High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray

Late First Age
Beleriand

When at last the twins and the remnant of their people disappeared into the distance, Maglor turned back from the road. Maedhros pretended not to notice him wiping tears from his face. “You could have gone with them,” he said. “You could still, if you—”

“No,” Maglor said, not looking at him, “I could not.” A cold wind was blowing from the north, carrying a faint sour smell, and dark clouds were moving in; lightning flickered in them, sickly and pale. He passed Maedhros to grab his things. “We need to find shelter.”

“Maglor,” Maedhros tried again, reaching out to catch his arm. “If you—”

“Don’t.” He yanked his arm from Maedhros’ grip, and lifted his pack. He had given his harp to Elros, and it was strange to see him without it slung over his shoulder. 

“What if I ordered you to go?” Maedhros asked. The look Maglor gave him was withering, and he set his jaw. “I am still your liege—”

“Neither of us are lords of anything,” Maglor said, voice flat. He sounded exhausted, and looked it too, suddenly. His shoulders sagged, and his hair was coming loose of its braid. Strands of it blew across his face, momentarily hiding his eyes, which were red and still wet. 

“I am still your older brother, then,” Maedhros said. “I am asking you—”

“I will follow you to whatever end, however bitter,” Maglor said. “But I will not leave you. How can you ask it of me, now, after everything?” His voice broke on the last word, and fresh tears fell, dampening his hair and making it stick to his cheeks. 

“Do you think it is easy for me to ask?” Maedhros demanded, taking shelter in anger. He had no tears left to shed, and if he did not get angry he felt he would break apart, dissolve into dust or burn away into ash as their father had. Whatever happened, however the world ended, he would have Maglor safe. If there was any hope for the future it lay with Elwing’s sons and with Gil-galad, not with him. He knew with the kind of certainty that was rooted in his very bones that at the end of his road, whatever the outcome of the war in the north, lay his death. “If there is a chance for you to—”

“Stop.” Command rang through the word, never before directed at Maedhros. His voice died in his throat, and he took a step back, shocked out of his anger and left feeling empty and cold. When Maglor spoke again, it was quieter, and weighed down by grief. “There is nowhere for me to go that is safe. There is nowhere for either of us, after everything we have done. Do not ask me again, please, Maedhros. I will not leave you. I cannot leave you, and I could not bear it if you left me.”

Maedhros closed the distance between them and pulled Maglor in. Maglor dropped his head to Maedhros’ shoulder. His shoulders shook once, twice, and then stilled. “I am sorry, Cáno,” Maedhros whispered. “I will not ask again.”

The clouds were hurrying on ever closer, and the thunder rumbled, ominous, and heralding a great rush of wind that pulled Maglor’s hair entirely free of its braid to blow wildly around their heads. “We have to go,” he said, drawing away from Maedhros, but grasping his hand. “This way.”

They reached the shelter of a shallow cave in a crumbling outcropping of rock just in time. The skies opened and rain roared down just as Maedhros ducked in beside Maglor. He leaned against the stone wall, and Maglor leaned against him. Maedhros rested his hand on Maglor’s hair, wind-tangled and wild, as memories came unbidden to his mind, of all the times in their youth that Maglor had slipped away from company or just from the boisterous chaos of their household, and how it had always been Maedhros, and none of their other brothers, or their father, or even their mother, who had been able to find him when he hid himself away—in closets and under beds when he had been small, and later on rooftops or in the branches of trees, or hidden in the tall grass near the river behind their grandfather Mahtan’s house. Maedhros had asked him once why that was, and he had laughed—they had all laughed so easily then—and replied as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I will never not want your company, Nelyo.”

Somehow that was still true, though they never laughed now, and Nelyafinwë of Tirion was long dead, replaced by Maedhros of Himring who would have horrified his younger self, had he ever seen who he would become, and though Oath and Doom pressed on them so sometimes it was hard to even breathe under the weight of them. Maglor, too, was someone his younger self would recoil from, and the thought of what he had led his brothers to would have been enough to make Maedhros weep if he had any tears left. He watched the rain and was quietly, selfishly, achingly glad that Maglor had stayed.

