but landing on regretful instead. 

“I told him that—that I couldn’t speak of you as one who loved you or who knew you very well. I told him he would be better off asking questions of Finrod or of Fingon, but he wanted to know of you after Sirion, and did not think they could give him those answers. I think they refused to tell him very much, anyway.”

Maedhros felt his stomach start to tie itself in knots as he imagined what Fëanor would have said in response to whatever Elrond told him of those years. It shouldn’t, he knew. He knew what his father’s disapproval looked like, what it felt like. He had it already—there was no point in dreading the piling on of more. “I’m sure he was not pleased with what you told him.”

“He was grieved,” Elrond said. “But I told him that I did believe you cared for us, in your own way. I told him of learning to wield a sword with both hands, and how it saved my life later.”

“Nothing else?”

“Not really. There was nothing else to tell him.” Elrond peered up at him, his soft grey eyes seeing, Maedhros thought, as much as Galadriel’s did. “He is not as he was, you know,” he said. “He only wanted—still wants—to understand.”

“I don’t think he can,” Maedhros said. 

“Maybe, maybe not. But does it not speak well of him that he is trying?”

“It does,” Maedhros said. “I know it does. I don’t hate my father, and I suppose no one ever really outgrows the desire for their parents to think well of them, but…” He already knew that Fëanor did not think well of him. Maedhros had done precious little to make anyone think well of him between the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and going to Lórien with Maglor. His own words to Fëanor on their first meeting surely ruined any chance they might have for reconciliation in the future. Whatever Fëanor said or wrote, Maedhros could not believe that he would be so forgiving. “At the end of his life he only wanted two things, and by the end of mine I had thrown them both away.”

“What he wanted at the end of his life is not what he wants now,” Elrond said. Then he asked, “Does your hand pain you?”

“What?” Maedhros glanced down at it, and saw that the scars were pinker than usual. When he closed his fingers his palm felt tender. “It’s fine.”

The look Elrond gave him was deeply skeptical. “Fine would be no pain at all,” he said. “Come.” He took Maedhros by the arm, avoiding touching his hand, and gently but firmly pulled him out of the gallery and to a room only slightly smaller, with lower ceilings but an equal amount of windows. It smelled of herbs, both dried and fresh, and Elrond sat Maedhros down by one of the worktables before going to put a kettle over a nearby brazier. Maedhros leaned down to release Aechen to sniff around as he would, though as usual he did not wander far. 

“They aren’t real scars,” Maedhros said when Elrond returned to take his hand, turning the palm toward the light so he could see it better. “They’re just—they’re just memory. I think even you cannot rid me of that, Elrond.” He meant it to be teasing, and thought he succeeded. At least Elrond smiled. 

“I know something of wounds to the spirit, too,” Elrond said. 

“I don’t think you can heal this one.”

“Will you let me at least try to help?” Elrond met his gaze, and Maedhros was reminded suddenly of a cold and rainy day long ago in Beleriand, after they had all only narrowly escaped a marauding party of orcs. Maedhros had been wounded, and Elrond, no longer a child but not yet full-grown, had insisted on cleaning and stitching it. Even then he had been as skilled a healer as was possible, lacking only proper teaching. Maedhros had let him, keeping his face turned away, knowing he was still someone Elrond feared, and not knowing any other way to ease those fears even a little. Elrond now was so much older, still as skilled a healer as was possible, with all the advantages of proper teaching and long years of study and application—and he neither feared nor hated Maedhros anymore. For a moment it was as though Maedhros was in both places and times at once, and the feeling was strange and dizzying. 

“Maedhros?”

Maedhros blinked, and the past faded back away. “Of course,” he said, when he could remember the question Elrond had asked. 

Elrond’s fingers brushed over the scars, and he frowned thoughtfully as he looked at them. “May I see your other arm?” he asked, and Maedhros held it up. Elrond examined his wrist, which was devoid of scar tissue. “I thought it very strange when I heard you had returned one-handed,” he said. 

“Estë said it just would not form,” Maedhros said.

“You do not sound troubled by it.”

“I ceased to be troubled by it long before I died. I’m glad I came back without it.” Maedhros looked up from his wrist to Elrond’s face and saw the surprise there. “It is irrefutable proof that it all happened. That I am not who I was before, whatever my face looks like.” That had been hard, in its own way—seeing the looks on all the faces of his loved ones after he had returned, all except Fingon, who had understood without ever having to ask. 

“It does not hurt?” Elrond asked now. “No phantom pains?”

“No, not at all.”

“Good.” Elrond released his wrist and looked at his hand again. “I’ve never seen scars like these,” he said. “The memory of them. I do not like what it says about such a wound as this—that such a punishment would follow you even through Mandos.”

“I don’t think it did,” Maedhros said quietly. “If they still wished to punish me, would they not have just kept me in Mandos?”

“One might argue that releasing you was punishment,” Elrond said. 

“I thought so, once. I don’t anymore.”

“No, neither do I. I think they were right in the releasing, if not quite in the timing. And if it was meant to be a continuing punishment, Maglor’s hand would not have healed at all. So the scars themselves are like to your missing hand, evidence of a thing that marked you and changed you; the pain, at least now, is linked to your father, not to the hallowing of the Silmarils.”

“Is that so surprising?”

“Maybe not.” Elrond released his hand and went to fetch the boiling water. He took a few leaves from a potted athelas plant growing by one of the windows. He poured the water into a basin that he set on the table beside Maedhros, and after bruising and blowing on the leaves, he dropped them in. The scent they gave off was clear and clean, like the wind off of the hills that swept around the battlements of Himring. For a few minutes they sat in silence, watching Aechen sniff along the far wall. Maedhros breathed deeply, feeling the refreshing effects of the athelas even as he felt the faint pang of homesickness that thoughts of Himring brought with them. Finally, Elrond said, “Avoiding your father will not heal this wound, you know.”

Neither would speaking to him. “It does not trouble me enough for there to be any urgency,” Maedhros said. “Even before I went to Lórien, it hurt sometimes after dark dreams, but—”

“And how often did that happen?”

“Often enough, I suppose. But they do not happen anymore, and speaking of him doesn’t make it hurt—even now it’s only a little tender, not painful, and this is the first time that’s happened. Only seeing him made it burn.” Maedhros looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers a little. It did not hurt at all now, and the scars were fading away, no longer pink. “What would you advise?”

“I don’t know,” Elrond said, and he sounded troubled by it. “There is much of Fëanor I do not understand; he keeps a great deal of himself hidden. It is clear to me that he loves you, all of you, but I do not think he knows anymore how best to show it. I do not know how one can come back from such a rift—but the rift between you and Maglor seemed equally wide, and here you are.”

“That was different,” Maedhros said without looking up. “That was…we never stopped loving one another, Maglor and I. Everything else was broken, but we still had that.”

“You don’t believe your father loves you?” Elrond asked softly. 

Maedhros thought of a letter locked away in his desk drawer at home, of its last line just three words repeating. I love you, I love you, I love you. “I don’t believe he loved anything at all when he died,” he said, “and I had ceased to trust anything he said well before that.” Maglor had not trusted Maedhros, either, when they had met again. It had taken a long time and many tears and many harsh and often bitter words for that trust to really start to be rebuilt—fighting and parting and coming back together over the years in Lórien, in between trying to find peace within themselves. They’d done it because it was the most important thing in the world for both of them—they both needed it like their lungs needed air. 

Maedhros did not feel that same need for his father, and he wondered sometimes what that said about him. Aloud he said, “The two things my father wanted then were the crown and his Silmarils. I gave the one away and I destroyed the other alongside myself, and I regret neither. Maybe when he tells me that he loves me he believes it now, but I don’t believe he has forgotten either one of those things.” He sighed. “You know him better than I do now, though, I think.”

“I suppose I do, but your brother knows him best.”

“Curvo would never try to tell any of us what to do regarding our father.”

“I think you need to speak to him,” Elrond said after a few moments of thought, “really speak to him—both of you need to hear what the other has to say. That is true for all of you, whatever the outcome may be. You and Maglor have spoken to him already of course, and I think both of you needed to say whatever it was you said, to get it out and let him begin to understand what his actions have wrought. But there is more work to be done before any of you can truly move forward. It is the same work Curufin is doing already.”

“I know you’re right,” Maedhros said. “I just…don’t know if I can.”

“And I know that it is far easier for me to give such advice than it is for you to take it.” Elrond reached out to take Maedhros’ hand again, this time grasping it firmly. “Know this, Maedhros: whatever happens, you and your brothers have my support. Imloth Ningloron was not made to be the same kind of refuge that Imladris was, but if ever you have need of it, we are here.”

After he retrieved Aechen and left Elrond, Maedhros retreated to his room. His brothers would be wondering where he was, but he needed a little time alone where no one would scold him for brooding. He set Aechen down and sat on the rug to watch him wander around. Maedhros set his hand on his lap and looked down at it, and thought of the Silmarils—of the first time he had seen them, when his father had pulled him into his darkened workshop and opened the chest into which he had placed them. It had been a finely-wrought chest, then, not the clumsy and quick box cobbled together after the War of Wrath. They had lain on fine velvet, and when Fëanor had opened the chest Maedhros had been dazzled and astonished. He remembered how happy his father had been at his reaction, how he had picked one of them up to place it in Maedhros’ hands. It had been warm to the touch but not hot—not yet hallowed, his own hands not yet stained—and as he had turned it in his fingers it had flared and sparkled, as though the stone itself was happy to be seen and admired. Now he wondered if that Silmaril, the one he had been the first after his father to hold, the first after his father to see, was the one he’d taken with him into the fire so many years later. 

A few tears splashed onto his palm, and Maedhros closed his eyes, drawing his legs up to rest his face in his arms. After a little while he heard a soft knock, and then the door open, but he didn’t lift his head. “I’m not brooding,” he said into his arms. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” said Caranthir as he sat down beside him. “Did something happen?”

“No.” Maedhros turned his head, catching a glimpse of Caranthir’s frown through the curtain of his hair. “Just—thinking of Atar. Curvo’s going to be going back home soon.” He and Rundamírë both had work to return to, and the girls missed their brother. 

“I know. Lisgalen and I are going with them. What are you thinking of Atar for?”

“I’m trying to convince myself that speaking to him will help. Elrond thinks it will.”

“He’s probably right. He is about most things.”

“Yes, I know. I just—”

“I know. Curvo told me of the plan to give him a palantír. Maybe wait until after he’s had a chance to look into it.”

Maedhros stood by what he had said, that he wanted his father to understand, and it didn’t really matter to him what Fëanor saw. But it would hurt him to see, especially if he really was as everyone said—if he really had learned how to care again. The time for such pain and heartache should be past, no matter who felt it. “Do you think it will help? The palantír?”

Caranthir shrugged. “It’s the closest he can ever come to being there.”

“You don’t think it will just…hurt?”

“Of course it will hurt—it should hurt, if he really cares. It hurt all of us to watch him die, didn’t it?” Caranthir moved to sit behind Maedhros, tugging gently on his hair until he sat up straight so Caranthir could finger comb the tangles out and braid it properly. “Are you going to live here now, or do you plan to return to Ammë’s house?”

“I suppose I’ll be going back and forth, but when I think of home I think of Ammë’s house. Where does Tyelko stay these days?”

“Ammë’s house. It’s been nice, especially when she’s away. The house is bigger now and it feels emptier when I’m there alone. Huan sheds all over the place, though. I forgot how annoying that was.”

“Are all the rooms changed around?” Caranthir had spoken a little of the changes made to Nerdanel’s house—additions added for extra bedrooms, extending the gardens to make up for what was built over—but not in much detail.

“Not all. Yours and mine haven't been touched, and the workshops are still the same, except Ammë decided to get rid of the forge. She never uses it, and I always go over to Grandfather’s anyway. I’m going to plant some kind of fruit trees where it was, but I haven’t decided what kind yet.”

“I think I’ll be glad to be home,” Maedhros murmured. Imloth Ningloron was lovely, and he could see himself thinking of it as a kind of second home, given time, but his mother’s house had been a refuge and a place of comfort since his coming from Mandos, and he looked forward to returning to the simpler, quieter rhythms of it. He missed the river and the willow trees, and his own small bedroom. 

Caranthir tied off the braid and moved back around to sit facing Maedhros. “Whatever happens in the future, I don’t think I can forget how Atar’s first coming back hurt you,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I can forgive him that.”

“Even though that’s what made us all leave?” Maedhros asked. That had set it all into motion—trying to fix what lay between all of them, finding Maglor, and eventually Maedhros and Maglor’s own journey to Lórien. None of that would have happened if Fëanor hadn’t come back.

“I would like to think we would’ve figured something out eventually,” Caranthir sighed. “We all still stand by what we said then, though. Even Curvo. Our loyalty is to you first. Not him.”

“And I stand by what I said: I’m not your lord, Moryo. I’m just your brother.”

“That’s more important. For myself—I don’t really care if I never speak to our father again, but I know it’s not the same for me as for you or Cáno or even Tyelko.”

“What do you mean?” Maedhros knew it was different for Ambarussa, who had been born on the cusp of the discord, who had grown up wild and carefree but also somewhat neglected, but Caranthir was older. As far as Maedhros had known, his childhood and youth were were not so different from Maedhros’ own. 

“I realized a long time ago I was never going to be the sort of son Atar wanted,” Caranthir said, not looking at Maedhros but instead at Aechen as he nosed around the foot of the bed. Realizing he was being watched, Aechen scampered over to sniff at Caranthir’s fingers. “Even before it all went wrong he wanted us to follow in his footsteps, to be—we couldn’t ever be as great as he was but he still wanted us to try.”

Maedhros remembered that pressure. Until it had all started to go wrong he hadn’t felt it as such a burden, though. He was his father’s eldest son and heir and so of course much was expected of him. Back then he had felt equal to the challenge, even if he’d never managed to find anything that caught his attention and his passion the way that the forge called to Curufin or music to Maglor. He could still uphold the duties of his station, to play the role of Nelyafinwë, Prince of the Noldor. But Caranthir… “I never thought you cared,” he said quietly. 

“I tried not to. I think I am finally succeeding.” Caranthir stroked his fingers lightly over Aachen’s spines. “I’m neither talented nor ambitious enough to be a son Fëanor really wants to claim as his own, whatever he says now. I’m not kind enough to want to give him a chance, either.”

“You’re worse than Cáno when it comes to passing judgment on yourself, if you think you aren’t kind,” Maedhros said. Caranthir’s lips quirked in a mirthless half-smile. “Moryo, I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

“Of course you didn’t know, Nelyo. I didn’t want you to. It wasn’t…I wasn’t unhappy. I never really doubted that Atar loved me, at least then, but I did know that what I wanted—or really, what I didn’t want—would have been a disappointment to him. I suppose even then I could tell that his love had limits, even if I didn’t understand what that meant and I didn’t have the words for it.”

“That was true by the end,” Maedhros said quietly, “but I don’t think it was always so.” And therein lay the hurt, knowing that Fëanor had once loved them all, fiercely and warmly and unconditionally—until he hadn’t.

“Maybe. I was never brave enough to test it, like Tyelko did when he left to follow Oromë. I am now—or at least I want to think I am.”

“You are,” Maedhros said. “And you have all the rest of us at your back.” 

“I know. So do you.”

“I know.”

“Doesn't make it easier, does it?”

Maedhros shook his head. “Not really.”

Chapter Text

Autumn came slowly, lazily, creeping in with cooler weather and rainy days. Maglor spent those days with his brothers and with Míriel, who had come to Imloth Ningloron determined to get to know all seven of her grandsons at last. Celegorm had avoided her in the beginning, as seemed to be his new habit when anything made him upset or uncomfortable, but she was even more stubborn than he was, and Maglor saw them several times talking quietly together, and afterward Celegorm seemed a little more at ease, and Míriel pleased. 

Nerdanel arrived as the apple harvest began in earnest. Maglor was not aware of her coming, having retreated to the pottery studio to begin fixing a jug that had been broken. He’d learned how to repair such things in Imladris, long ago now, and he found the process soothing. Maedhros had joined him, curious about how it was done. As Maglor sanded down the sharpest edges of the broken pieces they chatted about nothing in particular—just Pídhres and the hedgehogs, the weather, and the apples. It was quiet, peaceful. Maglor had spent the morning working on the first very rough draft of a few verses of his song for Finwë, and was glad for a reprieve.

The sound of their mother’s voice just outside reached them suddenly. Maglor abandoned his work and Maedhros rose so quickly he nearly knocked over his stool, both of them racing out of the workshop and nearly getting caught together in the doorway. Nerdanel, crouched on the path outside petting Pídhres, looked up and laughed as Maglor got out by way of elbowing Maedhros in the ribs. “There you are!” she cried. She was still dressed for travel, with her hair bound up in braids.

“Ammë!” Maglor threw his arms around her as she rose to her feet.

“Macalaurë! Maitimo!” Nerdanel held on very tightly for a moment before releasing him and pulling Maedhros into her arms, and then holding them both at arm’s length so she could look into their faces. “Oh, you look so much better—both of you! The light in your eyes is back!”

“We are better,” Maedhros said. 

“We promise, Ammë, we are,” Maglor added. 

Nerdanel wrapped an arm around each of them, pulling them back in close. Maedhros said something, but Maglor did not catch it. He pressed his face into Nerdanel’s shoulder, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. “I’m so, so glad you’re back,” she said, and kissed their temples. 

At last Nerdanel released them, as their other brothers came up the path. Pídhres jumped into Maglor’s arms as all of them crowded around. When last they had all seven been gathered with Nerdanel it had been just before Maglor and Maedhros had departed for Lórien. There had been smiles and laughter then, too—but Maglor had still been fragile, and Maedhros struggling. Everything was different now; they were all better, stronger, happier. He could see that Nerdanel saw it, and could see how she relaxed the longer they spoke and laughed, as though the last shreds of her worries had been blown away like autumn leaves.

Maglor did not find himself alone again with Nerdanel until later that night. He sat with his harp, playing idle melodies as the household slowly dispersed for bed or other nighttime pursuits. Nerdanel had been sitting with Míriel and Indis all evening, but got up after a while to sit beside him. “I’ve just heard about the new song you are undertaking,” she said.

“It is long overdue,” Maglor said. 

“It is, though I wish you were not turning your thoughts again to laments and sorrow.”

“This will be the last lament I write, I think—but it’s too important not to.” Maglor set his harp aside and leaned his head on her shoulder. “I missed you.”

Nerdanel wrapped her arm around him and kissed the top of his head. “I hope you’ll visit often, now,” she said. “We’ve built onto the house so everyone can have their own room now.”

“Except I will have to share Daeron’s room,” Maglor said, just so she would laugh. “I’m glad he’s there often enough for it to be his.”

“As am I. We have all missed you—both of you. I think also that Daeron has found it lonely among his own people.”

“He came back among them changed, too,” Maglor said. Daeron carried the same weight of time upon his shoulders that Maglor did—that so many did who had sailed to Valinor. It was harder to tell just by looking at him, for he bore it more easily than most, but it was there, all the same, showing in his handful of scars and in the way he sometimes glanced eastward with a look of wistful longing. Maglor missed Middle-earth—he’d loved those lands, in spite of all the pain and the fear and everything else—but Daeron had been born there and that was a different kind of grief.

Later, Maglor asked him, “Do you ever regret taking ship?”

Daeron looked up from turning down the bedsheets, a look of surprise on his face. “No, of course not! Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know.”

“I miss it—Middle-earth—but my time there had come to an end. I could hear it in the Music long before I ever knew that you too were going West. Come here.” Daeron pulled Maglor down onto the bed and kissed him.

Maglor wrapped his arms around Daeron and buried his face in his hair. “My mother thinks you’ve been lonely in Taur-en-Gellam.”

“Only sometimes. The first few years were the hardest, but they’re all used to me again now—and I’ve had my work, and my songbirds, and your brothers that I count now almost as my own. All the last traces of my loneliness have fled now, with you here again.”

“I’m glad.”

“Are you having regrets?”

“No. I was just thinking of how different we both are from what we used to be.” Maglor turned his head and sighed, closing his eyes. “There were times before I went to Lórien that I wished I could go back east,” he said, “or that I had never left the shores at all. I missed them so terribly that I ached with it. I don’t wish that now.”

“I think if I had come to Mithlond and learned you were still lost,” Daeron murmured, “I would have gone looking for you.”

“Many others looked, and I never even knew.”

“They were not me.”

Maglor smiled into his shoulder, and then lifted his head. “That’s true.” He would have heard Daeron’s voice on the wind and been drawn to it like a moth to flame—or, rather, like a flower turning toward the sun. Of that he was certain. “I suppose I am also thinking of my kin that I haven’t yet reunited with. My cousins, and my aunts and my uncle Finarfin. I don’t know if it will be as hard now as it was before—but they will still stare, and still wonder, and…I am not afraid of it, but I think it will still be hard.”

“I think you will find it easier than you believe,” Daeron said as he smoothed Maglor’s hair back from his face. “You are at peace now with your past, are you not?”

“As much as I can ever be,” Maglor said.

“Then do not borrow trouble—and remember that I’ll be with you, as I was before. Don’t try to tell me I don’t have to be!”

“I won’t.” Maglor kissed him. “You are where you want to be, I know.”

“All I have wanted since we met again on the road to Ekkaia has been to be by your side,” Daeron said. “Are you thinking of going to see these cousins soon?”

“Not so soon. My mother plans to stay until at least the spring, but Curufin and Caranthir are returning to Tirion for the winter. You and I must be here come springtime to meet Elemmírë. Maybe after her visit I will think of going to Tirion, or to Alqualondë. There is no real hurry to finish this song, or at least my grandmother has given me no deadline, but it feels like something I should not put off for too long.”

“Are you finding it easier to write than you feared?”

“I don’t know if I can call it easy, but some words are coming to me, and I can feel it beginning to take shape. That is farther than I have ever gotten before.”

“Good. You spoke once of going to Taur-en-Gellam, or at least requesting an audience with Thingol. Should I write to him on your behalf come springtime, or merely ensure that your letter reaches him?”

“You know what to say to him better than I do, if you don’t mind.” Finwë and Thingol had been great friends once—it had been on the way to visit Finwë that Elu Thingol had been lost in Nan Elmoth. Growing up, Maglor had heard occasional stories of his grandfather’s dear friend Elwë, but looking back now he thought those stories had been as rare as the ones of Finwë’s own kin, the grief stilling his tongue and turning once-fond memories painful. It would be wrong to try to write this song without the cooperation of all Finwë’s family—and equally wrong to do so without speaking to his dearest friends too. He should likely try to speak to Ingwë as well, but that was even more daunting a thought than going to Thingol.

“We’ll have to choose the timing carefully. I am conspiring with Beleg to split the winnings on some bets he has been making about my return.”

“Surely no one will take any bet that Beleg makes, knowing he is your friend.”

“He is, in his turn, conspiring with Pirineth and my other students—all of whom will be very eager to meet you when we go to Taur-en-Gellam, by the way. I have no idea what kind of bets are being made, or what exactly is being wagered, but I imagine it will be very entertaining upon our arrival.”

Maglor smiled at the mischievous glint in Daeron’s eyes. “What of your parents?” he asked then. “Have you heard more from Mablung?”

“When I wrote back I told him I was with you, and had no intention of leaving your side, which can come as no surprise to him. He is back in Taur-en-Gellam now, but I do not know what my aunt and uncle or my parents might be planning to do. I did say that you intend to travel to Alqualondë in the next year anyway, which Mablung has taken as something of a promise from me to seek them out then.”

“Are you still uncertain about it?”

“Yes,” Daeron admitted. “But I feel more equal to the meeting, whatever it brings, than I did when I received the letter. Such moods always make everything seem so much bigger and more frightening than they really are.”

“I’ll be with you,” Maglor said softly, “as you’ll be with me.” Daeron smiled at him, and tangled their fingers together. “Surely there will be joy in this meeting, longed for but never really expected?”

“I hope so.” 

As the days grew shorter and the nights cooler, Curufin and Caranthir prepared to return to Tirion. Curufin’s girls were torn, wishing to remain in Imloth Ningloron but also missing their brother. When they were ready to depart at last, Maglor scooped up both girls, one in each arm, to pepper kisses all over their faces. “Don’t look so sad!” he said. “All adventures must come to an end sometime.” He had, over the course of many evenings, told them the rest of the story of Bilbo’s adventure and the defeat of Smaug and the restoration of Dale and the Lonely Mountain. Legolas and Gimli had cheerfully confirmed it all to be true, to the girls’ unending delight, and Gimli had sung for them the songs of the Dwarves and Legolas the songs of the Woodelves. “Think of all you can tell Tyelpë that he’s missed, staying home as he did.”

“Tyelpë doesn’t like adventures,” Náriel said. “He says they’re uncomfortable.”

“They do make you late for dinner,” Maglor agreed, quoting Bilbo to make them giggle.

Maedhros plucked Calissë from Maglor’s arms to kiss her farewell, before taking up Náriel too. “I, at least, will come visit you in the spring,” he said. 

“Will you really?” Curufin asked as Maedhros set the girls down.

“Yes. I’ll be going home with Ammë then, and Tirion is right there. If you don’t come to me, I’ll come to you.”

“And you, Cáno?”

“I’ll come to Tirion sometime next year,” said Maglor. “I don’t know when. Perhaps I’ll turn up unlooked for on your doorstep one evening to whisk your children away on another adventure!”

“Oh please don’t say that,” Curufin said, pained, as Calissë and Náriel cheered. 

“Only if they eat their vegetables and do their lessons,” Maglor added. The girls groaned, and Rundamírë had to turn away and cover her mouth to hide her smile. Lisgalen hurriedly turned their laughter into a cough. 

“You’re supposed to be the good influences,” Curufin complained as Maglor embraced him. 

“That’s no fun,” Maglor said. “Safe travels, Curvo. I’ll miss you.”

“Write to me, then,” Curufin said. “And—when you come to Tirion, we can talk of Finwë? I still need to think on what you asked of us.”

“Of course.”

Maglor turned to Caranthir then, as Maedhros embraced Curufin. “I’ll talk to you of Finwë when you visit too,” Caranthir said. He held on very tightly. “I’m so, so glad you’re back, Cáno.”

“I am, too.”

Curufin pulled Maedhros closer so the four of them could speak in low voices without being overheard. “I am going to take one of the palantíri from Ammë’s house to Atar,” Curufin said, looking between the three of them, “unless you’ve changed your mind about it. I asked Tyelko and Ambarussa and they haven’t.”

“I haven’t either,” said Maglor as Maedhros shook his head. 

“It’s a good idea,” said Caranthir. 

“Write if you need us to come to Tirion,” Maedhros added, resting his hand on Curufin’s shoulder. 

“Or if you need to leave it,” Maglor added.

“All the palantír will show him is us, you know,” said Curufin. “Not—not anything else.” 

“There is the great palantír of Avallónë,” said Caranthir, “and probably others in some other storage room somewhere.” There had never been an abundance of palantíri, and most had been taken long ago to the Faithful of Andúnië, and then either drowned with Númenor or, in the case of the last seven, escaped to Middle-earth, to Gondor and Arnor. Now only two remained there that Maglor knew of, one of which had been rendered nearly useless. Still, who knew what lay forgotten in various cellars or storage rooms in Tirion—even underneath their old house?

“I suggested the palantír because it’s us that we want him to understand,” Maglor said, “but Moryo is right too.”

“What if he doesn’t want to look?”

“Then he doesn’t,” Maedhros said. “All you’re doing is offering him the chance. I think he will, though.”

“He’s always hated not knowing things,” Caranthir said.

“I suppose that’s true.” Curufin glanced over his shoulder when Rundamírë called to him from where she stood with Ambarussa and Celegorm. “I’ll write after…after I know if he’s looked into it or not.” 

After Curufin went to help Calissë with something, Caranthir turned back to Maglor and Maedhros. “Do you really think it will make a difference?”

“I think I want him to see the truth,” said Maglor, “all of the things left out of the tellings, whether we mean to or not—the beauty and the joy, but the grief and the ugliness of it too. Whether it makes a difference is up to him.” 

“I think it will,” Maedhros said when Caranthir glanced at him, “but what that difference will be, I cannot guess.”

Others came out to say goodbye, filling the courtyard with laughter everyone talked over everyone else. Elladan and Elrohir teased Náriel and Calissë the way they’d once teased Estel as a child, and then later their own nieces and nephew. It was a cheerful parting with many promises of letters and visits to come. 

Later, Maglor went back to the pottery workshop to keep working on the broken jug, which he had nearly forgotten about over the last few weeks. Míriel found him there, accompanied by Nerdanel. “You never did show me how this is done,” Nerdanel said, smiling as they sat at the table with him. 

“I’m only just starting,” Maglor said. “Most of the process is really just waiting for the glue to try.”

“I have seen the end results,” Míriel said, “and they are lovely.”

Maglor remembered suddenly the letter his father had written to him, the description he had included of a tapestry he’d seen in Mandos. “Have you woven them, too?” he asked. 

Míriel smiled at him. “Yes.”

It was strange to think of himself woven with golden thread, somewhere in the walls of Mandos. Maglor lowered his gaze back to his work. His mother and grandmother chatted with him and with each other, laughing about Náriel and Calissë, talking of the harvest and of the coming winter. Finally Nerdanel asked him, “What were you and your brothers whispering about before Carnistir and Atarinkë left?”

“Curvo is going to give one of the old palantíri to Atar,” Maglor said after a moment, as he carefully picked up the last piece that needed its edges filed. 

“One of the ones from my house? Why?”

“He saw much in the Halls,” Míriel said quietly, “but the memories of death fade when one returns to life—and there is only so much that can be understood from a still image upon the wall, however skilled the weaver.”

Nerdanel pursed her lips. Maglor finished his filing and turned away to bring out the ingredients for the lacquer. As he rummaged through a cabinet Nerdanel said, “Would it not be easier just to speak to him?”

“Not for me,” Maglor said without turning around. “And Curvo has been speaking to him. It’s just—if you weren’t there, you can’t understand, not really. The palantír is the closest anyone can come now.”

“I know just how close the palantír brings you,” Nerdanel said. “You told me once, Macalaurë, that you wished I had not looked.”

“You know that’s different, Ammë,” Maglor said softly. 

“It will break his heart to see you thus,” Nerdanel said. 

“Maybe he needs his heart broken.”

“Macalaurë.”

“It can be mended afterward. Ours all have.” Maglor had said more than once that he wanted nothing more from Fëanor; Elrond, though, had known better even when Maglor himself didn’t. He had tried to help Fëanor to understand, just as Curufin was still trying to do, and they had both been right. Maglor did want his father to understand—to understand something, at least, of all of it, both the wonders and the horrors. If Fëanor’s heart broke just to see it—well, it would be easier to mend, maybe, there in Valinor far away and long past all the real harm that had been done, and he would not be alone for it. 

Nerdanel reached for him as he turned from the cupboard, cupping his face so he had no choice but to look at her. “Does this mean you want to be able to speak to him?” she asked. 

“I will have to, for the song I am to write,” Maglor said. “Beyond that—I don’t know what I want, Ammë. Whatever happens, though, I need it to be on my terms. I was not able to choose when to see him before, or when I saw my brothers.”

“Did it not turn out for the best, though, meeting them as you did?”

“That doesn’t mean it would not have been better if it happened differently.” It had all worked out in the end only because they had all so desperately wanted it to. Maglor had not been ready—he had barely been able to hold the pieces of himself together, feeling as though he’d been coming apart at the seams ever since he had set foot upon Tol Eressëa and learned that everyone he had been so sure he would never see again had returned, and were waiting for him. 

“Fëanáro will not try to force another meeting, Macalaurë,” Míriel said.

“I know. Does he know you’ve asked me to write this song for Finwë?”

“No. It was an idea Indis and I had just before we learned you had returned from Lórien.” Míriel smiled at him again. “So the timing worked out nicely, though it means we did not consult with anyone before approaching you.”

“Is it meant to be secret?”

“No, of course not, but…” She paused for a moment, as though hesitant to go on. “There is a purpose to it beyond merely honoring Finwë—though that is also important to us, and to all our people.”

“What is the purpose?” Maglor asked. “Why did you not tell me before?”

“Would it affect the writing of it?”

“It might,” Maglor said. 

Míriel met his gaze. Maglor had inherited her eyes, soft grey-green, and it was still startling sometimes to see them in another’s face. “You have been reluctant to sing before any great audience since you came West,” she said. “I did not wish to speak of it and discourage you from the writing.”

“What audience is this song meant for?”

“The Valar.”

Maglor sat back, hitting the wall with a jolt. “I am not Lúthien, Grandmother,” he said. “I cannot move the implacable Lord of Mandos with my song—”

“No one is asking you to be Lúthien,” Míriel said.

“But you want me to achieve the same feat—”

“We want you to write and sing this song on behalf of all our kin and all our people,” Míriel said, “for who better to express our deepest grief and our deepest love than our greatest singer? I have heard the Noldolantë, Macalaurë. I know you are capable of it. Manwë will not listen unmoved to your words.”

“But if you do not want to, Macalaurë…” Nerdanel began, frowning at Míriel. 

“No, I will do it,” Maglor said, the words escaping almost before he could think better of them. “I’ll write this song and I will sing it before the Valar upon Taniquetil or in Máhanaxar or wherever they will come to listen—but I do not think mine is the voice that will sway them.”

“Yours will be the voice that sings on behalf of all who love Finwë Noldóran. I know it is much to ask. We have pleaded and argued and spoken to the Valar for years, Indis and I, and Ingwë and Olwë and even Elwë and Melian both. What have we left to do but to show them how much he is missed, how wrong it is to condemn us all to such a separation, merely because he dared to find love again in his loneliness and heartache? But of this, Macalaurë, I would ask you not to speak openly.”

She did not need to worry about that. If it was widely known what he aimed to do, he would never be able to write another word. Maglor could not, though, keep it secret from either Maedhros or Daeron. He found the two of them together some time later, with Pídhres and the hedgehogs, and both of their smiles turned to frowns when they saw him. “What’s wrong?” Daeron asked. He had been lounging on the grass, but he sat up, sending Annem tumbling off his chest onto his lap. Pídhres darted to Maglor to claw her way up his legs until he grabbed her. 

“I’ve just learned something,” Maglor said. He sat when Maedhros pulled him down between them. “What were you laughing at just now?”

“Maedhros is worried that your father might be making me uncomfortable in Tirion,” Daeron said, “and I have been assuring him that I can handle myself.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Maedhros said, though he sounded doubtful.

“There are very few with the power to discomfit me these days,” Daeron said, “and however impressive he may be, Fëanor is not one of them. I’ve been visiting for years without any issue, and I don’t see why that should change now. But Maglor, what troubles you?”

“This song. The one for Finwë. It’s…Míriel and Indis intend to ask me to perform it before the Valar.”

Maedhros looked at him blankly for a moment, until full understanding came to him, and his eyes opened wide, but Daeron only nodded. “I wondered if that was it,” he said. “All this talk lately of those who are returning from Mandos, and of those who remain there…”

“I told her that I am not Lúthien,” Maglor said. “I cannot be. I don’t…”

“Was it Lúthien’s power that swayed Námo, or her heart?” Maedhros asked unexpectedly. “Was it who she was, or was it the mere fact that she dared to try? Did the eagle come because it was Fingon who asked, or because he asked?”

“Was it the words of Eärendil who swayed the Valar, or was it the love he bore for everyone left behind, for whose sake he had risked everything?” Daeron added.

“Others have asked, who love Finwë better than anyone,” Maglor said. “Míriel and Indis, and even Ingwë and Elu Thingol. Why should the Valar listen to me, when I go before them to ask them to reverse their own ruling?”

“Because you will not be speaking only your own words,” Maedhros said, echoing Míriel. He moved closer to Maglor, to put his arm around his shoulders and press a kiss to his temple. “Even before you knew this was the purpose, you determined that this song would not be yours alone. You will sing for all of us who love him.”

“Who better than you to put words to such grief, Maglor?” Daeron asked softly. “Who better than you to teach the Valar what it means, this heartbreak, this long separation that should not be?”

“When you sing—both of you—I can hear it, the Great Music echoing in your voices as it does in the Sea,” Maedhros said. “The Valar will hear it, too.”

“And when I fail?” Maglor whispered. Pídhres butted her head into his chin, demanding scratches. He obliged, ducking his head to let his hair fall forward, indulging an old habit that he’d tried to leave behind in Lórien. 

Daeron tilted his head slightly, as though listening to something only he could hear. Whatever it was he heard, he chose not to share it. “Do not think of failure,” he said finally, reaching out to brush Maglor’s hair aside. “Do not think of this performance. Think only of the song and of what it means, not of the Valar. That is what you were doing before. You need not worry about singing it before there is even a song to be sung.”

“If your voice cannot move the Valar to pity, Canafinwë,” Maedhros said quietly, “I do not think anyone’s can.”

Chapter Text

“What is it you’re worried about?” Caranthir asked Curufin as they stood in the cellar of Nerdanel’s house, in the corner where the chest bearing the palantíri had been tucked away. They weren’t used much anymore; Curufin though the last time the chest had been opened had been when they’d all gone out into the western wilds fifty years before. “Do you think he won’t do it?”

“No.” Curufin knelt and opened the chest. Nine dark orbs sat in a row on the soft blue fabric tucked inside. He picked one up at random. They were the first palantíri Fëanor had ever made, and they were not perfectly smooth; there were soft time-worn ridges from the molds he had used, and in a few places he could feel dings and chips where the stone had been dropped or maybe thrown. He imagined neither Maedhros nor Nerdanel had been particularly gentle after they had used them, and seen Maglor in darkness and torment so many years ago. “I think he will.” He rose and slipped the stone into the bag that Caranthir held out. Caranthir handed it back to him and shut the chest with a soft thump. “I don’t know. I’m just…worried.”

“Can I help?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll just have to see how it goes afterward. It’s probably a good thing no one else has one of these.” They were all attuned to the nine of them—Fëanor, Nerdanel, and all their sons—and also to each other, and it was too easy to accidentally start communing with one another if more than one stone was in use at the same time. Fëanor had fixed that along with other flaws in later stones, but it was one reason none of them had been very eager to take one when they went traveling or wandering, long ago. 

They left Nerdanel’s house and caught up to Lisgalen and Rundamírë and the girls. Calissë and Náriel were unaware of the nature of Curufin’s errand there, though Rundamírë and Lisgalen knew of it. Rundamírë caught his eye and he summoned a smile for her that he knew she saw right through. 

Curufin had been reluctant to leave Imloth Ningloron with all the rest of his brothers still there as well as Nerdanel, but it was a relief to pass through the gates of Tirion into the familiar streets, and even more of a relief to return to their own neighborhood, colorful and bustling with activity and the sounds and sights and smells of making. Lisgalen lived only a few doors down—that was how they and Caranthir had first met. They and Caranthir agreed to return to Curufin and Rundamírë’s house for dinner that evening, and so they all parted. 

There was the usual chaos of homecoming as bags were taken away and the housekeeper came to greet them and to share what tidbits of news they’d missed, which was little enough. “Is Tyelpë at home?” Curufin asked as Calissë and Náriel raced away toward the kitchen upon hearing the cook was making one of their favorite sweets. 

“Yes, he is out in the workshop,” said Maluwendë. “Your lord father is there too, I think—or at least he was this morning.”

“I’ll see what is keeping them,” Curufin told Rundamírë.

“Take the stone with you,” she said. “Better not to leave it where the girls might find it.”

The workshop was separated from the house by a narrow alley; it was a large and open building that Curufin and Celebrimbor had spent many weeks putting together and organizing so they might both work there comfortably and without getting in each other’s way. Curufin kept his forge separate and out of the way behind the main workshop; it was closed up and cold now, for since his return from Mandos Celebrimbor did no work there, though sometimes he would come to watch Curufin as he worked. As he reached for the door to the main workshop Curufin heard voices laughing, but he pushed it open just in time to hear Celebrimbor curse in Dwarvish a second before glass shattered. 

“Tyelpë?” Curufin stepped into the workshop to find Celebrimbor and Fëanor both reaching for rags to press to Celebrimbor’s palm. “What happened?”

“My fault,” Celebrimbor said through gritted teeth. “Just—stupid—I wasn’t watching—and it was broken already anyway—”

Curufin left the palantír on his own workbench and went to look at the cut. It was not too bad, though it was deep enough to need a few stitches. Celebrimbor looked away, his face grey and expression pinched. “Sit down, Tyelpë,” Curufin said, gently pushing him onto the nearest stool. “Atya, there are bandages in that cupboard.”

“That will need more than bandages,” Fëanor said as he moved to fetch them. He grabbed the broom too, to sweep away the pieces of glass scattered across the floor.

“Tyelpë.” Curufin waited until Celebrimbor looked at him. “Are you going to faint?” Celebrimbor shook his head, but Curufin wasn’t sure he believed him. Ever since his return, Celebrimbor had been abundantly cautious in the workshop, avoiding anything that might be considered particularly dangerous, and taking extra care in what he did do, and this was one reason why. This lapse in attention was very unlike him, though at least his distraction had not been the result of any sort of argument or poor mood. “Do you want me to stitch it, or Tindehtë?” Tindehtë was their cook now, but she had been their most skilled healer in Himlad until the Dagor Bragollach. 

“You, please,” Celebrimbor said. 

Curufin wrapped a bandage tightly around Celebrimbor’s hand to stem the bleeding until he could get what he needed. “Wait here, then. Keep it elevated—”

“I know, Atya.”

Rundamírë was nowhere to be seen when Curufin returned to the house, to his relief; he did not really want to explain why he had blood all over his hands not ten minutes after returning home. Tindehtë kept a kit near the kitchen for such emergencies, and he was able to grab it and leave again without either Calissë or Náriel noticing, and when he returned to the workshop he found Fëanor steadying Celebrimbor on the stool. “On the floor, Tyelpë. You don’t need to crack your head open as well as your hand.” 

“This is stupid,” Celebrimbor muttered as he obeyed, leaning back against a shelf and turning his head away as Curufin sat beside him.

“Not stupid,” Curufin said. “Here, sip this.” There was a small bottle of miruvórë in the kit, and Celebrimbor took it obediently. 

“Should we not seek a more skilled healer, if it’s so bad?” Fëanor asked as he knelt on Celebrimbor’s other side.

“It’s not that bad,” said Curufin as he unwrapped the bloodied bandages. The bleeding had already slowed. “Nelyo was hurt far worse than this on our journey west, and I stitched him up fine.”

“He was what?” Fëanor looked up sharply, and Curufin only then remembered he hadn’t actually told his father about what he and his brothers called the River Incident. 

“I just don’t like the sight of blood,” Celebrimbor said. His color was better, but he stared resolutely at the far wall as Curufin got out a needle and thread.

Fëanor frowned at him. “I don’t remember you having such trouble before,” he said. 

“Yes, well. Things change.”

“Tyelpë—”

“Atya,” Curufin warned, a little more sharply than he’d intended. He threaded the needle. At least this was a small cut, compared to the claw- and teeth-marks Maedhros had suffered in the hill country near Ekkaia, when a particularly stupid hill cat had attacked, and there was no reason to scold Celebrimbor for it the way they’d all scolded Maedhros. Accidents happened. Curufin worked quickly, aware that his father was watching with one of those unreadable expressions he wore sometimes now, just with a slightly pinched look around his eyes that spoke of concern. He said nothing, though, just guided Celebrimbor’s head to rest on his shoulder, keeping his hand on Celebrimbor’s hair. Celebrimbor closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It did not take long, and Curufin bound Celebrimbor’s hand up in clean bandages afterward. “All done,” he said, clearing away the bloodied cloths and bandages. Celebrimbor let his hand drop onto his lap. “Drink more of the miruvórë, Tyelpë. Your sisters are going to want to climb all over you when you return to the house.”

“Everyone’s home, then?” Celebrimbor asked without opening his eyes. He took another deep breath. “All right, I’m all right.” He sat up and took another sip of the miruvórë before getting to his feet with Fëanor’s help. His color was better, and once he was standing he seemed steady enough. He grimaced ruefully when he glanced down at his shirt. “Can you distract them while I change my clothes?”

“Of course,” said Fëanor, already moving to the door. Curufin would likely be answering some hard questions later, but that was all right. They would be no harder than anything else they would be speaking of.

Once alone he embraced Celebrimbor, who dropped his head onto Curufin’s shoulder with a shaky sigh. “I’m all right, Atya,” he said. “I wasn’t looking and knocked a piece of glass off the table and went to grab it, and…”

“I know you are. Such things happen, especially when you work with glass. I missed you.”

“I missed all of you. How are Maglor and Maedhros?”

“Very well—so much better than they were. They missed you, too.”

“I’ll go see them soon.”

“They would like that, but they’re both coming back to Tirion in the spring and summer, so there’s no rush.” 

Fëanor had Calissë and Náriel suitably distracted when they returned to the house, and Celebrimbor slipped upstairs to his room to change into clean clothes. Curufin returned the kit to its place and washed his hands in the kitchen, earning a narrow-eyed look from Tindehtë. “An accident in the workshop. No real harm done,” he said.

“Tyelpë?” she asked.

“Yes, but he’s fine.”

“Mm. I’ll take a look later.”

“I did the stitching—exactly how you taught me. Will you put on tea, please—and bring honey with it?”

When Curufin returned to the parlor he found Celebrimbor there, embracing his sisters, as Fëanor and Rundamírë greeted one another with—well, not warmth precisely, but not the same frigid politeness that Rundamírë had shown when Fëanor had first returned either. Curufin went to embrace Fëanor, since he hadn’t had the chance before. “How was the journey back?” Fëanor asked as he wrapped his arm around Curufin’s shoulders, his grip warm and tight. 

“Very pleasant,” Rundamírë said, “as was our stay in Imloth Ningloron.”

“Did you know that Uncle Cáno met an enchantress that tried to turn him into a statue of ice?” Náriel interrupted. She and Calissë had claimed Celebrimbor’s lap, sitting on the sofa. He rested his arm over the back of it, keeping his bandaged hand out of reach. 

“An enchantress?” Fëanor repeated, his tone suggesting that he didn’t know whether he was meant to laugh or not.

“He escaped because he got very lucky, and a talking beaver helped him and then he met a talking fox that didn’t really help him but was very funny, and then Elladan and Elrohir found him and took him home with them! And that’s why he’s got bits of white in his hair, where the enchantments got caught.”

Celebrimbor laughed. “I hadn’t heard that story before,” he said. “It sounds very exciting.”

“It was very silly,” said Calissë. “But no one will tell us how Uncle Nelyo lost his hand, even though he just laughs—”

“Calissë,” Curufin said, as Fëanor’s grip on his shoulder tightened for a moment. “That’s enough. Tyelpë isn’t going to tell you either.”

“It’s not nearly as interesting as talking beavers and enchantresses,” said Celebrimbor, as unbothered by the subject as Maedhros himself. “Uncle Cáno has all the fun, it seems. Anyway,” he went on, tickling Náriel until she squirmed, “I want to hear about your adventures.”

Tindehtë brought the tea, with plenty of honey and with a dozen of Celebrimbor’s favorite strawberry-jam filled pastries, and once Curufin saw Celebrimbor eat one, laughing at Calissë’s description of Maglor’s hedgehogs, and was satisfied that he really was all right, he caught Fëanor’s eye. 

Back in the workshop it was quiet. Outside the clouds had moved in, turning the light through the windows and skylights pale. At a gesture and murmured word the lamps around the walls sprang to life, soft golden yellow. “Why does Tyelpë grow ill at the sight of blood now?” Fëanor asked after a moment. He leaned on Curufin’s workbench, tracing his finger over a knot in the wood. 

“You know how he died, Atya,” said Curufin. Fëanor’s gaze flickered up to his face, his own unreadable. “He can’t bear it for the same reasons he cannot make himself take up gemcraft again.” He paused, for a moment uncertain, but deciding that it was worth whatever reaction he’d get. “It’s something you should understand at least a little—”

Fëanor made a noise that was equal parts bitter and frustrated. He turned away to start pacing around the room, all restless energy, braid swinging with each step. “You are always telling me, Curvo, that I can’t understand.”

“It’s not exactly the same, obviously, but—you never took up any sort of fiber craft, and you wouldn’t let us do it either, and there were the times you couldn’t even look at Tyelko—” Curufin watched Fëanor stop his pacing abruptly, going very still. He did that sometimes now, and it was always strange to see. The Fëanor of his memories was always moving, even if it was just his hands. 

“It was not Tyelko—”

“I know that. But we all have things like that now, things we can’t bear to see or to do, or to hear. For Tyelpë, blood makes him feel ill, and he can’t bear the thought of gemcraft, or putting any kind of power or even small enchantments into his work. It’s only lately that he’ll enter a forge at all. It isn’t something he can just push through—it isn’t cowardice, or—”

“I never said it was,” Fëanor said.

“You would have thought so, once,” Curufin said. He watched Fëanor bite back a sharp retort, because they both knew that it was true, however much they both wished otherwise. “The past is heavy, and some scars can’t be erased even in Mandos.” He thought of Celegorm again, how he’d avoided Míriel for reasons he hadn’t been able to put into words even for Curufin, and that old habit of twisting his hair around his fingers until it hurt.

“I know that, Curvo.”

“You know your own scars, and you can know Tyelpë’s a bit because they look a little like your oldest ones. You don’t really know ours. A single battle is not a war. Alqualondë—it was not Doriath or Sirion. Even the Darkening cannot compare to the Dagor Bragollach or the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.” Curufin reached for the bag that held the palantír, tugging the drawstring open so it fell around the stone, which sat dark and still and silent on the workbench, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. “My words aren’t enough, I know—I’m no storyteller like Maglor—and seeing what Vairë wove isn’t, either. This, though—this can bring you closer than anyone’s songs or tales.”

Fëanor looked at the palantír, and then at Curufin. “Your brothers will not thank you for this,” he said.

“It was Maglor’s idea,” Curufin said. “I would not offer something like this without having spoken to all of them. They—we all love you, Atya. But they’re afraid. Caranthir and Celegorm and Maglor are still angry.”

“What can I do, Curvo?” Fëanor asked. He leaned against the workbench again, almost like he needed to so he could remain standing, and looked at Curufin. “What can I do to show them…?”

“Look into the palantír,” Curufin said. “So much of it will be ugly and grievous and terrible—but there is beauty there too, and joy. You used to know us all better than anyone else in the world, but you don’t anymore. Sometimes now you look at me as though I am a stranger, someone you don’t know at all. This is the only way we can think of to start to fix it.” He paused, thinking of Maglor’s request that he not share how his hand and Maedhros’ still burned at the sight of their father. It felt like something Fëanor should know, but Curufin didn’t really know what telling him would accomplish except to pile onto the guilt he already felt—and would feel, after he looked into the palantír. “I don’t know what else you can do, except to keep going as you have been, and let them come to you when they’re ready. Keeping that promise means more than you realize.”

Fëanor closed his eyes for a moment and breathed a sigh. “I do not want to be someone you fear,” he said, very softly. 

“I know,” Curufin said. 

“How did we get here, Curvo?” Fëanor sounded almost lost, and it made Curufin want to take him back to the house and wrap him up in blankets and feed him pastries, like he would Tyelpë or his daughters when they were in distress and need of comfort. That wasn’t the sort of comfort that Fëanor needed, though—if he wanted comfort at all. The best Curufin could offer instead was honesty.

“You taught me to make swords, and then insisted I set aside everything else in pursuit of that mastery,” Curufin said after a moment. He dropped his own gaze to the tabletop, where his hands rested, still with traces of blood under his fingernails. “The way that you spoke of it, of how we would need them—that frightened me for the first time. By the time we went to Formenos—no, even before then, even before you drew your sword at the palace, we were all afraid. Even Maedhros. We followed you because we loved you, but we also feared what you would do if we didn’t.” And they had been right to fear. Maedhros had done no more than stand aside at Losgar, and Fëanor had turned on him with words as ugly as anything he had ever said to his brother. “I know you won’t go down that same road again, I do, but—but I would be lying if I said I did not sometimes fear it, all the same.”

For a little while they stood in silence. The past felt like a physical weight on Curufin’s shoulders, making it hard to breathe. He’d never spoken of those years before the Darkening with his father before. They had both avoided it, had avoided even the Darkening itself. Maybe that had been a mistake. He just hadn’t known how to speak of it without risking a fight, because even now Fëanor had his pride and he did not always react well to being told that he was wrong—though maybe that was another fear that was needless, because even when they did argue and when it got ugly, it wasn’t real anger that Fëanor ever showed. It was just frustration boiling over into something that looked like anger. Curufin knew the difference—knew it in Fëanor and in himself. If Fëanor was ever truly angry these days, it wasn’t with any of his sons.

Now he had spoken of it, and indeed that fear had proved false: there was no anger in Fëanor now. Instead he bowed his head, shoulders slumping. It was a posture of defeat, more than anything else. Finally, Fëanor straightened and came around the workbench to put his arms around Curufin, holding on very tightly. He kissed the top of Curufin’s head. “I’m sorry, Curufinwë,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“We aren’t blameless either in this—this estrangement. It’s just—” 

“No, I am your father, and it was my actions that led you all down this path. It must fall to me to fix this, if it is possible. I’ll look into the palantír—I will do anything you ask of me.”

“It will hurt, Atya,” Curufin said as Fëanor drew away. “It will break your heart.”

“Oh, Curvo. It’s already broken.” Fëanor cupped his face for a moment, as he reached with his other hand for the palantír, drawing it back into its bag to pick it up. “I’m proud of you, you know,” he said, “and I love you—more than anything in the world, I love you, all of you.”

“I know,” Curufin said. “I love you, too.”

Fëanor left, and Curufin sank onto a stool to rest his head in his arms. After a little while he heard the door open again. “I take it you gave him the palantír?” Caranthir asked.

“I did,” Curufin said without lifting his head.

“How did it go?”

“I wish there was another way, that we could just—” 

“I know.” Caranthir rested his hands on Curufin’s shoulders and kissed the back of his head. “I’m sorry, Curvo.”

Curufin raised his head. “Will you at least tell me why you’re still angry?”

Caranthir didn’t answer immediately, not until Curufin turned to look at him. Then he said, “Thinking about speaking to him makes me feel sick to my stomach. I don’t think I’m really angry, but I’m not not angry—but not for me. It’s for Nelyo, and Cáno, and Tyelko—they’re still—it’s—I don’t know how fragile their peace is, still, and I know how good Atar is at breaking that kind of thing, even if he might not mean to.”

“I think Tyelko doesn’t hate Atya so much as he hates himself,” Curufin said. “I don’t know how to help him either, how to get him to let it go.” Curufin was not the only one who had inherited all of their father’s ugliest traits, but Celegorm believed that was all he had inherited, and sometimes Curufin thought that they were all he reduced himself to. He didn’t know how to make him stop, to make him see that he was so much more than all of the anger and the guilt that even after spending so many years with Nienna seemed at times to be eating him alive. Even in that, he was like Fëanor—and both of them were too often too good at hiding how they really thought of themselves. Curufin had had a glimpse, that afternoon, of some of what his father usually hid so well. It made something under his ribs hurt, like a knife had been shoved between his lungs and his heart. 

“I think it will help,” Caranthir said after a moment, “knowing that he’s seen…whatever it is he’ll see. That he’s seen us, as we were, the good and the bad. I hope it will help, anyway. Cáno’s going to have to talk to him sometime about that song he’s writing. Maybe this will make it go easier—and maybe if Cáno can speak to him and have it go well, it’ll be easier for Tyelko.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” Curufin said. “He said he’s going to come to Tirion next year…”

“I think that’s why. Not just Atar—he’ll be talking to everyone.”

“I don’t remember him ever needing to consult with so many others for any other song.”

“He’s never written a song like this before. It feels like it might be one of the most important songs he’s ever written. I don’t know why.” Caranthir slung his arm over Curufin’s shoulders, resting his forehead against Curufin’s temple. “I don’t see a way forward for me right now, Curvo,” he said, “but neither did Nelyo or Cáno before they went to Lórien. That means something. I’m sorry you’re caught in the middle of it.”

“I don’t mind being in the middle,” Curufin said. He had at first, when Celegorm had been furious with him and it had been harder to believe the assurances of his other brothers that they weren’t, but that time was long past. Someone had to be the bridge between Fëanor and the rest of them, and Curufin was glad to play the part—if only he could a way to close the gap altogether. All he wanted was for all of them to be able to let the past go once and for all, to move forward—and to be able to do it together. 

“Ambarussa are planning to seek him out, you know,” Caranthir said after a moment. “They were thinking of it even before we decided to give him the palantír.”

“I did know that,” Curufin said. Ambarussa seemed to be the least angry of everyone. They seemed to carry the quiet and peace of the deep forests with them wherever they went. Of everyone, their meeting with Fëanor was most likely to go well. If they could find a way to share that peace with Fëanor, maybe… 

“Come on. Everyone’s going to wonder where we are.” 

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed much more cheerfully. Celebrimbor had recovered his composure quickly, and laughed off his injury, and much of the conversation centered around either Imloth Ningloron or plans for the coming winter. Curufin never felt happier than when his little family was all gathered together, especially if at least one of his brothers was there too, and for a little while he could put his father and the palantír out of his mind and just enjoy being at home again. 

Rundamírë had been talking recently of having another child, to make the number an even four, and when she mentioned it at dinner Caranthir laughed. “I think that’s what our mother said—make it an even six—only for us all to be surprised by Ambarussa.”

“Well, between your mother and Celebrían, at least I will have no shortage of advice when it comes to twins, if such a thing should happen,” Rundamírë said. “What do you think, Náriel, would you like to be a big sister and not the baby anymore?”

Náriel wrinkled her nose. “I’m not a baby, Ammë!”

“I like being a big sister,” Calissë said, and so of course Náriel immediately decided that she would very much like to be one as well. 

“Well, I suppose that’s decided,” Celebrimbor said. “And you didn’t ask, but I do very much like being an elder brother.” 

“Maybe,” Curufin said. “But we have a wedding to get through first.”

“I still think we should elope,” Lisgalen said. 

“You can’t elope, not with all the Mírdain already planning the biggest party we’ve held since the end of the War of the Ring,” Celebrimbor protested. 

“Well, maybe we don’t want a party,” Lisgalen said. “And if someone wants to talk about traditions we can just say we’re following some obscure Avarin way of doing things, and who’s going to question it? My own parents did it, so it’s at least my family tradition.”

“You can try to tell my mother that,” Caranthir said, “while I hide away somewhere.”

“Just warn the rest of us before you run off,” Curufin said, “so we know when to plan the party upon your return.” Caranthir made a face at him, and Lisgalen laughed. “Some traditions can’t be entirely evaded, Moryo! Only delayed. Letting all your friends and relations drink good wine and dance all night in your honor is one of them.”

“Maybe I’ll ask Mithrandir to make some fireworks for the occasion,” Celebrimbor said.

“Yes, fireworks!” Calissë exclaimed. “Just like at Midwinter last year!”

“It’s our wedding!” Caranthir protested, though he was also laughing. “Do we get a say in whether or not there are fireworks?”

“No!” Celebrimbor said. “Not if you refuse to plan a party at all.”

“Just don’t put Ambarussa in charge of the wine,” said Caranthir.

“No, I’ll ask Finrod instead—”

“Or Finrod! He’s even worse—”

Later that night, as they prepared for bed, Rundamírë asked, “You gave the stone to your father?” 

“I did. He’ll probably be up all night with it, so I’ll go find him tomorrow.” Curufin sighed as he sank back onto the pillows. It was wonderful to be back in his own bed, but he did not foresee sleep coming easily. Rundamírë finished her own nighttime preparations and slid into bed beside him, dousing the lamp and plunging the room into darkness. The city’s nighttime sounds drifted through the open window alongside with the slightly-chilly breeze, familiar and comforting. Curufin lay and stared at the ceiling for a long time, listening to that and to Rundamírë’s soft breathing beside him. 

In the morning he left the house, going first to the palace. “Did something happen yesterday?” Lalwen asked him when she found him coming out of Fëanor’s rooms, which had been empty but for the palantír on the floor near the bed; Curufin had picked it up and put it into a cupboard, out of sight and out of the way. “He seemed upset this morning. Did you quarrel?”

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

“The cherry grove, or else your old house. But what happened, Curufinwë?”

“We didn’t quarrel, Aunt Lalwen.”

He found Fëanor beyond the cherry grove, sitting behind Finwë’s old workshop, which had stood closed and shuttered since the Darkening. He wore yesterday’s clothes, and his hair was bound up in a tangled and unraveling braid. Curufin slid down the wall beside Fëanor, and leaned against his shoulder. “What did you look for?” he asked.

“The end, for all of you,” Fëanor said, voice hoarse. It shouldn’t have been surprising, really, that he would seek for the worst things first. His eyes were red, though whatever tears he had shed were long dry. “And Cáno, left behind—” His voice broke, and he closed his eyes, covering his face with a hand. “I don’t know how it came to that. I don’t—I never wanted—”

“I know. Atya—” 

“Do not comfort me, Curufinwë. Let me sit with this, all that I wrought.”

“No.” Curufin sat up, turning so he sat facing his father, rather than side by side, and laid a hand on his arm. “The point isn’t to punish you, Atya. The time for all that is long over, for all of us. We have all come to terms with what we did, as much as we ever can; we’ve done what we could to atone, though little enough has ever been asked of us. The past is still heavy, but it no longer drags us backward when we look to the future. We do not want that for you—we do not want you to lose yourself in the darkness.”

“I am long overdue for—”

“No, you aren’t. That’s not what this is for. I told you yesterday that it is your understanding that we need—we need you to see us, to know us as you once did, for all that we are and not just the things that are said of us or that we wish to or can share with words. The palantír shows you nothing but the truth unvarnished, good or bad, without anything embellished or left out. Look for us during the Long Peace next. That time shaped us as much as all that came after, and in much better ways. We were happy, for such a long time—and the battle that you led, though it ended with your death, made that possible.”

“Yet it all ended in fire.”

“Yes, it did. The Oath slept, and our Doom waited, but neither could be escaped forever. Remember, though, Atya: it was all so long ago. Morgoth is locked away beyond the Doors of Night, and Sauron is no more, and we have all passed through Mandos and come out again. We are all here.”

Fëanor did not lower his hand. “But not whole.”

“Whole enough. Have you seen those pieces of ceramic—bowls and cups and things—that were broken but repaired afterward with gold?”

“Your mother has some.”

“Think of us like that.” Curufin imagined Gandalf chuckling to himself somewhere, remembering how he had used that same metaphor to try to get them to see themselves and one another more clearly, to see that it was possible to move forward—to come back together in a way that could never be exactly the same, but could still be beautiful. “We’re all like that, all of us who lived and fought in Middle-earth. And—if you saw the cups at Ammë’s house, then know that it was Cáno who made those repairs. He learned how in Imladris.” He let go of Fëanor’s arm, sighing. “When you do want comfort, you know where to find me.”

Fëanor caught his hand before he could rise to his feet. “I love you, Curufinwë,” he said quietly. “It feels as though I cannot say it enough.”

“I know you do, Atya. I love you too, so much.” Curufin leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “Please be kind to yourself.”

Chapter Text

Autumn passed and gave way to winter’s chill. Imloth Ningloron got no more than the occasional frost—Celebrían disliked the bitter cold, and had chosen her home well—but the air took on a bite. Maglor also disliked the cold, but he enjoyed wintertime—the cozy fires and the long nights of mulled wine and music. The weeks slipped past both quickly and not, punctuated by the occasional letter from Curufin or Caranthir in Tirion. Curufin had given Fëanor the palantír, but he was reticent concerning what Fëanor had seen or what they had spoken of afterward. Whether that was his own choice or because Fëanor himself wouldn’t speak of it, Maglor couldn’t tell.

Indis returned to Tirion before Midwinter, but Míriel lingered until after the holiday, when she bid them farewell and departed to make her way back to Vairë’s halls. “I will see you in Tirion next year, perhaps,” she said to Maglor, taking both his hands and rising onto her toes to kiss his forehead. “Thank you for writing this song, Macalaurë. It is so important—even if it does not move the Valar as we hope.”

Some days later, Maglor sat in his room, feet up on his desk, chewing on the end of his pencil as he regarded the blank pieces of paper in front of him. The song would do nothing at all if he could not write it, and yet no words would come to him. Rain drummed on the window, and Pídhres curled up on the seat in front of it, tail twitching as she dreamed. A fire burned cheerfully on the hearth, less for the heat than for the sound of it, though Maglor had woken that morning feeling faintly chilled, as he rarely did these days; combined with his struggle to think of a single line it made for a more sour mood than he’d suffered since leaving Lórien. It was the sort of mood that made him want to throw all that he had written into the fire, and to prevent himself from doing so in a fit of pique he’d locked it all away in a drawer, leaving out only the blank sheets to taunt him.

A knock at the door heralded Elrond. “Daeron said you were writing this morning,” he said, setting a tea tray down near the fire. “Care for a break?”

“I haven’t written a single word,” Maglor sighed, lowering his feet to the floor.

“The song for Finwë?” Elrond asked as Maglor joined him by the hearth. 

“Yes.” 

“I thought it was going well.”

“Yes, well…that was before I was told its real purpose.” Maglor accepted a cup of tea, steaming and dark, fragrant with spices. It was his favorite, and had been since his youth. Coming to Valinor and finding it still popular and still tasting just as he remembered had been an unexpected delight. “Míriel and Indis wish for me to sing it before the Valar.”

Elrond looked at him in surprise. “Why?” he asked. Then, “Oh—oh, I understand.”

“I told them it won’t work,” Maglor said. He sat down and crossed his legs in his seat, glad of the heat from the tea and from the fire. “I’m no Lúthien—I’m no one the Valar will listen to, in song or otherwise.”

“I presume this is to be kept secret?”

“More or less—not least because I’ll never finish the song if I know everyone is expecting the impossible of me. Bad enough Míriel and Indis are, but at least I know you won’t. I’ve told Daeron and Maedhros too.”

“What did they say?”

“They tried to be encouraging.” Maglor leaned back in his seat and stared at the fire. “It is by the Valar’s own judgment that Finwë remains in Mandos. Of all people, how can I be the one to change their minds?”

“It is a new Age,” Elrond said. “Anything is possible, as Celebrimbor likes to say. The Valar have relented before.”

“I am no Eärendil, either. Maybe you should sing it. It’s your family that’s done all the impossible things.”

Elrond smiled, but didn’t rise to the joke. “You will be a grandson singing for his grandfather. There is much I think the Valar still do not understand about us Children, but they understand love and sorrow. Nienna will hear you, at least.”

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their tea and listening to the rain and to the crackle of the flames. Maglor found himself thinking of another rainy afternoon, far away and long ago in Rivendell, when he was always cold, before he had gotten his voice back, and long before he had been able to even think of writing songs, let alone singing before such an audience as all the Valar together. Elrond had spoken to him then of Rings and of dangers and uncertainties, seeking to reassure but really just adding to the pile of fears Maglor had been trapped under, feeling like he was slowly suffocating. Those fears had not come to pass, in the end, but it was still a relief to look at Elrond’s hand now and see that Vilya was not there. He was deeply grateful for the Elven Rings, and proud of Celebrimbor for having made them, but they had been as much a burden as a blessing, as well as an ever-growing danger. 

“You never met Finwë,” Maglor said after a while, after he dragged his thoughts back to the present. “But it feels wrong not to ask you, too: what would you hear, in this song for him?”

Elrond did not answer right away. By the window Pídhres stretched out all her limbs before curling back up into a small grey ball, face disappearing behind her tail. Finally, Elrond said, “His legacy. There is Fëanor of course, and the Silmarils, and Celebrimbor and his Rings and the glories of Eregion, and of course you and all your brothers—don’t make that face, you know what I mean. And had he not wed Indis—still Morgoth would have been released, still he would have sought to sow discord among the Eldar, and who knows what form it might have taken? Still, I think, he would have destroyed the Trees, and brought war to Middle-earth. Yet without the children of Finwë and Indis, how would it have gone? Eärendil would have never been. I would have never been, or Celebrían. So too is he the forefather of the race of Númenor, of Elros and all of his children after him. His strength flows in the veins of the Kings and Queens of Gondor and Arnor even now.” He had lowered his gaze to his cup as he spoke; now he looked up again at Maglor. “I have been inundated with kinsmen and -women since my coming here—I have met by now nearly all of the House of Finwë who walk again under the sun, save Finwë himself, and that is a great grief to me, though it cannot compare to the grief I know you feel.”

“He would love you,” Maglor said. “He would adore you and Celebrían and the twins—and this valley and all that you’ve built here.”

Elrond’s smile was sad, the same smile he wore at times when he spoke of Elros. “I like to think so,” he said, “but I can never know it for certain. Not while the statute holds. It is not the purpose of your song, but if you can sing a little of Númenor, of Lothlórien and Imladris, and of Lindon—those of us who followed his example to the best of our abilities, to not cower or flee before the horror of the dark…”

“I will,” Maglor said. It would grieve Finwë, he knew, to know that such strength had been necessary. He had sought to protect all his people and his children and their children from such a fate by bringing them to Valinor. But he would also, surely, be proud of those who had stood firm, who had fought the long wars and the many battles to emerge victorious, unbowed. Maglor was not one of them, but Elrond was, and Galadriel. Gil-galad had been, and Elendil and Isildur—and Aragorn, later, alongside all the Dúnedain of Gondor and Arnor. He could honor all of them as he honored Finwë. It was true, what Elrond had said: the world would be a much darker place had the children of Indis never been born. The thought of a world without Elrond, without Elros having been, made something in Maglor’s chest hurt sharply, constricting his lungs. “It is the purpose of this song, to tell of our grief—and yours is no less important than mine, to grieve the absence of one you should know but cannot.”

“It is a familiar grief, at least,” Elrond murmured. Maglor set his tea aside and moved to sit beside Elrond rather than across from him, so he could embrace him. “Oh, you don’t have to—I’m all right.”

“I know.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Elrond sighed, leaning his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “When you go traveling again, do you intend to go alone?”

“No. Daeron at the very least will be with me, but this won’t be at all like the last time I went away. Do you want to come to Tirion and Alqualondë with us?”

“I think so.” Elrond lifted his head. “I do not visit Tirion often enough. I traveled little after taking up Vilya because it was too much of a risk, and then it became habit.”

“I would love it if you came with us.”

Tea and conversation with Elrond lifted Maglor’s spirits, but he abandoned his attempts at writing, instead going to find his brothers and Daeron. Ambarussa were nowhere to be found, but Celegorm and Maedhros were with Daeron in one of the cozier parlors. Daeron sprawled across a sofa with his legs draped over Celegorm’s lap as he laughed at something in a letter. Maedhros had a book in a chair by the hearth, and Celegorm also had a few letters he was reading. “How goes the songwriting?” Maedhros asked as Maglor came into the room. Maglor made a face. “That well?”

“So well that I need a distraction. What news from your songbirds, Daeron?” Maglor sat on the floor by the hearth and by Maedhros’ chair, so he could lean against his knee. Maedhros’ hand dropped briefly on top of Maglor’s head. 

“Plenty of gossip that will mean absolutely nothing to anyone here,” Daeron said cheerfully. “I also have a letter from Dior who asks me to give his greetings to Celegorm.”

Celegorm looked up from his letters. “No he didn’t,” he said.

“He certainly did! Look!” Daeron handed over the paper, and Celegorm frowned down at it. “I’m sure the only reason he has not included Maglor or Maedhros is because he has not yet met them.”

“If you say so,” said Celegorm as he handed the letter back. “I don’t understand him at all.”

“I think,” Daeron said, “he would not be opposed to friendship.”

“He said that when we spoke, but I thought he was joking,” Celegorm said. “He can’t mean it. I killed him, remember?”

“And he killed you,” Daeron said. Maglor couldn’t stop himself flinching, the sudden memory of blood spilling over the dais of Menegroth’s throne room coming into his mind, and Celegorm’s white face, the sound of him gasping his last breaths— 

He blinked, and Maedhros’ hand was on his shoulder. Celegorm was too busy glaring at Daeron to have noticed. “Both of those truths should make friendship impossible,” he was saying. 

“Since when have impossibilities stopped you, Tyelko?” Maedhros asked, his tone far lighter than the grip he kept on Maglor’s shoulder. “Many impossible things have happened in recent years, haven’t they?”

“It feels that way,” Maglor murmured. “There you are, silly cat.” Pídhres had wandered in. She trotted over to climb onto his lap, accepting the scratches and pets that were her due. 

“There’s impossible and then there’s impossible,” Celegorm said. 

“That,” Daeron said, “makes no sense.”

“Of course it makes sense—”

“Have they been doing that all day?” Maglor asked Maedhros as Celegorm and Daeron began debating various definitions of the word impossible. 

“Yes,” Maedhros said. “You have no room to complain—you used to do exactly the same thing and were much more annoying about it.”

“Well, I’m not going to join in today. Words have failed me utterly and I have forgotten all their meanings.” Maglor leaned against his legs again. “What are you reading?”

“An account of the wars with Angmar.”

“Whatever for?”

“Was I supposed to spend all winter listening to tales of the War of the Ring and the Witch-king’s defeat and not be curious?”

“Why not just ask Cáno?” Celegorm said.

Maglor rolled his eyes. “About Angmar? I never even heard that name until I came to Rivendell. I think I must have been very far south when all that was going on—in Harad, maybe.” He couldn’t really be sure. Maglor had ceased counting years very early on in his wandering—but he did think he would have at least heard rumors of trouble in the north if he had been in Eriador at the time. The birds that flew south down the rivers had always had snatches of news, and the rivers themselves sometimes carried hints of what was going on elsewhere in their courses, though none of it ever gave a complete picture. “In fact, I am the worst person to ask about anything that happened between the War of Wrath and the War of the Ring. All the news and rumors I ever heard were years out of date and terribly jumbled.”

He spoke lightly, and meant it lightly, but Celegorm frowned at him. “That sounds horribly lonely, Cáno,” he said.

“It was. But it wasn’t all misery. For most of that time I wasn’t really unhappy.” He hadn’t been happy either, but there had been a certain contentment, a certain freedom in the isolation. “Stop looking at me like I just kicked Huan, Celegorm. I’m fine now.”

Celegorm shoved Daeron’s legs off his lap and got up, sitting down on Maglor’s lap instead and dislodging Pídhres, who jumped up onto Maedhros’ lap with an annoyed yowl. He was bigger than Maglor, so it was like Huan had come to sit on him. “Oof—Tyelkormo—”

“Why are we all sitting on Maglor?” Amrod asked as he and Amras came into the room. 

“Please don’t,” Maglor said, as Celegorm hooked an arm around him and leaned his head on his shoulder. “Honestly, Tyelko, wouldn’t it have been worse if I knew first-hand all that went on in Angmar and such places?”

“Depends on how you knew,” said Celegorm. “If you’d gone to Elrond—”

“Well I didn’t, so—”

“And that was stupid of you, wasn’t it?”

“Behave, children,” Maedhros said. He leaned over to yank on one of Celegorm’s braids. “It was a long time ago now, Tyelko.”

“And I’m fine,” Maglor repeated. “Or I would be if I didn’t have a great big—oh for—Ambarussa!” Both twins joined Celegorm in piling on top of him. “Nelyo, make them get off!”

“Nelyo’s always saying he doesn’t want to order us around anymore,” Amras said smugly. Then, “Are you upset today, Cáno?”

“He’s just grumpy,” Daeron said unhelpfully from where he’d taken over the entire sofa after Celegorm’s departure. “I daresay he’s cold, too.”

“Someone will be cold later tonight,” Maglor said, “and it won’t be me.” Daeron laughed as Huan wandered into the room. He saw the pile around Maglor and Maedhros and, of course, joined it. “All of you except Pídhres are terrible and I hate you.” 

“Oh, Cáno,” said Amrod after they were done laughing at him, “that reminds me—Amras and I have been thinking about your song for Finwë.”

“Yes?”

“He was warm,” said Amras. “Not like Atya was hot, but not not like that. Do you know what we mean?”

“Yes,” said Celegorm and Maglor together. 

“I don’t know how you can put that into a song, though,” said Amrod. 

“You let me worry about that,” said Maglor. “You’re not all going to get your own verse or something, but everything you tell me helps to…give it all shape. It tells me something of him, and the more I know and understand, the better I can put it all into words.” Assuming he could find the words at all. It had been days since he’d put anything down on paper, and even then he’d scratched most of it out almost immediately. He was looking forward to the coming of spring, which would bring Elemmírë from Valmar. Even just talking of music in general with her had always helped him before when he’d gotten stuck, better than anything else.

“Will you tell me more of Finwë?” Daeron asked. He rolled over onto his stomach, resting his head on his arms as he looked at them.

“Didn’t you ever meet him?” Celegorm asked.

“A few times, but I was very young and never took much interest in the visitors from the Tatyar that came among us. I remember someone with a kind smile and ready laughter—actually, you sound rather like him when you laugh, Celegorm—but very little else.”

“He’s right,” Maedhros said. “You do sound like him, Tyelko.”

Maglor stayed quiet as his brothers spoke more of Finwë, telling stories of their youth—the funny stories, the ones that didn’t hurt to remember. Their father inevitably came up in those same stories, but it was easier to talk and hear about him, too, when he was not the focus. Ambarussa shifted around, slowly, so that they were not sitting on top of Maglor anymore, though Amrod still leaned against him, while Amras sprawled out on the rug with Huan. 

Eventually someone called Daeron away, and Maglor’s brothers fell silent. Maedhros returned to his book, and Celegorm leaned his head on Maglor’s shoulder again. Maglor reached up to tug on his braids. “Stop worrying,” he said. 

“I’m not.”

“Then stop thinking about whatever it is that’s upsetting you.”

“Don’t you think about it—about all that time you spent…?”

Maglor sighed. “Not the way you do. I meant it when I said I wasn’t unhappy. For most of that time I wasn’t, even if I was lonely.”

“Isn’t being lonely unhappy in itself?” Amrod asked. 

“I got used to it, after a while,” said Maglor. “And—and I miss it, sometimes.” It wasn’t something he’d really intended to admit out loud, not to his brothers, but the words escaped almost of their own accord. “I miss those shores. The seabirds, and the dunes, and the stones. The Sea.” They were wild and empty of Men or Elves, and if they were desolate they were also so beautiful. He’d made many songs for them, though he’d written none down and had never sung them except to himself and to the waves and the stars. Maybe he should sing them sometime, he thought, looking between his brothers’ faces. “Please don’t look like that. I’m trying to reassure you.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of it,” said Amrod. “We all saw you when you came here, remember?”