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Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

- “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver

- - 

Fourth Age 122

It was a small and somber party that passed through the Tower Hills and down the road to Mithlond. A ship waited there; one of the last that would depart from that place. The city was nearly empty. As Maglor followed Elladan through the silent streets he thought that perhaps Men would come here someday, as Arnor grew again. They would build up the walls that might crumble in the meantime, and plant new flowers in the abandoned gardens, and fill it with life and laughter and music. Maybe even some halflings would find their way down to the Sea, following old tales of the Ringbearer and his companion who had passed away over it.

Whatever they did, he would not be there to see it. 

Círdan greeted them at the dock, Maglor and Elrond’s sons and Lord Celeborn. Other elves had already boarded, and were going about the deck or settling their things in the cabins below. Maglor paused as the twins and Celeborn walked up the gangplank. It was only a handful of steps, but they felt like the most significant steps of his life. It was only the weight of his promise to Elrond that carried him at last up and onto the deck, for more than half his heart wished to turn away back toward the coastline, as he had before. The ship rocked gently beneath his feet, and he moved to the railing at the stern, out of the way of the sailors—and of Círdan, who had followed him up. At Maglor’s look of surprise he smiled, before moving away, toward the helm. No lingering looks back for Círdan, who had awaited this moment for years beyond counting. 

Maglor set his bag and his small harp case down at his feet. His full-sized harp he had sent ahead, and it was safe somewhere below in the hold. In his bag he had only a few changes of clothes, a bottle of miruvor, and a few knickknacks and keepsakes given to him by Arwen and Aragorn’s children before he left Minas Tirith for the last time. And, of course, a cat. The flap of his bag moved, and a small grey head peered out; Pídhres took one look around the deck and vanished back into the comfortable darkness. He had been long ago adopted by her foremother, who he had named Tári for her imperious ways; this last litter of her descendants he had taken to Annúminas to place into the care of Arwen’s grandchildren. Pídhres had refused to be left behind, however, climbing up his cloak and his clothes until she could curl around his shoulders, earning herself passage on this ship and her name. 

He watched as the gangplank was drawn up and the ropes were released. The tide was going out, and they went with it, drifting slowly away from the harbor, and the shore. They passed out of Lhûn and the wider coastline of Middle-earth opened up before his eyes. He had wandered those shores for centuries, and even now he felt the pull of that same wanderlust, and knew he would miss them for the rest of his life. Their wildness, the untamed waves, the rocky shores and the cliffs and the sandy beaches. The gulls, and the dunes, and the tide pools with their ever-changing denizens. Maglor took a breath, but exhaled slowly. Someone began to sing a song of farewell, and other voices took it up. He did not join them. 

“No songs from you?” asked an unexpectedly familiar voice at his side. Maglor turned to look into dark eyes lit with ancient stars. 

“Daeron,” he said, and smiled. “Where have you been wandering all this time?”

“Here, there, everywhere.” Daeron waved a hand back toward the shore as it slowly shrank behind them. Sunset painted the water golden. “As I imagine you have been also. But you have not answered my question.”

Maglor shrugged. He did not sing often in front of an audience these days—he had performed on occasion in Annúminas and Minas Tirith, but only when Aragorn or Arwen asked it of him, which they had only seldom knowing that he did not like to. “I have no songs for this parting,” he said. “I notice you are not singing either.”

“I will sing when the stars are out,” Daeron said. “Have you ever been on the water under a starry cloudless sky? It is the most marvelous, with stars above and stars below, so we might be sailing through the heavens themselves.” He leaned on the deck railing, his gaze drawn back to the shore, darkening now as the sun sank further, and the golden light deepened to something redder, that then turned to purple. In the eastern sky the stars flared up, one by one, pinpricks of diamond fire in the gloaming. The wind picked up, speeding them on their way.

“Namárië,” Maglor whispered to the shore just before it slipped from view entirely, swallowed by the horizon. He gripped the railing, and made himself turn to look into the west, where the horizon clung to the last vestiges of sunset. The Music of the world was not as loud out here as it was on the beaches, where the waves brought it crashing against the land, or carried it in gentler whispers over soft white sands. But he could still hear it, a steady rhythm and melody beneath them, carrying them onward and away.