“That wasn’t—that was—if Dol Guldur had never happened, I would have been very different. I’m speaking of the years before it.” If Dol Guldur had never happened, though, he might never have come west. He would never have sought out Galadriel or even Elrond on his own. Maybe Daeron would have found him before taking ship himself, but maybe not. It was easy to imagine a world in which he never returned among his own people, in which he remained in Middle-earth forever, watching it all change around him. That was not a world he wished for now, but it was one in which he could imagine himself having been content, maybe even really happy given enough time. But of course that wasn’t something he could ever say aloud, not to anyone. 

“Whatever happened, or didn’t happen,” Maedhros said, dropping his hand to rest on top of Maglor’s head again, “Cáno is here now.”

“And I’m very happy, except for how I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

“You were unhappy earlier,” Celegorm said.

“Not all my bad moods are a sign of something dire, Tyelko. Lórien didn’t turn me into someone of constant and irrepressible cheerfulness, and thank goodness for that because I’d want to strangle myself if it was so. I wasn’t thinking of the past at all until Maedhros spoke of Angmar. And I really can’t feel my legs, so can you please get off me?”

He did get off, but only so he could lie down with his head in Maglor’s lap instead. Maglor stretched out his legs with a dramatic sigh of relief, to make Ambarussa laugh. Amrod asked, “Why are you in a bad mood today, Cáno?”

“Writing is impossible.”

“Oh, it’s that kind of bad mood,” said Amras. “It can’t be so impossible, if you’re only mildly grumpy about it. You used to treat it like the worst disaster in the world. The only thing worse that ever happened to you was when Curvo spilled that glue all over your hair.”

“That was one of the worst things to ever happen to me,” said Maglor. “It also ruined my favorite shirt—”

“And then you refused to go out in public for weeks,” said Amrod, “because you had to cut your hair short. You know it’s very strange now, how little you care for what you look like.”

“You spend centuries wandering around the wilds where no one can see you, and then see how much you care for ribbons,” said Maglor.

“We did!” Amras laughed. “You’ll have to get back into the habit, though, if you’re going to visit Tirion and Alqualondë and all those places.”

“Ugh,” said Maglor, just so they would laugh again. He didn’t mind, it just felt strange. Jewelry was heavier than he remembered, and doing more than just pinning his hair back or braiding it into a simple plait was usually more than he cared to take the time for—half the time he didn’t even bother with that.

Eventually, Ambarussa dragged Celegorm away outside, as the rain started to ease, and Maglor left Maedhros to his history books. He found Galadriel in the weaving room. It was not empty, but there were only a few others there, across the room, so he joined Galadriel at her loom to watch her work. “How goes your songwriting?” she asked, and laughed when he made a face again. “You’ll get there, Macalaurë.”

“I hope so.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, not yet—I haven’t written enough to be worth showing to anyone.”

“Daeron tells me you intend to go to Taur-en-Gellam this summer. To speak to Thingol?”

“Yes. He and Finwë were close in friendship, and it seems wrong not to speak to him.”

“I agree,” Galadriel said. “Daeron also says you must be careful about the timing of your visit. I thought he was joking before, when he said he intended to time his return to be the most amusing.”

“And profitable,” Maglor said. Galadriel laughed. “Whenever we go, it will be after Elemmírë’s visit here. She’s eager to meet Daeron.”

“Eager also, I think, to consult with you both about this festival that Ingwë is planning.”

“Do you know anything about that? All I’ve heard are the vaguest rumors.”

“I think it is something that has been on his mind since you returned,” Galadriel said. “Or perhaps I should say since Círdan came. There are many who have not yet come to these shores, either through Mandos or by ship, but so many have, and it is an opportunity now to gather together more of the Eldar than has been possible since the start of the Great Journey.”

“Oh,” said Maglor. “That is something to celebrate, I suppose.” It also felt, alarmingly, like a deadline. If he could finish his song and if it could sway the Valar before this festival… 

Better not to think of it, not if he wanted to ever write another word again. 

“It has been spoken of off and on for years,” Galadriel said as she passed her shuttle through the threads of her loom, swiftly and steadily, “and it is only lately that anything like real planning has started to take place. Your return from Lórien, I think, will speed things along even further. No one wished to hold such an event without all three of you—Elemmírë, Macalaurë, and Daeron.”

“That’s what my brothers said,” Maglor said. “I hope I won’t be a disappointment.”

Galadriel glanced at him. “Your view of yourself remains crooked, I see,” she said. 

“I am different,” Maglor said. “No one can deny that.”

“Different does not mean lesser.”

“No, but it might mean disappointment to those who expect what I was before.”

Galadriel sighed and rolled her eyes just in time for Finrod to see as he wandered into the room. “Oh dear,” he said, grinning. “What have you done now, Maglor?”

“Perhaps you can say that his voice being different is no disappointment, as he fears, and be believed,” Galadriel said.

“Why would it be? It’s not that different, anyway.” Finrod joined Maglor on the windowsill, bumping their shoulders together. “When I first heard you sing, after you arrived in Avallónë, I was delighted—or, no, not quite delighted. I was relieved. You were so melancholy I feared you would not have the heart for music at all.”

Maglor shook his head. “That hasn’t been true in a long time,” he said.

Finrod frowned. “It was once true, though?”

“Macalaurë was entirely silent, upon his coming from Dol Guldur,” Galadriel murmured. 

“I hadn’t heard that,” said Finrod. “What happened?”

“It took less than a year for Elrond to lift that last curse,” said Maglor. “But there was…there was a time when I almost did not want him to. It seemed safer—the silence. It seemed safer to keep my music beyond my reach, even though I missed it desperately.” He thought now that it would have meant his fading, to refuse to find his voice again, or if he had not been able to make his way back to music afterward; it was too much a part of him to go without for so long, however much he had feared it.

“Why?” Finrod asked. “How could that have kept you safe?”

“It was what he wanted of me. If I couldn’t do it I couldn’t give it to him. I don’t think I could have explained it like that at the time, it just…it was just all a tangle of fear and hurt. But I did get my voice back, and I did start to make music again—even if it is different now than it once was.” 

“Not so different,” Finrod said again. 

“Maybe it just feels different for me, then. I’m not afraid anymore, though.”

“Good,” said Finrod. “You were horribly afraid when you first came here, though I couldn’t tell of what.”

“Lots of things,” said Maglor, managing a small smile. “And almost all of them were pointless in the end. But it’s still true that my music is not what it once was, and just because you were happy to hear me again doesn’t mean others won’t be disappointed.”

“Anyone who is, isn’t worth worrying about,” said Finrod. 

“I know. I’m not afraid anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous. If I perform at this festival of Ingwë’s, it will be my largest audience since…” He tried to think. “It might be the largest audience I have ever sung for.” It would be the easiest thing in the world, though, compared to singing before all the Valar. Maglor tried to quash that thought. It still wasn’t helpful. He did not want to tell Finrod or Galadriel the purpose of his song for Finwë—not yet, at least. Maybe when he had it written they could help him turn it into something the Valar might listen to. 

“What is troubling you, Macalaurë?” Galadriel asked. “You do not have to perform at this festival if you do not wish to. No one will insist on it.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m just—thinking too much, I suppose.”

Finrod poked him in the temple. “Well, stop it. Whatever you choose to do, you know, we’re all very glad to have you back. All of you, in fact. Before you returned hardly anyone ever saw Celegorm or the twins, and Caranthir never came to Tirion, and Maedhros only came when Fingon dragged him. Curufin was a little better, but only because of Celebrimbor.”

“It wasn’t really me that brought them all back together,” Maglor said. 

“Yes, I know. It was your father. But he only came back out of Mandos because of you, you know.” Maglor looked away. “Maedhros said your hand hurt too, when you saw him again.”

“It did, but not for long.”

“Any time at all is too long,” said Finrod. He took Maglor’s hand in his, turning it over to reveal the scars. “Maedhros only has the memory of these,” he said. “Do yours ever hurt otherwise? In the usual way of old injuries, I mean?”

“It used to get stiff in the cold,” said Maglor, “but I met Nienna by Ekkaia, and it hasn’t ached like that since.” Her tears had fallen on it, chasing away the stiffness and the chill. He almost had not noticed afterward how it had never come back. 

“I am glad she found you there,” Galadriel said. “I think you sorely needed her, then.”

“I suppose I did, though at the time I came away feeling rather…flayed open.”

“She has that effect, I’m afraid,” Finrod said. “Did she help you sort out whatever it was that lay between you and Maedhros? I still don’t quite understand what that was.”

“She seemed so certain there was a way forward. I suppose that did help—it was something I kept coming back to. But Maedhros…it was hard, seeing him then, because he seemed so unchanged, as though Mandos had done nothing for him. To look at him was to see Beleriand breaking apart again, at…at the very end, when he was lost to me.” 

“Seeing your father hurt him deeply,” said Finrod. “Before that he was…he was far from happy, but he had roused himself enough to come here to speak to Elrond.”

“I know. And it doesn’t matter now—we both went to Lórien, and we both found what we needed. Except whatever it is that will resolve what lies between us and our father still.” He looked down at his scars, his hand still resting in Finrod’s. Galadriel continued her weaving, the rhythm of the loom steady and unceasing. Thinking of his father made him think again of his song. “I had heard that your father does not like visitors. Would one of you write to him for me?”

“Oh, he’s much more lax about it now,” said Finrod, “but I’ll go to speak with him for you, unless you intend to go to Alqualondë before Midsummer.”

“I don’t know what my plans are. I may go to Taur-en-Gellam first, or I may go to Tirion—and from Tirion I might as well go to Alqualondë. I very much doubt, though, that I will leave here before Midsummer.”

“Well, just let me know what your plans are when you know them. Either way, my father will be glad to see you.” Finrod paused, and then said, “I told Maedhros he might benefit from speaking to my father. Perhaps you will, too. Not only of Finwë, but also of Fëanor.”

“I think Fëanáro was quite surprised to find his youngest brother so stubborn or slow to forgive,” Galadriel murmured. “He kept himself apart from the feuding, long ago, but after so many long years carrying the burden of the crown he no longer fears to speak his mind.”

“I think Fëanáro has been surprised by almost all of us,” said Finrod. “Even Findis.”

“I think Findis rather surprised everyone,” said Maglor. Both Galadriel and Finrod laughed. “At least no one ended up in the fishpond this summer.”

“Oh, no one was complaining when your father ended up in it,” Finrod laughed. “My only regret is that I did not witness it myself.”

“It was an important lesson for Fëanáro, I think,” Galadriel said serenely, “in what it means to have siblings. Sometimes you end up with a well-deserved black eye, and algae in your hair. I think it speaks very well of him that he was able to laugh about it afterward.”

“I suppose,” said Maglor. He could not picture his father laughing. Not outside hazy long-ago memories. It was impossible to picture him at any stage of life soaking wet with pond weeds sticking to him and mud up to his knees.

He and Finrod left Galadriel to her weaving. Finrod threw his arm around Maglor’s shoulders. “How did you manage to return to your music?” he asked. 

It had been a rainy winter night, Maglor remembered. He had woken from a terrible nightmare and opened his window in spite of the horrible cold, just to feel the rain on his skin. Afterward it had ended and the clouds had parted, and the silver moonlight had shone through the window onto the harp his brothers had made, that had survived the downfall of Beleriand and all the long centuries afterward. “I think it was the rain,” he said. “I could hear the Music in it, one night in the dead of winter in Imladris, in the rain and in the river. I’d lost that in the dark, and it…it felt as though I had been struck deaf as well as mute. I suppose that is what gave me the courage to put my fingers to the harp strings again, though it was still years before I could do it outside of my own room with the door firmly locked.”

“I’m sorry,” Finrod said quietly, all smiles gone. “I wish that had not happened to you, Maglor. You did not deserve it.”

“I wish it hadn’t happened either. But it’s what brought me to Lothlórien, in the end, and then to Imladris. I don’t know that I would have ever sought out Elrond or Galadriel on my own.”

Finrod smiled, though it was tinged with melancholy. “So it ever goes in the Third Theme,” he said. “Out of great sorrow and suffering comes hope and victory at the last.”

“Yes,” Maglor said. “I have thought of that often ever since.”

Chapter Text

Spring came with bright sunshine and an explosion of flowers throughout the valley. The gardens were carpeted with crocuses and daffodils, and the house was soon filled with the latter by the vase-full, bright yellow and sweet-smelling. It also brought talk from Nerdanel of returning home, and Maedhros found himself increasingly eager to be back there too. Even with the expansions built onto it since he had left for Lórien, it was much smaller than the sprawling house of Elrond and Celebrían, and as comfortable as Imloth Ningloron was, Maedhros found himself missing his own small cozy bedroom, and the kitchen that was always halfway to chaos in spite of Caranthir’s efforts, and the plum orchard that would be blooming soon, and the little river beyond where he’d found quiet solitude under the willow trees—for such a long time the only place he’d felt anything close to peace. 

Ambarussa announced their intention to go home with Maedhros and Nerdanel, and thence to Tirion to “bother Curvo and Moryo.” So they said in front of Nerdanel, but later Amrod confessed to Maedhros that they intended to go to Fëanor. “You can tell Ammë,” Maedhros said. 

“We don’t want to get her hopes up, in case it goes horribly,” said Amrod. “Have you heard anything from Curvo lately?”

“Not about Atar. Do you really think it will go badly?”

They sat together in the gazebo out on the water; it was late, and the moon was up, turning the water to liquid silver. The night was cool but not cold. A few bats flitted about, dark shapes against the starry sky. Amrod shifted in his seat, and crossed his legs. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think so—we have spoken to him before, even if it was just polite greetings and empty chatter because we were surrounded by other people. It’s always awkward but I don’t feel badly about it afterward or anything. I don’t know what to feel about him still. It’s just—well, I don’t know. I just…I want to have a father again. It feels as though we—Ambarussa and I—that we haven’t really had one since we were so very small. I miss him.”

Maedhros held out his arms, and Amrod all but fell into them. Maedhros rested his hand on the back of his head. “You never seemed unhappy when you were young.”

“We weren’t. It’s only looking back now that we can see what we did not have. And he did apologize for it, in those letters he wrote us. He told Amras that if he could go back he would forget about the Silmarils if it meant he could spend that time with us instead. It’s impossible, of course, but it’s…nice that he would want to.”

“It is,” Maedhros said.

“You don’t believe it, though.”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore, Ambarussa. I want to believe there’s something to salvage. Maybe there is for you, even if not for me.”

“We never really thought about our father-names before we got those letters,” Amrod said. He rested his head on Maedhros’ chest and sighed. “Small and Last—that’s me and Amras.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“No, but it isn’t that hard to figure out, is it? I don’t know. It never bothered me before, and I don’t know if it does now. He was the only one that ever called us Pityafinwë and Telufinwë, anyway. It’s just, you know. Another little thing on top of all the other things.”

He did know. It seemed like such a small thing in the face of all the bigger things that had happened later, but names were important. They meant something—and Ambarussa had been born before the work on the Silmarils began, before the whispers had started, before Fëanor began to withdraw, distracted and increasingly agitated and angry. “Will you ask him, do you think?”

“No. I don’t really want to know what he’ll say. I would rather look forward than back. I think it bothers Amras more than me, though—maybe we’ll ask Ammë about it instead.”

“It may be that you can’t move forward without looking back,” Maedhros said. He had done a lot of looking back, though until he had gone to Lórien it hadn’t done him any good. Getting caught in circling thoughts of bitter regrets and what-ifs wasn’t healing, but looking at what had happened and why, and acknowledging which parts of it were your fault and which were out of your control—it had been a long and painful process, but he’d come out of it able to see everything more clearly. 

Well, almost everything.

Amrod hummed softly. “Maybe.”

“Whatever happens, will you come tell me about it?”

Amrod sat up to look at Maedhros. “You really want to hear about Atar?” he asked.

“I want to hear about you,” he said, “and to know that you’re all right—however it goes.”

“You don’t have to wor—”

“I’m still your elder brother, and you’re still my youngest baby brothers.” Maedhros tugged on one of Amrod’s braids. “I’m always going to worry about you. The least you can do is indulge me in this.”

“All right, of course we’ll come see you afterward. But we aren’t babies.”

“Tell that to someone whose hair you didn’t spit up in.”

A few days later, as Maedhros finished packing his things, Maglor came into his room, dropping onto his back from behind to wrap his arms around him. “I’ll miss you, Nelyo,” he said into Maedhros’ hair.

“I’ll see you in a few months, at most,” said Maedhros, “won’t I?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Maedhros ducked forward and flipped Maglor over his shoulders. He went with a yelp, landing with a thump on the rug. Maedhros leaned down to kiss his forehead. “I’ll miss you too, Cáno. I really am looking forward to being at home, though.”

“Oh, I know.” Maglor smiled up at him, looking for a moment as young and bright as he had been long ago when the Trees still shone. “You know Tyelko’s worried you’ll slip back into old habits.”

“I am thoroughly sick of the word brooding,” Maedhros said. “I haven’t brooded since Lórien.”

Maglor laughed. “I know that. You might want to reacquaint Tyelko with the definition of the word.”

“I’ll do it while I dunk him in the river.”

Maglor sat up, and Maedhros returned to making sure he had everything in his saddle bags. “I thought you were going to burn that sketchbook,” he said, seeing it poking out of one of the bags.

“I am. I want to do it at home.” He could have destroyed it at any time over the winter, he supposed, but he wasn’t the one who cleaned the grates here and he didn’t want anyone to stumble upon anything that didn’t quite burn up. At home no one touched his small bedroom hearth except himself. 

“Just be sure Ammë doesn’t see it.”

“Be sure Ammë doesn’t see what?” Nerdanel asked, appearing in the open doorway. 

“Just old drawings,” Maedhros said as Maglor made an apologetic face at him. “They’re awful; you don’t want to see them.”

“Awful in what way, Maitimo?”

“Awful in the way you’re probably imagining.” He shoved the book down to the bottom of the bag and pulled the drawstring shut. He got to his feet and went to embrace Nerdanel. “I have plenty of other drawings I want to show you.”

“All right,” she said, sounding doubtful. “Should I be worried?”

“No, Ammë. I drew them in Lórien—it did help. The drawings helped all along.” It had been at Nerdanel’s insistence that he’d even picked up a pencil to begin with, that he had something to do that wasn’t—well, that wasn’t brooding. “I needed to get the terrible things out of my head and onto the paper, and destroying them will be part of it—but now it’s mostly because I don’t want to keep them.” 

“It’s like lancing an infected wound,” said Maglor behind him. “Though maybe that’s not a good comparison if you’ve never seen such a wound.” 

“I haven’t and have no wish to, but I do understand making something just to destroy it,” said Nerdanel, her frown fading away. “As long as it really helped, Maitimo.”

“It did.”

“And, Macalaurë, do you still plan to come to Tirion this summer?”

“Sometime this summer, maybe the fall,” said Maglor. “Depends on how long Elemmírë stays here, and then whether Daeron and I go to Taur-en-Gellam first. Definitely after Midsummer—we’re staying here for that.”

“You are vague with your plans, aren’t you?” Nerdanel asked, amusement taking over the concern. “I hope you weren’t like this in Beleriand.”

“He was worse,” Maedhros said, just so Maglor would look affronted. He wasn’t disappointed.

“I beg your pardon, my Lord of Himring!”

“Oh come off it,” said Maedhros. “More than half the time I never knew when I might expect to see you next.”

“During the Long Peace, maybe. I was busy. But I always came when you were expecting me,” Maglor said. He got to his feet. “Anyway, it’s not as though any great plans will fall apart if I don’t come to Tirion before autumn. I haven’t been given any imminent deadline for this song, and it’s too important to rush through it.”

“I thought Daeron just wanted to time his return to Taur-en-Gellam so someone could win a bet,” Maedhros said.

“Well, there’s that too.” Maglor joined them in the doorway to kiss Nerdanel. “I’ll write before I come to Tirion, Ammë, don’t worry.”

“Good. Your grandparents will want to see you—and your cousins.”

“I want to see them, too. It will be a much merrier meeting this time, I promise.” Maglor smiled and left them. 

Maedhros went back to his packing, and Nerdanel wandered through the room, pausing by the sketchbook he’d left open on the desk. “These are lovely,” she said. “You have a gift for portraiture, Maitimo.”

“I must get it from you,” he said as he finished securing everything.

“Will you return to painting at home?”

“Yes. I’m looking forward to it.” Maedhros looked up and smiled when she glanced back at him. “Really, Ammë.”

“I believe you. You do still seem terribly grim at times, Maitimo, when you think no one’s looking.”

“I can’t help what my face looks like when I’m not paying attention,” he said. “I can’t ever be what I was before—”

“I know that.”

“—but I’m not unhappy. I feel—I feel much like I did during the Long Peace, I think. I wasn’t unhappy then, either. I was very happy for much of it.” He had been dreaming lately of Himring, of its building and of just—seeing it, living there. He missed it, the way that Maglor missed the seashores, and the way that Caranthir would probably never admit that he missed Thargelion. He couldn’t decide if knowing that its walls still stood was a comfort or if it just made missing it worse. He could not think of a place where he had ever felt safer, even in Aman. It was also the one thing he couldn’t get right in any of his drawings, no matter what he did.

“Are you happy now?” Nerdanel asked, because there was a difference between not being unhappy and actually being happy, and of course she would know it.

“I am. I’ve been happier since leaving Lórien than I have since—since I can’t remember when.” The difference between now and the Long Peace, of course, was that there was no Shadow looming over them, no Enemy to watch, no reason to carry weapons wherever they went just in case—nothing to fear.

They left Imloth Ningloron the next day with Ambarussa—and with Aechen, who made the journey in a little basket that Celebrían had found for him to hang off of Maedhros’ saddle. Celegorm remained behind with Maglor, but promised that he would come back to Nerdanel’s house soon—either with Maglor, or whenever Maglor left for Taur-en-Gellam. Both he and Maglor held on very tightly when they embraced Maedhros. Fingon cheerfully promised to come drag Maedhros to Tirion for Midsummer, whether he wanted to go or not. Elrond said farewell with a warm smile. The journey was sunny and warm and not long. It felt odd not to be traveling with Maglor, but though Maedhros missed him immediately it wasn’t painful. They would never go long without seeing one another again, and there would be letters and messages flying back and forth in between.

Nerdanel’s house was the same as it had been when Maedhros had left it, except of course that there was a new wing attached, stretching back through where the garden had been before, finished long enough ago that it no longer looked quite new. The garden had moved accordingly, and expanded and changed. Roses climbed the walls alongside ivy, and the plum orchard that lay between and behind Nerdanel and her parents’ house was all in bloom, pale pink and sweet-smelling. “Is it just new bedrooms?” he asked as they approached.

“Yes, mostly. There is a workroom downstairs for Carnistir.”

“I spin the threads,” Amrod said with a smile, “and he dyes them, and then…I’m not sure what happens to them after that. He must take them to Tirion or something, because he’s not doing any weaving or anything here.”

“Some,” Nerdanel said. “The rest goes to Imloth Ningloron.”

They left their horses in Mahtan’s stable; Mahtan and Ennalótë were away, and so the four of them returned alone to Nerdanel’s house. Maedhros set Aechen down in the garden and watched him disappear around the hawthorn tree and into a patch of fennel, and then followed Ambarussa inside. His room was, as Caranthir had promised, untouched. It was much smaller than his room in Imloth Ningloron, with white-washed walls and a plain wooden floor laid over with a couple of braided rugs. The bed was tucked against the wall by the window that looked out past the orchard toward the river, which glittered in the sunshine, the banks full of reeds and bulrushes, the fields on either side full of dandelions. Come summer there would be daisies and buttercups and queen’s lace all in bloom too. Across from the bed was a wardrobe and a desk, and a small bookshelf that was mostly empty. Maedhros went to drop his bags onto the bed, but found two rolled up bundles there already. He took them for rugs first, before realizing they must be tapestries. 

“Where did these come from?” he asked Amras when he caught sight of him passing by the door.

“Where did what come from?” Amras peered into the room. “I don’t know. What are they?”

“I have no idea. Help me unroll them?” They untied the first and shook it out, Maedhros holding one corner and Amras the other. Maedhros’ breath caught at the scene woven into it, all green-gold and blue, cut through with dark grey—it was Himring, as seen from a distance riding east across Ard Galen under a wide summer sky. It was a scene he had been trying to render in pencil for years, wishing to have something to look at outside of his own memories. 

“This is Grandmother Míriel’s work,” said Amras as they laid it gently over the bed. “It almost looks as though you could step into it, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Maedhros said faintly. He ran his fingers over the grey threads of Himring’s walls. It was exactly what he had wanted, but this tapestry must have been woven well before she ever came to Imloth Ningloron, before they had met. Even then, he had not spoken to her of Himring. She could not have known.

They unrolled the second tapestry, laying it on the bed overlapping the first. It was Himring again, but as it was now: an island rising out of the blue-grey sea, birds flying about the ramparts, rounded and worn with the passage of time and the wind and rain and waves. Beyond could be glimpsed the shores of Middle-earth, pale and distant. Trees grew around Himring’s walls, dark and hardy firs bent and twisted by the sea winds. The sky behind was streaked with pale clouds, rather than the clear blue of the first scene. Maedhros pressed his hand over his mouth, tears stinging his eyes. 

“Nelyo?” Amras put a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to keep them, you know, you can—”

“No,” Maedhros said, lowering his hand. “No, I—I do want to keep them. Both of them. They’re—I’ve wished I could see Himring again. I never thought I would.” He could have gone to Avallónë, he supposed, where there was the largest palantír ever made, put there for anyone to use who missed the eastern lands. But it would not be the same—not something he could look at whenever he wanted, whenever he felt homesick. 

“You really miss it so much?” Amras asked. 

“Don’t you? Miss Ossiriand, I mean, or any of it?”

“No. Not really. Most of our friends from then are here now, and the woods of Valinor are—well, of course they’re different, but woods are woods even still.” He stepped forward and Maedhros wrapped an arm around him, kissing the top of his head. “I’m sorry, Nelyo. I didn’t know you felt thus.”

“How could you? I never speak of it.”

“I wonder how Míriel knew.”

“Míriel weaves for Vairë. I suppose she knows a great deal without being told.” Maedhros glanced around the room. There was just enough space on the walls, if he moved the wardrobe a few inches to the left. “Help me hang them?”

Amrod and Nerdanel came to investigate when they heard the shuffling and the groan of the wardrobe as Maedhros and Amras shoved it aside. “What in the world are you doing?” Nerdanel asked. 

“Grandmother Míriel sent a gift to Nelyo, so we’re going to hang them,” Amras said. “It’s long overdue, Nelyo. This room is terribly plain.”

“Don’t you dare start sneaking more things in,” Maedhros said, seeing that glint in Amras’ eye. “I mean it, Ambarussa.”

“Well if you just painted the walls,” Amrod began. 

“If you paint my walls I’ll—”

“Boys,” Nerdanel said, though her attempt at sternness failed as she struggled not to laugh. “You have your own room to decorate as you please. You need hooks, Maitimo; I have some downstairs.”

“Really, though,” Amrod said when Nerdanel left, “you could paint the walls something more interesting. Blue, maybe—or green.” He gestured toward the tapestries. 

“I’ll think about it,” Maedhros said. 

“Or maybe murals or something,” said Amras.

“I just got back. And I’m still terrible with paints.” He’d only picked up a brush almost right before leaving for Lórien—and painting was a skill he had not needed in Beleriand, and so had never learned to do with his left hand. It would be a long time before he painted anything he wanted to hang up somewhere, let alone paint directly onto his walls.

“Well, I’m glad you want to hang these instead of putting them away somewhere,” said Amrod, going to the bed to look over the tapestries. “They’re beautiful.”

Nerdanel returned with the tools needed to hang the tapestries, and between the four of them it only took a few minutes. Ambarussa left, but Nerdanel lingered, looking at the scene of Himring as an island. “It seems a lonely place,” she said. 

“It is now, I suppose,” Maedhros said, “but it wasn’t always. And Elrond has all kinds of papers and records that were recovered from it after the War of Wrath.”

“I know, I’ve seen them.” Nerdanel took his hand and squeezed it. “Little enough is written in your own words, but I could still tell how you loved that place.”

“I did,” Maedhros said. As much as Maglor had loved his Gap, and Caranthir had loved Thargelion. Their other brothers had not been quite so attached to their own lands, Maedhros thought. But they had all loved Beleriand—Middle-earth—the mountains, the plains, the forests and the rivers. It was sometimes hard to remember, but there had been so much joy there, before doom caught up to them. 

“You could build something for yourself here, you know.”

“I know, but I like where I am. Unless you want me to—”

“You know perfectly well I like having you here. I just want to be sure it’s what you want.”

“It is.” 

Ambarussa stayed two weeks before departing for Tirion. Just after they left, Mahtan and Ennalótë arrived home. They had Maedhros’ uncle Linquendil with them, as well as his son Elessúrë. Elessúrë had been a small child when they had all departed for the east after the Darkening; Maedhros had spoken to him very little since his own return from Mandos. Maglor had been Elessúrë’s favorite cousin, but Maglor had told Maedhros that their reunion had not been a very joyful one, speaking of it early in Lórien with downcast eyes and slumped shoulders.

Elessúrë greeted Maedhros now with a little less warmth than their grandparents did, but still with a smile—and that was to be expected from a cousin who did not know him well. He had let his hair grow; it brushed his shoulders, a lighter shade of red than Maedhros’ own. He had more tattoos wound round his arms, too, intricate geometric patterns in dark ink. “You look brighter,” he said. “I’m glad. Where is Macalaurë?”

“He remains at Imloth Ningloron,” Maedhros said.

“Did Lórien help him, too?”

“It did. He’ll be glad to see you when he comes to Tirion to visit.”

“When will that be, do you think?”

“Sometime later this year.”

Elessúrë nodded. “I was not very kind to him before,” he said. “I didn’t—I didn’t know just how badly he was hurting.”

Maedhros shook his head. “He did not want you to know,” he said. “He wasn’t upset—or he was, but he didn’t blame you. That was the sort of welcome he expected to receive from everyone.” At this Elessúrë looked both horrified and abashed. “I’m sorry, Elessúrë.” He had been Maedhros’ baby cousin, too, terrified and so very small, and none of them had been able to do anything to offer comfort in the darkness—and then they had left. 

“I am too,” Elessúrë said. “I hope I can know you better now, Cousin.”

“I think I’m someone worth knowing, now,” Maedhros said. “I wasn’t before. Not really.”

Elessúrë frowned at him. “That’s a cruel thing to say about yourself.”

“It’s only true,” said Maedhros. “I was…I was caught up still in the past and everything I had done wrong, and all the fear and the horror of it. I’m not, anymore.”

“I’m glad of it,” said Elessúrë, “but should you not have left all that behind in Mandos?”

“Yes,” said Maedhros, “but I couldn’t. I don’t want to tell you any more than that, Elessúrë. You don’t need to know about it. Whatever tales you’ve heard are more than enough.”

“I’m not a child, Russandol.”

“What’s that got to do with it? I was not a child when I went to Middle-earth, and I wish that there had been someone to protect me from it. I heard once that you wanted to go with Arafinwë’s host to the War of Wrath. I’m so glad you didn’t.”

“Macalaurë said that, too. I only wanted to go to search for you.”

“In that case,” Maedhros said, “I’m even gladder that you didn’t go.”

After things settled down again, Maedhros was at last able to retreat to the little painting studio that his brothers had asked Nerdanel to make for him. It had been a storage shed, tucked into a corner of the garden behind Nerdanel’s much larger workshop. Now it was a small but bright space, with shelves along one wall filled with jars of paints and pigments, and sets of brushes, and all manner of other things he might need. There were canvases too, leaning against the wall beside the shelves, and several easels to choose from as well as a table by the window. Maedhros didn’t have any particular plans, except maybe to try to turn one of his sketches into a painting, something simple to practice colors and shading and just holding the brush correctly. Before, when he had looked at the shelves full of color, he had felt daunted. Now he felt excited as he reached for a jar of bright green pigment.

Chapter Text

A few weeks after Maedhros and Ambarussa left with Nerdanel, Maglor was in the library putting his notes for Finwë’s song in some kind of order, while Celegorm sat nearby flipping through a book. It wasn’t unusual for him to join Maglor in the library like this, but it was clear that he wasn’t actually seeing the words on the page. He seemed to be working his way toward speaking of something, and Maglor was content to wait until he was ready. He frowned down his own papers, and picked up his pen to scratch a few musical notations in a corner as a snatch of melody flitted through his mind. It might be nothing, but it might also be the start of something. 

“Are you working on your song?” Celegorm asked finally. 

“Yes.” Maglor looked up. “Do you want to speak of Finwë?”

“Not really.” Celegorm looked back down at his book, frowning. “It’s…it’s hard, Cáno.”

“I know. You don’t have to give me any answer if you can’t, or if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to, I just…” Celegorm blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. It settled back where it had been. “He never looked at me differently.”

“Differently?”

“Because I look—I look like Míriel. Sometimes it was like Atar couldn’t bear to look at me at all, but Grandfather never turned away or treated me any differently than he did the rest of you. I think now that it must have bothered him just as much as it bothered Atar, but he never let it show. That’s all I can think of for your song, but don’t want you to put that into it.”

“I won’t,” said Maglor. “Is that why you think you’re Atya’s least favorite, Tyelko?”

“No. Or—maybe part of it. Mostly I think I’m just—I’m too like him. I’m too angry—”

“You’re more than your anger, Tyelko,” Maglor said. “You’re more than—”

“—than all the awful things, I know. I do. I’m…I’m almost at peace with it, I think.” Celegorm looked up. “I miss him,” he said. “I miss both of them.”

“So do I.” Maglor set his papers aside and went to sit on Celegorm’s lap. It wasn’t quite fair turnabout since he was lighter, but he wrapped his arms around him, and Celegorm dropped his book to do the same, burying his face in Maglor’s shoulder. “Do you still hate him?”

“No. No, that at least I think I’ve let go.” Celegorm did not lift his head. Maglor rested a hand on the back of it. “Do you?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t want to. But I haven’t quite forgiven him, either.” But then, he’d forgiven Maedhros long before he’d realized it, so maybe that didn’t mean anything. All he knew for sure was that he felt a horrible knot of anxiety tying itself up in his stomach whenever he thought of speaking to his father. That wasn’t anger. That was just fear.

“Neither have I.” Celegorm sighed. “I just—it still feels as though we’re all scattered, and…”

“Maybe the trouble is that you have not yet put down roots, like the rest of us are doing,” said Maglor as he stroked Celegorm’s hair. “Have you not returned to Oromë at all since Nelyo and I went to Lórien?”

“No. I shouldn’t have gone back to begin with, I think. I just…didn’t know what else to do. I still don’t.”

“It doesn’t have to be any one thing, Tyelko.”

“I know.”

“Have you tried making things?”

The library door opened before Celegorm could answer, and Elrohir came in. “There you are, Maglor,” he said. “Come downstairs; Elemmírë is coming down the road—she and Findis.”

“Findis?” Maglor repeated, startled, as Celegorm lifted his head.

“Yes, I saw her banner.”

Maglor got up, and Celegorm followed. He had stopped avoiding Elladan and Elrohir, though they were not yet quite friendly. “What’s Aunt Findis doing here?” he asked as he and Maglor followed Elrohir downstairs. 

“I haven’t yet seen her since I came west,” said Maglor.

“Oh. I keep forgetting you’ve hardly seen anyone.”

Findis was tall and golden-haired, looking far more like her mother than like Finwë. She sprang up the steps as Maglor stepped outside and embraced him. “Macalaurë! It’s so good to see you at last. And Tyelkormo! I didn’t know you were here.”

“Hello, Aunt Findis,” Celegorm said as Findis threw her arms around him next. Maglor stepped away and went down the steps to greet Elemmírë.

Elemmírë was short in stature, but that was easy to forget because her presence was so bright. Her hair was a deeper shade of gold than Findis’, and her eyes were the color of aquamarine and radiant. “You look much happier than when last we met!” she said, embracing Maglor tightly. She had come to Imloth Ningloron for the Midsummer celebrations the year that Maglor had come west. He had been cheerful enough then, but that had also been before he’d met with his brothers or his father, and the past had still been a very heavy thing. “I’m glad that Lórien could help you.”

“I’m glad, too—and gladder still to see you again. I don’t know where Daeron is at the moment, but he is also looking forward to meeting you.”

“And I him! I was delighted to hear that both of you were here together.”

Elrond and Celebrían emerged to greet Elemmírë and Findis, and after the usual bustle of new arrivals settled a little, Maglor went to look for Daeron. He had a vague idea that he was somewhere among the workshops. As he walked past the fishpond Aegthil and Annem appeared out of the grass to scurry along at his feet. 

He found Daeron just outside the woodworking shop, brushing sawdust off his clothes. “What are you working on?” he asked. 

“Oh, nothing particularly interesting,” said Daeron. He looped his arms around Maglor’s neck and kissed him soundly. “Were you looking for me?”

“I was. Elemmírë has just arrived, along with my aunt Findis. Have you met her?”

“Yes, several times. It’s Lalwen I somehow have never been introduced to. She’s always either away or busy or something whenever I am in Tirion.”

Elemmírë was outside on the veranda when they returned to the house. She rose to meet them, smiling as Maglor made the introductions and Daeron bowed over her hand. “I am so glad to meet you at last!” she said. “Come, let us sit a while.”

“I am very glad also, Lady Elemmírë, but I have been carving all morning—I will join you as soon as I’ve washed the sawdust away and changed into clean clothes.”

“Does he make his own instruments, as you do?” Elemmírë asked as she and Maglor sat down and Daeron vanished inside. Pídhres appeared to jump up onto Maglor’s lap, curling up to purr as he pet her. Annem and Aegthil had disappeared again, but he could hear scuffling in the grass nearby. 

“Yes he does. And we both looked at those songs you sent me; Daeron thinks one of his students would like them.”

“I have heard of the songbirds of Taur-en-Gellam,” Elemmírë said with a smile. “I’ve been so busy with students of my own, though—including your cousin, Vindimórë. He was a young child still when you arrived on these shores, and I’m not sure if you were able to meet him?”

“Elessúrë’s son?” Macalaurë asked. Elemmírë nodded. “I met him once, but very briefly. When Elessúrë was very young he wanted to learn to play the harp, but I was unable to teach him, and he told me that he had never learned after I left.”

“It isn't too late,” Elemmírë said, “though he might have no interest in it now.”

“Perhaps. How is Vindimórë?”

“Very talented, especially in singing. His sister Isilmiel was also my student for a little while, but though she is equally talented she has not quite the same passion; I think she just wanted to copy her older brother, but she’s old enough now to look to her own pursuits. Have you ever taken students, Macalaurë?”

“Some,” Maglor said as Daeron emerged from the house to join them. “None here—I taught Elrond and Elros, long ago, but that was all very haphazard. Later I was able to teach Arwen and Aragorn’s children and grandchildren better.”

“Elrond is very skilled,” said Elemmírë. “That speaks well of your teaching.”

“I’m sure he found better teachers—and time to practice—after the War of Wrath,” said Maglor. “I’m afraid most of what I taught him was what he and his brother needed just for survival. There was only rarely time for music just for its own sake in those days.”