He felt Daeron’s gaze on him. “You do not seem happy to be departing,” he said. “Why did you take ship?”

“I made a promise,” Maglor said. He looked at Daeron and saw his expression darken. “Not that kind of promise,” he said, offering a small smile. “That is over and done, long ago.”

“Good.” Daeron straightened, turning to look back out over the water. The sailors’ singing continued behind them, and Maglor heard Elladan’s voice joining with them, and the sweet notes of a flute played by Elrohir. The two of them stood in silence, watching the stars.

Elladan called to him after a while, and Maglor left the railing. Daeron followed him to where the rest of the sailors and passengers were gathered in the middle of the ship. Someone called to Daeron to sing them a song, and as Daeron obliged, singing of the starry waters of Balar long ago and worlds away, Maglor sat between the twins, who both leaned against him, reaching for his hands. Elrohir was weeping, silently. The tears fell onto Maglor’s shoulder, and he leaned his cheek against Elrohir’s hair. They listened to Daeron’s singing, which wound its way from ancient seashores to the wide waters of Belegaer, and back again up rivers and into deep woods and flowering meadows. It was a lament and a farewell to lands loved and lost and left behind. 

After a little while Maglor raised his head and joined his voice to Daeron’s, weaving a wordless harmony into his song. As they sang the wind kept up, filling the sails and carrying them ever westward, toward the Straight Road that would take them away from Middle-earth altogether. 

When Daeron finished his singing others lifted their voices to fill the silence. Maglor closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. The air smelled strange. Fresh and clean and faintly salty—but with none of the other scents that he associated with it, and had never realized before weren’t truly of the sea, but of the shore. Of seaweed and fish, dune grass and rain, and sun warmed earth. He sighed, and wished himself back again on the shores he knew. Except that he did not, truly. 

He did not know what he wished for. He was sailing because he had promised Elrond that he would, and later he had made the same promise to Elladan and Elrohir. His faith in Elrond eased some of the fears that lived in his heart of what he would find when they came to Avallónë, or to the mainland. But he was not the Canafinwë Macalaurë who had once sung and danced and laughed in Tirion with his brothers and his cousins. He was only Maglor now, no longer a prince or a lord of anything, still a singer but no longer a performer. Still Fëanor’s son—and that, since the Darkening, was not the source of pride that it had once been. He was a member of Elrond’s household, which was something—but they would expect more, those who had known him in his youth, that he was no longer able to give. 

The sun rose behind them; clouds were gathered on the horizon, limned with gold as the sky grew pale. When Maglor turned his gaze to the west he saw Gil-Estel hovering above the horizon. Did Eärendil know who was on this ship, he wondered? Would he take word back to his lady wife, and to his son? 

“I used to imagine that one day I would be permitted to join Eärendil upon Vingilot, even for a single voyage,” Elladan whispered beside him. Elrohir was asleep, lying now with his head in Maglor’s lap. “I suppose that might come true someday soon.”

“I think your grandfather would be glad to have you join him,” Maglor said. He had always imagined it to be very lonely, up there in the cold and unforgiving sky. Elladan smiled at him, but it was not his usual sunny grin. Grief lay heavily upon both him and Elrohir—as it lay on Celeborn, and on Maglor himself. He pulled Elladan in to kiss his temple, and with a sigh Elladan leaned against him again, closing his eyes. Maglor caught Celeborn’s eye; Celeborn offered a small smile before he disappeared below decks. After a few minutes Pídhres wiggled her way out of Maglor’s bag and disappeared down the stairs as well, doubtless in search of the galley and whatever morsels she could charm from the cooks in it. Maglor leaned back against the mast and watched the sun rise higher in the sky, as the twins slept, and he thought of other sunrises and other sets of twins. He hummed a quiet song, one of the first he had written after finding his way back to music again in Imladris, many years ago now. It was not a lament, exactly, but it was a song of grief, and the weight of it, and of that moment in the year when the world was strangely balanced between dark winter and burgeoning spring. It was full spring now; they had left Imladris when the flowers were all in bloom, and the air was fragrant with apple blossom and roses. They had stood for a long while atop the path, looking down into the valley where very few folk dwelt now, which was still as beautiful as it was the day Maglor had first seen it—also in spring, at the beginning of May. Ever since, he had regarded May as the kindest month of the year. 