“It was much the same during my time in Rhûn,” said Daeron, “but I took full advantage of whatever time I did find.”

“Will you take students now, Macalaurë?” Elemmírë asked.

Maglor blinked. “I…I hadn’t thought about it,” he said. “I would like to finish this song my grandmother and Indis have asked me to write first, though, before I give any thought to teaching.”

“What song is that?” Elemmírë asked.

“A song for Finwë. It is long overdue, and they think I am the best one to write it.”

“It is overdue,” she agreed. “Are you having much success?”

“Some. I haven’t written enough to share with anyone yet.”

The talk turned to songwriting in general for a while, and could have gone on all afternoon and all evening if they were not interrupted by dinner and then the inevitable calls for music afterward. It was still cool enough in the evenings that everyone gathered in the hall rather than outside. Elemmírë obliged cheerfully, bringing out her violin to accompany Maglor’s harp and Daeron’s flute. They traded instruments throughout the evening, though Maglor was sorely out of practice in playing any instrument with a bow and gave up quickly, laughing along as Lindir teased him for it. They sang together, too, and it was as wonderful as he had imagined it would be. Elemmírë’s voice was rich and high, a sound that Maglor always associated with the color gold—and not only because she was a Vanya—but it blended together with Maglor’s deeper voice well, and Daeron, whose range was astonishingly broad, brought perfect balance when the three of them sang together.

It was very late before Maglor and Daeron made it to bed. “That was wonderful,” Daeron said as he fell back onto the pillows.

“You should have made your way to Valmar years ago,” Maglor said, laughing as he unraveled his braids. 

“Maybe, but you would not have been there, and I’m very glad that our first singing together was the three of us. I could hear immediately that she had taught you.”

“She was—is—a very good teacher.” Maglor sat on the bed and watched Annem and Aegthil sniff around the hearth before going to their basket. “Before I went to Lórien I was thinking of going to Valmar as her student again. I feel as though I forgot a great deal.”

“There’s always more to learn,” Daeron said. “And you do have much to teach in your own turn, you know.”

Maglor wasn’t so sure about that. He’d done his best with Elrond and Elros, and later with Arwen’s children and grandchildren, but he’d been making it all up as he went along and he still wasn’t sure that they’d been successful because of or in spite of him. “I could maybe someday take on one student, or two,” he said, “but I don’t know what I would do with a group as large as your flock of songbirds.”

“You don’t need to,” said Daeron. He reached for Maglor, pulling him down onto the pillows. “Though if it is known that you only take a very small number of students at a time I’m sure you will be all the more sought after for it.” Maglor shivered before he could catch himself. “Does that disturb you?” Daeron smoothed Maglor’s hair back out of his face. “I thought you’d left such fears behind.”

“So did I. I don’t know—I’m still so unused to…any of this, really. I don’t feel afraid, exactly, but neither do I like the thought of being sought after for any reason.”

“When we go to Taur-en-Gellam you’ll find my students full of questions for you,” said Daeron. “You can start just by answering those. And, really, you don’t have to take any students if you do not wish to.”

“I wouldn’t say no, I think, if someone asked me,” Maglor said, “but I won’t go around looking for students either.”

“I didn't go looking for students,” Daeron said, laughing a little. “Pirineth came to me. I’m very glad she did, though. I needed something to fill my otherwise empty days. It’s hard to know what to do with myself sometimes, after so many years moving around, always with something to worry about or plan for. It was particularly hard when I found myself suddenly unable to turn around and kiss you whenever I wanted.” He leaned in and kissed Maglor, deeply but gently. 

“It feels dangerous,” Maglor whispered a little while later. Daeron lay half on top of him, head resting on his chest as Maglor played with his hair. Starlight shone through the window. “To make plans, I mean. For the future.” He’d spoken to Celegorm of putting down roots, but finding things to do and a place to belong wasn’t quite the same as looking to the future beyond the next few months. He could imagine things like watching his nieces grow, or traveling back and forth to Tirion and Eressëa, but making something of himself that was more than what he was…?

“You’ve been making plans all winter,” Daeron said.

“Those feel different. I don’t know how to plan for—the rest of my life? Or even just—just years into the future, or anything beyond a few months. It feels like…”

“Ah. Yes, I understand.” Daeron lifted his head. “Don’t make such plans, then. Let life come as it will, and before you know it you’ll find yourself established and comfortable and happy.”

“I’m already comfortable and happy.”

“But you are not established. You are starting to put down roots, but they haven’t taken hold yet.” Daeron kissed him. “Give it time. See this year through, all the travels and all the writing, and then take the next as it comes. Finish your song and start the next one.”

“You are very wise.”

“Of course I am. I certainly should be—I feel I’ve earned it through a great deal of heartache and foolishness.”

The next morning after breakfast, Maglor and Daeron ventured outside, and Maglor caught the sound of raised voices somewhere in the garden. “That sounds like your brother,” Daeron said. “Not a good sign.”

“No,” Maglor sighed. “Better go find out what’s wrong.” 

They found Celegorm facing off with, of all people, Findis. “Understanding must go both ways, Tyelkormo,” she was saying. She had her arms crossed, chin raised, looking quite ready to meet whatever Celegorm might throw at her in his wrath. 

Celegorm, on the other hand, stood stiffly, rigid in that way that Maglor could recognize now not as anger but as a desire to be anywhere else when he couldn’t see a way to escape and did not want to actually become angry. 

Findis went on, “If you wish for your father to understand you, you must try to understand him in turn.”

“I do understand him,” Celegorm did not snarl, but it seemed a close thing. “I understand him too well. That’s the problem.” 

“Celegorm,” Maglor said, adopting a sharp tone from Beleriand that had usually managed to cut through whatever arguments were happening between his brothers, or his captains, or whoever he needed to quiet in the moment. Both Findis and Celegorm turned, startled. Maglor tilted his head toward a path that led away through the gardens, out toward the hills. Celegorm nodded jerkily and fled. Out of Findis’ sight but just within Maglor’s, he broke into a run. Daeron glanced at Maglor questioningly, but Maglor shook his head. 

“What was that, Macalaurë?” Findis asked. She had never heard him use that tone, and did not look as though she appreciated hearing it now.

He sighed, and said in his normal voice, “You cannot scold us into speaking to our father, Aunt Findis.”

“Something must give,” Findis said. “This is unsustainable, this avoidance, especially with your brother caught in the middle.”

“We all love Curvo, and we know this is hard for him. The palantír—I assume that’s what you were talking to Tyelko about—it was meant to be a step forward. And,” Maglor added, “it was my idea, and something we all agreed on.”

“Do you have any idea how all of this hurts your father?” Findis demanded. “Do you care, Macalaurë? I cannot—I will not—believe that you do not care.”

“Of course I care,” Maglor said, feeling suddenly so very tired. Something in his chest hurt. “But I cannot say I’m sorry for it.” Daeron took his hand, grip firm and anchoring.

“Your father loves you,” Findis said. “Anyone with eyes can see that he loves you—all of you—desperately.”

“I can’t see it,” Maglor said. His father had been uncharacteristically cautious on the road, smiling for Curufin’s daughters but with guarded eyes, his thoughts impossible to guess. Maglor did not disbelieve Curufin or Findis, when they spoke of Fëanor’s feelings, but he could not quite believe them either. “I don’t know what you want me to say. None of us want this estrangement.”

“The past should be left where it belongs, Macalaurë.”

“We can’t look to the future without understanding the past, or else what is there to stop us making the same mistakes?”

“The root of our ruin was Melkor,” Findis said, “and he is gone. Nothing will happen to cause—”

“Yes, he is gone. But we did not live under his roof, did not watch him transform from a loving father into a fey and fell stranger full of nothing but fire and fury. In all the years I have lived, I can say there is only one other I’ve feared more than I feared Fëanor in his last days. It is so hard to let go of that fear, Aunt Findis, but we are trying. This isn’t something any of us can solve just by knocking him into a pond and being done with it.”

Findis frowned as though she did not quite believe him. “We are none of us strangers to fear,” she said. “Am I really to believe your reluctance, at least, has nothing to do with Daeron?”

“Fëanor knows from what source my dislike of him springs,” Daeron said. 

“I know what you said to him,” Findis said, turning her hard glare on him. Daeron met her gaze calmly. “It was neither true nor warranted, whatever it was that he said to you.”

“Perhaps I spoke more harshly than strictly necessary,” said Daeron, unapologetic, “but he also presumed much.”

“My reluctance to speak to my father has everything to do with him, and nothing at all to do with Daeron,” Maglor said firmly. 

“Because you are still afraid?” Findis asked. Maglor didn’t answer. He didn’t know how—there wasn’t any good way to explain that kind of fear, the kind that sank into your bones. Even decades in Lórien was not enough to banish it entirely—not this fear of his own father, however much he had hoped otherwise upon leaving. It had crept back up on him, unnoticed until it had already lodged itself back in his heart. He didn’t know if it was a remnant of Dol Guldur still, or if he would have felt this way even if he had never come there. The chill of the place had left him, for the most part, but not sound of Sauron’s mocking words in Fëanor’s disdainful voice. Not the roar of flame that he associated with both the Necromancer and with his father. 

Findis looked at him, her gaze lingering on his face as it had not before. Maglor watched her look at his scars, at the lines around his eyes that should not have been there, at the strands of white threaded through his hair that he could laugh about in front of his nieces, but not in front of his aunt. He hated it, this looking, hated that he knew she would not understand the small scars around his lips and that someone would have to explain them to her; hated that that someone would most likely have to be him. “What happened to you, Macalaurë?” she asked finally. “What is this despair even Nienna could not cure?”

Maybe she did know something more of fear than he’d thought. Maglor released Daeron’s hand to hold his out, scars up. “I threw the last shreds of my hope into the Sea with the Silmaril. Later—well, someone else can better tell you of the Black Breath. I no longer despair, but hope for many things remains out of my reach, and fear is never far away. As for my father…” He let his hand drop back to his side, where Daeron grasped it again, holding on tightly. “I do not intend to avoid him forever. I will speak to him before this year is out—I was planning to even before you came to scold us about it—though I won’t promise either of us will come away happy.” 

“That isn’t nothing,” Findis said. “There is no anger in him anymore. All seven of you are so like him—you all feel so deeply. I understand that makes it difficult to overcome the hurt, but you must know that he loves you. Hasn’t Curufinwë told you?”

“That’s the thing about fear, Aunt Findis. It doesn’t care what other people say.”

Chapter Text

“Did you tell me you were coming to Tirion this soon?” Curufin asked as Amrod and Amras stepped through the door. He looked like he’d just come from his forge, with soot smeared over the bridge of his nose and his clothes all rumpled, smelling of coals and metal.

“No,” Amras said cheerfully as he threw an arm around Curufin’s shoulders. “It’s more fun to surprise you! How are things?”

“The same as they ever are. How is everyone else?”

“All very well. Nelyo’s back home with Ammë,” said Amrod, “and Tyelko and Cáno are still in Imloth Ningloron. They’ll still be coming to Tirion sometime later this year, but Cáno’s refusing to be any more definite than that.”

“Well, he’s better than the two of you,” Curufin said, but he smiled as he spoke. That changed, though, when he asked, “Are you here to see—?” 

Calissë and Náriel came barreling down the hallway then, interrupting any serious conversation. There was no chance to speak further until later that night, after the girls and Rundamírë had gone to bed, and Curufin led the way up to the rooftop garden. The nights were still cool, so Celebrimbor lit the brazier, and the four of them settled onto the soft cushions and chairs set around it. Overhead the stars shone, and the moon was riding high in the sky, pale and half-full. Amrod watched it for a while, until Curufin said, “Did you come to visit us, or to see Atya?”

“Can’t it be both?” Amras asked. “But yes, we do want to talk to Atya. What’s he been looking for in the palantír, Curvo?”

“All the terrible things, I think,” Curufin said. Amrod looked over at him, finding his face troubled. Shadows danced over Rundamírë’s plants behind him, still slender with new growth. Somewhere on the street below someone burst into bright laughter; elsewhere Amrod could hear the faint sounds of a hammer on the anvil. Tirion was so very different from the mountains where he and Amras made their home, so much louder. “I think he has also looked for all of you more recently, just to reassure himself that it really is all over.”

“Have you told him about Cáno’s song?” Amras asked.

“What song?” Celebrimbor asked.

“No,” Curufin said. To Celebrimbor he added, “Míriel and Indis have asked Maglor to write a song for Finwë. It’s long overdue, they said, and he’s the best one to do it. He’s going to be talking to everyone about it—he said it can’t just be his own song.”

“It is overdue,” Celebrimbor said. “That’s why he’s planning to come to Tirion this year?”

“Yes,” said Amrod. “He’s going to Thingol, too, and I think he hasn’t decided yet whether to go there or come here first.”

“Why haven’t you told Atya about it?” Amras asked Curufin. 

“I should,” Curufin said, “I just…he carries that grief so near, still, and with everything he’s been seeing in the palantír I haven’t wanted to add anything to it. I will tell him before Maglor comes. He deserves at least to be forewarned.” Celebrimbor had tossed a pillow to the rooftop to sit beside Curufin’s chair rather than in one of his own, and he leaned his head against Curufin’s knee. Curufin rested a hand on his hair. “Ambarussa, when you speak to him, please try not to get angry. I don’t think he could withstand another confrontation like the one he had with Maglor.”

“We aren’t angry, Curvo,” said Amrod. It wasn’t that they never got angry, but he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually lost his temper. There wasn’t anything left worth getting so angry over. “We’re more worried about him getting angry.”

“He won’t,” Curufin said. “He’s just…he reminds me lately sometimes of Maedhros before he went to Lórien. Not quite as bad, but—that awful grief and guilt that’s eating him up inside.”

“It’s been there all along,” Celebrimbor said. “It’s just gotten worse since he started looking into the palantír. He was unhappy like this when he first came from Mandos, too. Quiet. Then I think he was worried about all of you being off away in the wild—and he wasn’t wrong, all things considered—and then after he came back to Tirion he got better, especially after you came back too, Atya.”

“I hope it wasn’t a mistake, the palantír.”

“I don’t think understanding can ever be a mistake,” said Amrod. “It’s the same grief we all felt, isn’t it? Just all at once, and fresh, while we’ve had years and years to get used to it.”

“It’s different when you can only watch,” Curufin said, “when you aren’t there to do anything about it.” Celebrimbor reached up to take his hand. 

“Yes,” Amrod said, “but he also can’t do anything because it’s already over—and we’re all here now.”

The next morning, Curufin told them that they’d most likely find their father at the old house. “He took a break for the winter, but he’s back to clearing out all the old storerooms and ripping up the garden. Which reminds me, I have some boxes of your old things here if you want to look through them later.”

“Do you have the prisms you made us?” Amras asked.

“I might. And if not, I can make you new ones.”

The house where they had grown up was not far from the palace, though it was a bit of a walk from where Curufin now lived. They had debated for a long time whether they wanted to go together or one at a time, before deciding it would be better together. If it didn’t go well, better not to face it alone. Amrod wasn’t really worried that it wouldn’t go well—they had exchanged greetings and brief pleasantries a few times over the last few decades, and if it was awkward it wasn’t painful—but better safe than sorry. As they approached the house, partly hidden behind still-solid and sturdy walls, Amras reached out to take Amrod’s hand.

They paused at the gate, which was really just an opening in the wall, for the gate was long gone, either taken away for the wrought-iron to be purposed, or just rusted away into dust with the passage of time; it was impossible to say, now. Amrod peered through it, and found the courtyard not quite as overgrown as he had expected, though that was surely due to Fëanor’s efforts; he saw patches of churned up earth and remnants of stems and roots where plants and weeds had been dug up. “He’s done quite a lot, hasn’t he?” Amras remarked in a low voice. 

“Digging up all the gardens would be the easy part, wouldn’t it?” Amrod replied. “Curvo said he’s sorting through all the storerooms inside now.” And then, presumably, he would start tearing the building down. Amrod looked up at it, slowly crumbling, moss-covered and with climbing ivy and roses slowly overtaking the roof. This was where they had grown up, he and Amras, and all their brothers. When they had left it for Formenos, none of them had ever expected not to come back—not to return to find it precisely as they had left it, if a little dusty. He wondered why their father wanted to tear it all down. “I suppose we should go look inside?”

They stepped through the gate, and passed through the courtyard. If he half closed his eyes Amrod could picture it as it had once been, picture everyone coming and going, their brothers and cousins all young and bright and their parents laughing. “Come on.” Amras pulled him forward, and they stepped up to the entrance. Unlike the gate, the doors were intact, even the panes of stained glass set into them, though they were faded and uneven now, the walls on the other side appearing strange and warped, and someone had used fist-sized stones to prop them open. The tiles of the entryway were tracked with dirt, their once-bright colors also almost entirely faded away into dusty browns. 

As they stood for a moment, looking around at the familiar walls that also looked so different, breaking and cracking and devoid of the art and paint that had once adorned them, they heard a thump from somewhere below, and a string of very creative curses. “Oh that’s definitely him,” said Amras. A few seconds later they heard his footsteps on the stairs, and then he appeared, smeared with dust and shaking out one of his hands, his hair bound back in a braid that was already starting to unravel, strands of hair sticking to his temples. Then he looked up and saw them—and immediately tripped on the last step. They darted forward to catch him, each grabbing an arm before he could pitch forward onto his face. “Good morning, Atya,” said Amras. 

“Ambarussa? What—what are you doing here?” Fëanor regained his footing and straightened. They were of a height, Amrod realized suddenly. Somehow he hadn’t ever noticed that before. Fëanor loomed so large in his memory, almost taller than Maedhros. 

“Looking for you,” Amrod said. “Curvo said you’re cleaning out all the storerooms. Would you like some help?” It was easier, maybe, to start by doing something, rather than standing and staring at each other while they tried to think of what to say first. 

“I…” Fëanor looked at them, eyes wide, and then he seemed to come to the same conclusion. “Yes. There are several chests I can’t bring up by myself.”

“A good thing we’re here, then!” said Amras brightly, and led the way back down the stairs. Fëanor had brought many lamps to illuminate the cellars, which were filled with haphazard piles of boxes and crates, chests and rolled up rugs, bits of furniture, pieces of artwork long forgotten. “What are you doing with it all?” Amras asked. 

“Throwing or giving it away, mostly,” Fëanor said as he followed them. “Your brother has most of the things he thinks you will want to keep.”

“Yes, he told us,” said Amrod. “Are you not keeping any of it?”

“I suspect I will be given much of it back later,” Fëanor said, sounding a little rueful, “but I have nowhere really to keep it now.”

“I’m sure our uncle can spare you a storeroom or two in the palace,” said Amrod. Fëanor only shrugged. He no longer stared at them, but now he would not meet their gazes at all—the same way Maedhros hadn’t for years after they’d returned, and the same way Maglor hadn’t, at times, on their journey back from Ekkaia. Amrod was not accustomed to seeing guilt written across his father’s face, and he found he didn’t like it, even as it reassured him that there was again more to Fëanor than just empty burning fury. Fëanor bent to pick up one end of a large chest, and Amrod took the other. Amras picked up a few much smaller boxes, and followed them back up the stairs to the entryway, where they left the boxes to go back downstairs—and this they repeated until the largest crates and chests closest to the stairs had been brought up. All the while Amrod and Amras filled the silence, talking of the past summer, and Maglor’s hedgehogs, and other cheerful things.

“Thank you,” Fëanor said at last, when he and Amras set down the last heavy chest. 

It was nearing lunchtime by then. Amrod glanced at Amras, who nodded and slipped away. They’d agreed before coming to Tirion that they each wanted to speak alone to Fëanor, if things went well, and one of them going to the nearest market for lunch was as good an excuse as any. Amrod stretched his arms over his head, easing the slight ache in his shoulders, which weren’t accustomed to lifting such heavy things. “Thank you for the letters,” he said, deciding there was no more point in avoiding what was in all their minds. “I know that’s overdue.”

Fëanor shook his head. “It isn’t—”

“What I really mean is, thank you for writing two letters.”

This earned him a blank look. “I only wrote one,” he said.

Amrod wanted, absurdly, to laugh. “No, I mean—a letter for me and a letter for Amras, instead of just one to Ambarussa.”

For a moment Fëanor didn’t answer. He frowned, and looked away, casting his gaze over the cluster of boxes and chests strewn through the entryway. “Do others write to you thus?”

“Well, yes—but to be fair, it’s never letters like the one you wrote, usually just short notes to tell us a bit of news or to extend an invitation; it’s not like either of us keep any sort of running correspondence with anyone. It would be silly to waste paper for those things. Just—we didn’t expect it.” Amrod watched Fëanor’s face as he spoke, but whatever his father was thinking, he kept it hidden. Somehow that was discouraging, and Amrod ran out of words. “So…thank you.”

“You shouldn’t—” Fëanor faltered, which was also horribly unlike him. “You shouldn’t have to thank me just for that. I wasn’t—I know I was not—I know I have failed you in so many ways, Pit—Amrod, but surely I was not so terrible a father that it surprises you that I can tell you apart.”

“There was quite a long stretch of time where we tried to make it hard for everyone to tell us apart, when we were younger. We thought it was funny. Ammë was the only one who was never fooled. And you can call me Pityo if you like,” said Amrod.

“But you do not prefer it.”

Amrod shrugged. “Not usually, but…well, it’s what you’ve always called me.” He had been ambivalent about his father-name for a long time, and Amras had been troubled for a little while after they got Fëanor’s letters upon their return from Ekkaia—Small and Last, they were called, and on paper it looked very much like names just jotted down just to round out a list. They had finally asked Nerdanel about it just before they came to Tirion, and she’d told them that they had been born early, and were alarmingly small, and that was all their father could think of through his fears for them. Last Finwë, she had added, with a small smile, had been meant as something a promise to her. No more children—for theirs had been her most difficult pregnancy, and Fëanor had been even more frightened by that. Then she had kissed them both and laughed about how quickly they had grown, and how wild they had been once they could crawl and walk, and how only Telufinwë had turned out to be at all accurate, but it was too late by then to change either name.

Fëanor was silent for a few moments, looking at Amrod like he was some kind of unsolvable puzzle. “Why are you here?” he asked finally, and it was almost like he was bracing himself for the answer, like he couldn’t actually believe any of them would want to come just to see him, just to help him with this strange project of his, clearing out their old home. And that was fair, Amrod supposed. He and Amras had been thinking and talking of coming to see him for years, now, but it wasn’t as though Fëanor could have known that. 

“I miss you, Atya,” Amrod said, and felt his throat tighten with the words.

Something in his father’s expression crumpled, and Amrod closed the distance between them. Fëanor held onto him as though he was afraid Amrod would disappear if he let go. Maglor hugged like that too, even still. Fëanor made a noise somewhere between laughter and a sob. “When did you grow so tall?” 

“That’s how you can best tell us apart,” Amrod told him. “I’m taller than Amras.”

“You are not!” Amras protested as he reappeared in the doorway with a basket in his hand. “He’s a dirty liar, Atya. I’m the taller one.” He set the basket down as Amrod stepped back so he could embrace Fëanor. “Don’t cry! We’re actually both shorter now than we were in Beleriand. Estë didn’t give us back bodies that had had any Ent draughts.”

“Any Ent—what?”

“Come sit down, and we’ll tell you all about it,” said Amras. “I found pies! They’re just like the ones they make at Imloth Ningloron, which I’m almost certain use recipe one of the halflings brought—I hope you like potatoes!”

They sat on the floor among the boxes and chests, and took turns talking about the Ents they had known and how shocked their brothers had been when they turned up at Himring afterward several inches taller than they’d been before. Caranthir and Celegorm had made many jokes about how Curufin should seek out the Ents and stay among them until he was at least as tall as Maglor. That had been during the Long Peace, when everything was still happy and hopeful. Afterward Fëanor asked them, a little tentatively, about what they had been doing since their return from Mandos, and so they told him about their little cottage in the mountains, about the lake where they swam in summer and skated in the winter. 

“We hung the prisms you made in the window,” Amras told him as they finished their lunch. 

“You could come visit us, if you wanted,” Amrod said. They’d talked about that, too, before coming to find Fëanor. “But I don’t know if you’d be very happy there. It’s very quiet, and we don’t…do much.”

“I don’t do very much either, these days,” Fëanor said. “Hence…” He gestured around them. 

“It is very quiet there,” said Amras. “But we go among the Laiquendi fairly often, and they’re very merry. Maybe you should come to visit us. From what Curvo has said, you could use some merriment.”

“But maybe not too soon,” Amrod said, glancing at Amras. “Cáno’s coming to Tirion later this year.”

Fëanor looked up. “What brings him here?” he asked.

“Curvo said he would tell you, but we might as well,” said Amras. “Míriel and Indis have asked Cáno to write a song for Finwë. A proper one to honor his memory. No one else has been able to do it, and it’s long overdue. So he’s going to be speaking to everyone he can find, because he says it can’t just be his words alone. That means he’s going to want to talk to you too.”

“Especially you,” Amrod said. 

Fëanor’s expression had shuttered, and it looked for a moment terribly forbidding, like he’d looked immediately after he’d come back to Formenos, after Maedhros and Maglor and Celegorm had dragged him back away, refusing to let him see Finwë’s body. Amrod glanced at Amras again, who had leaned back a little bit. Then Fëanor looked away, and the moment passed, and he only looked sad. “What sort of song is it to be?” he asked. 

“A lament of some kind, but what form it will take, we don’t know,” said Amras. “He’s going to ask what you would like to hear in a song for him—it can be anything, really. He says everything new he learns helps him shape the song, even if he doesn’t end up including it all in so many words. He’s spoken to Míriel and Indis, of course, and also to all of us, though I don’t think Curvo or Moryo have given him an answer yet.” 

“He also says he might not even be able to finish it,” Amrod said. 

“Why would he not finish it?” Fëanor asked. He looked back at them, having mastered himself. “I’ve never…I never knew him to leave a song unfinished before.”

“He said once he was never able to find words for any of us no matter how hard he tried,” said Amras. “But I think he will finish this one. He isn’t as weighed down by everything anymore, and it isn’t only his own words he’s got. In spite of what he says, he seems very determined to finish.” He gathered up the wrappings of their pies and went to dispose of them. 

After a moment, Amrod said, “Cáno isn’t angry anymore either, you know.” Fëanor didn’t answer, or look up at him. “I think he’s afraid.”

“I know that,” Fëanor said quietly. “You’re all afraid, aren’t you?”

“We have been,” said Amrod. “But Cáno is different…he was afraid of everything for a long time, and even after going to Lórien I think some of it lingers. He was afraid of us, before we met again, and even for a while afterward. He thought we would be angry with him.”

“For what?”

“He wasn’t able to save us. And he threw the Silmaril away.” Fëanor flinched as Amrod spoke. “We weren’t angry, of course—we never were, not with him, about any of it. I think he’s afraid you will be though.”

“I’m not,” Fëanor said. “I told him that I was glad he’d thrown it away.”

“Do you understand, though, why he might not believe that?” Even hearing it now, and seeing Fëanor’s face as he spoke, seeing that he spoke the truth, Amrod found it difficult to believe. The Silmarils had been everything to Fëanor, once. Worth storming back into Middle-earth and burning everything in their wake. Worth dying for. Worth killing for.

“I do.”

This quiet and withdrawn Fëanor was so strange, Amrod thought as Amras returned to them. He became a little more animated as they started to sort through the contents of the chests, mostly just by opening them to see what was inside, and then deciding which boxes could be thrown out and which should be kept. Some were filled with old clothes, long gone out of fashion and moth-eaten. Others were a jumble of knickknacks and toys, mostly already broken. Much of it brought back memories of much happier days, and after some coaxing Fëanor shared many stories—nothing important, mostly from the childhoods of their older brothers, before Amrod and Amras had been born, all of them silly, something all three of them could laugh at.

One smaller box was filled with wooden horses, all carved with such detail that Amrod would not have been surprised to see them move. “Your grandfather made those,” said Fëanor, his smile fading away as he knelt beside Amras, looking into the box. “He made them for Canafinwë.”

“You should definitely keep them, then,” said Amrod. Fëanor just nodded. 

They spent the rest of the afternoon further emptying the storage room, and then carting away all the contents to the palace, where Fëanor would throw out what wasn’t worth keeping, and send some to Curufin’s house, and give away most of the rest. Before they parted he embraced them both, holding on tightly. “I love you,” he said into their ears. “I love you both so much, Pityafinwë and Telufinwë.”

“We love you too, Atya—but don’t act as though we’re leaving forever! We didn’t come to Tirion just to spend one day with you and then disappear. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

They left Fëanor looking rather stunned at that, and made their way back to Curufin’s house. It was empty, but they found Curufin and Caranthir out in Curufin’s forge, bickering amicably over their differences in technique. They abandoned that as soon as Amrod and Amras came through the door. “How did it go?” Curufin asked.

“We helped him clear out most of one of the cellars, and learned all kinds of embarrassing things you all did when you were children,” Amras said. 

“It went much better than we expected, really,” Amrod added, “and we didn’t actually expect it to go badly.”

Curufin breathed a sigh, shoulders sagging a little. “Good.” 

“We also told him about the song Maglor’s writing, so you don’t have to worry about it,” Amras said.

Caranthir set down his hammer. “How did he take that?”

“I don’t really know. It’s very hard to tell what he’s thinking most of the time,” said Amrod. “He’s very quiet.”

“He’s not usually,” Curufin said. “He’s been very much his old self when he’s at court or when he visits here, until I came back last autumn and gave him the palantír.”

“How much of that has been an act all along, do you think?” Amrod asked. Curufin grimaced and did not answer. 

Chapter Text

Findis left them, shaking her head, and Maglor exhaled. “I’m not like my father,” he whispered.

“No, not in the ways you fear,” Daeron said. “I know we have been speaking of going to Thingol first, but I wonder if it wouldn’t be better just to go to Tirion and get it over with. The knowledge of this future meeting with your father looming over you does no one any good.”

“Maybe.” Maglor closed his eyes and took a breath. “What of your wagers in Taur-en-Gellam?”

“That’s just a silly game. And anyway, the general opinion seems to be that I’ll be away three years at least, so any time we arrive before then will be shocking for them and amusing for me.” Daeron took Maglor’s other hand. “I do think your aunt is right, though. Your father’s spirit burns bright, but not with fury.”

“Did he not get angry with you…?”

“I’m not sure I can call it anger. He was certainly not pleased, and I got angry, and have cordially disliked him ever since, but there was never any great display of temper on his part.”

Maglor sighed, and rested his forehead against Daeron’s. “I hate this,” he said. “I hate…I hate feeling like this. I miss my father. I should not be so hesitant…”

“Your aunt means well, but it is not her place to interfere.”

“I am glad he has someone willing to defend him,” Maglor admitted. “It’s…it means something.” Daeron was right—going to Tirion sooner rather than later would be for the best, for the sake of his songwriting and to see if there really was something there to salvage with his father. Maglor had left Lórien thinking his feelings hadn’t changed, believing he still wanted nothing at all from Fëanor—but either his feelings had changed very quickly or he had just been deceiving himself before. He was inclined to believe the latter. He’d thought, also, that he was no longer afraid.

So few of his fears had come to pass since he had come to Valinor, but that clearly did not mean much, no matter how much he missed his father. He hadn’t forgotten what he’d said when they’d first met—he’d meant every word, but he had also been aiming to wound. He’d thrown Finwë’s name in Fëanor’s face knowing it would hurt more than anything else. He was not blameless in the rift that stood between them. However much Fëanor might love him, or claim to love him, he was not known for being quick to forgive.

He’d thought the rift between himself and Maedhros unbridgeable too, once. Nienna had spoken otherwise. Maglor did not need to seek her out to know that she would say the same of Fëanor. 

“I should find Celegorm,” he said.

“He won’t go far, and I’m sure Huan will have followed by now,” said Daeron. “Give him a little time. Elemmírë wanted to speak to us of something this morning. Shall we go find her and think of happier things for a while?”

Maglor breathed a sigh. “All right…” 

They found Elemmírë in the gazebo out on the water, strumming a lute and singing to herself. She smiled brightly at them when they joined her, and they fell immediately and easily into conversation about nothing particularly important—instruments and music and the water—until Elemmírë set her lute aside and said, “You’ve heard of this great gathering the High King wishes to hold?”

“We have,” said Daeron. “I’ve been hearing little bits of gossip about it for a few years now.”

“Galadriel tells me the idea got started when Círdan came west,” said Maglor.

“Your own return was also a part of it,” Elemmírë said, smiling at him. Maglor looked away, out over the water. The sun sparkled on it, and the water lilies floated white and pink, rippling a little with the water’s movement. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of Ingwë paying him any attention at all, any more than he liked the idea of the Valar sparing him a thought. Elemmírë went on, “But plans are moving forward now, and I have been asked to plan out a series of performances. That is what I wanted to speak to you both about.”

“To span the whole feast?” Daeron asked. 

“I don’t think anyone knows how long this feasting will last once it gets started,” Elemmírë laughed. “But over the course of a number of evenings I would like to have the whole history of the Quendi sung. It will take a great deal of collaboration and consultation among the kindreds, of course—and so I have come to ask for your help. Daeron, you know the Sindar, but you have also have traveled among the Avari, yes?”

“Not here,” said Daeron, “but I know where to find them.”

“That is a very long history,” Maglor remarked. 

“We will have many long evenings,” Elemmírë replied. “And of course not everything can be sung—I’m sure there are so many things that have never been put to verse. But the great song cycles will be included—the Leithian, the Noldolantë…yes, even the Noldolantë, Macalaurë. It is history, and we must acknowledge the ugly alongside the great.”

“Of course,” said Maglor. “I will sing it if you wish me to.”

“It will not be the only sorrowful song. I will sing of the Darkening.”

“I’ve not heard that yet,” said Maglor, “the Aldudénië.”

“I sing it very seldom, as I’m sure you only rarely sing the Noldolantë. But it is not only the great songs I wish to be heard. Are there other songs either of you would wish sung? You need not think of everything now of course, there is plenty of time, and of course we will all three of us consult others.”

“Maybe…” Maglor hesitated. “Maybe my song for Finwë, if I can finish it in time.” Daeron squeezed his hand. “When is this great feast to take place?”

“Not for another two years, at least,” said Elemmírë. “I know nothing of any other plans being made, but it is an enormous undertaking. Will that be enough time?”

“I think so.” Again Maglor thought—if he could finish the song and sing it before the Valar before this feast, if through some miracle their hearts were moved, perhaps there would be one more reason to celebrate, and no reason for him to perform it again at all. He tried to push such thoughts away, but the desire for it stuck in the back of his mind, immovable. 

“We cannot forget Men,” said Daeron. “The history of the Eldar cannot be sung without singing of the Edain. You have mentioned the Lay of Leithian, but there is also the tale of Húrin and his children that was written by Dírhavel long ago, and there are tales of Health’s people, and of Tuor, and of the Peredhil and of Númenor afterward—of Gondor and Arnor, and Rohan and Dale, and Rhûn and other eastern lands as well.”

“Hobbits too,” said Maglor. “The Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom should certainly be sung. Neither Círdan nor Elrond nor Galadriel could have come West were it not for Frodo and Sam.”

“Nor you, nor I,” Daeron murmured. 

“Of course,” said Elemmírë. “I do not know these songs, and will leave them to you to be ordered, and to decide who sings them. As I said, there is no great hurry. I’m sure we’ll meet many times over the next few years to put it all in order and write it down. I have not forgotten the Dwarves, either! Perhaps Gimli son of Glóin would be so gracious as to sing to us of his own people.”

“I will ask him,” Maglor said. 

When he and Daeron left Elemmírë they parted, and Maglor went in search of Gimli, finding him in the forges chatting with Dringil about gold smithing. “Can I borrow you for a little while, Gimli?”

“Of course!” Gimli immediately joined Maglor in the sunshine.

“How are you liking Imloth Ningloron?” Maglor asked him as they walked down to the nearby stream to sit on a bench there. 

“I did not expect to find any place so like Rivendell here,” Gimli said as he sat on the bench with a sigh, “though at first glance it is so different. Of course I should have expected nothing else—no house of Elrond’s could be anything less than homely.”

“Lady Celebrían worked very hard to make it so, in anticipation of Elrond’s coming. Have you heard, perhaps, of a great gathering being planned by High King Ingwë?” When Gimli shook his head Maglor told him what little he knew of it, and of Elemmírë’s plans to celebrate the whole history of their people through song. “…and of course we cannot complete the tale without Dwarves or Men—or Hobbits,” Maglor finished. “You will of course be welcome at this feast as an honored guest regardless, but if you would also sing for us a song of Durin, perhaps, or of the Lonely Mountain—or of Aglarond!—I think there are many who would be very glad, and many more who would learn something of Dwarves for the first time, beyond the histories we have recorded ourselves.”

“Put like that, how can I refuse? Only tell me where to go and when, Maglor, and I will sing as many songs as you will allow. I know many of the hobbits’ songs, too. It will not be as merry a feast as it should be without some of Bilbo or Pippin’s drinking songs!”

“Certainly not,” Maglor laughed. “I will remember that. It’s too bad Bilbo isn’t still with us. We would have to drag him out onto the stage, but then he would be so very pleased to recite every poem he ever wrote, and more.” Gimli laughed, and their talk turned to the hobbits for a while, to Bilbo and Frodo and Sam, and others, until Gimli returned to the forge and Maglor went to tell Elemmírë that they could certainly count on him in their planning. 

Celegorm did not reappear that day, or that evening. Nor did Huan, and it seemed that no one else had seen either of them since breakfast. “Did something happen?” Finrod asked when Maglor found him and Fingon the next morning to ask if they’d seen anything of Celegorm. Finrod had lately been making a very great effort to reestablish the friendship he and Celegorm had once shared, though Maglor wasn’t sure how well it was really going. Celegorm these days tended to run away from things that made him uncomfortable—and Finrod at his most determined could be quite intimidating regardless of his aims. 

“He had words with Findis,” Maglor said. 

“Did she knock him into the fishpond?” Finrod asked, arching an eyebrow.

“No. She scolded me, too—apparently she’s run out of patience with us and came all the way out here just to demand to know why we still aren’t speaking to our father.”

“I wonder if Fëanor knows that,” Fingon remarked. “No, we haven’t seen Celegorm, Maglor. If I do run into him I’ll be sure to tell him you’re looking.”

Maglor sighed. “Thank you.”

“Do you want help looking?” Finrod asked. 

“No, I think I might have an idea—” Maglor turned and nearly ran into Gilheneth, who came racing up as though something were giving chase. “Gilheneth, what’s the matter?”

“Excuse me, Maglor,” she said, out of breath and looking almost frantic, but for the light in her eyes. “Fingon! We need to leave—right now.”

“What happened?” Fingon asked, sitting up in alarm.

“I’ve just received a message from Lórien! Come on, get up! Meet me at the stables in ten minutes! Never mind packing!”

“Lórien?” Fingon repeated, but Gilheneth had already darted away. “What could we possibly—” He broke off abruptly, eyes going wide. “Oh. Oh.”

“Oh?” Finrod echoed, looking at him with concern, and then reaching out to grasp his shoulder. “Do you need to go to Lórien, Fingon? You look like you’re going to faint.”

“I think someone else is ready to leave it,” Maglor said.

“But who—oh!” Finrod leaped up and pulled Fingon to his feet. “What are you waiting for then? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t—” Fingon looked as though Gilheneth had hit him over the head rather than given him a piece of news long desired. “I don’t know if I’m happy or—I haven’t—I haven’t seen him since—”

“Breathe, Fingon,” said Maglor. He stepped forward to embrace him. “This is joyous news!”

“I don’t know if he will even remember me,” Fingon whispered. “It’s been so long, and he was only a child. I’m not—maybe I shouldn’t even go—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Finrod. “Gilheneth says you should go, and would she not know best?”

“Yes, but—oh, you’re right. I’m being an idiot.”

“I don’t think you are,” said Maglor. “I came here thinking no one would be happy to see me. After such a long separation it’s natural to be nervous—even if you know you needn’t be.”

Fingon laughed a little as he stepped back, wiping his eyes. “You didn’t—did you really?”

“Well, I was reasonably sure Elrond would be pleased to see me, but everyone else? All of you?” Maglor shook his head. 

“You are an idiot,” Fingon said, but he spoke fondly. 

“And Maglor has been wrong every single time,” Finrod added. “Of course Gil-galad will be happy to see you, but if you don’t hurry Gilheneth will leave without you and then neither of them will be happy.”

“I don’t know when we’ll be back,” Fingon said. “Or if we’ll come back here at all, though I can’t imagine Gil-galad won’t want to see Elrond—”

“I know Elrond will be very eager to see him,” Maglor said, “but don’t try to make plans now. Go!”

“Yes, right.” Fingon laughed suddenly and threw himself at them, wrapping his arms around both Maglor and Finrod. There were tears on his cheeks, but he was beaming. “My son is back! Can you believe it? My son!”

Finrod bumped his shoulder against Maglor’s as Fingon ran away down the hall. “Nearly everyone is back now,” he said, voice wistful. 

“Only Aegnor and Aredhel linger,” Maglor said. “And Maeglin.” 

“I feel terrible for Maeglin,” Finrod said. “To hear how all the stories tell it, he never stood a chance.”

“Do you think Aredhel lingers for his sake?”

“I don’t know. I hope her lingering isn’t to do with Eöl.”

“Has he come from Mandos?”

“Not that I have heard—and I would have, for Turgon has been keeping a very keen eye and ear open for such news. If I were Eöl, though, I would seek to avoid any word of my return from ever reaching Tirion.”

“Mm.” Maglor had never met Eöl, of course, but Curufin had. Maglor could not remember when he had learned what befell Aredhel in the end, or her son; he had no idea if any of his brothers had learned of it before their deaths. Curufin and Celegorm had both been very close in friendship with Aredhel before the discord had driven them apart, and it was not only Turgon that Eöl would have cause to fear, should he ever return among the Eldar. 

“I have feared for a long time that my brother would never return,” Finrod said after a moment. “He was determined not to, when I spoke to him in the Halls—I remember very little of that time now, except for that. But it was said also that Fëanor would never return, was it not? That gives me hope.”

“Fingon said the same,” Maglor said. “And Míriel once said she would never wish to return to life. Her mind changed in time, as her spirit recovered.”

“So she did. It is also so terribly lonely in the Halls, even when you are surrounded by all the other spirits there. I hate to think of my brother still there, mourning and unable to be comforted except by the Maiar, who cannot really understand. Nienna does, perhaps, but she cannot be in all places at once.” Finrod sighed, and nudged Maglor with his elbow. “Speaking of brothers—you should go back to looking for yours. How worried should I be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me know if you’d like me to do…well, anything.”

“I will.” 

Maglor went outside, hoping he’d catch a glimpse of Huan, and that Huan would then lead him to wherever Celegorm had disappeared to. Maglor did not believe he would go far—he’d left all his things behind, though his bed had not been slept in the night before. He walked again through the gardens, and found no sign, and so he then left them entirely and headed for the wooded hills beyond. The breeze swept across the valley from the orchards, carrying the sweet scent of apple blossoms. As he walked Maglor picked a handful of flowers, irises of course but also sweet chamomile and pale yellow primroses. There was no particular reason, except that they were lovely, and he wanted something bright in his hands. 

Huan appeared as Maglor stepped into the cool shade of the pine trees. “There you are,” Maglor said. “Where’s Tyelko?” Huan turned and trotted off. Maglor followed, passing through the glade where Finrod had taken him and Celebrimbor once to get unwisely drunk and to cry about the past. Some distance beyond it, Maglor found Celegorm seated cross-legged on the thick carpet of pine needles that covered the ground, with a bird in his hands. He was murmuring to it quietly, his speech interspersed with whistles and chirping sounds. 

“All right, Tyelko?” Maglor asked, pausing a few paces away.

Celegorm looked up. His eyes were red, but he did not look upset. “I’m fine,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse, like he’d been shouting. “This little one’s got a broken wing; I’ve been trying to convince him to let me help.”

Maglor sat down beside him. The little one in question was a mockingbird, who eyed him with a sharp black eye. “Do you want me to sing something calming?” he asked. 

“No, I think I’ve got him now.” Celegorm loosened his grip, and the mockingbird did not attempt to get away. “I hope your cat won’t try to eat him.”

“I’m sure she’ll learn very quickly to leave him alone.” Maglor looked from the bird back to Celegorm. “What else was Findis saying to you yesterday?”

“Probably whatever she said to you—demanding to know why we still won’t come to Tirion and all that.”

“You know she means well.”

“She should mind her own business.”

“You are the last person who should say that about someone’s sibling interfering.” Maglor put his arm around Celegorm’s shoulders and kissed his temple. “You don’t have to speak to her, but please come back to the house.”

“I don’t really want to see anyone. Except you. And maybe Daeron.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll make sure no one bothers you—or your mockingbird. Come on.” Maglor got to his feet, and Celegorm followed suit, still holding the mockingbird in careful hands. When they’d been young Celegorm had always been rescuing animals, birds with broken wings and squirrels with crooked tails, or stray puppies or kittens from the streets of Tirion. Most of those birds and squirrels had not wanted to leave him afterward, to the delight of Ambarussa as small children, and the annoyance of the rest of them who kept finding stray feathers and hoarded nuts in their beds and closets. As much as Maglor got teased now about his hedgehogs and his cat, Celegorm had always been the one to whom small animals flocked. Even Pídhres liked him, in spite of her continuing aversion to Huan. 

“Have you told Findis yet that you’re planning to talk to Atar anyway?” Celegorm asked as they left the trees, blinking in the sudden bright sunshine. 

“Yes. I haven’t yet told her why—I’ll do that later today, I suppose.”

“Do you think Atar knows why she came here?”

“I doubt it. I can’t imagine him wanting anyone else to fight his battles, can you?”

“I suppose not. Do you think that will make it worse when you do speak to him?”

“Findis certainly doesn’t seem to think so.” Maglor put his arm around Celegorm again. “So what are you going to name your bird?”

“I’m not. When his wing is healed he’ll go off on his own.”

Maglor laughed. “If you say so.”

At the house Celegorm left him to go find whatever it was he needed to splint a mockingbird’s broken wing, and Maglor went to find Finrod, to tell him that he’d found Celegorm, and then to Elrond, to make sure he knew where Fingon and Gilheneth had gone. “Yes, I heard,” Elrond said, smiling when Maglor asked. He was in a workroom just off of the library, copying a manuscript. Pídhres was curled up on the windowsill in front of his desk, basking in the sunshine. “But I don’t expect them to return here. Gilheneth has long planned to take Gil-galad home first—to their home north of Tirion. It’s quiet there, and she had it built after the manner of such houses in Lindon, so it will at least seem more familiar than other places.”

“A good plan,” Maglor said. “Will you visit him there?”

“I don’t know. I have very little experience with those so new-returned from Mandos, you know. The least I can do is wait for an invitation. It is enough, for now, to know that he lives again.” 

Maglor sat down in the chair beside the desk, and reached over to pet Pídhres. He had not known Gil-galad well, even when he was very young. Maedhros had visited Hithlum far more often than he had. He remembered a bright-eyed child with dark hair, whose greatest joy was being carried around on Fingolfin’s shoulders. He’d heard many tales since of Gil-galad the king, of his wisdom and his power and his courage. He’d ruled far longer than any of his predecessors, and more successfully. He’d been renowned and revered even when he’d been young, in the years before the War of Wrath, and Maglor had never regretted sending Elrond and Elros to him. If anyone could protect them and teach them all that he couldn’t, it was Gil-galad. 

“Fingon was both terrified and overjoyed,” Maglor remarked. 

“He need not fear,” Elrond said. “Gil-galad spoke of him often—he missed him terribly, even to the end of his own life. The day before he died, we spoke of Fingon.” He sighed. “Like Fëanor, there was nothing of him to bury afterward. His spirit burned bright, but it was the heat of Sauron that burned his body away. Elendil burned, too.”

“Did he not have a tomb, though—I feel certain that I saw it in Rath Dínen?”

“He did; Gil-galad bore the greatest brunt of Sauron’s fury in that last fight. There was enough of Elendil’s body to take and bury, though it was nearly unrecognizable.” Elrond sighed again. “It was a terrible end, though we won the day…”

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to bring back the memory.”

“You didn’t. I have been thinking of it lately anyway—and it is such an old grief that it does not feel either sharp or heavy anymore, even without the news of Gil-galad’s return. We are a very long way from Mordor.”

“Yes, we are,” Maglor agreed. 

Celegorm did not reappear that afternoon or evening. Dinner was as cheerful and bustling as it ever was. Word had gotten out that Gil-galad was returned, and everyone who had once dwelt in Middle-earth under his rule was aglow with delight. Maglor found himself seated by Findis, who seemed bemused by it all. “I don’t remember any such excitement when my brother Nolofinwë returned,” she remarked to him, “or even Findekáno.”

“Gil-galad was greatly loved—and he ruled far longer than either Nolofinwë or Findekáno,” said Maglor. “There was great love between him and Elrond; is it any wonder that Elrond’s household loves him too?”

“I suppose. Did you know him well?”

“No. I met him a few times as a child, but he was sent south after the Bragollach, and I never came after that to the Falas.”

“But after…?”

Maglor smiled at her. “Surely you have heard the tales, Aunt Findis? I was he who harped upon far forgotten beaches and dark shores, wandering ever in pain and regret beside the waves.”

“Oh, Macalaurë. I had thought that only poetry.”

“Perhaps it was exaggerated, but it was also said I came never back among Elven kind, and until near the end of the Third Age that was true enough. I haven’t sung of pain or regret in a very long time. It means, though, that I can tell you nothing of Gil-galad or his realm but what the songs say.” Maglor dropped his gaze to his plate. Down the table Elemmírë and Daeron were talking with Gimli of the differences between Dwarvish and Elvish music. Maglor would have liked to join them, but it was more important, he thought, to speak to Findis. “Aunt Findis—”

“I’m sorry for upsetting you yesterday,” she said before he could go on. “You and Tyelkormo, only I have not been able to find him to apologize.”

“Tyelko has gotten into the habit of withdrawing when he is upset,” Maglor said, “but he’ll reappear eventually.” 

Dinner soon wound down, and as the household began to disperse for the evening’s enjoyments—doubtless many songs would be sung that night of Gil-galad and of Middle-earth—Maglor turned again to Findis. “The stars are bright this evening. Will you walk outside with me?”

She looked surprised at the request, but readily agreed. They left the sounds of laughter and talk behind them, and walked out toward the open and grassy paths that bordered the largest pond. The gazebo stood empty in the middle of it. “Is there something you wish to say to me, Macalaurë?” Findis asked after a little while. 

Maglor did not answer immediately. He had been thinking of what to say all evening, but found he still needed a moment to find the words. “When I came to these shores,” he said finally, keeping his gaze on the path before them and his arms folded over his chest, “I did not expect much of a welcome, except from Elrond. More than that, it was a terrible shock to learn that my brothers were all returned from Mandos. The last thing, too, I expected to hear was that my father had also come back. I was not nearly so pleased then as everyone here is now to learn of Gil-galad’s return.”

“I have heard that, that you did not take it as good news,” Findis said, “and that greatly surprised me—that you would wish to avoid even Maitimo.”

“It surprised nearly everyone but Maitimo himself,” Maglor said. He stopped walking and looked out at the starlight on the water. A fish surfaced briefly, sending ripples spreading out over the pond’s surface, making the water lilies bob. The air smelled sweet and fresh with their fragrance. “I love my brothers,” he said finally, without looking back at Findis. “And I love my parents. I thought for a time that I did hate my father, that I could never forgive him what he did to us, the choices he made after the Darkening. I thought for a long time that I couldn't forgive Maedhros either, but at least I knew why he did what he did at the end. I never truly doubted that my brother loved me.”

“Your father loves you,” said Findis. 

“I don’t think he did at the end. Not after he swore the Oath. Certainly not after Alqualondë or Losgar. I told you before that I fear my father. We all do, even though we all love him. You cannot scold fear away, Aunt Findis.”

She sighed. “I know. But Tyelkormo did not seem afraid.”

“Of course not. Do you think he would allow you to see it?”

“But why the palantír?”

Maglor paused again, trying to find the right words and sharply aware of the irony. “To speak of something,” he said at last, “is to reduce it, to…to leave things out. Such is the nature of language—even between languages, there are words for a thing in one that cannot be directly translated in another. Something is always lost. Usually that doesn’t matter—words can capture enough. Usually. We can all speak to him until we run out of words and out of breath, but there are also our own memories to consider, the things we saw and did not see, the things we missed at the time or maybe are still missing, even about ourselves. He once knew us better than anyone in the world. Without seeing what we became, what we did, what was done to and around us—our father cannot know us like that again, not as we are now. 

“I suppose it’s also…there is some reassurance, at least for me, in knowing that he is willing to look, to learn, to try, even if it hurts. I do not hope for reconciliation, because I find it very hard still to hope for anything, especially the things I want the most.”

“But you do intend to speak with him? What about, if not this?”

“About Finwë.” Maglor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Indis and Míriel have asked me to write a song for him. I can’t do it without asking what others who love him wish to hear sung, or learning what they can tell me. I would speak to you of him too, if you’re willing.” He did look at Findis then. “I read the song you wrote,” he said. “Arafinwë took it to Middle-earth, and shared it with Elrond.”

“I know, he told me. I’m not sure what I can tell you that I did not write in that song.”

“I did not seem to me a song meant to be widely shared.”

“It wasn’t.” Findis crossed her own arms, and it was her turn to look away over the pond. In the starlight her hair looked more silver than gold. “I miss my father desperately,” she said after a few moments, “but I do believe he will return to us someday. What was destroyed does not remain forever defiled. The walls of Formenos are crumbling now, but trees grow around them and moss and wild roses cover the broken stones. Flowers bloom upon Finwë’s grave, and the sunlight shines golden upon the mists that hover over the lake. Nolofinwë and Fëanáro have come together as real brothers, finding love where there was once bitter hatred. All of these things give me hope. I would hear a song for him that ends thus, and not only in grief and darkness.”

“I can’t hope for it,” Maglor said softly, “but I can sing of it.”

He remained by the water after Findis left to return to the house, thinking about grief and hope, and the way they seemed always so deeply connected. The beginnings of a melody stirred in his mind. He hummed a few notes, and then sang a few words, and felt something fall into place. He sang a few lines that he had written, very softly, and they felt right on his tongue, sounded right in his ears. Love and grief and hope, all intertwined—that was what lay at the heart of this song, and that was something he could build on. 

Something even the Valar might listen to.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

After Elemmírë and Findis departed, others began arriving in anticipation of the Midsummer celebrations. It was always a merry time in Elrond and Celebrían’s house. The summer Maglor had arrived in Valinor, Gandalf had come with fireworks, just as he had the first Midsummer Maglor had spent in Rivendell long ago. It was not very surprising, then, when Maglor stepped outside two days before the holiday to find him unloading his wares in the courtyard. “Hello, Gandalf!” he said. “Would you like some help?”

“Hello, Maglor! I’m nearly done, but I’m very glad to see you back from Lórien. Is your brother here too?”

“Celegorm is,” said Maglor, “but the rest are all in Tirion.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. I had hoped to see all seven of you in one place.”

“You should have come to visit last summer then!” Maglor laughed.

Midsummer Day dawned bright and clear, with a glorious sunrise to which many songs were sung. The day was full of singing and dancing and games; the tables both inside and out were laden with food, and the wine flowed freely. Celebrían's gardens were all in bloom, a beautiful and fragrant riot of color. Maglor wore the robes he’d been given on his first Midsummer there, a gift from Míriel, all grey and blue and silver, the colors of the Sea and the shore. Daeron clad himself in blues and purples, and wore amethysts in his hair and on his fingers, and then insisted on winding sapphires through Maglor’s braids. “If you’ll be spending time in Alqualondë and Tirion—and in Taur-en-Gellam, for that matter—you’ll need to get used to this sort of thing again,” he said as he secured the last braid. 

“I know,” Maglor said. “I don’t mind all the finery, really, especially today. I just don’t have the patience anymore to do it every day.”

That afternoon, Celebrían sat down beside Maglor, pink-cheeked and breathless from dancing with her sons. Maglor was taking a break from making music. “You still plan to go to Alqualondë after Tirion?” she asked.

“Yes, and maybe Tol Eressëa,” Maglor said. It all depended on where he was to find his various and scattered cousins.

“Good. I think Elladan and Elrohir and I will follow a little while after you, but go straight to Avallónë. It’s been some years since we spent any time there, and it’s much easier to visit with Elwing and Eärendil when we’re all just there on the bay.”

“Is Eärendil back on land?”

“Not at this time, I think, but there’s a good chance he’ll return sometime this summer.”

“I don’t really know how long he’s ever gone at a time,” Maglor said after a moment, “but I hope he isn’t keeping away because of my father.”

“Oh, he isn’t! Well, they’ve been keeping away from Tirion, both Eärendil and Elwing, but they rarely visited before anyway—and it’s not because of the Silmaril so much as the sheer awkwardness of it, and Elwing doesn’t have the patience for that sort of thing. By now everyone is well assured that Fëanor is on his best behavior and will continue to be so.”

“Have you seen much of him, my father?”

“Oh, sometimes. He’ll come here on occasion, and we go to Tirion once in a very great while. I think whenever he has come here it’s been a rather thinly veiled attempt to learn anything of you, so I suspect we’ll see him even less in the future.” Celebrían glanced at Maglor. “Unless certain things change. Elrond told me your plans for this trip.”

“I don’t know if anything will change,” Maglor said. 

“Do you want it to? I know you didn’t, once.”

“I think I do,” Maglor admitted, “but thinking about it for too long makes me feel rather like I did before I went to Lórien, and I don’t particularly like it.”

“Even Lórien cannot fully reverse the work of years past,” Celebrían said. “I’m afraid those of us with scars will always wake up some days with the memory of them lying heavily over us, even if those days do grow rarer and rarer with each passing year.” She rose to her feet and held out her hands. “Come dance with me! You’ve been making music for us all morning—take some time now to enjoy it yourself!”

As evening came on, Gandalf brought out his fireworks. Maglor wandered over as he prepared to launch the first ones. He had been waiting all day for this opportunity. As Gandalf leaned down to light the first fuse, Maglor snatched his hat off his head and stuck it on the end of the large rocket mere seconds before it shot up and away. It burst into bright blue sparks that flew across the sky like a flock of birds, as small bits of charred fabric floated gently down to land in the fishpond.

“That,” Maglor told Gandalf as he sputtered and cursed, “is for meddling. I didn’t have the chance to take my revenge before, but now I have, and I am content.” 

“You,” Gandalf said quite sternly, the way that he had once spoken to recalcitrant hobbit children, pointing a finger at Maglor’s nose, “are a menace, Maglor Fëanorion!”

“I am not the one sticking his nose into everyone’s business!” Maglor laughed. “Let this be a lesson to you, Mithrandir!”

When he rejoined Elrond and Celebrían and Daeron, Celebrían had fallen back onto the blanket, laughing herself breathless. “I know you said once you were going to set his hat on fire,” Daeron said, “but that was much funnier.”

“I thought so too,” Maglor said, allowing himself a bit of smugness. Elrond had already been laughing too, and now he joined Celebrían on the blanket. “Next time maybe he’ll think twice before giving me unsolicited advice.”

“I did all work out in the end,” Elrond pointed out as he wiped his eyes and caught his breath. He did not sit up. 

“It did, but that doesn’t mean he should be encouraged.”

“Certainly not,” said Celebrían, but it came out sounding rather strangled, and she dissolved into giggles again. “Oh, the look on his face!”

Maglor settled back against Daeron’s chest to watch the rest of the fireworks. He saw Celegorm playing some sort of complicated looking card game with Lindir and the twins nearby, all of them laughing. He was glad to see Celegorm at ease again. His mockingbird had flown off once its wing was healed, but not far—Maglor had heard it singing in the gardens. He turned away, back to watching the fireworks, lighting the valley with blues and greens, reds and golds, in all manner of shapes, some which lingered for a time in the air, and others that faded away more swiftly. Afterward there was only the stars to shine down on them, silvering the water. There was more singing, but it grew quieter as the evening drew on into night. Maglor did not sing any more that evening, preferring to listen instead to the paeans to the starlight and to older songs in ancient tongues chanted by the fires, with drums replacing the flutes and viols and harps. 

When it grew very late, Daeron pulled Maglor inside and up to their room to rid him of his finery with the same determined precision with which he’d dressed him. Maglor returned the favor much more quickly and haphazardly before catching Daeron up in a deep kiss as they fell onto the bed already tangled up in one another. 

Maglor woke late in the morning to warm sunshine on his face, Pídhres purring somewhere at the foot of the bed, and Daeron tracing patterns on his chest. Without opening his eyes he rolled over to wrap himself around Daeron, who huffed a quiet laugh and wrapped his own arms around Maglor’s shoulders. “Everything all right?”

“Perfect,” Maglor said, still not opening his eyes. “Just don’t make me get up.”

“Shall we be lazy and indulgent, then?”

“Mhmm.” 

They did get up eventually, sometime in the afternoon. Everyone in the valley was feeling lazy after all of the activity of the day before, and it was several days before the usual routines and rhythms got started again. Then there was packing to do, and other little preparations for the trip to Tirion. Maglor gathered all his notes and drafts together, organizing them as much as his notes could ever be organized. Daeron was always despairing of his slipshod and scattered scribblings, but it had worked for Maglor for thousands of years and he was not going to try to change now. 

“Are you taking Annem and Aegthil?” Elladan asked Maglor the day before they were set to depart. 

“No,” said Maglor. “They’ll be much happier here than in Tirion. Pídhres is coming, because every time I have tried to leave her behind it didn’t work.” That had been true from the time he’d left her litter mates in Annúminas, to his leaving Imloth Ningloron on the trip that ended up taking him to Ekkaia. Elladan laughed, very familiar with Pídhres’ antics. “If someone can just make sure my bedroom door is left ajar so the hedgehogs can find their basket at night, I would be grateful.”

“Oh yes, of course. Or, if they don’t mind a little disruption, I think there might be something of a scuffle over who gets to take the basket to their room instead.”

Maglor laughed. “I think Aegthil and Annem won’t mind, as long as someone makes sure to show them where to go. They like their basket; I don’t think they care much about the room.”

Maglor, Daeron, Celegorm, and Elrond departed the next morning, bright and early after bidding farewell to Celebrían, the twins, Finrod, and Galadriel. Finrod would be going to Eressëa with Celebrían, and Galadriel intended to rejoin Celeborn in Taur-en-Gellam. Pídhres curled up around Maglor’s shoulders, purring gently. It was a bright morning, cloudless and clear, and the sky was very blue. The mountains rose up on their right, and on their left stretched wide plains and meadow lands, green and gold and scattered with bursts of bright wildflowers. Elrond asked about the journeys Maglor and Celegorm had undertaken in their youth; the conversation was easy and pleasant, Celegorm having long since gotten over his uneasiness of Elrond. The journey was not long, and it passed quickly and pleasantly. 

“Are we not stopping to see your mother?” Elrond asked as they approached the road to Nerdanel’s house without slowing.

“No one is there,” Maglor said. “They’re all in Tirion except our mother, who went to Valmar, but she’ll be in Tirion in a day or two.”

“Even Maedhros?” Elrond asked, surprised.

“Yes, he’s staying with our cousin Súriellë since Fingon isn’t there.”

“I was surprised, too,” Celegorm said. “But they’ll have had even bigger parties than Imloth Ningloron. Curvo told me they did fireworks last year, even though Mithrandir wasn’t around.”

“He taught your father how to make them,” Elrond said, “but I doubt even Fëanor’s are as good as Gandalf’s.”

“Why in the world would he teach our father to make fireworks?” Celegorm asked, aghast. “That’s asking for trouble. I’m surprised your orchards emerged unscathed. D’you remember that time he nearly blew up our house, Cáno?”

“I do not remember that, actually. What was he doing? And where was I?”

“Oh, maybe it was when you were studying in Valmar. I don’t know what he was doing, but Ammë was furious and he had to sleep in his workshop for a week and a half.”

“Celebrían was very firm about them taking their endeavors far away from the house. It was a distraction of sorts, I think,” Elrond said. “Or else something to cheer him up, and nothing quite cheers your father like learning something new, I have found.”

“At least with fireworks when something explodes it’s because it’s meant to,” said Maglor. Daeron snorted. “I should visit our grandparents, but I can do that on the way home.”

Just past Nerdanel and Mahtan’s houses, Tirion came into view, its tall white towers gleaming in the sun. Tallest of all was the Mindon Eldaliéva, a spire of silver standing above the palace. Maglor had passed the city by on his way from Eressëa to Imloth Ningloron, years ago, but he had not yet entered into it. His brothers, and Daeron, and his mother had told him all about the ways Tirion was different, and the ways in which it hadn’t changed at all. The palace was the same as it had been, for the most part, and Finwë’s cherry trees remained—or the descendants of his trees, anyway. Many of the neighborhoods and districts were rearranged, though, and many parts of the city still stood empty. 

“If you take that road,” Celegorm said, pointing to a road that had not been there in Maglor’s youth, leading west, “you’ll reach Turgon’s city in a couple of weeks. I suppose you’ll be needing to speak to him, too. Angrod and Orodreth have a smaller realm somewhere in the northeast, closer to the Pelóri.”

“Finrod wrote to them and asked that they make their way to Tirion or Avallónë,” said Maglor, “so I don’t have to ride all over the place. I expect I’ll visit Alastoron eventually, and—what’s the other city called?”

“Ithilheledh,” Elrond said. “It’s not a very large city—town is closer to the mark—and is beside a large lake of the same name.”

“Northeast of Tirion, on a lake?” Maglor glanced at Celegorm. “It’s not the same lake as—”

“No!” Celegorm shook his head sharply. “No, it’s farther east, right up at the feet of the mountains. They didn’t rename the Wilwarinen.”

“Where is the Wilwarinen?” Elrond asked. 

“Beside Formenos.” Maglor had been thinking lately of Formenos, too. Celegorm had asked him at the start of his songwriting if he would return there, and he still wasn’t sure if he needed to. He did not think he wanted to, even though so many long years had passed. For all he knew the house was merely a crumbling pile of rubble. It and the small town of Fëanor’s followers that sprung up around it had been built fairly rapidly after they had gone into exile, but they’d all been familiar with the lake. They had gone there to camp out under the sky with Finwë when he felt the desire to escape Tirion for a while. That was where he had taught them many things his father and grandfather had taught him long, long ago by the shores of Cuiviénen, and told them stories, taught them songs. It was a beautiful place—or it had been then—though none of them had been in the mood to appreciate such things when they had followed Fëanor there.

They came to Tirion, finding it still bustling and full in the aftermath of Midsummer. Elrond and Celebrían did not keep a house in the city, as they did in Avallónë, but Finrod had insisted they stay in his, which was near to the palace and next door to Fingon’s, which stood empty. “That way poor Curufin isn’t overwhelmed by guests, and you’re quite close to everywhere you need to go!” he’d said. “I already wrote to my housekeeper about it too, so you can’t refuse without being terribly rude.”

Predictably, all of the rest of Maglor's brothers turned up for dinner, alongside Celebrimbor and the girls. Rundamírë and Lisgalen were not with them, because they had begun a collaboration that neither of them were willing to step away from. “You know how it is,” Caranthir said as he and Curufin both shrugged, twin expressions of fondness on their faces.

After dinner by unspoken agreement Elrond and Daeron took charge of Náriel and Calissë while the rest of them retreated to a more private space to talk of more serious things than the summer holidays and the girls’ complaints about their schoolwork. Celebrimbor claimed the seat beside Maglor once they were shut away in a small and cozy room filled with soft chairs and little tables, and with walls lined with overflowing bookshelves. Maglor was amused to see several chairs clearly made to fit a hobbit’s stature. “It’s good to see you, Tyelpë,” he said as the rest of his brothers got settled. “What happened here?” He reached for Celebrimbor’s hand, which sported a new scar across the palm. It looked fairly fresh.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Celebrimbor said. “I grabbed a piece of broken glass—trying to stop it falling and shattering. It fell anyway, and Atya had to stitch me up not ten minutes after he got home from Imloth Ningloron.”

“My standard of how bad a cut is is probably somewhat skewed since the River Incident,” Curufin said as he sat down on Celebrimbor’s other side, “but it really wasn’t that bad, except for making a bit of a mess.”

“The River Incident was the result of several unlikely events all happening at once,” Maedhros said, “and really shouldn’t set any standard for anything.”

“Do you want to know exactly how many stitches I had to give you?” Curufin retorted. 

“Let’s not argue about that, please,” Maglor said. It wasn’t the same visceral reaction he’d had at the time, but his stomach still wanted to tie itself in knots at the thought of anyone being stitched up. “You all know why I’m in Tirion; who’s all here that I can talk to?”

“Fingolfin, of course,” said Curufin, “and Lalwen—and Findis, but you probably already spoke to her. Argon is here, and Turgon and Elenwë turned up for Midsummer and haven’t yet left, and Finrod’s brothers also came. They’re all living or staying at the palace. You’ll still have to go to Alqualondë to see Finarfin.”

“And, of course, Atya is here,” said Amras. He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Caranthir, who was separating his hair for braiding. Amrod sprawled out on some pillows on the carpet, seemingly half-asleep. “We’ve been helping him clear out the gardens at the old house, once we finished getting everything out of the store rooms.”

“I have piles of boxes I would very much like all of you to look at,” Curufin added, “so I can have my workshop back.”

“You can send them home with me, you know,” Maedhros said. “There’s plenty of room there.”

“Not in my workshop there’s not,” Caranthir said. “And if they go in the cellar they’ll just stay there for another six thousand years.”

“We can pile them up in mine, then,” Maedhros said. “I don’t need that much room just to paint.”

“I’m going to take you up on that,” Curufin said. 

“But,” Amras said, “we were talking of Atya. We told him about your song, Cáno. I hope you didn’t want to keep it too terribly secret. I think everyone knows what you’re doing.”

“Of course it isn’t a secret,” said Maglor. “What did he say when you told him?”

“Nothing much,” said Amrod without opening his eyes. “He’s very quiet. It’s odd.”

“He seems like his old self when he’s at court, or in larger company,” said Celebrimbor, “but in private he is much quieter than he used to be. More thoughtful.”

“He’s not angry,” Curufin added, very quiet himself. “He really isn’t.” Maglor glanced at Maedhros, who kept his gaze on the window, outside of which was a small courtyard with a fountain, where a small flock of colorful birds were splashing about.

“I believe you,” Maglor said, looking back at Curufin. “And since it’s been looming over me for months now, I think I should speak to him as soon as possible. Where can I find him?”

“He walks most mornings through the cherry grove,” Curufin said. “That will be the most private place for you to speak to him.”

“What’s he been looking for in the palantír?” Celegorm asked. 

“Everything, I think,” Curufin said, “but I have to bully him into looking for anything good. It’s working, though. When you speak to him it won’t be as much like speaking to a stranger—at least on his side.”

“I think he is very unhappy,” Amras said, “but he’s cheered up since we’ve been in Tirion. Amrod and I are going to take him home with us come fall. A winter away from the city will probably do him good.”

“Does he know that?” Celebrimbor asked.

“Not yet,” said Amras cheerfully, “but there’s no chance of him refusing. Not if we ask him.”

"We mentioned it once, but only in passing," Amrod added.

“He’ll go mad trapped up a mountain in the snow,” Celegorm said. 

“No, he won’t,” said Amrod. Still without opening his eyes, he knocked a foot against Celegorm’s ankle. “You didn’t.”

“I like the woods.”

“And do you know why?” Amras asked, and he went on without waiting for an answer. “There’s nothing in the woods that cares who you are or who your father is, or what you did or didn’t do. The trees certainly don’t. You can go days without ever even thinking about your own name because it doesn’t matter.”

“Those things do matter, though,” Maedhros said. “We are Elves, Ambarussa, not trees or squirrels.”

“Well, yes, obviously,” said Amras, “and so we never forget them entirely, we always come back out of the woods to pick them up again. But they are things we can set aside for a little while, sometimes. We can go out into the quiet and find again who we are without them, to find again who we are, just ourselves, nameless and alone. When has Atya ever had the opportunity to do that?”

“Mandos,” said Caranthir. 

“You know that’s different.”

“I know what you mean, Amras,” Maglor said. “The Sea doesn’t care, either.” Amras nodded at him; Celegorm looked pained for a moment, but said nothing. Celebrimbor leaned his head on Maglor’s shoulder. 

The next morning Maglor rose early, and Daeron insisted on braiding his hair more elaborately than usual, fastened with beads and woven with silver threads not unlike the styles Fingon favored with gold. “You’ll be going to the palace, so you must look the part of the prince you are,” he said as he sat behind Maglor on the bed with the comb. 

“I know,” Maglor sighed. “As I’ve told you, the jewels I don’t mind—the titles I do. I left that all behind long ago.”

“And then you came back.” Daeron finished the last braid and wrapped his arms around Maglor from behind as he leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “There. Wear a ring or two as well. Maybe a necklace.”

“Yes, yes.” Maglor obliged, and then dressed. He did not choose robes or anything in the styles of Tirion or elsewhere in Valinor, instead donning sensible trousers and boots, and over them a shirt and a long black sleeveless tunic that fell almost to his knees, which was embroidered with silver stars and musical notes—a gift from Arwen, which he had worn many times to the court of Minas Tirith. The style was more than fifty years out of date there by now, and very little like what was worn anywhere in Valinor. Gondor had not yet entirely abandoned its wartime practicalities when Maglor had left it; heavy and more cumbersome clothes had still been rare. Maglor liked the freedom of movement, and liked even better that Arwen had made it. He had kept it packed away ever since he’d come to Valinor, having had no occasion yet to take it out, and still preferring much plainer clothes for everyday wear. 

“That’s nice,” said Daeron, who hadn’t yet seen these particular clothes. “You’ll certainly stand out, you know.”

“I would stand out anyway, I think.” Maglor fingered the hem of his tunic for a moment, running his thumb over a silver embroidered star. “I’d rather stand out because of my clothes than the other reasons. All right, I should go, lest I miss him in the cherry grove.”

“Celegorm and I will be nearby when you’re finished,” Daeron said. 

“I still don’t think it will be necessary.” Maglor leaned down to kiss him. “But thank you.”

Downstairs he found Elrond with a cup of tea in his hands. “I haven’t seen that tunic before,” he remarked.

“I don’t often have to wear courtly things,” said Maglor. 

“Is that courtly?”

“Well, it was some years ago in Minas Tirith.”

Elrond looked again, and his eyes went soft and sad as he recognized the embroidery. “It’s lovely,” he said.

“Yes, it is.” Maglor dropped a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m going to the palace; I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“I’ll see you there later, more than likely. Once my grandfather finds out I’m in Tirion I’ll be dragged into all sorts of things.” 

“You wanted to come,” Maglor reminded him. 

“So I did,” Elrond said agreeably. 

Maglor walked the short distance to the palace, finding at least the streets still the same, even if the buildings weren’t always. He avoided the busier thoroughfares and ducked through alleys and narrower side-streets, following shortcuts he’d once known as well as he knew the strings of his harp. It was very strange to walk them now, so much older, with no laughing brothers or cousins with him, with a far more sober errand than making it back home in time for dinner, or before a parent realized they had snuck out when they weren’t supposed to. It was still very early; the sky was pale and the sun would not rise above the Pelóri for some hours. It shone through the Calacirya in the east, though, and caught and gleamed on the Mindon Eldaliéva. 

It was quiet at the palace too, at least out in the gardens and grounds. Maglor managed to make his way to the cherry grove behind the main building and past the most popular gardens without meeting anyone. Under the trees it was green and cool and damp with dew. Cherries were thick in the boughs, ripe for picking now, and Maglor found stacks of baskets waiting for those who would come to harvest them later. He paused to brush his fingers over a few of the ripened fruits, but did not pick any. No cherry he had ever eaten in Middle-earth had tasted like Finwë’s, just as no apples could compare to Celebrían’s. Like the plums that grew by his grandparents’ house, these cherries would taste of his childhood, of the bliss of Valinor’s Noontide, and he did not want to have been crying when he saw his father. 

No one else was out walking through the cherry trees, though. It was almost silent but for the songbirds and the breeze whispering through the leaves. Finally, Maglor came to the far end, and halted. There was his grandfather’s workshop, exactly as it stood in his memories. It was not very large, for it was only ever Finwë himself and one or two children or grandchildren, or perhaps a friend, who had worked there at one time. Maglor swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat, and went to the door. He hesitated before lifting the latch, wanting and yet not wanting to see what was inside. He didn’t know which would be worse: to find it untouched since Finwë’s death, or to find it empty and cleaned out. He steeled himself, pulled open the door, and stepped inside. 

It was empty, but for the cupboards and shelves attached to the walls. Gone were the neat stacks of wood, the tables, the chests of tools, the small completed or partly-completed projects that had cluttered the shelves. Maglor stepped into the center of the room, which smelled only of stale air, rather than sawdust and the fragrant finishing oils that his grandfather had favored. 

He had been thinking so much of Finwë lately, and the grief had felt heavy, but not painful. It was familiar in its shape, the edges of it worn soft by time, like jagged stones slowly rounding into pebbles by the winds and rains of many years. Standing in that room, though—shadowy and so terribly empty—it felt fresh and new again. He pressed a hand to his mouth as tears stung his eyes. He squeezed them shut, still not wanting to cry, but not sure he would be able to help it. 

Then he started, the scars on his palm suddenly burning, at the sound of a voice behind him, saying sharply, “Who is here? This is not a place to—” Maglor turned to find his father in the doorway, a scowl melting away into a look of surprise. “Cáno,” he said, in a very different tone. “I am sorry, I thought…”

“It’s all right,” Maglor said, when he caught his breath. He would have reacted the same way, probably, to finding the door ajar, assuming someone had entered this place out of mere curiosity. He clasped his hands behind his back, pressing his thumb into his scarred palm, letting the pain of it chase away the tears for Finwë, though it did nothing to stop the sudden racing of his heart. He and Fëanor regarded one another for what felt like a very long time. Fëanor was dressed very plainly, in sturdy and stained clothes, and his hair was bound back in a single tight braid. There were shadows under his eyes, as though he had not been sleeping well. His gaze swept over Maglor, taking in his much finer dress, until it settled on his face. Maglor had tried to rehearse what he would say, but he hadn’t anticipated having this conversation in Finwë’s workshop; he hadn’t expected fear to rear its head quite like this—hadn’t expected to be taken by surprise. Finally, he took a breath and said, in a voice that shook only slightly, “I was looking for you.”