He had been a frail and broken thing, then. Time, and Elrond, had healed most of his wounds. Many of the scars he had obtained in Dol Guldur had faded, but the worst remained—the brand upon his chest, and the needle marks around his mouth; the whip scar on his face just over his right cheekbone; the rings of scar tissue around his wrists where the cold iron manacles had rubbed them mercilessly raw for many years. Whenever he tried to imagine going to see his mother he remembered those, and he did not think he could bear her having to see them, having to learn what had happened to him—if, of course, she did not slam the door in his face. 

She probably would not slam the door. Nerdanel was kinder than that. How much he really believed she would be glad to see him depended on the day, and what other dark thoughts arose to haunt him. 

Time healed most wounds. But not all. Usually he could set aside old bitternesses and griefs, and it had been long since he had felt truly lonely. But he could feel the old hurts welling up again, like he’d scratched off a scab by stepping up that gangplank, already made tender by new grief. There were others, too, that he knew must be returned from Mandos by now. Cousins, friends. Perhaps his uncle. Perhaps even his brothers—and he did not know anymore whether he wanted to see them again or not, only that he hoped they would not be waiting with Elrond on the docks at Avallónë; he was not ready. 

Maglor shook his head, and looked at the white and puffy clouds drifting lazily over the sky. The water below was blue and flecked with white as waves crested and fell. Eventually the twins woke, and went to seek breakfast and perhaps a real bed somewhere in the cabins below. Maglor was not tired or hungry. He instead climbed his way up the rigging to the crow’s nest. There was nothing to see—no one really knew how long the voyage would take, but it would be days at least until they could expect the sight of land. All that meant in the moment was that no one else was up there, and he could sit and watch the horizon without fear of anyone coming to talk to him. 

Or so he thought. It was not long before the ropes creaked underneath him, and Daeron pulled himself up to join him, having scampered up the rigging with the ease of a squirrel through the trees. He sat on the edge of the crow’s nest, legs dangling out over the deck below, the wind catching his hair so that it floated out over his shoulder like a dark banner. Maglor looked up at him, and he looked down at Maglor, frowning slightly. “Should you not be down among everyone else, singing merry songs and making them all laugh? I remember at the Mereth Aderthad you were almost always at the center of something.”

“That was a long time ago,” Maglor said quietly. 

“True. And it is said that you never did some back among the Eldar after—after.” Even Daeron had not the words for it. He dropped down into the nest beside Maglor, leaning against the mast, shoulder to shoulder. “Though of course that has proved untrue.”

“It is said also that you vanished into the east to lament forever beside dark waters,” Maglor said. 

Daeron snorted. “I had many laments to sing, it is true. But I wandered more than I sat beside any meres, dark or otherwise. Did you never take up performing again even after you went to Rivendell?”

“Sometimes,” Maglor said, “but I lost my taste for it long ago. Besides,” he added with a smile, “there is a mightier singer on this ship than I, and you do not shun an audience.” Daeron laughed. “Why are you not down on the deck singing merry songs, then?”

“We were friends, once, for a short time,” Daeron said instead of answering the question. “Were we not?”

“I like to think so,” Maglor said. 

“And then for a very long time I hated you. For Alqualondë—and the lies afterward. I think I could have forgiven the one if not for the other. And then I heard of Doriath, and of Sirion, and of what you did to Lúthien’s children.” Maglor said nothing. “Knowing that you were there was the worst of all of it, I think. I cared not for your brothers. I did not know them. I did not sing with them, or teach them my writing, or learn anything from them in return.”

“Daeron…”

“I thought for a very long time that I should become a kinslayer myself I if I ever saw you again.”