Fëanor did not look surprised at that. “To speak of the song you are writing?” he asked. He was guarded, his stance that of one poised for flight, as though he expected a repeat of their last encounter. Maglor couldn’t really blame him. He pressed his thumb harder into his palm, wishing that it didn’t hurt, wishing that he could meet his father with the same kind of ease that Ambarussa could, or the warmth of Curufin and Celebrimbor. He missed his father so much that it hurt, like a blade lodged somewhere under his ribs, between his lungs. He’d felt the same way when they’d met before, but the feeling had then been drowned out by how angry he had still been. Now the anger was gone—but the fear wasn’t, so it just ached.

“Yes,” he said, hoping none of that showed on his face or in his voice. “If you will speak with me.”

“Of course I will.” Whether he meant that of course he would speak of Finwë, or of course he would speak with Maglor, was impossible to tell. “Let us come out into the sunlight.” 

Maglor readily agreed, and shut the door firmly behind him. He let his hand rest against the wood for a moment, before turning away and following Fëanor back toward the cherry trees. They stopped under the closest one, and the silence swiftly grew tense. Finally, Fëanor said, “I don’t know if I will be able to speak much of him. It is…very hard.”

“I understand,” Maglor said. “Grandmother Míriel said that he was the same way. Unable to speak of such close griefs.”

“He was,” Fëanor said. 

“The question I have been asking,” Maglor said after another few moments of silence, “is what others would wish to hear sung of him. Not all of it will be sung—I cannot give everyone a verse—but all of it helps me to shape the song, to find the words that will capture him best. It cannot be a complete portrait, because to put anything into words is to lose something…but it will be as near to it as I can make it.”

“Then it will be very near indeed,” Fëanor murmured. He leaned back against the tree, arms crossed, and looked away into the grove, rather than at Maglor. The praise made Maglor’s throat go tight again, and he ducked his head—except the braids kept his hair from falling forward as he wished it to. Finally, Fëanor said, “I have been thinking of how I might answer that question since Ambarussa told me of it, but I don’t know. Anyone can tell you how great he was—how strong, how brave, how loving. You know all of those things yourself.”

“There is much I do not know,” said Maglor. “And no one knew him like you did.”

Fëanor took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I don’t think I knew him as well as I once thought. Regardless, I would not have him turned into—into a myth, into some figure of legend, to be reduced to his greatest deeds. He was as flawed as any one of us. Do not mistake me—I miss my father, and every day without him is—there are no words for it. I love my father, but I am not blind to his faults. His inability to speak of those most closely held griefs was one. If he had been able to tell me—willing to try to speak of—of his own family left behind or lost, perhaps things might have gone differently. I might have understood better his desire for a large family, knowing that he had once had one.”

“I have been told that his mother remarried after his father was lost,” Maglor said, “and that he loved his younger sisters dearly, though they would not make the Journey.” Fëanor closed his eyes for a moment, as though pained. “It is not my intention to flatten him into a mere legend or story. With this song I am trying to do the opposite. That is why I wish to hear from everyone who loves him—and you most of all.”

“He had a temper,” Fëanor said after a moment. “It showed rarely. He was furious at Formenos, but far more careful than I was to keep it hidden from all of you. He was—stubborn. Strong-willed, if you want to turn it to praise instead. And yet often he was too lenient. I don’t know why he did not intervene sooner in the conflict between myself and Nolofinwë. Intervene publicly, I mean, or more forcefully than only speaking sometimes to us each alone.”

“Would it not have only made things worse?” Maglor asked.

“I don’t know. No one can know, for he never did.” Fëanor sighed, and let his head fall back against the trunk. “Findis is of the belief he will return to us one day. At least she hopes for it, but I cannot. Such estel is beyond me.”

“And me,” Maglor said softly, thinking again of Indis and Míriel’s real intentions for this song, of the incredible hope that they harbored for it, the faith they were putting on him and his skills. Fëanor had no idea of it, and Maglor was glad. He did not want to see Fëanor start to grasp at hope only to have it ripped away. Maglor knew what that felt like, and would wish it upon no one. 

“Has this helped?” Fëanor asked. 

“It all helps,” Maglor said. He took a deep breath and said, “Atya—” at the same time Fëanor began, “Cáno—” They both broke off.

Fëanor broke the ensuing silence first. “Was it really so bad—at Formenos—when you did not let me see—”

“It was,” Maglor said. “We did not let anyone see, Maedhros and I, and he tried to keep me back too when we approached the doors, only I wouldn’t listen.” He paused for a moment, unsure whether to go on. Then he thought that if he didn’t say something, Fëanor would look into the palantír again, and of all the things Maglor wanted him to see and understand, to know, this was not one of them. “Only Fingon suffered a worse fate, later,” he said, “at the Nirnaeth. Finwë was—you would not have known him. It would have destroyed you.”

“It destroyed me anyway,” Fëanor said, very quietly.

“You do not need that memory of him in your mind,” Maglor said. “We did not let you see because we loved you, and we knew that you would follow him to Mandos then and there.”

“Maybe that would have been better than what came afterward.”

“Such thoughts as that never lead anywhere good,” Maglor said. “The Oath was a mistake—the Oath was what led to our ruin. Going east? That wasn’t. Beleriand would have been overrun ere the moon ever rose, and the rest of the world would have followed so swiftly even the Valar, had they chosen to act, would not have been able to stop it. Not all our deeds were in vain, however doomed we were.” He looked down at his hands. Speaking of the oath had brought back the pain in his scars, a steady throbbing—like the burns had felt as they finally started to heal, rather than the fresher, sharper pain. A reminder of how, after finally getting the Silmarils back, he had turned and thrown his away. He pressed his thumb into his palm again. “When last we met I said some very cruel things,” he said without looking up. 

“Nothing that you said was untrue.”

“That does not mean I should have said it. I’m—”

Fëanor reached out, taking Maglor’s hand in his and stopping him from rubbing his thumb into the scars. Maglor flinched, but Fëanor’s touch neither lessened nor worsened the pain in his hand—and he was careful not to touch the scars themselves. “You were angry,” he said, very softly, “and afraid, and in pain, and I lay at the root of it all. Do not apologize to me, Canafinwë.” His hand was warm, strong and rough with callouses. There were traces of soot under his fingernails, and he wore no rings.

“But I am sorry.” Maglor couldn’t raise his head, though. He was no longer angry, but it still hurt, and he was still so afraid. Sauron’s words in his father’s voice still echoed in the back of his mind, the lingering certainty that he was yet a failure and a disappointment—last and least—in his father’s eyes still clinging like a poison, and he still did not know what would banish them for good.

“You need not be.” Fëanor rested his other hand on Maglor’s shoulder. “I am your father; you should always be able to lose your temper, to lash out, without fear of reprisal, especially when I am the one who has hurt you. I know that has not always been true, and I am so, so sorry—and for this most of all.” He tightened his grip just slightly on Maglor’s scarred hand. “You were not wrong. I put my works above all of those I loved most in the world, and you have suffered the most for it. I’m so sorry. I know it’s not enough, I just do not yet know what will be.” Fëanor pressed a kiss to Maglor’s forehead, and stepped back. “I love you, Cáno. I look forward to hearing this song when it is done.” He did not wait for Maglor to reply before he left, walking back through the cherry trees. Once upon a time, Maglor thought, he would have picked a handful of the fruit as he went, to eat on his way to his workshop or wherever he was going. He did not do that now; instead he put his hands into his pockets. 

A few minutes after Fëanor disappeared beyond the grove, Celegorm and Daeron came from a different direction. “How did it go?” Celegorm asked.

“Much better than I thought,” Maglor said. “Neither of us started crying or shouting, so…”

“Love, you’re crying now,” Daeron said softly.

“Am I?” Maglor put his hand to his face, and his fingers came away wet. Daeron brought out a handkerchief to wipe them away.

“What did he say?” Celegorm asked. “Does your hand hurt?”

“He didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not upset. We were speaking of Finwë—it was always going to be hard.” That wasn’t what the tears were for, but Maglor didn’t want to share what else had been said. Not yet.

“If you say so,” Celegorm said, but he sounded doubtful. He glanced up at the cherries hanging over their heads, and picked a few. Maglor took one when it was offered. It tasted exactly like he thought it would.

Chapter Text

Having decided between the two of them that morning that Amrod would go to get some of the supplies they needed for their return to the mountains, Amras went to their old house alone. They’d fallen very quickly into the routine of helping Fëanor clear out the property. There was no particular hurry, and Fëanor seemed intent on taking his time, doing things properly—maybe delaying the time when he had to start really thinking about tearing down the walls. Curufin had spoken of this project months before as something Fëanor was doing just to be doing something, but Amras thought it was more than that, even if he still couldn’t guess what. Fëanor had offered no explanation, and Amras found himself reluctant to ask. 

He walked through the empty house, or at least the ground floor of it, since the stairs looked rather precarious. There was the dining room and the receiving rooms and parlors; there was the bright music room with two walls entirely made of windows—all open, now, the glass long-since broken—where Maglor had kept a small orchestra’s worth of instruments, as well as his writing desk and his collection of quill pens. Amras remembered being delighted with them as a child because they were of all different colors and sizes, had loved being lifted up onto Maglor’s lap so he could play with them while his brother worked, as long as he was very careful. Maglor had liked elaborate and beautiful and sometimes gaudy things, back then—so different from his almost austere habits now. 

Amras passed through the kitchen and the room he remembered as a schoolroom but which might have been a workroom just rearranged for his and Amrod’s use, and paused there to run his fingers over some clumsy drawings on the walls, preserved by virtue of being tucked away in a sheltered corner away from windows or doors, having escaped everyone’s notice somehow. There were little stick-figure people lined up, seven in descending order of height—Caranthir was taller than Celegorm in reality, but older had meant taller to Amras when he’d been very young and small—and two even taller figures for their parents. He crouched down to find his own clumsy child’s handwriting underneath the figures, scribbled tengwar that was meant to spell out all their names. He’d only gotten through Nelyo and Cáno and Telk— before getting interrupted. Most likely someone had come by and nearly caught them drawing on the walls. 

“Ambarussa?” Fëanor called from the hallway. “Are you here?”

“In here, Atya,” Amras said over his shoulder. Fëanor soon appeared in the doorway. 

“What are you looking at?” Fëanor stepped over some broken plaster to kneel beside Amras. He laughed a little, quietly. “Did you do this?”

“Yes,” Amras said, grinning at him. 

“Did you not have enough paper for drawing?”

“Oh, but that wasn’t as much fun as doing something we knew we shouldn’t.” Amras got to his feet. Fëanor ran his fingers over the drawings before also rising. “Did you see Cáno this morning?”

“Yes.” Fëanor’s smile faded away. 

“How did it go?”

“Better than the last time,” Fëanor said. Amras thought he meant to sound wry, but it didn’t really work. “We spoke of your grandfather. It was…it was always going to be difficult.”

“Do you feel better for it?” Amras asked. 

“I feel better for having seen your brother, and spoken to him without either of us upsetting the other. Speaking of brothers, where is Amrod?”

“Shopping,” said Amras. “We’re going to go back home soon. Do you want to come?”

“Come—where, home with you? To your mother’s…?”

“No, to our house, up in the mountains. It’s south of Imloth Ningloron. You don’t have to stay long if you decide it’s too quiet for you. There’s plenty of time yet before the first snows cut off all the roads.”

Fëanor looked away, back down at the drawings on the wall. “Let me think on it,” he said finally. “When will you leave?”

“Oh, a few days, a week, two weeks. It doesn’t much matter, though it drives Curvo a bit mad that he can never guess when we come or go. It’s not as though we have anything particularly urgent awaiting us. Did you want to do any work here today?” Amras thought Fëanor did not seem in the mood for doing much of anything. Talking of Finwë—talking to Maglor—seemed to have drained him, and he looked tired, worn out as though he’d already done a full day’s work of digging up crabapple saplings and runaway ivy vines.

“I had planned…” Fëanor began, but in the time it took him to reply Amras had already made up his mind. 

“No you don’t,” he said, and grabbed Fëanor’s arm. “Come on. We’ll find Amrod and maybe steal Curvo’s girls and go riding outside the city.”

“Steal Curvo’s—?!” Fëanor began, incredulous, even as he allowed himself to be dragged out of the house. 

“They’ll love it, and maybe Curvo will come too! Then it won’t be stealing.”

As they turned onto Curufin’s street, Amras glimpsed Maedhros stepping out of Curufin’s workshop with Celebrimbor and Elessúrë. Maedhros glanced their way and immediately stepped back inside. Amras hadn’t known that he would be there, but that seemed like a very foolish mistake, suddenly. Of course his brothers would be around, with all of them in Tirion. Celegorm would be at the palace with Maglor, but the rest were as likely to be at Curufin’s house as Lisgalen’s, just a few doors down. Still, it was too late to turn back now, so he just put on a smile and pretended he hadn’t seen Maedhros at all. 

“Hullo, Tyelpë!” he said as he and Fëanor reached Celebrimbor and Elessúrë. “Good morning, Elessúrë!”

“Good morning, Cousin,” said Elessúrë, who Amras was almost certain did not quite know how to tell himself and Amrod apart. “Good morning, Uncle.”

“Hello, Grandfather,” said Celebrimbor. “What brings you two here?”

“We’re going riding outside the city,” Amras said. “Is Amrod back yet? And do you think your sisters would like to join us?”

“Náriel’s getting to spend the morning with Atya in the forge,” said Celebrimbor, “and there’s nothing in the world that could drag her away from that, but Calissë would love to go, I’m sure.” He disappeared into the house to look for Calissë, while Elessúrë remained outside to chat with them about the holiday, and about his own work in the quarries just north of the Calacirya. Fëanor’s mood lifted as they spoke, which Amras was gratified to see even though he had no knowledge of and even less interest in quarrying stone. 

Celebrimbor returned with Calissë, who hurled herself out of the door into Fëanor’s arms with a gleeful squeal. He lifted her up onto his hip, and some of the weight he seemed to have been carrying since his conversation with Maglor fell away as he kissed her hello. “Do you want to come too?” Amras asked Celebrimbor and Elessúrë.

“I have a commission to finish,” Celebrimbor said.

“And I’ve made plans with Russandol and Carnistir,” said Elessúrë. Amras wasn’t quite sure if he knew the extent of the tension in their family; if he did know, he did a very good job of pretending not to. “And there is Ambarussa,” he added, nodding down the street.

Amras turned and waved. “Amrod!” he called. “We’re going out riding, hurry up!”

“When did we decide that?” Amrod demanded as he joined them, arms full of packages. “Hullo, Atya.”

“Ten minutes ago,” said Amras.

“All right, just give me two minutes.”

“You two really are terrible at planning,” Celebrimbor said. 

“We are excellent at planning,” Amras said. “It’s not our fault none of the rest of you can keep up.” That got Fëanor to laugh, and Amras felt absurdly pleased with himself for it. 

It was a beautiful day, perfect for racing across the fields outside of Tirion. They taught Calissë a few new tricks in the saddle, and picnicked out among the wildflowers, and did not talk again of Finwë or of their other brothers. By the time they returned to Curufin’s house it was getting late, and Calissë was tired enough that Fëanor had her on his saddle, an arm around her waist as she slumped back against him. They parted at the stables, Fëanor to return to the palace and Amrod and Amras to take Calissë home. As he transferred Calissë into Amras’ arms, Fëanor said quietly, “Do you really want me to go away to the mountains with you?”

“Yes, Atya,” said Amrod. “We really do.”

“Then I’ll come.” He offered a small smile. “Only give me more than ten minutes’ warning. Half an hour, at least.”

“I think we can probably give you a full hour,” said Amras. “It won’t be for some days yet, though. Will we see you tomorrow?”

“If you like, though I don’t think I’ll go back to the house.”

Amrod and Amras dined with Curufin, and joined by Maedhros and Caranthir. Afterward Amras left for Finrod’s house. He found Daeron and Celegorm talking together in the library. “Where’s Cáno?” he asked.

“Upstairs, working his song,” Daeron said. “He won’t mind if you interrupt.”

“Thanks. Is he all right?”

“He says he is,” said Celegorm, “but you know how that goes.”

“I do, yes,” Amras said, raising an eyebrow at him, because Celegorm could be just as bad as Maglor in that regard and he knew it. Celegorm scowled, and Amras left Daeron to deal with it. 

He found Maglor in his bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed with papers spread around him, chewing on the end of a pencil. “Hullo, Ambarussa,” he said, glancing up. “Is everything all right?”

“You tell me.” Amras moved some of the papers so he could sit on the bed too. “You talked a lot about Finwë today.”

“I did.” Maglor sighed and gathered up the rest of the papers. “It’s…hard. Every time. It’s harder here in Tirion, which I suppose I should have expected. Foolish not to.”

“What about Atya?”

“That…went better than I feared.” Maglor set the papers on the nightstand and turned to put an arm around Amras. “I heard you dragged him out of the city afterward.”

“He needed cheering up, but he said he was glad to have spoken to you. And he agreed to go home with us.”

“Good.” Maglor rested his head on Amras’ shoulder. “I haven’t had enough time to think about it or decide how I really feel yet, besides exhausted, and Celegorm and Elrond spent all evening hovering…”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No. Is Amrod here?”

“No, he’s at Curvo’s. Are you tired because of Atya or because of everything else?”

“Yes.” Maglor was silent for a while. Amras tugged him over so they were both lying down, and then just waited. He traced the patterns carved into the plaster of the ceiling—Dwarvish in design, unsurprisingly; he suspected Nargothrond had sported the same motifs—and listened to the quiet music of a fountain outside and below in the garden somewhere. Finally, Maglor sighed, breath ghosting over Amras’ arm. “My hand hurt when I first saw him, but he also took me by surprise, and it didn’t last very long—it wasn’t quite as bad as before, either.”

“That’s good,” Amras murmured. He took Maglor’s hand to look at the scars for himself. They were pale and smooth and, well, scars. They did not seem to bother him at any other time, except that once he’d said his hand got stiff in the cold. “So it was just memory that made it burn, not Atya himself.”

“Yes, I think so. Atya’s just the source of all the memories. It was the same with…some of my other scars. They would hurt when I was reminded of what happened.” Amras thought that Maglor meant the brand upon his chest, in the shape of a large, lidless eye, which they had all seen but never spoke of. He had many other scars, but none quite like that. Maglor went on, “I don’t feel angry anymore. I just…I feel rather like I did when I saw Maedhros by Ekkaia.”

“You got past that,” Amras said.

“It took a very long time,” Maglor said, very softly. 

“What’s this bit in the middle of your hand?” Amras asked, as he rubbed his thumb over it. The scar seemed different there. 

“Mm?” Maglor lifted his head a little to see. “Oh, it’s nothing—”

“Did you injure it after you got burned?”

“No. Don’t worry about it, Amras.” Maglor pulled his hand free, closing his fingers over the scars. He sighed. “I don’t think I have it in me to speak to Atya again any time soon,” he said after a moment. “I need time to finish this song. Once it’s written and I…” he trailed off. “Once it’s written,” he repeated. “Then I can think about Atya again.”

Amras raised himself up on his elbow to frown down at Maglor, whose gaze was distant. He wasn’t lost in musical notes or lyrics, though—Amras knew what that looked like. This was something else, something too much like the way he’d sometimes stared off at nothing before he went to Lórien. “What’s the matter?” Amras asked, poking in him in between his eyes. Maglor blinked as he flinched back. “What about this song has you so worried?”

“It’s just…” Maglor faltered. “It’s so important.”

“If you cannot finish it, you cannot finish it. You said so yourself. No one will be upset with you if you can’t.”

“I’ve promised to perform it at Ingwë’s—”

“If it isn’t done, just sing something else. I’m sure Elemmírë won’t mind. Why give yourself such a deadline when no one else has?”

Maglor didn’t answer. He just sat up and reached for his notes. “It’s important,” he said again after a minute. “I have to finish it, and I have to—I have to sing it.”

“You know Finwë won’t care,” Amras said. They’d had a similar conversation before, about burials. Maglor and Maedhros had both felt horribly guilty about not being able to properly bury any of their people after Sirion, including Ambarussa, but the dead didn’t care—they were gone already. Funerals were for the living. There was grief in not being able to dig a grave or build a cairn, or even to make a song or find proper words, but Amras did not think there should be guilt. “Cáno…”

“I care,” Maglor said, as he rearranged the papers in his hands. His hair fell lose around his shoulders, and when he bent his head forward it fell like a curtain between him and Amras, him and the rest of the world. That was also a habit he had seemed to leave behind in Lórien. Amras did not like seeing it return.

“Cáno,” Amras said again, reaching out to draw his hair back. “What’s wrong? You’re not acting like yourself. Or rather, you are acting like yourself, but not yourself since you came back from Lórien.”

Maglor didn’t look up, but his hands stilled in shuffling the papers. “We spoke of the Darkening,” he said. “Atya and me. And then I spoke to Turgon, and…my thoughts are dark tonight, Amras, but it will pass.”

“Are you sure?”

“If not tonight, then when I finish this song.” Maglor set the papers aside and turned to embrace Amras, holding on tightly. “If I ask you not to worry, will you listen?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. When you see Atya next, will you give him a message from me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Tell him my continuing avoidance isn’t because of him—because of anything he said today, I mean. He didn’t do anything wrong. There is just too much yet between us that I do not have the heart to think about or speak of. Not yet.”

“All right. I’ll tell him.”

Amras left Maglor to his songwriting, and went back downstairs. By that time Elrond had joined Daeron and Celegorm. “What’s so important about this song?” he asked them. “Maglor’s acting like the world will end if he doesn’t finish it.”

“It’s the first major song he’s written in a very long time,” Elrond said after a moment in which he exchanged a glance with Daeron. “And there is the fact that both Indis and Míriel have asked it of him.”

“Yes, but he wasn’t acting like this in the beginning. Did something happen after we left?”

“No,” said Daeron, but Amras didn’t believe him.

“He’s starting to fall back into old habits,” Amras said. “Little ones, but not good ones.” 

Elrond frowned, and Daeron rose from his seat. “If he is troubled, it is only temporary,” he said firmly. “I won’t tell you not to worry, but only because more useless words have never been uttered among this family.” He gripped Amras’ shoulder for a moment before disappearing up the stairs. 

Amras crossed his arms and turned to Celegorm, but Celegorm shook his head. He had Pídhres on his lap; Huan had not come to Tirion with them, having apparently gone off on some errand or adventure of his own. “Don’t look at me, Ambarussa. Are you sure it’s not just his meeting with Atar?”

“I am.”

“Maglor has always had a tendency,” said Elrond, “of burying things down deep—things that hurt, dark memories or old griefs. That was part of the trouble he had upon coming to these shores: they were all unburied at once, and he could not push them away again.”

“Us, you mean,” said Celegorm.

“Yes, and all of the old things associated with how he lost you. He is stronger now, and has learned better habits, but it seems that Finwë’s death is not a thing he has yet addressed. Now this song is forcing it upon him—upon all of Finwë’s house, really, but Maglor is the one most immersed in it. He isn’t alone, however. I am not worried—not yet, at least. He isn’t alone, and he isn't trying to run away from it.”

“Would you tell us if you were worried?” Amras asked.

“Yes, of course,” said Elrond. That, at least, Amras believed. 

The next day he went to find Fëanor in his own workshop at the palace, engaged in the very delicate and time-consuming work of stringing together many tiny golden links into a necklace chain. It was part of an elaborate and intricate looking piece, a drawing of which was on the nearby drafting table. “That’s going to be very pretty when it’s done,” said Amras, peering at it. “Who is it for?”

“No one in particular,” said Fëanor, which Amras took to really mean Nerdanel, except that Fëanor would not actually give it to her; Curufin had told Amras once that Fëanor had a small chest of such pieces in his rooms, slowly filling with jewels and rings and other such ornaments. Neither he nor Nerdanel ever spoke of the other, and Amras didn’t know if they spoke to each other with any frequency either. Nerdanel had once said she would not have Fëanor in her house again while her children were so troubled—which had, of course, really meant while Maedhros was so troubled. As far as Amras knew, that had extended into the years when Maedhros had been gone, even when Caranthir started to spend more time in Tirion or Imloth Ningloron. Fëanor did not look up or stop what he was doing, but he hadn’t sounded annoyed at the interruption, so Amras dragged over a stool to sit across the workbench from him. There were a few bowls of glittering gemstones there, and he picked through them idly. “Is this my hour’s notice?” Fëanor asked.

Amras laughed. “No—I promise, we’ll give you more than an hour. Maglor asked me to pass on a message.”

At that Fëanor did stop his work, and looked up with a guarded expression. “Yes?”

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

“…Oh,” Fëanor said, so softly Amras almost didn’t hear. 

“He’s talking about it like it’s terribly important, this song,” Amras said, “and acting like it troubles him horribly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been told not to worry by both Daeron and Elrond, and aside from Nelyo they know Cáno best,” Amras said, aware that speaking Daeron’s name might be treading on unsteady ground, but Fëanor didn’t so much as blink at it. “But he was very unhappy last night. But again,” he added quickly, “he told me to tell you that it’s not because of you. When this song is all done with and he’s performed it either here in Tirion or at Ingwë’s party, or wherever it’s wanted, he’ll be able to turn his mind to other things.”

Fëanor’s smile was rueful. “I understand that, Telvo,” he said. “You don’t need to make excuses to me for a craftsman’s focus upon his work. It is important, this song, and he should be giving it all of his attention.”

“Oh. I suppose that is it, isn’t it?” Amras didn’t usually equate Maglor’s songwriting to craft, since he did it almost entirely in his head and very rarely got so consumed by it. Amras was no real craftsman himself—he liked making things, but it never absorbed all of his attention in such a way. “Usually such things aren’t so…” He tried to think of a good word—but he didn’t have the talent for those either, the way his father and some of his brothers did. “Unhappy,” he settled on. 

“The subject is not a happy one. I hope this will be the last song your brother writes of its kind,” Fëanor said. 

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

Fëanor smiled again and shook his head as he picked up his pliers. “You don’t need to be playing messenger between us. I will see Cáno again when he is ready. Just knowing that he wants to speak again is enough.”

Chapter Text

After Maglor managed to compose himself and to convince Daeron and Celegorm that he wasn’t going to fall to pieces as soon as he left their sight, he went in search of his cousins, finding Turgon and Argon together in the library. “There you are, Macalaurë!” Argon exclaimed, jumping to his feet to embrace Maglor. “You took your time, didn’t you?”

“I hope you aren’t just going to repeat all the things Findekáno said to me,” said Maglor, smiling up at him. Argon was nearly as tall as Turgon, who was nearly as tall as Maedhros, and Maglor was glad to find them both seated.

“Oh, he said it to complain—I’m not! I want to hear all about your travels and wanderings. Everyone else got to see so much more of Middle-earth than I ever did, and you the most of all.”

“Unless you are particularly interested in the habits of seagulls and crabs, I’m afraid my tales will be very boring for the most part,” said Maglor. “Hello, Turukáno.”

“Hello, Macalaurë.” Turgon’s gaze lingered for only a few seconds on Maglor’s face and the scars there. “You’re here to talk to us about Finwë?”

“I am, though you don’t have to speak with me if you won’t want to.”

“Of course we want to speak with you,” Argon said. “I don’t know what we can tell you, though.”

“You can tell me what you would like to hear sung,” Maglor said. He sat down at the table with them, resting his arms on top of it. “Anything at all. It doesn’t matter if it’s the same thing someone else told me.”

“What sort of song is this going to be?” Argon asked. “Do we all get our own verse? This is what Turukáno remembers best, and this is Aracáno’s favorite childhood memory?”

“No,” said Maglor, “but it will all help me…shape it. Discover what words I will use. I don’t know how to explain better than that. I’ve never done anything like this before for a song.”

“Why are you doing it now?” Turgon asked. He sat leaned back in his seat, at first glance as comfortable and casual as Argon, but there was a faint tension in the way he held himself, a deliberate air to his stillness, and he did not smile. He was not quite as stiff as he had been when Maglor had last seen him, sometime before the removal to Gondolin, but he was not at ease either.

“Both Míriel and Indis asked it of me,” Maglor said, “and this is—it’s Finwë. It cannot be my song alone.” This, at least, earned him a look that was something like approval. He hadn’t really expected any sort of warm reception from Turgon, but his reticence still stung a little. They had been friends once, often thrown together while their older brothers went off to spend time away from younger siblings. They hadn’t had much in common in their youth, but Maglor still remembered those days with fondness. “And you do not have to speak to me now.”

Argon leaned forward onto the table, crossing his arms and tilting his head a little as he thought. He seemed so young, Maglor thought—because of course he was. He had survived the Helcaraxë, and that had surely left its mark, but he had died so quickly and so soon after reaching Middle-earth. Maglor hadn’t wept for him at the time, because he had been acting as Maedhros’ regent and fearing that it would very soon become more than a regency, and in the wake of Fëanor’s death and Maedhros’ capture he had felt so terribly numb that every other piece of bad news seemed like something far away, something out of a story that had nothing to do with him. It was all he could do to keep his people in order and to avoid an all out fight with Fingolfin’s host when they arrived, furious and grieving for all those lost on the ice, and then reeling from the shock of finding him, rather than his father or even his elder brother, there to greet them. He tried not to think about those years—those terrible years when Maedhros had been lost, and his brothers had formed and discarded plan after plan of rescue in spite of Maedhros’ last order to them not to try. After Maedhros had come back, after it was certain he would recover, Maglor had locked himself away for several days just to cry and cry, all the tears that would not come before spilling out all at once, until he fell asleep for a full day and night and woke up with the worst hungover feeling of his life, but also able to breathe again. 

Now Argon sat across from him, alive and bright-eyed. “He used to take us fishing,” he said. “You remember, he taught us to make our own poles, and our own spears?”

“I remember,” Turgon said.

“Yes,” Maglor said.

“Those were my favorite times, especially when it was just him and us.”

“He always tried to do that,” Turgon added after a moment, “to make time for us each alone, even though there were so many of us. He would let me join him in his council meetings when I was old enough to take an interest. I learned a very great deal from that, though I never expected to need any of it, really.”

“I wish he had told us more stories of his own youth,” said Argon. “But whenever I asked about his parents, or his grandfather that he talked about a little, sometimes, he just shook his head and changed the subject.”

“Indis or Míriel could tell you more now, if you wanted,” Maglor said. “They spoke to me a little of his family at Cuiviénen.”

“Really?” Argon sat up, eyes lighting with curiosity. “I would like that very much. I have nothing to add, Macalaurë, unless you want to ask me more questions. If not, I’m going to find Grandmother.”

“I don’t,” Maglor said, and Argon got up, planted a kiss on top of Maglor’s head, and left the library. It was very quiet there; only a handful of others were about, reading or writing alone or in pairs, in silence or holding their own hushed conversations. Maglor glanced toward the ceiling and found it to be the same ceiling he remembered from his youth, that his father and many others had painted over the course of many weeks. Maglor had been quite small then, and not allowed anywhere near the library while the work was going on, but he remembered Fëanor carrying him in afterward to show him the scenes high above. 

“So it’s really true, then, that you were captured by the Enemy?” Turgon asked after a few moments of silence. 

“Yes.” Maglor dropped his gaze to Turgon’s face. “And yes, that is where the scars on my face are from.”

“Are those scars around your mouth?” Turgon leaned forward a little, frowning. “I hadn’t noticed before. What…?”

“They are,” Maglor said. He pressed his palms flat against the table to stop himself digging his thumb into his scarred palm. He’d thought he’d left that habit behind in Lórien, too. “They’re needle marks.”

“Needle—?”

“My last act of defiance failed to bring his tower down, and he ordered my lips sewn shut. It was very—unpleasant.”

Turgon sat back in his seat, now looking rather stunned. His own hair was as dark and thick as Maglor’s own, and fell in similar waves over his shoulders. Usually it was Maglor with the unruly hair, but Turgon’s was only held out of his face by a simple golden circlet, set with a few tiny sapphires that glittered when he moved his head. “Unpleasant,” he repeated, incredulous. “That’s all you have to say about it?”

“I would much rather say nothing at all,” Maglor said. “The tower of the Necromancer was a dark and terrible place.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I know I look very different.” Maglor paused for a moment, and then asked, “Is there anything else you would ask of me, or say to me, Turukáno?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m not—I’m not angry, Macalaurë. I have missed you, and my brother did tell me something of what happened. It’s just that hearing about it and seeing it are two very different things. You are so much older than the rest of us now.”

“I suppose I am.”

“Are you still not on speaking terms with your father?”

“That’s…complicated.”

“I understand,” Turgon said. “I’m not on particularly good terms with mine.”

“Really?”

Turgon shrugged, looking away. “I was the one that built his cairn in the mountains. I had to…I prepared his body. Alone. That was my own fault, really—I was the one who had taken my people and hidden us away. But he…seeing it—”

“I know,” Maglor said softly. 

“Do you? Fëanáro did not die by Morgoth’s hand.”

“No,” said Maglor, “but Finwë did.”

Turgon closed his eyes, and slumped forward, elbows on the table as he rubbed his hands over his face. “I forgot,” he sighed, “that all of you were there.”

“We found him after. Maedhros and I. We didn’t know what to do except to cover his body and to keep our brothers and our father away. Findis mentioned his grave to me, but I don’t have any idea who might have gone back afterward to make it.” They’d known what graves were, then—they’d known the stories of those slain long ago, as part of the explanations given for why the Elves had left Cuiviénen, but no one had ever told them how to make one, to dig a grave or build a cairn or why one might choose one rite over another. They’d learned later, far more than they had ever wanted, but Maglor still wished they could have done something more for Finwë, rather than just…leaving him there.

“Ingwë and Olwë did. My father says there is a cairn by the lake, covered now in flowers.”

“Oh. Good.” Maglor dropped his gaze to the table. “Can you forgive your father, do you think?”

“I have, it’s not that. I just…when I look at him sometimes I see only his body. What was left of him in the end. Do you know what I mean?”

“When I came back that’s all I could think of when I saw my brothers again,” Maglor said softly. “But did you not…I mean, in Mandos—?”

“I’m sure it would be worse if I hadn’t sought help for it in Mandos. But it’s still hard. It makes speaking to him at all difficult, and we end up arguing most times that we try, even though neither of us are actually angry with the other. I’m not really that long out of the Halls, you know. Only a year or so longer than Atya himself. And I had my own difficult reunions with Idril and Tuor, and Eärendil. They did not have to bury me, but—well. They could not bury me. We were none of us very good fathers in the end, I think. In some ways Finwë was not, either.”

“No, but he tried. You tried—you all tried.”

“I didn’t,” Turgon said. He rose from the table. “I knew what I should do and I did not do it—I told myself at the time I had many good reasons for it, but none of that mattered in the end. Maybe Finwë also had good reasons for acting as he did during the unrest, but none of that mattered in the end either.”

“With Morgoth in our midst there was no way it could end well, whatever happened between your father and mine,” Maglor said. He also rose. “What-ifs and should-haves are useless, especially now. I do not intend to flatten our grandfather into some greater-than-life figure, some legend out of ancient days. But neither will I reduce him to only his mistakes. That isn’t the point.”

“Good.” Turgon’s smile was small and crooked. He reached out to grasp Maglor’s hand. “I really am glad you’re back, Cousin. If even you and Fëanor have returned to us, it gives me hope yet for Aikanáro and Irissë.” 

After Turgon left Maglor sat back down for a few minutes, looking up at the paintings on the ceiling, at how the sunlight slanted through the windows differently than Laurelin had, and made the colors look different. Then he took a breath and went in search of his aunt Lalwen. He found her out by the stables, talking of horse breeding and her hopes for a filly that had just been born. “Macalaurë!” she cried, abandoning her conversation with the stable master immediately upon seeing him. She threw her arms around him, squeezing tightly for just a moment. “You’ve finally made your way to Tirion! I’m so glad to see you. What an interesting style you are wearing. Is this what they wear in Middle-earth these days?” She took a step back, holding onto his arms as she looked him up and down.

“It was,” Maglor said. “I haven’t the faintest idea what the current fashions in Gondor are.”

Lalwen laughed. “Well, it suits you. You look very handsome—I like the music notes. But you want to talk about more serious things than clothes, don’t you? Come on, let’s walk through the gardens. Anairë has been growing a hedge maze and it’s finally tall enough to walk through and get properly lost!”

The hedges were of neatly-trimmed boxwood, just tall enough that even Maedhros or Turgon wouldn’t be able to see over the top even when standing on their toes. Maglor knew his brothers, though, would immediately cheat by hoisting one another up on their shoulders if someone let them into the maze. “I’m told you want to know what I would like to hear sung of my father,” Lalwen said once they were away from the entrance and Maglor had gotten entirely turned around. 

“I do,” he said. 

“I’m very glad you’re writing this song,” Lalwen said after a moment, instead of giving an answer to the question. “My mother spoke to me of it—I know its real purpose.”

Maglor tripped over a bit of loose gravel. After he caught himself he said, “Please do not expect any—”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that, and I haven’t told anyone else. That part of it, I know, is to be kept secret—just in case it does not work out as my mother hopes.” Lalwen smiled at him, though the bright laughter had faded, and her blue-grey eyes were very serious. “I’m a much better secret-keeper than anyone guesses, you know, because I seem like I would be terrible at it. If you start to feel the weight of this task, Maglor, please feel free to come to me. You can complain all you like and I will never tell another soul.”

Maglor did know that Lalwen was a good secret keeper. As children they had all known that their Aunt Lalwen, in spite of her boisterousness and ready laughter and near-constant teasing while in company, had always a ready ear to listen to whatever woes or secrets they might bring her, and that those things would never reach the ears of another. “Thank you,” he said. “It isn’t that no one knows already. I’ve spoken of it to Maedhros and Elrond, and Daeron.”

Lalwen’s teasing smile returned suddenly. “I knew Daeron was smitten with you at the Mereth Aderthad,” she said, poking Maglor in the arm. “I knew it, but Nolofinwë wouldn’t believe me! I’m very happy for you.”

“Thank you. I’m very happy too.”

“But I can tease you about Daeron more later. We are meant to be speaking of Finwë.” Lalwen fell silent as they walked. A few birds sang, hidden from sight in the hedges, and somewhere else beyond the maze Maglor could hear laughter and bright conversation. “The last time I saw my father,” she said finally, “we fought. I did not want him to go, and he would not stay—he was very angry, angrier than I had ever seen him. It was directed at the Valar mostly, I think, and at Fëanáro, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I just thought he was taking Fëanáro’s side again, when it was not Fëanáro who had had his life threatened. I have always regretted that—that we parted in anger, that I did not tell him that I loved him, or hear that he loved me, as the last words we exchanged. That was my own fault—he was not angry at me but I was very angry at him. It’s just…well, it’s just that I thought there would be time.”

“We all thought that,” Maglor said. 

“I don’t know what I would like most to hear in a song. I trust that you will find words for all of us. He was my father, and I know that he loved all of us dearly. I only hope that he knew, in spite of our bitter parting, that I loved him too.” Lalwen took Maglor’s hand and squeezed it. “That probably isn't terribly helpful. I’m sorry.”

“Everyone has said that,” Maglor said, “but it all helps—just to hear him spoken of by all of you, whatever it is you say. It is very hard, but it will all help me to make this song what it should be. What it must be.”

Lalwen knew the hedge maze well enough that they only got turned around for ten minutes before she found the way back out. Maglor lingered for a few minutes by the maze’s entrance as she returned to the stables, listening to the birdsong, then went inside, soon learning that his uncle was in his private study. It was not Finwë’s old study—that, like his workshop, remained shut up and unused. Fingolfin’s was nearby, but smaller and cozier, with warm brown wood paneled walls lined with shelves that held books and small sculptures and other interesting things, some of which looked as though they had come from Middle-earth. His desk was covered in stacks of parchment and paper and books and things, but it was all organized very neatly, and he immediately set his pen aside when Maglor was shown in. “Maglor,” he said, “welcome back to Tirion! It’s good to see you again.”

“Hello, Uncle. I’m sorry our last meeting was cut so short—”

“Oh, it’s all right; I understand.” Fingolfin embraced him with the same warmth that he had at that last meeting, which had been just before Fëanor had arrived and Maglor had fled Imloth Ningloron. “Come sit down. You’re here about that song for Finwë, are you not?”

“I am, but if you’re busy…?”

“I am not.” Fingolfin led the way to the window, where a pair of comfortable chairs sat facing one another. A potted orchid sat on the windowsill, sporting soft purple blooms, beside a few small stone carvings of abstract but clever shapes. “What is it of Finwë you wish to ask me?”

“Just—what you want to hear me sing of. It’s the question I’m asking everyone. Not everyone has had an answer. Whatever you wish to say—it’s all helpful.”

“Have you spoken to your own father yet?” Fingolfin asked as he sat down.

“Yes. I spoke to him this morning.”

Fingolfin had been in Imloth Ningloron when Maglor had had his first confrontation with Fëanor. No one had been close enough to hear the words, but Maglor knew they’d heard him raise his voice. Now Fingolfin leaned back in his seat and regarded Maglor solemnly. He looked very like Fëanor, both of them so greatly resembling Finwë—in the shape of their faces, the dark fall of their hair. Fingolfin did not burn in the same way that Fëanor did, but Maglor knew it was mistake to ever forget that he could. “How did it go?”

Maglor shrugged, looking at the flowers rather than at his uncle’s face. “Better than I feared. It was hard because we spoke of Finwë, more than for any other reason.”

“He has missed you, you know,” Fingolfin said quietly. 

“I know.” Maglor did not look away from the flowers. “It isn’t that easy to stop being afraid.”

“Is that what it is? Fear, rather than anger?”

“It’s always been fear.” Maglor did look at Fingolfin then. “I’m not as afraid now—not of most things, anyway. Not like I was before. I hope someone else has told you about how much of a mess I was, because I don’t really want to speak of it.”

“I’ve spoken with Elrond,” said Fingolfin, “but he is reluctant to share very much.” He paused, and then said, “Your father has been deeply unhappy since he returned from Mandos. I do not think he expected a warm welcome, but he did harbor hope for it, however small.”

“I know.”

“He has blamed himself for Finwë’s death,” Fingolfin said after another pause. “Findis and I followed him to Formenos some years ago, when he left Tirion so abruptly that your brother thought we had quarreled and I had banished him.”

“Curvo has never mentioned that.”

“It was a few years after you left for Lórien—so long ago now that he likely doesn’t think it worth remembering, since we had not quarreled and I certainly did not send him away. Fëanor did not stay there long. He wanted to see Finwë’s grave.”

“Turgon said that Olwë and Ingwë buried him.”

“They did, following the traditions of Cuiviénen. Flowers grow over his grave; we were there in spring, and so it was all snowdrops and hyacinths, like what grows near the doors of Mandos. It was morning, and the mist over the lake glowed golden in the early sunlight. You have never seen the Wilwarinen under the sun, have you?”

“No. Do you think I should?”

“It is beautiful. Lonely, perhaps it might be called desolate—but there is a certain beauty even to the crumbling walls of Formenos, covered in wild roses and lichen. The town is gone, entirely overtaken by forest now. Melkor’s most evil deed in Aman was committed there—but still life and beauty has returned to it. I suppose that is what I would like to hear in your song. Findis believes that he will return to us someday, though for years now both my mother and Míriel have argued and pleaded before the Valar and not swayed them. I find I do not have my sister’s capacity for such hope, but it was easier to believe her when we stood there by the lake, the three of us, with the air full of the scent of flowers.”

“Does my father still blame himself?” Maglor asked.

“I think so. It isn’t the sort of thing anyone’s assurances can really erase. He spoke of his guilt concerning Míriel, too, and I know he feels the weight of responsibility for all that befell you and your brothers. He does love you, Maglor.”

“I know,” Maglor said quietly. “I’ve spoken to him. I know.”

They spoke a little more of Finwë—of happier memories—until someone came with an issue Fingolfin was needed to resolve. When he left, Maglor found he had no heart to seek out Orodreth or Angrod. He was exhausted, though it was barely lunchtime, and really just wanted to go back to Imloth Ningloron to curl up in the clover with his hedgehogs and Pídhres. Instead he found Daeron and Celegorm near the stables with Lalwen. When Daeron spotted Maglor he immediately left the conversation, and pulled Maglor into the shade of a pillar, away from curious eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m tired.”

“Between seeing your father and spending all morning talking of your grandfather, is it any wonder?”

“No,” Maglor said, “I know. I have yet to speak to Orodreth and Angrod, but I don’t know where they are and I don’t think I can do it.”

“There’s time. The deadline of the feast is a thing you’ve given yourself, you know.”

“I know.” Maglor let his head rest on Daeron’s shoulder for a few moments. “I’m going to be terrible company the rest of the day.”

“Do you want to be left alone?”

“For a while, when we return to the house.”

“All right. Let’s go, then. There’s a bakery on the way that Mablung showed me on my first visit. Surely pastries will help to cheer you up.”

“They certainly won’t hurt.” Maglor raised his head and kissed him. “Thank you.”

Celegorm appeared behind Maglor, throwing his arms around his neck and leaning most of his weight on him, so that Maglor staggered forward with a grunt. “What’s the matter, Cáno?”

“You’re heavy, is what’s the matter.” 

“We’re going to get pastries and then go back to Finrod’s house,” Daeron told Celegorm as he finally let Maglor go so he could straighten himself. “Are you coming, or will you stay here a little longer?”

“I’m definitely coming if there are going to be pastries.” 

They left the shelter of the pillar and bid Lalwen farewell before Daeron led the way back out into the city. They took a very different route back than the one Maglor had followed that morning, through busy streets and bustling markets. It reminded Maglor a little of the market he and Daeron had visited in Avallónë soon after their arrival, but also of the markets of his youth when he’d ventured out with his cousins in search of sweets or music or gifts for an upcoming birthday or holiday. It was very strange to walk through the familiar streets of Tirion and hear Sindarin being spoken as much as Quenya, and even a scattering of other tongues and dialects too. It was a bright day, warm and sunny and cloudless, and he felt his mood lifting with every step away from the palace. By the time they reached the bakery that Daeron had spoken of, Maglor was cheerful enough again that Celegorm had stopped giving him worried looks. 

The look returned when they reached Finrod’s house and Maglor prepared to retreat upstairs. “I’m just tired, Tyelko, and I have work to do. Stop hovering, or you really will find me in a bad mood.”

“Come on,” Daeron said to Celegorm, grabbing him by the hand. “Maglor isn’t the only one who’s been writing songs. You can listen to my new one and tell me what you think of it. I’m experimenting with puns.”

Alone in his room, Maglor loosened his hair and changed out of his fine clothes into something far more comfortable, and sat down to write. He compiled notes from that day, and then turned his attention to the song itself, but found his mind wandering, and soon gave up and went to lay down instead. Pídhres appeared and curled up beside him, purring as he stroked her fur. His thoughts kept returning, again and again, to the horrors of the Darkening—he already knew that his dreams would be bad that night—and then, after a while, to his father. 

He didn’t really know how he had expected that meeting to go, but he had not expected the reality. To find his father so quiet and thoughtful and…sad. Turgon had been right: it was one thing to hear others speak of what someone was like, but a different thing entirely to see it. Guilt gnawed at him a little. Speaking of Finwë was so clearly painful—and he was also so clearly trying to do things differently than Finwë himself had, in speaking of him at all. They needed to speak again, but there was so much that needed to be said and just thinking of it made Maglor’s head hurt. He couldn’t do it—not while his mind was so full of old grief and the growing weight of the song. The more it took shape, the closer he got to finishing, the closer he came to performing. It was enough to send panic flooding through his veins, making it hard to breathe or even to think at all.

Maglor joined Daeron, Elrond, and Celegorm for dinner, but retreated upstairs again soon afterward. Both Elrond and Celegorm kept watching him, though Elrond was a little more subtle about it; it made him feel breakable in a way that he hadn’t in a very long time, and he hated it. Amras appeared not long afterward to hover around in his own way, and after he left Daeron came up. “If you start,” Maglor told him even before the door fully closed, “I’m going to send you to sleep on one of Finrod’s couches.”

“I’m not going to worry at you.” Daeron plucked the papers from Maglor’s hands. “I’m only going to point out that your brothers are noticing old habits start to appear, and I think it’s rather understandable why that might concern them.”

“I’m not—”

“I know.” Daeron set the papers on the desk and then started to undress. “And now, having said that, I’m going to kiss you senseless, and then we’re both going to fall asleep in bed and no one’s going to banish anyone else to a sofa.”

“Do I have a choice in this?” Maglor asked as Daeron slid across the bed to straddle his lap. Maglor wrapped his arm around him, tilting his head up as Daeron took his face in his hands.

“Certainly not. Now stop thinking.”

Later, as the ability to think about anything but Daeron slowly returned and they lay tangled up under the blankets, Daeron playing idly with Maglor’s hair, Maglor sighed. “I love you,” he murmured.

“And I you. Go to sleep, beloved.”

Chapter Text

Celegorm came looking for Maedhros at Súriellë’s house the day after Maglor was to speak with their father, carrying a bird on his shoulder. Súriellë was a scribe at the palace, but her wife Míraen was a baker; they lived behind and above the bakery, and Maedhros had been recruited to help knead dough for the morning, since it could apparently be easily done one-handed, and Míraen’s usual assistant was still away visiting family for the holiday. Elessúrë had laughed at him before making his own escape to go shopping with his wife and daughter.

“Taking up baking, Nelyo?” Celegorm asked, leaning over the counter to grin at him. 

“Only for today,” Maedhros said. “Where did that mockingbird come from?”

“You keep that bird away from my wares, Celegorm,” Míraen warned, coming out from the ovens with a warning frown and a tray of scones in her hands. Her frowns were more fearsome than most, aided by a scar tracing from her hairline to her chin, passing over her left eye, the ruin of which was hidden underneath a patch. A memento of the War of the Last Alliance, she had told Maedhros with a toothy and fierce grin, where she had fought in Gil-galad’s vanguard. “If I find any feathers…”

“You won’t,” Celegorm said. 

“I better not. Here, try one of these. I have been experimenting.”

“Why does everyone want to test their experiments on me lately?” Celegorm asked, but he took a scone and bit into it. “Oh, I like that. Consider your experiment successful. Can I have my brother, please?”

After Maedhros washed the flour off of his hand and returned Míraen’s spare apron, Celegorm pulled him out of the bakery into the sunshine. “How are you?” he asked. “I mean, really.”

“I’m fine,” Maedhros said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Cáno isn’t.”

“Did he see Atar?”

“Yes. He said it went well, but he’s doing that thing where he hides behind his hair again, and—” Celegorm stopped himself, visibly biting his tongue. “I’m trying to give him space,” he said finally, “because Daeron threatened to drown me in one of Finrod’s fountains if I didn’t.” The mockingbird on his shoulder nibbled at his ear, and he reached up to stroke a finger down its breast. 

“Daeron probably has the right of it,” said Maedhros. “If Maglor says that it went well, speaking to our father, then it went well. He wouldn’t try to lie about it.”

“I know, but—”

“He’s also doing something that until now he has found utterly impossible. Let him work through it and be in a bad mood if he wants. You don’t see the rest of us threatening to drag you off to Lórien when you get gloomy.” Maedhros met Celegorm’s glare with a raised eyebrow. “Are you going to explain the bird, or not?”

“I fixed his wing for him back in Imloth Ningloron,” Celegorm sighed, “and he flew off and I thought that was that, only he turned up at my window this morning. I don’t know why.”

“Just make sure Pídhres doesn’t get him,” said Maedhros. “Does he have a name?”

“If he stays longer than a week maybe I’ll think of something.”

They wandered through the streets, seeing what had changed and what was the same. They avoided going near the palace, but Argon and Turgon found them anyway, and the four of them fell in together. It wasn’t as easy as it had been long ago, when they’d roamed the streets of Tirion in their youth under the golden light of Laurelin, but it wasn’t terribly hard, either. Turgon was grave and Maedhros was quiet, but Argon had not changed so much, and Celegorm was willing to be drawn into conversation and laughter. The two of them wandered ahead, and Turgon fell into step beside Maedhros. 

“I’m surprised to see you back in Tirion,” Turgon said after a while. 

“I came for Midsummer with my cousins,” said Maedhros. “My other cousins, I mean.”

“Have I heard right that all seven of you are here?”

“For the moment, yes. Have you seen Maglor yet?”

“We spoke yesterday. He is…different.”

Maedhros glanced at Turgon, who was the closest one of their family to Maedhros’ own height, only a few inches shorter. “We’re all different,” he said. 

“Yes, but…” Turgon shook his head. “I know you’ve both spent some years in Lórien. If he is so somber and wearied now I cannot imagine what he was before you went there.”

“He is usually much more cheerful,” said Maedhros. “It is somber work though, what he’s doing.” And there was the performance before the Valar, when the song was done, that hung over him. If asked, Maglor would claim not to be afraid, only certain that it wouldn’t work, but Maedhros knew better. Turgon could know nothing of that, though, so Maedhros turned the conversation away from Maglor and to Idril, asking after her and Tuor. Turgon smiled much more easily when speaking of his daughter, though it still didn’t reach his eyes; Maglor was not the only one who felt the weight of the past. Maedhros asked after Fingon, too, but no one had heard anything since he and Gilheneth had hurried away to Lórien. 

“I don’t blame them,” said Turgon as they dodged around a knot of children clustered in front the window of a toyshop. “It will be even worse for Gil-galad than it was for Elrond, when he finally comes to Tirion. Everyone is going to want to see him and speak to him and all of that. Outside of Tirion, no one dares to risk Gilheneth’s wrath by appearing uninvited. I hid away with them too for a while after I came back.”

“Can I ask why you left Tirion afterward?” Maedhros said as they halted to avoid being run over by another large group of children, this time charging down the street shouting at each other, waving sticks and toy swords. 

“I liked ruling my own city,” Turgon said with a shrug. “I was good at it—all my mistakes aside. And it’s not as though there isn’t room here.”

“No need for hidden kingdoms, either.”

“No, but I do miss it. Tumladen, the encircling mountains. I dream of it sometimes even still.”

“I miss Himring too,” Maedhros said.

“You could build another one here if you wanted.”

“No, it wouldn’t be the same—the things I loved most about it are the things that aren’t needed here. I don’t miss the responsibilities, though. I don’t even want a household to manage—let alone a city.” 

“Really?” Turgon frowned at him. “I thought you were all avoiding such things now because you did not think it would be taken well. But you gave up the crown, not all your titles, or your authority. There are many who would flock to a city you or your brothers founded. You see how many have gathered in the quarter of Tirion where Curufin lives.”

“None of us want that,” Maedhros said. 

“I suppose I should not be so surprised; even Fëanor is apparently content to let go of his own claims,” said Turgon. “Though he remains a Prince of the Noldor, and is happy to remind anyone who forgets. He sits on my father’s council and is very welcome there. You could still do something, if you wanted to.”

Maedhros shrugged. “I’m not my father.”

“No,” Turgon agreed, but in a tone that warned that Maedhros would not like his next words, “but you are your father’s son. You always have been.”

Maedhros stopped walking. Turgon stopped after another few steps, turning to look back at him with a raised eyebrow. “I am trying very hard,” Maedhros said, keeping his voice even only with great effort, “not to be.”

“And even in that, you are like him,” Turgon said, “since he is trying very hard not to be who he once was, too. I’m not sure he is entirely succeeding, but he is trying. The two of you even wear the same expression when you think no one is looking.”

“Are you two coming?” Argon called from ahead of them.

“Yes, we’re coming,” Turgon called back, and did not wait for Maedhros again. Maedhros caught up and fell into step by Celegorm again, trying to ignore the way his hand suddenly hurt, trying to school his expression into something cheerful and knowing that his brother saw right through it. This earned Turgon a dark look from Celegorm, but he said nothing when Maedhros caught his eye and shook his head. 

Later, after they parted from their cousins, Celegorm turned his scowl on Maedhros. “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing,” Maedhros said.

“Nelyo—”

“He just remarked how like Atar I am. It’s nothing I didn’t already know—”

“You aren’t,” Celegorm snapped. They had left the crowded market streets but there were still plenty of other people around, and a few glanced their way. Maedhros sighed and took Celegorm’s arm to pull him into the relative isolation of a small park, where they could have at least the illusion of privacy behind a few trees. “You aren’t anything like—” Celegorm began again as soon as they were alone.

“All I ever was, was my father’s son,” Maedhros said, trying to keep his tone even and calm but just landing on flat. “That shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone, least of all you.”

“But you aren’t now,” Celegorm said. “Turgon doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Turgon probably knew better than either Maedhros or Celegorm, having spent far more time in their father’s company even as rarely as he came to Tirion from Alastoron. Maedhros just shook his head. The mockingbird on Celegorm’s shoulder flew away, vanishing into the trees. Whatever he did, Maedhros was never going to escape his father’s legacy—he’d always known that. The best he could do was to keep moving forward on his own terms, and if they happened to align more closely with Fëanor’s than he would wish…well, maybe that meant his father really was no longer the monster that still sometimes haunted his nightmares. It was better than Maedhros being more of a monster, still, than he thought he was. 

“He’s always going to be a part of us,” Maedhros said after a few moments. “It would be foolish to try to pretend otherwise. Now we just…know better what roads to avoid turning down. That’s all. Stop scowling at me, Tyelko. I’m fine.”

“You and Cáno both like to—”

“What sort of miracles were you expecting Lórien to work on us? I’m not going to fall apart every time someone talks about Fëanor, but I’m not going to be happy about it, either. If I promise to tell you if I really am struggling, will you stop assuming the worst at every frown?”

Celegorm looked away, strands of hair falling out of his braids across his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just—”

“I know.” Maedhros tugged him into a hug, resting his chin atop Celegorm’s head. “If you’ve been worrying at Cáno like this I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to punch you yet.”

“I think Daeron might be talking him down from it,” Celegorm muttered into Maedhros’ chest, and Maedhros couldn’t quite tell if he was joking. “I’m sorry.”

“Should I be worried about you instead?” Maedhros asked. He already was worried, but he wondered now if he wasn’t worried enough. 

“No. I’m mostly just—Maglor’s been acting strange, writing this song, and I don’t like it. I don’t understand why it’s so important that he can’t stop or even just slow down if it’s making him so miserable.”

Maglor did not want the full truth of it known, but Maedhros wasn’t quite sure why he was keeping it from the rest of their brothers. He glanced around, but there was no one nearby. “Míriel wishes for him to sing it to the Valar, before anyone else,” he said, very quietly.

Celegorm didn’t immediately react. Then he drew back, eyes very wide. “You mean—?” Maedhros nodded. “No wonder he’s so—why did he agree?”

“I don’t know.” He really didn’t, because Maglor was so convinced it would never work. “He just feels that he must finish it. He wants to do it before this feast of Ingwë’s, though I don’t know why. But don’t try to talk to him about it. He says he’ll never get another word written if everyone knows.”

“Who does know?”

“Me, Daeron. Elrond. I don’t know who else Indis or Míriel may have spoken to about it, but it isn’t anything anyone wants widely known.”

“Better not to raise false hopes,” Celegorm said.

“Something like that, I suppose.”

“Do you think he can…?”

“I think,” Maedhros said slowly, “that he still underestimates himself. I’m only telling you about it so you’ll let him have some space, and not just because Daeron’s been threatening you.”

“All right, all right.” The mockingbird flew back to land on Celegorm’s outstretched hand. He whistled at it, and set it on his shoulder. “I’ll just start complaining about his cat trying to eat my bird, so he can be annoyed at me for that instead of anything important, and then I’ll stay with you when he and Daeron and Elrond leave for Alqualondë.”

“I’d like that,” said Maedhros.

They returned to Súriellë and Míraen’s house, and there found Ambarussa waiting for them. “Fingolfin asked Daeron and Maglor to perform tonight,” Amrod said. “Do you want to go see them?”

“At court?” Celegorm asked, wrinkling his nose. “No thanks.”

“I didn’t bring anything I can wear to the palace,” Maedhros said. And he would attract as much attention as Maglor, if he went. Not to mention Fëanor would be there, and if they avoided one another at such an event there would be talk—more than there already was—and Maedhros felt exhausted just thinking about having to deal with it. “I don’t think Maglor will mind.”

“He won’t, no,” said Amras. “But we thought it would be better to ask you anyway.”

“Thanks.”

“How is Maglor?” Celegorm asked as they walked around the back of the bakery to the stairwell that led to Súriellë and Míraen’s apartments. 

“He seemed fine,” said Amrod.

“More cheerful than yesterday,” added Amras. “He saw Orodreth and Angrod and it must have gone well.”

Ambarussa stayed the afternoon, leaving only when they had to go prepare for a more formal dinner than they were accustomed to. Celegorm stayed and dined with Maedhros, Súriellë, and Míraen; Elessúrë and his family did not join them, going to spend the evening with Lossenyellë’s sister instead. They talked mostly of art, which meant Celegorm spoke little. He was not unskilled, and had learned all the same crafts and arts that Maedhros and the rest of their brothers had, but none of it had ever called to him like the hunt did, or the wild woods. He’d left the hunt behind, but as far as Maedhros knew he hadn’t found anything to replace it—except worrying about his brothers. But he listened, and when he bid them goodnight he seemed in a better mood than he had been that morning. 

“It’s nice to have you all in Tirion,” Súriellë said to Maedhros. “I feel as though we can finally start to know you. How much longer are you staying?”

“When Maglor leaves for Alqualondë, I think I’ll go home with Celegorm,” said Maedhros. “I think Ambarussa intend to leave not long afterward, too.”

“Well at least you’ll be close by, and not wherever it is they go,” Súriellë said, waving a hand in a generally southward direction. “Where do they live, usually?”

“Somewhere in the mountains,” Maedhros said. “They’re very mysterious about it. Wherever it is, they spend quite a lot of time with the Laiquendi from Ossiriand and the Woodelves from Rhovanion.”

“Merry company indeed,” said Míraen, laughing quietly.

“What do you think of Tirion now, Russandol?” asked Súriellë. 

“It’s very different,” said Maedhros with a shrug. “Fine to visit, but not to live in—not for me, anyway. I like the quiet of the countryside better.”

“I’m a little surprised you haven’t gone to see Daeron and Macalaurë perform,” said Súriellë as she rose to put on more tea. 

“I’ve heard them sing together before, and I will again,” said Maedhros. “It’s wonderful every time—but I don’t need to dress up for it. Why haven’t you gone to see them?”

“What sort of hosts would we be if we left you by yourself?” Súriellë asked. “And I don’t want to put on any finery tonight, either. There will be other opportunities, I’m sure—unless Macalaurë intends to never return to Tirion after his errands this visit.”

“He will, but you’ll be more likely to find him at our mother’s house,” said Maedhros, “or Imloth Ningloron. They are always singing there.”

When he retreated to his room, Maedhros took out his sketchbook. He’d started a drawing of Súriellë and Míraen together after a glimpse of them laughing at something in the bakery, and wanted to finish it for them before he left Tirion. The window was open, letting in the sounds of the city, quieted with the evening but never quite silent. If he leaned out of it and looked toward the Mindon Eldaliéva, he could see the neighborhood where his childhood home still stood, slowly crumbling, waiting for Fëanor to finish tearing it down. As he added a few final bits of shading to Míraen’s hair, Maedhros thought of that house as it stood in his memory. He hadn’t gone near it this visit, not wishing to encounter his father—and reluctant to see what had become of it. It was hard to think of it crumbling, slowly succumbing to the passage of time even there in timeless Valinor, but something in him recoiled at the thought of tearing it down, of taking a hammer to the walls, of carting away the broken stones in carts to be returned to nature somewhere or to be reused for some other purpose. 

The next morning he woke still thinking about it, so he slipped out of the house before any of his brothers or cousins could catch him, and made his way to the old neighborhood. The sun had not quite risen, and the light was pale, the sky only slowly turning grey as the stars lingered over the western horizon. It was unlikely he would find Fëanor already there; from what Ambarussa said, he would not arrive until later in the morning, after the sun was fully risen. Maedhros kept his head down until he came to the gateway, empty now where once beautiful gates of gilded wrought-iron had hung, made by both of his parents working together, with half-abstract designs of stars and hammers. Now it was only an opening in the wall, to which lichen and wild-growing vines clung. 

He stepped into the courtyard. The overgrown gardens had been mostly dug up and cleared out. A few stubborn plants remained; a crabapple sapling here, a cluster of purple columbine there. Dandelions grew through the cracks in the flagstones, bright yellow and cheerful. Maedhros paced across the courtyard, following the footsteps of his long-ago self, and pushed open the door. The hinges creaked gently, and the door dragged a little across the warped tile inside. It was dark and shadowy, the air smelling of dirt and dust and faintly of mildew, and standing there Maedhros could almost see the ghosts of himself and his brothers pacing around, coming and going, arguing and laughing. He could almost see his parents dancing, the way they sometimes had when everything was still happy and they were still so deeply in love, just for the sake of moving together for a few minutes on days when they were both otherwise too busy.

Maedhros didn’t go any father than the entryway. The rooms would all be empty, choked with dust and cobwebs. Even the cellars and storage rooms were now empty, many of the boxes and chests that Curufin had taken charge of carted away already to Nerdanel’s house, where Maedhros knew he would have to organize them to be sorted through properly later, when he or his brothers had the heart for it. This house was not where he had been born—he and Maglor had both been born outside of Tirion—but Celegorm and all the rest of his brothers had begun their lives here. They had all grown to adulthood in these rooms and hallways, which had seen scraped knees and tears and laughter and Huan’s arrival as a floppy-eared puppy, that had heard the discordant notes of Maglor’s first attempts at making music, and later the beautiful melodies he had written and played first just for them. They’d seen Ambarussa scribbling on the walls where they thought no one would notice, and Curufin’s first time bringing Rundamírë home to meet them, and in between all their cousins and friends coming and going, loud and young and so very bright. 

They had seen, too, their descent into darkness—the first blades that Fëanor had forged, the helms and the shields, had heard how he had increasingly often raised his voice, had watched Nerdanel pack her things and leave without a backward glance. And then watched the rest of them depart—first for Formenos, and then for the east. His last memories in this house were dark and frightened and hurried, and now there was no way to replace them with anything brighter. The house needed to be torn down, Maedhros thought as he looked up to the landing above, at the stairs that were broken and tilted and too dangerous to climb. He was surprised more of it had not already collapsed on its own. But looking at it was like looking at the tapestry Míriel had made for him of Himling Isle. It made his heart ache, but he couldn’t bear the thought of it disappearing entirely.

He walked outside into what was left of the gardens. The peonies that Caranthir had adored as a very small child were long gone, of course, but he could still pick out the precise spot where they had grown. The forge and the workshops still stood, but in even worse states than the house. Maedhros stopped before his father’s forge, where the Silmarils had been made. Even then it had been a very simple and unassuming building, not the place anyone would expect such a work to have been done. Maedhros brushed his fingers over the door, but did not open it. 

By the time he walked around the house back toward the gate the sky was fully light, and he could hear the rest of the city waking beyond the walls, beyond the quiet neighborhood of large houses and sprawling gardens. Now was when he could expect to meet his father, Maedhros thought, and he still didn’t know what he wanted to say, or wanted to hear. Sure enough, Fëanor appeared in the gateway before Maedhros could step out of it, and they both stopped, Fëanor blinking in surprise. Maedhros waited for his hand to start burning, and it did, sharp and hot. “Nel—Maedhros,” Fëanor said finally. “What are you…?”

“I hadn’t seen it yet. Since I came back.” Maedhros didn’t look over his shoulder at the house, but it felt like the windows had turned to eyes and were watching them. “What are you going to do after you’ve torn it down?”

“Build something new,” Fëanor said. “I do not yet know what.” 

Elrond had said they needed to speak to one another, to listen to what the other had to say. Maedhros knew he was right, but he didn’t know what to say, and it seemed to him that his father didn’t, either. It was something that Maglor had been able to speak to him, but Maglor had his song to write—something to begin the conversation. Maedhros just…

“Do you remember what you said to me after the ships burned?” The words spilled out of their own accord. Maedhros hadn’t even been thinking of Losgar. 

Fëanor blinked again. “No,” he said after a moment. “I don’t—I remember very little, with clarity, after the Darkening.”

Maedhros couldn’t decide if that made it better or worse, that his father had little or no memory of Maedhros’ single act of defiance or his own reaction to it. “Have you looked for Losgar in the palantír?”

Something went tense in Fëanor’s stance that made Maedhros want to flinch back, but when he spoke his voice was quiet. “No.”

Well, then. “Maybe you should.” Maedhros slipped past him and didn’t wait for an answer. His father didn’t call after him, and he didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Angrod and Orodreth came to Maglor in the morning, after breakfast and just as he was starting to consider what he should wear to the palace, and wishing he could just crawl back into bed. It was with relief that he met them at the door, and led them both outside into the garden instead. “Is Findaráto not coming to Tirion?” Angrod asked as they sat by a fountain, bubbling cheerfully. He and Orodreth were both dressed in finery, each in a different shade of blue, with strings of blue topaz and tourmaline wound through their pale yellow hair. Orodreth’s spilled loosely down his back; Angrod wore his in tighter braids, not unlike what he had worn in Middle-earth—sensible rather than fashionable, if you took away the gems.

“I think he intends to go straight to Eressëa with Celebrían and the twins,” said Maglor. Pídhres trotted out of a clump of cowslip to sniff at Orodreth’s fingers. “They might already be on their way. I suppose I don’t have to explain why I wanted to speak to you?”

“This song for Finwë,” said Orodreth, as he stroked Pídhres, who purred and arched her back into it. “I’m not sure I can answer you. We did not see him as often as the rest of you did, living mostly in Alqualondë.”

“Whenever we did see him,” Angrod added, “it was all the more joyous. But it also made it all the worse when he was slain. We had thought there would be time—or, no, that isn’t right is it? We didn’t think we’d have time, because it was never something we had to think about at all.”

“Not until it ran out,” Orodreth agreed. He fell silent for a few moments, and then said slowly, “I never wanted any crown. When my brother gave his to me I…hoped that it was temporary, a mere regency.”

“I know the feeling,” Maglor murmured.

Orodreth grimaced in sympathy. “At least yours was a regency in truth. Even at the beginning I knew such a hope was foolish. Findaráto knew he wasn’t coming back. I had no idea what I was doing—I didn’t want it, and I wasn’t suited for it, and everyone knew it, and…well. We all know what happened. But I managed to muddle along for a while, and it was mostly doing what I thought Finwë might do if he were there. I was wrong more than half the time, I know—I don’t think Finwë would have ruled any hidden kingdom to begin with. He was too bold. But day-to-day I think his example helped.”

Pídhres jumped onto Maglor’s lap and he buried his fingers in her fur. He wasn’t sure how to respond, and so said nothing. To speak of Nargothrond was to speak of his brothers’ part in all that happened there, and he did not think it his place. That lay between them and Orodreth, them and Finrod. 

“Why did you never write such a song as this before?” Angrod asked him. “There was time—in Beleriand, I mean. Before the flames.”

“I tried. It is only now that I find I am succeeding, and I think it is because I’m no longer relying on my words alone.”

“What will you do when it’s done?” asked Orodreth. 

“I hope to have it written by the time this festival of Ingwë’s comes around,” said Maglor, “and I will sing it then, as part of Elemmírë’s cycle of songs that span the whole of our history.”

“That is ambitious, even for Elemmírë,” said Angrod, but he sounded impressed. 

“This whole gathering is ambitious,” said Maglor.

“Would that Finwë could be there himself, and your song rendered meaningless,” Angrod said. “No offense, Cousin.”

“None taken. I would very happily abandon this song if it meant he would walk into Tirion this afternoon.”

“And not only Finwë,” Orodreth said quietly. “You will be missing at least two voices in your song, you know.”

“I know. I wish it were not so. Everyone keeps pointing out to me that many things have happened lately that were once thought impossible, though. Aikanáro may yet return.”

“That is true,” said Angrod. “Almost I wish Mandos would release him whether he would or no, as they did Russandol.”

“I think it was a question of whether Mandos was doing him more harm than good by then,” said Orodreth. “That is what Findaráto told me, anyway, though I don’t understand it myself.”

When they looked at him Maglor shrugged. “Don’t ask me. For good or ill, I’ve never been to Mandos, and Maedhros has never spoken to me of his time there.”

“I daresay you came close,” Angrod said. 

“Not that close.”

“What did happen?” Orodreth asked.

“I was careless, and I paid for it.” Maglor looked away from them to watch a few sparrows flutter from one tree to another nearby. “I didn’t want to see you to talk about me. I hear you have a new city of your own somewhere north of Tirion.”

“Not much of a city,” said Orodreth, “and it’s Angaráto’s, not mine. I just live there.”

“Nominally it’s mine,” said Angrod. “There’s a council that makes all the decisions, and I just sign the paperwork.”

“It was your idea,” Orodreth said.

“And that’s why I get the title and have to come to Tirion sometimes for politics,” Angrod said, making a face at the word politics like he’d just stepped in something unpleasant. Maglor snorted. “It’s very nice, though—to have built something we know will last, and not having to worry about what’s just beyond the mountains. I’m surprised none of your brothers have done the same.”

“None of us particularly want to be in charge of anything,” said Maglor. “I certainly don’t. I get all the benefits of living in Elrond and Celebrían’s household, and none of the responsibilities, and I am quite content.”

“Speaking of responsibilities,” said Angrod, “our uncle wished for us to ask if you would perform for the court tonight—you and Daeron. I think Imloth Ningloron is the only place that has had that honor since you have both been in the same place at the same time.”

It had been Angrod, Maglor remembered, who had introduced them at the Mereth Aderthad. “I am willing,” he said, “and I think I can speak for Daeron too.”

“So it’s true then, the reason Aunt Lalwen is so smug today?” asked Orodreth, raising an eyebrow. “You and Daeron?”

Maglor raised an eyebrow back at him. “I don’t know why Lalwen would be smug about it,” he said. “It’s not as though she played matchmaker.”

“No, that was me,” Angrod laughed, and the mood lifted as suddenly as the sun emerging from behind a cloud. “Though all I thought at the time was that you were likely to be friends—or I hoped so, at least.”

“You were right,” Maglor said, “though at the time the friendship was short-lived. But since we both came west it’s been—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Orodreth said, laughing, “we can see it written across your face.” He rose from his seat. “I’ll tell our uncle you’ll be attending dinner this evening. Everyone will be thrilled.”

“This happiness suits you better than the grief,” Angrod added as he also got to his feet. When Maglor stood, Angrod embraced him. “We’ll have to go out riding one of these days—it’s been too long since we raced through the fields outside Tirion.”

“I would like that,” Maglor said. “When I’m done traveling around to work on this song, maybe.”

“We should all come together sometime,” said Orodreth. “All of us cousins, even if Aikanáro and Irissë cannot yet join us—our own miniature Mereth Aderthad.”

“That,” Angrod said, “is an excellent idea. I’ll write to Findaráto about it.”

“Then it will certainly happen soon,” Maglor said, and both of them laughed. “I am very glad to see you both. I’m sorry it was to speak of sorrowful things.”

“There will be time for happier talks,” said Orodreth. “Just be sure to sing something cheerful tonight!”

After they left, Maglor told Daeron and Elrond of Fingolfin’s request. “I’m always ready to perform,” said Daeron. “What should we sing?”

“I thought perhaps the song we wrote of Ekkaia?”

“I’ve heard of that song,” said Elrond, “but never the song itself.”

“I don’t know why we haven’t sung it in full before,” Daeron said. “But tonight is as good a night as any—it is a good song to celebrate your return, Maglor.”

Daeron had some errand in the city that afternoon that he insisted upon making alone, while refusing to say what it was. Maglor brought his notes down to the library where he and Elrond spent the rest of the morning in quiet company, speaking little except when Maglor asked Elrond’s opinion on a couplet, or a snatch of melody, or when Elrond shared something amusing from the book he was reading. Celegorm had disappeared before breakfast, and had not reappeared by the time they started to get ready to dine at court. Maglor wore a similar style to the previous day, but choosing green instead of black, and fastening his braids with clips set with beryl and green opals. Daeron dressed in the courtly style of Taur-en-Gellam, in mallorn-flower yellow. When Elrond joined them he looked every inch the Lord of Imladris and of Imloth Ningloron, a circlet of chalcedony on his brow, and pearls glinting in his braids. Pídhres had to be left behind, and made her displeasure very clear. 

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” Maglor told her. “I know you’ve already charmed Finrod’s cook, so you’ll get all the treats you can eat and I’ll have to roll you back home to Imloth Ningloron.” She meowed, apparently affronted, and turned to trot off, tail held high—in the direction of the kitchen. 

Maglor had taken part in court functions in Arnor and Gondor, though not terribly often, so he did not feel quite as out of his depth as he might have. Still, it was a larger and much more formal gathering of people than he had yet attended there in Valinor. His uncle greeted him with a warm smile, and Anairë was there too to kiss him and welcome him back to Tirion. Curufin and Ambarussa were there with Celebrimbor and Rundamírë, but he did not see his father anywhere. 

“He’s not absent because of me, is he?” he whispered to Amras when he could catch him alone for a moment. “When I said I was going to keep avoiding him I didn’t mean—”

“No, he’s not. He got caught up in his own work this afternoon—you remember how he gets sometimes. He might miss part of dinner but he’ll be here to hear you sing.”

“That wasn’t what I—I just don’t want him to feel as though he has to stay away.”

“He understands that you’re caught up in your own work,” Amras said. “It didn’t upset him, and I know for a fact he very much wants to hear you tonight.”

Dinner was not unpleasant, though Maglor barely managed to eat anything in between all the people who came over to speak to him or to welcome him back. He was aware of everyone’s eyes on him, and he knew it was mostly because he had not been seen in Tirion in so long, and because everyone knew he was to sing for them that evening, but it was still horrible. That he was able to sit through the meal without betraying the anxiety growing in his chest was a sign of all that Lórien had done for him. He would have fled the room long before they sat down to the table if he had come there fifty years before. The anxiety was still there, though, and he disliked how fragile it made him feel.

Daeron sat beside him, and during a lull in the stream of conversation around them he put his hand over Maglor’s. “Are you nervous?” he asked in a low voice.

“Not about the singing,” Maglor said without looking up from his plate. He turned his hand to squeeze Daeron’s before letting go. “It’s—it’ll be easier after tonight, once everyone’s had their look at me.” 

Halfway through the meal Fëanor arrived, skin still pink from scrubbing. He took his place at the high table beside Fingolfin, just a few feet from where Maglor sat with Daeron and his brothers at the end of their table. He heard Fingolfin greet Fëanor, and Fëanor’s reply, and even knowing they were friendly hadn’t really prepared him for the sound of them conversing so cheerfully. He glanced up in time to see Fëanor sit down. Their eyes met briefly. Fëanor smiled at him, and turned away back to Fingolfin. 

“So it really did go well?” Amrod asked, leaning across the table toward Maglor.

“Why do any of you bother asking me things if you don’t believe my answers?” Maglor replied, trying to ignore how the knot of anxiety in his stomach had grown spikes. “Yes, like I told Amras—and Daeron, and Celegorm. It was fine.”

Amras frowned at him. “You weren’t yourself afterward, Cáno,” he said.

“A thing can go well and still be draining,” said Daeron, resting his hand on Maglor’s again. The scars weren’t painful, exactly, but they felt tender.

“Leave it, Ambarussa,” Curufin said from Daeron’s other side. “You’re as bad as Tyelko.”

Finally, the meal came to an end, and there was mingling and conversation, wine still flowing freely. Daeron and Maglor retreated to fetch their instruments. Daeron had left his flute and brought a harp, elegantly wrought of dark wood inlaid with swirling designs of blue and silver. Maglor, of course, had his harp made of driftwood, much plainer in style, but fitting comfortably in his hands. He rubbed his hand over the frame as he and Daeron stepped up onto the small stage meant for musicians, whether they were providing music to fill the gaps between conversations as the crowds mingled, or performing as Daeron and Maglor were. The pieces of his harp had been gathered on the course of far happier seaside wanderings at the beginning of this Age, and he had put them together and shaped them in Rivendell, listening to the familiar song of the river outside the window. It had crossed the Sea and gone with him all the way to the shores of Ekkaia, and then to Lórien and back, and now it had come back here to Tirion with him, to the very same hall where he had made his very first public performance, so long ago, before his grandfather’s court. Maglor looked out over the gathered crowd. It was so like and unlike the crowds before which he’d sung in his youth that he almost felt as though he were standing with one foot in the present and the other in the past. It was strange, almost dizzying. 

Daeron stepped forward, and both he and Maglor bowed to Fingolfin, and Daeron announced that they would sing the first song they had written together, which had not yet been performed before an audience. Maglor put his fingers to his harp strings and began to play. After a few beats Daeron joined him with the harmonies, and lifted his voice, singing the praises of Ekkaia, his words the joyous ones of a traveler discovering something new and wondrous—the sea at the farthest edge of the world, waters dark under the bright glow of the summer sun overhead. When his verse ended Maglor responded with his own, of his memories of Ekkaia as it was in the Years of the Trees when only starlight could reach it. 

Maglor’s brothers had heard the first handful of verses, which he and Daeron had sung immediately and with no planning upon reaching those shores, not yet knowing they were not alone there. The rest of the song remained centered upon the image of Ekkaia, but it was really about the joys of wandering, one of them familiar with the lands through which they passed and the other not, of sharing in new discoveries and old memories, of the changes that had come even to the Undying Lands with the rising of the Sun and Moon and the delights they brought—of glorious sunsets over Ekkaia’s smooth waters, and the Moon’s rising over the heather-clad hills behind.

When the song ended Maglor startled a little at the applause; he’d almost forgotten that they had an audience. He and Daeron bowed again, and stepped down from the dais. He took a deep breath, finding himself shaking a little as he let it out. Daeron smiled at him. “That went quite well, for a first performance,” he said.

“It did,” Maglor agreed, smiling back. 

Everyone wanted to talk to them, to ask about the song and about their journey to Ekkaia. Maglor let Daeron do most of the talking; he was better at answering such questions without saying too much. He looked around and saw Elrond, who smiled at him from where he stood with Celebrimbor and Rundamírë. 

Ambarussa appeared with Curufin at Maglor’s side. “You could have warned us you were going to sing that song,” Curufin muttered into his ear. 

“Whatever for?” Maglor looked at him, and noticed that his eyes were a little red. “Curvo, you weren’t crying?”

“You forget your own power,” Amras said, shoving lightly at his shoulder. “It took us right back to Ekkaia when we first heard it.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” said Curufin. “It’s a beautiful song. Just warn us next time. Lalwen kept giving us strange looks.”

Amras leaned in to whisper, “Atya was crying too.” Maglor glanced around, but only caught a glimpse of Fëanor through the crowd. He stood with Lalwen and Findis, the former gesturing widely as she spoke. Findis caught his eye, and tilted her head slightly toward Fëanor. “I think he missed hearing you sing even more than he realized.”

With a little help from his brothers, Maglor escaped the crowd and made his way over to Fëanor. His heart still pounded, and he would rather have stayed by Daeron or joined Elrond instead, but he did not want to deal with any sidelong looks or pointed questions about avoiding his father so publicly. “Macalaurë!” Lalwen turned to him, beaming. “That was marvelous! It was even better than when we first heard the two of you together at the Mereth Aderthad!”

“Thank you,” Maglor said. “We’re more practiced now at performing together.”

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

“Driftwood,” Maglor said. He held it out for her to take and look at. “I don’t know what any of the pieces were originally. I found them in different places on the coasts of Eriador.”

As Lalwen handed it back Findis pulled her away, saying someone was calling them but giving Maglor a meaningful look as she went. That left Maglor alone with Fëanor. He turned to his father, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. “It was a beautiful song, Cáno,” Fëanor said. “I’ve missed your music.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said.

“I’d heard, though, that you don’t like performing before large audiences anymore.”

“I don’t dislike it, exactly—but it’s not so daunting now as it was before I went to Lórien.”

Fëanor smiled at him, and stepped forward to rest a hand on his shoulder for a moment. He kissed Maglor’s temple. “I’m so proud of you, Canafinwë,” he whispered, and then stepped away, disappearing into the crowd, having no idea how much those words really meant, as Maglor realized only in that moment just how much he had needed to hear them.

Even though the evening went well, it was a relief to slip out of the palace with Daeron later—Elrond remained behind, being much in demand—to walk home under the stars. Daeron slipped his hand into Maglor’s. “We’ll be asked for the same in Taur-en-Gellam, you know.”

“I know.”

“Have you spoken to everyone here that you needed to?”

“Everyone I came to see, yes, but I should go sit myself somewhere in the palace tomorrow and talk to anyone else with something to say.” There had been several questions asked that evening about the song he was writing, and Maglor knew he shouldn’t forget that there were many others who had loved Finwë—Finwë the king, the leader, the friend. “I think…I want to visit Formenos, too, before we go on to Alqualondë.”

“Do you want company?” Daeron asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“You should take someone. Perhaps not me. One of your brothers?”

Maglor squeezed his hand. “I don’t think any of them could bear it. I don’t know if I can.” Fingolfin had called it beautiful, that place, lonely as it now was. Maglor wanted to see it, wanted to pay his respects to his grandfather’s grave, but it would be foolish to imagine it wouldn’t be hard, wouldn’t conjure up all the memories he was trying to keep tucked away.

The next day he did as he’d said and went to the palace, choosing a place in the gardens that was easy to find, and he listened to everything anyone could tell him about Finwë—to the lords and ladies, to old friends, those who had learned from him or followed him all the way from Cuiviénen. Some had followed Fëanor or Fingolfin back to Middle-earth; others had remained behind or turned back with Finarfin. Maglor smiled at them all and took notes and ignored the lingering stares at the scars on his face and pretended not to hear some of the more pointed questions they asked. By the time he left he felt as though he’d walked all the way to Ekkaia and back since the morning. Celegorm frowned at him but said nothing when Maglor declined dinner and retreated upstairs. His mockingbird had returned, and had proved to be a distraction from his worrying—or at least now he seemed more worried about Pídhres trying to eat the bird than about whatever Maglor’s face was doing at any given moment. To avoid any of that trouble, Maglor scooped Pídhres up as he passed by, and she only squirmed a little until the mockingbird on Celegorm’s shoulder was out of sight. 

It was Elrond who followed him. “Did you already eat?” he asked as Maglor tossed Pídhres onto the bed.

“No,” Maglor said, “but I’m not very hungry.” 

“Have you eaten at all today?”

“I had lunch with both of my aunts. Missing one meal isn’t going to send me into a decline you know.”

“No, but I’m starting to see why all your brothers are so concerned.” Elrond crossed the room to take Maglor’s hand. He’d been absently rubbing his thumb into his palm. “What’s the matter? Is it being in Tirion, or seeing your father, or…?”

“I don’t know. All of it, maybe. Please don’t start hovering like Celegorm.”

“Have you been having any nightmares?”

“No.” He’d expected dark dreams, but if he had had any he’d woken without any memory of them. Daeron was good at chasing such things away; Maglor suspected songs of subtle power were being sung every night after he fell asleep.

“Should I ask Daeron instead?”

Maglor sighed. “When have I ever lied to you about such things, Elrond? I’m not having nightmares. I’m tired, and I miss my grandfather. That’s all.”

“Writing this song should not turn into some kind of punishment,” Elrond said quietly. “I thought we were past all of that.”

“I’m not—I would very much like for this to be easier.” Maglor pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes. “I did not expect—I knew it was going to be difficult, I just underestimated how hard it would be to be so constantly thinking of him and of what happened and—and of what my grandmother wants me to accomplish with this song. If I stop now, if I put it away for more than a day, I don’t think I will be able to pick it up again, and I can’t leave it unfinished. I know what I said in the beginning, but I was wrong. I must finish this song, and I must do it before Ingwë’s feast—I cannot explain why. It almost feels like the Oath pulling on me, except I have made no such promises.”

“If you say it is important, I believe you,” Elrond said.

“It won’t work,” Maglor said, “so I don’t know why—”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Elrond said. “But you do not have to carry this burden alone. How can I help?”

Maglor started to shake his head, before remembering what Daeron had said of going to Formenos. He could not ask his brothers. “Will you go with me to Formenos? Not for long—I don’t think I want to stay the night there—but it’s away from everything and I…would like to see his grave.”

“Are you sure?” Elrond asked.

“Yes. I know it seems backwards, but I think it might help.” If nothing else he could sit and cry for a while beside the lake and the cairn. Elrond was one of the few he didn’t mind seeing him like that, who wouldn’t worry unnecessarily, and who always seemed to know what to say afterward.

“Of course I’ll go,” said Elrond. He embraced Maglor, both of them holding on very tightly. “I suppose the sooner you get this song written, the sooner the burden will be lifted. Just do not let it crush you before you can finish.”

“No fear of that, with you and Daeron watching so closely.”

They did not leave the next day; Maglor did not go anywhere, intending to tuck himself away in Finrod’s library to write, with Pídhres on his lap and Daeron across the table with his own work. Celegorm vanished in the morning after muttering something about not wanting to hear any more of Daeron’s wordplay, and Elrond went back to the palace, and so it was something of a surprise when the door opened, and a visitor was shown in. 

It was Elessúrë. “Hello, Cousin,” he said, looking faintly sheepish. “Am I interrupting?”

“No—no, of course not.” Maglor gathered his papers together, ignoring Daeron’s pained look at the haphazard pile, and went to the door. “I’m glad to see you. Shall we go out into the garden?”

Pídhres followed them, and disappeared into the flowers as they stepped out into Finrod’s elegant gardens. “How was Midsummer here?” Maglor asked, after casting around for something, anything, to talk about that wasn’t awkward or painful.

“Bustling, as usual. Russandol came with us, and we spent the day with my sister and her wife, and all your brothers. Well, almost all, since Tyelkormo was with you. How was it at Imloth Ningloron?”

“Lovely, as always. Gandalf brought fireworks.”

“There were some set off here, too, at the palace. I think your father made them.” 

Silence fell, and Maglor didn’t know how to break it. They sat by a fountain, and Pídhres emerged from the cowslip to jump up onto Maglor’s lap. “Is that the same cat from before?” Elessúrë asked.

“Yes. I think she received a blessing of some kind from Estë in Lórien. Her name is Pídhres, and she came with me all the way from Rivendell.”

“Do you still have hedgehogs? One’s always following Russandol around at home.”

Maglor smiled. “That’s Aechen. I have his siblings Annem and Aegthil at Imloth Ningloron.” Elessúrë laughed, shaking his head a little. “How is your family? I’ve heard of Vindimórë’s music. Elemmírë speaks very highly of him.”

“They’re all well. My daughter Isilmiel starts her apprenticeship with Aunt Nerdanel soon.”

“Elemmírë spoke highly of her talents, too, but said she does not have Vindimórë’s same passion.”

“She’s still looking for it,” Elessúrë said. “She wants to learn everything, is the problem—everything all at the same time.”

Maglor ventured to say, after a moment, “I would like to meet her. And Vindimórë—properly, I mean. And your wife.”

“I would like that too,” said Elessúrë, to his surprise. “I’m sorry, Macalaurë. I said some very unkind things when last we met.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I deserved far worse.”

He shook his head. “No, you didn’t. Especially not then. Can we start over, please? I’ve been getting to know all the rest of my cousins, but I never missed them like I missed you.”

“Of course, Elessúrë,” said Maglor. “I missed you too—I missed you terribly.”

Elessúrë stayed the rest of the day, and his wife joined them at dinner along with Caranthir and Lisgalen. It was a more cheerful day than Maglor had had in some time, and he hardly thought about his song or about Finwë at all, or even about his father. After Elessúrë and Lossenyellë left that evening, Daeron sprawled out on the sofa, resting against Maglor’s chest. Caranthir and Lisgalen lingered; the conversation meandered around their wedding—the debate over whether they should elope or not remained ongoing—and Celegorm’s mockingbird, who had flown up to roost for the night in the recess of one of the relief carvings near the ceiling. Then Caranthir asked, “Are you done talking to everyone here for your song, Maglor?”

“I think so.” 

“So you’ll be heading off to Alqualondë soon.”

“Yes, but I’m going to Formenos first.”

Both Caranthir and Celegorm frowned, and Maglor sighed. “I’ll be fine. Stop looking at me like that.”

“But why go at all?” Celegorm asked.

“I’m surprised it’s still standing,” Caranthir said. “I would’ve had it razed to the ground long ago, if I were Finarfin. Or Ingwë.” Lisgalen reached for his hand. 

“Fingolfin and Findis both spoke of it,” Maglor said, “and if I’m going to write of it, I should see for myself what it looks like now.”

“I’ll be there,” Elrond added mildly, when Celegorm glanced at him, clearly hoping for support that he wasn’t going to get. “It’s not very far, and we won’t stay long.” 

“Oh, good,” Daeron murmured. He seemed half asleep as Maglor played with his hair. Without opening his eyes he added, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep Celegorm busy while you’re gone.”

“I’m not going to sit around listening to you make puns all day again,” Celegorm said. Lisgalen nearly spit out their wine as they laughed. 

“No, you’re going to help me with another project. I will excuse you the day after tomorrow, however, because I’m to meet Rúmil then—in person, at last. I’m very excited, but you’d think it terribly boring.” Celegorm made a face at him and Daeron made a rude gesture back, still without opening his eyes. 

“I do hope to come back and find you both in one piece,” Maglor said, amused in spite of himself. 

“I’ll knock their heads together if they start fighting,” said Caranthir. Celegorm punched his arm, and he smacked him upside the head.

“Don’t make me knock your heads together,” said Lisgalen, reaching out to smack them both in turn. The growing tension broke, and Lisgalen caught Maglor’s eye and winked as the conversation turned away to other subjects, and no one tried to turn the talk back again to Formenos.

Chapter Text

It was a quiet and misty morning when Elrond and Maglor left Tirion, heading north. Pídhres had refused to be left behind, and curled up around Maglor’s shoulders. Neither of them spoke much, and Elrond was content to let silence reign for a while. Formenos was isolated, but the distance was less now than it had been during Fëanor’s exile—distances were often strange in Valinor, though Elrond had not personally found it so, keeping as he did to the well-traveled and populated lands in the east. It came of dwelling so close to the Valar themselves. They had wished for Fëanor to be far from Tirion, and so he had been, though before and afterward the journey was the matter of only a handful of days.

They left the road leading to Valmar, taking a branch that led northeast. Elrond had traveled it before, going to visit Celebrían’s uncles in Ithilheledh. Maglor kept glancing around, brow furrowed slightly. “This used to be all fields,” he said finally. “Farmland and pastures.” Instead now it was all forest, mostly firs towering overhead, thick-trunked and ancient. 

“Did you visit Formenos often, before the exile?” Elrond asked.

“There was no Formenos before the exile, but yes—we went fairly often to the lake, the Wilwarinen. Finwë would take us when he wished to leave the city for a while. Do you remember when I taught you to make spears from wood and stone?”

“Yes.”

“Finwë taught us that at the lake. He said his grandfather taught him, long ago by Cuiviénen. It was just for fun, then—and just in case we needed something to catch fish or small game when we were out traveling on our own.” 

It had been very different when Elrond had learned—it had been a matter of survival, as it had been for almost everything Maglor had taught them. But he’d had a knack for making even the most unpleasant lessons both memorable and almost enjoyable, by teaching them songs at the same time, or telling stories that were at least half made up—like the one he’d told his nieces, turning the marks of his suffering into something silly instead. Elrond wondered if that too was something he had learned from Finwë, who seemed to have been equally circumspect about the details he shared of his own past.

They came to a turning in the road that was easy to miss at first glance, the branching path covered in pine needles and obviously very rarely traveled. It was quiet in the woods, the birdsong distant, and the air still. There was little undergrowth, and the trees seemed to loom, though their thoughts were not at all dark or unfriendly, as they might have been in such an ancient forest far away in Middle-earth. They made camp underneath one of them, not bothering with a fire, for it was warm—there was little in the way of dead wood anyway. Maglor had brought his harp, but when he did not bring it out Elrond reached for it instead. As he played a quiet and simple melody to fill the silence he asked, “How did it really go—seeing your father?”

Maglor shrugged. He leaned back against the tree, Pídhres curled up on his lap, purring as he stroked her. “There is too much between us to be solved in one conversation. But I’m…hopeful, I think.”

“I’m glad,” Elrond said. It had always been a rare thing for Maglor to give voice to any kind of hope. “Did you speak of anything besides Finwë?”

“Only very briefly. And as I told Amras—I don’t think I have it in me to speak to him again of anything else, not until this song is done.”

“Is that why you’re pushing yourself?”

“Maybe in part.” Maglor sighed. “It’s all so terribly complicated.”

“It has ever been thus, for the House of Finwë.”

“It didn’t feel that way, once upon a time. Once, my father just loved us, and we loved him, and there were no—conditions, no obstacles, no shadows. My father never liked his brothers before, but he could tolerate them. They were not friends, and there was far less love than Finwë wished for, but there was peace, and he was fond of all our cousins. Everyone forgets that. Findis is right when she says the root of all our ruin was Morgoth. But he had to have something to sink his barbs into, and…”

Elrond thought of the day Fëanor had first come to Imloth Ningloron, and how easily Fingon’s sharp tongue had been provoked. “None of the House of Finwë is without a temper,” he said. 

“Except your father,” Maglor said.

“I feel certain that he must, though it is true that I’ve never seen him angry,” Elrond said. “My mother sends her greetings, by the way; she will be visiting us on Eressëa, but isn’t sure whether my father will return by the time we arrive.”

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to Eressëa,” said Maglor. “I might part with you in Alqualondë. I don’t think there’s anyone in Avallónë I need to speak to.”

“You really aren’t going to give yourself any break from this?”

“Well, it really depends on how things go when Daeron meets with his parents.”

As they continued on over the next couple of days Elrond steered the conversation to more cheerful subjects, until they glimpsed a break in the forest ahead one afternoon, and Maglor fell silent. The trees thinned and then ended, growing almost to the very walls of Formenos, a once-large and oddly-fortified building of dark grey stone, unlike almost all others Elrond had seen in Valinor. Fëanor had built it at the height of his paranoia, but to hear of it was, of course, different than seeing it. It was crumbling now, the roof long caved in or rotted away, the walls falling down, covered in wild roses and lichen. They dismounted before the doorway, and Maglor stood very still as he looked into it. His gaze was far away, his face very pale. 

“Maglor,” Elrond said softly, reaching for his hand. Maglor grasped his very tightly. 

“It was just in there that we found him,” he whispered. “You can…you can still see his footsteps. Morgoth’s.” Elrond followed his gaze and found he could pick out places in the stone floor under a scattering of leaves and pine needles where clusters of cracks and breaks did indeed resemble footsteps—enormous, heavy footsteps. The sight sent a chill down his spine. “Everything was so dark,” Maglor went on, “but all the lamps inside were lit. Finwë, he…he’d chased back the dark, and even Morgoth couldn’t fully…” His voice broke and he turned away, covering his face. After a moment he took a deep breath, and then another.

“Even Morgoth could not defile this place forever,” Elrond said. “See the flowers, the trees?” Near the steps leading up to the door he saw rue in bloom, soft yellow, amid stonecrop and thick green moss. The wild roses gave off a sweet scent, and bees buzzed lazily through the blooms alongside many gem-bright butterflies for which the lake had been named.

“I do see.” Maglor lowered his hand. “That’s what I came here for.” He took another breath. “And—this way, we should come to the lake…” He did not let go of Elrond’s hand as they left the horses to graze where they would, and walked around the walls until the land opened up to reveal the gently sloping hill down to the water. A large yew tree grew near the reedy shoreline. Birds flitted through the reeds, and swans glided across the water. There was no mist, it being the middle of the day, but Elrond could easily imagine what it looked like in the early morning, silver-gold hovering over the surface of the water. 

Some distance from the yew and the water was a mound, familiar to anyone who had seen or made such graves. The grass on and around it was very green, though it was nearly hidden under the carpet of flowers—soft pink sword lilies, and red poppies, mingling with snowy Evermind. 

Maglor squeezed Elrond’s hand and let go when they came to the mound. “Thank you for coming with me,” he said softly.

“Do you want to be alone for a while?” Elrond asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“I won’t be far.”

Elrond retreated back to the building. He could not deny a great curiosity to see it, having never known Finwë, having never known Valinor before the Darkening. Though Finwë had been spoken of a great deal lately, and Elrond felt that he knew more about him now than he ever had before, he remained out of reach, a figure in a story the same way all the rest of Elrond’s kinsmen had been until he came west and met them in person at last. He could climb the steps to the doorway, and feel only another shiver of discomfort as he stepped across the threshold, knowing but not able to quite imagine how Morgoth himself had once done the same. He stood where Finwë had made his last stand, and thought of Gil-galad on the slopes of Mount Doom, Aeglos in hand as he and Elendil clashed with Sauron himself. 

Gil-galad had returned, though. He was not so far away really, safe in his parents’ home. “Surely it is time to allow Finwë to come home too?” Elrond murmured aloud as he left the entryway to walk through the other corridors, dodging fallen-in walls and unstable bits of floor. The trail to the treasury was horribly easy to follow. He passed it by and peered into other rooms, seeing remnants of long-ago life here. Plates, cups, bowls, inkwells, pieces of furniture—some surprisingly intact, others broken into shards or rotted away. Little else remained. Birds nested amid the broken rafters, and he found evidence of other animals having made their dens in nooks and crannies, too. Dirt had been tracked and blown in; leaves were scattered about, and twigs and other various bits of wild detritus. It was not so different from other ruinous places Elrond had explored in Middle-earth, really. 

Once upon a time this had not been a terrible place. It had been isolated, it had been a fortress in a land where such a thing should not have been, but it had been comfortable. The countryside had been and remained lovely. Elrond returned to the entryway, and pressed a hand to the stones near the door. He stood for a while listening to all they had to tell him, until he opened his eyes without having noticed that he shut them, and found his vision blurred with tears. 

Back by the cairn Maglor sat in the grass, head bowed. Elrond joined him and leaned on his shoulder. Maglor rested his head against Elrond’s. “The stones have much to tell of Finwë’s last stand,” Elrond murmured after a little while. 

Maglor breathed a sigh. “I’ll come listen.” He sounded as though he’d been weeping, but when Elrond looked at him he seemed, under tear tracks and reddened eyes, more at peace than he had been when they’d left Tirion. The tears had been those of relief and release, more than anything else. “Fingolfin was right,” he said. “This is a beautiful place.”

“It is very lonely,” Elrond said.

“I like lonely places.” Maglor put his arm around Elrond and kissed his temple. “To visit,” he added, “not to stay.”

Elrond had known what he meant, but he said nothing. He himself could appreciate the beauty of it, but he would not want to come to any such place alone. He remained by the cairn when Maglor got up to return to the building, looking at the flowers and imagining Ingwë and Olwë performing the ancient rites, building the cairn over Finwë’s ruined body in a land they had all come to hoping never to have to do such things again, and he thought of all the graves he himself had dug and all the rites he had performed or participated in, all the tears he had shed. He thought of all the deaths and other terrible things that had had to happen in order for him to even be born—the destruction of Doriath, the fall of Gondolin, the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. It wasn’t often that Elrond felt the weight of all of it, but here was the place where it had all started. Once a place of joy, it had turned into a place of exile, and then into a place of death, and now…memory lingered, but it wasn’t really the same as the graves they’d made for the hobbits at home. The grief was different. It felt wrong—it was a grief that should have an end, but didn’t.

Maglor had said that Finwë would love Elrond—and Celebrían, and their sons—if he were there to know them. Elrond could believe it. Everything he had heard of Finwë spoke of someone with an open heart, eager to love anyone who would accept it. In that way he sounded a great deal like Maglor himself. But of course Elrond would never know for sure what Finwë would think of him—or what he did think of him, if he’d been paying attention to whatever Vairë wove in Mandos—unless the Valar relented. Maglor did not think they would, but Elrond could feel something, whenever they spoke of this song, of the weight of it. Whatever happened, it was important, and Elrond knew better than to say so in plain words, but he did think that it would move the Valar—he did hope that it would work, and that he would someday—maybe soon, maybe not—get to meet his forefather face to face at last. It was the sort of feeling he knew better than to ignore—not quite foresight, but not quite mere hope or desire either.

After some time, Elrond got up to look for Maglor, and found him sitting with his back against the wall near the entryway, watching a few bees crawling around the wild roses growing up beside him. He had fresh tears on his face. “I knew it was terrible,” he said, voice hoarse, as Elrond sat beside him. “I didn’t…I didn’t realize he’d stood as long as he did.”

“It seems it is Finwë from whom your own great power of Song comes,” said Elrond.

“Míriel said that too.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I do. I know what I’m capable of.” Maglor gazed out toward the lake. “I keep catching myself thinking that if I can just…complete this song, and sing it before them, before this great feast, then…” He shook his head. “I keep thinking of it as something that will work, even though I know better.”

“You keep catching yourself hoping,” Elrond said. “It’s never wrong to hope, Maglor.”

“It doesn’t feel like hope. It feels like foolishness.”

“You know what else was a fool’s hope,” Elrond said. Maglor just shook his head. “Has it helped, coming here, as you thought?”

“I think so. I can write this part of the song, anyway…to write what happened, and to describe what it is now. And I feel better, in spite of—everything.” He took a deep breath, and got to his feet. “I don’t want to linger, though. Do you mind turning back and camping in the woods again?”

“Of course not.” Elrond accepted Maglor’s hand up, and embraced him. There wasn’t much else he could do, nothing that would help. He and Maglor both paused to look back toward the flower-covered cairn before it passed out of sight behind the walls. A lonely, almost mournful bird’s call was carried up to them from the lake on the wind, which brought also the smell of poppies and grass, and the faintest hint of rain from the clouds hovering in the north. Maglor sighed, and turned away first. 

The journey back to Tirion was quieter than the one to Formenos. They spoke little, both lost in their thoughts and content just to be in each other’s company. Neither brought out the harp. As Tirion came into view Elrond was thinking that he would be glad to leave it again for Avallónë and his wife, but his thoughts were interrupted by a hail from a rider coming north from the city. “Elrond, is that you?” they called, spurring their horse on up the road toward Elrond and Maglor.

“Círdan!” Elrond trotted forward, smiling as they grasped hands. “What brings you out here?”

“A summons from Lady Gilheneth,” said Círdan. “I looked for you in Tirion, but was told you’d gone north somewhere. I hoped I would meet you on the road!”

“Oh!” Elrond’s heart leaped to his throat, and he turned to Maglor, who was just catching up, Pídhres perched on the saddle in front of him. 

Maglor smiled at him. “Go on, then—and give my greetings to Fingon and Gilheneth and Gil-galad. Hello, Círdan.”

“It is good to see you, Maglor,” said Círdan. “And you, Mistress Pídhres.” Pídhres meowed.

“Are you sure?” Elrond asked Maglor. “If you—”

“Oh, stop. You’re as bad as Tyelko.” Maglor grabbed him around the back of the head and kissed his cheek. “The city’s right there, I’m hardly going to get lost! Go!”

“Can you tell Celebrían—”

“Of course!”

They parted there, Maglor waving over his shoulder as he rode on toward Tirion. He did seem lighter, as though something had been left behind at Formenos, and Elrond was glad of it. Círdan asked, as they fell in beside one another, “Where were you coming from?”

“Formenos,” Elrond said. 

Círdan raised his eyebrows. “What did you go there for?”

“Maglor is writing a song for Finwë, and wanted to see what it looks like now. It isn’t nearly as terrible as you might imagine.”

“I hope not,” said Círdan. “But he seems none the worse for it. How are you?”

Elrond smiled at him. “It was a sad and lonely place, and full of memories, but I’m far enough removed from it all that it didn’t trouble me too much.”

Fingon and Gilheneth’s estate was not very large, but it was lovely, with woods full of beech and oak, and open spaces good for riding or walking; the road that led to it wound through the trees until they fell away to reveal the house, stately and elegant, made of pale grey stone in places covered with ivy, and adorned with columns and wide windows, surrounded by lawns and flowerbeds. It was not quite identical to Gilheneth’s beloved home in Lindon, but it was very close. All that was really missing was the faint smell of the sea on the breeze. 

As Círdan and Elrond dismounted the front door opened and Gil-galad himself came out, already laughing as he ran down the steps, to throw his arms around both of them at once. 

Usually Elrond could think of Gil-galad and remember him as himself, either smiling or serious but always burning with that bright fire of life that was so prominent in Finwë’s line; he had been able to do so just a few days before while wandering the empty halls of Formenos. It had not always been so. In the aftermath of the War of the Last Alliance the grief had been heavy and sharp, always there to slice into him whenever Elrond let his guard down. He had been worn down and so wearied after those long years of war that it had been all he could do to make it back home to Imladris, feeling fragile and lost, and to think of Gil-galad had been to remember that last stand against Sauron upon the slopes of Mount Doom, and the ruin of his body burned away to ash afterward. 

Seeing Gil-galad now should not have brought all of that back—he was hardly the first lost loved one that Elrond had reunited with since his coming west—yet Elrond found himself hardly able to speak past the tears that lodged in his throat and threatened to choke him, the memory of Gil-galad’s last moments laying itself over this new-made Gil-galad with bright eyes and a head free from the heavy burden of a crown. It was strange and wonderful—which he had expected—and at the same time it hurt terribly, which he had not. Maybe he should have—he’d burst into tears upon seeing Celebrían again, too, unable even to say her name until the storm of them passed.

It wasn’t quite that bad now, and he thought that he did a fair job of hiding it through the exuberant greetings and then Fingon and Gilheneth’s meeting them in the entryway. But later, when he was able to retreat to the guest room he usually used when visiting, ostensibly to wash the road off and change out of his traveling clothes, Elrond didn’t have a chance to do more than take a deep, shaking breath before Gil-galad followed. “All right,” he said, offering a smile when Elrond turned to him, “go on—you did not want to yell at me in front of everyone else, but you can now.”

Elrond tried to laugh, but it broke into a very different sound, and he had to press a hand over his mouth to silence it. “I don’t want to yell at you, my lo—” He didn’t even know what to call Gil-galad anymore. They were not herald and general anymore, king or vassal. Gil-galad had immediately taken both Elrond and Elros under his wing when they’d arrived, bedraggled and exhausted, at his camp halfway up the River Sirion as the armies of the West made their way north toward Angband. He had been their king, yes, and that distance had never quite disappeared, but he had also been their teacher and their friend, their cousin—not a father-figure in the same way that Maglor had been, but more like an elder brother. Elrond had loved him from the start—had been proud and glad to pledge himself to Gil-galad’s service and to keep serving after the war was over and they could look forward to rebuilding the world without the Shadow hanging over them. 

Then the Shadow had returned—again, and again—and Gil-galad had died, and Elrond had kept going because it was what he had always done, and now here they were. It was as though the last three thousand years hadn't happened at all, as though Elrond had left the slopes of Mount Doom only yesterday with nothing left of his king and dear friend except the smell of blood and smoke in his nose and the taste of ashes on his tongue that he hadn’t thought then that he would ever be able to get rid of. He could taste it again, now, in that clean and bright bedroom in the house Gilheneth had built, in Valinor where Sauron had never come. 

“I married Celebrían,” he said when his tongue would work again. “And you were not there.”

“I know,” Gil-galad said, voice quiet.

“I have children, and you—you never met them. You never will meet Arwen, because she—” His voice broke again, because one grief brought with it the other, a knife-sharp reminder that while Gil-galad walked again under the sun, Arwen never would. Nor would Aragorn, nor Elros, nor Elendil nor—

“I know,” Gil-galad repeated. 

Elrond remembered what he had spoken at the Council, that fateful autumn day in Rivendell. Not wholly fruitless, he had called the Last Alliance, though in his heart it felt entirely so. Gil-galad had died, and Elendil and Anárion, and so soon afterward Isildur—and for what? Sauron had come back, just as he had every other time, because they had not known enough—not about the Ring or what it would do to anyone who picked it up—and because Elrond had not pushed Isildur when he should have, had not had the will or the understanding that seemed so horrifically obvious in hindsight to insist that he take the Ring and cast it into the fire before it could take hold of him, before it spelled ruin for them all. 

He had just come from Formenos, where a grave stood beside a beautiful and lonely lake, covering the bones of Finwë Noldóran. Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth, had had no cairn, no monument. The flames of Sauron had burned him entirely away and they were left with nothing but memory and song. Now Gil-galad was here, and Elrond had met all of their forefathers and kin—and seen the paintings and woven depictions of Finwë himself—and could see now the ways in which Gil-galad looked so like Finwë—more than anyone else, in face and stature and almost all of his most striking features. He was darker than they were, taking after Gilheneth, and his eyes were her soft brown instead of Fingon’s grey, but at first glance Elrond wondered how many in Tirion would mistake Gil-galad for Finwë returned.

“I’m sorry,” Elrond said. “We didn’t—I didn’t—you died and it was all for—”

Gil-galad stepped forward. He was just as strong as he had always been, his embrace almost crushing, and he was tall enough that Elrond’s face was pressed into his shoulder. In spite of his best efforts, tears began to escape. “Do not say it was in vain,” Gil-galad said. “I do not see it that way. I did what I had to do, and I do not regret it. But I am sorry that I was not there for your wedding, or the births of your children, or for anything that came afterward.”

“Círdan gave us the apple trees from you,” Elrond said into his shirt. “Celebrían brought—brought cuttings with her when she came west, and they have thrived—in Rivendell and here.”

“I’ve heard of Celebrían’s famous apples,” Gil-galad said. He did not sound like anyone else in the House of Finwë. His voice was deep and resonant and wholly his own, and laced with fondness that just made Elrond cry harder. “I’m sorry, Elrond.”

“I’m not—I’m not angry at you,” Elrond managed to choke out. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sorry,” Gil-galad repeated. “And don’t call me my lord. I’m not your king any longer—I’m only a lesser prince, and your cousin, and I think I like that much better.” He drew back, and used his thumbs to wipe the tears from Elrond’s face. “I think you might outrank me now.”

“You are the High King’s grandson,” said Elrond, startled into laughter through his tears by the sheer absurdity of outranking Gil-galad. “Fingon is his heir, and you are Fingon’s heir—”

“And what does that matter, in this land where no one will die again?” Gil-galad laughed a little, quiet and clearly also amused at how silly it all was. “You are also Fingolfin’s grandson—and Elu Thingol’s, remember—and a lord in your own right. But I don’t mind. I was so young—too young—when I had to take up the mantle of kingship in practice even if not in name. I don’t remember who I am without such a burden, and I am very much looking forward to finding out.”

Gil-galad left Elrond to scrub his face and change his clothes. When he went downstairs again he was told that Círdan and Gil-galad had walked out into the garden together, and likely would not return until dinnertime. “Are you all right, Elrond?” Fingon asked as Elrond sat down with him on the veranda overlooking the gardens behind the house. “Did I hear right that you’d been to Formenos before coming here?”

“Yes, Maglor wanted to see it. I’m all right.” 

Fingon gave him a doubtful look, and Elrond somehow only in that moment realized that expression was identical to Gil-galad’s. “You don’t seem all right,” Fingon said. “How terrible was Formenos?”

“It wasn’t,” Elrond said. “And Maglor’s all right too, before you start worrying about him. I just—I suppose sometimes you forget how much you’ve missed someone until you see them again. How are you?” he asked then, thankful to be on such terms with Fingon that he could turn the tables. 

Fingon’s smile was a little rueful. “My son is an adult and a stranger,” he said, “but I knew that he would be—and that Círdan has far more of a father’s claim on his heart than I do. I’m just happy to have the chance to get to know him now. But what did Maglor want to go to Formenos for?”

“I think Fingolfin spoke of it, and he wants to include a description in his song. I’m glad that I went. It’s…beautiful, really. In spite of everything.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“How is Gil-galad?” Elrond asked. Gil-galad seemed to him bright and happy, light and unburdened, as though he had come from Mandos wholly rested and eager to embrace life again, but Elrond had very little experience with anyone so new-come from the Halls and wasn’t sure what might be lurking beneath the surface.

“Gil-galad,” Fingon said, “is the last person you need to worry about. We’ve been hiding away here for a chance to get to know one another without all of Tirion gathering around to watch, not because he’s in any way fragile or unprepared to face the world. Save all your worries for my cousins. Have they spoken to Fëanor yet?”

“Maglor has, and Ambarussa intend to take him away to their home in the mountains.”

“Do they really?” Fingon laughed, shaking his head, as Gilheneth came outside to sit with them, followed soon afterward by a tray of tea and bowls of summer berries and cream. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Either he’ll go mad or it will be very good for him, or both. What else is going on in Tirion, then?”

By the time Gil-galad and Círdan returned to join them, Elrond was steadier, and could meet Gil-galad’s gaze without either bursting into tears or being thrown back into dark memories. It was strange and marvelous instead, to sit with Gil-galad and Fingon and Gilheneth and Círdan, laughing about gossip from Tirion and describing all of the cousins and various relations that Gil-galad would soon be meeting or reuniting with. Gil-galad laughed so easily, and Elrond soon found himself laughing too—feeling lighter and more carefree as the conversation went on. The dark memories were only that—memory—and if they hurt when recalled, at least the pain was short-lived, especially in the face of such present joy, and of a future that only promised to grow brighter and brighter with each passing year.

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