“I am glad that it has not proven so,” Maglor said, “unless you are warning me that you intend to throw me into the Sea.” Daeron snorted. Their shoulders still pressed against each other, a point of warmth against the cool breeze. Somewhere below someone laughed, and there was the smell of something cooking drifting up from below decks. In the distance a whale broke the surface of the water, shooting a sudden spray high into the air before sinking back beneath the waves. 

“Time has dulled the edge of many hurts,” Daeron said at last. “And I would rather make music with you, as we did last night, than exist in unhappy silence. What do you intend to do when we reach Eressëa?”

“I will go with Elladan and Elrohir to their parents’ house,” Maglor said. “And from there—I do not know.” He would have to go to Alqualondë, to Olwë, and thence perhaps to whoever led the Sindar in Valinor if they had not joined entirely to Olwë’s people. To Elwing. To Tirion, and his uncle, whichever sat on the throne there. Eventually, he would have to go to his mother. “Where will you go?”

“I suppose I will follow Lord Celeborn to wherever he goes, and thence to—well, whoever rules our people in these days in these new lands. I hope to see Elu Thingol again, but I do not know. What can you tell me of where we are going?”

“I can tell you what it was like in the Years of the Trees, but so much time has passed that everything must be very different now,” Maglor said. “We will sail into Eldamar, and dock on Tol Eressëa, and beyond we will see the Pelóri, and through the Calacirya we may glimpse Tirion, the Mindon Eldaliéva rising above the other towers with its silver lamp…” 

Daeron was watching him, and as Maglor trailed off he frowned, and reached over to touch the scar on his cheek. “What is this?” he asked. “I did not notice it before. And what are these?” His fingers went to Maglor’s lips, tracing over the scars there. “It looks like—”

“They are old.” Maglor turned away, letting his hair fall between them like a curtain. There were streaks of white in it, also a gift of Dol Guldur, but Daeron made no comment on them. “Do not ask me more.” 

“One question more, and then I will leave it,” Daeron said. “Who was it? Who gave you these scars?”

Maglor did not want to answer. The name tasted like blood on his tongue, and burned when he whispered it. “Sauron.” He was no more—defeated for good many years ago now—but the memory of him still haunted Maglor’s nightmares. And he had only been a prisoner of the Necromancer, long before he had rebuilt the strength of Barad-dûr and nearly overtook all of Gondor. It could have been so, so much worse, he knew. He had seen the look in Frodo’s eyes after it all, and seen the damage to the walls of Minas Tirith and the ruin of the Pelennor.

Daeron asked no more, as he promised, but he also left the crow’s nest. To ask someone else, Maglor thought wearily, who would tell him the full tale. Lord Celeborn, most likely. He did not care, as long as he himself did not have to speak more of it. 

He would need to grow used to such questions, though. Daeron was not the last who would ask him about those scars. He rubbed his hand over his lips and grimaced. With a sigh, Maglor leaned back against the mast again and gazed out over the horizon, only a slight shift in the shades of blue marking the line between sea and sky. After a little while he started to hum, and then to sing—very softly, just to himself—a song that he had written long ago in Valinor all about the color blue. It had been a silly and merry song in those days, but he found a softer tune for it now, gentling the melody to one that felt more comfortable to him now, so much older and so much more tired.

At least he would find rest, he thought. Whatever else awaited him, Valinor’s promise to the Eldar was rest. 

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The place where Celebrían had made her home in Valinor was called, by the time Elrond came there, Imloth Ningloron, for the irises that grew wild throughout, in between the scattered streams and brooks that filled it with the music of flowing water. The Pelóri rose up behind them in the east, much as the Misty Mountains towered over Imladris, but not quite so close, for there were hills in between. The valley itself was also quite different from Imladris, a wide shallow bowl-shaped thing with a gentler approach than the sudden opening of a dell far below one’s feet. She had built a sprawling house in the middle of it, made by many of the same hands that had helped to build the house in Imladris, so that it was both familiar and new. Unlike its forebear, this house had been planned from the start to be a place of comfort and enjoyment, rather than built up haphazardly and quickly to house desperate soldiers and refugees, with comfort only a secondary concern and not much thought of until after the war had ended.

Elrond sat in one of the many gazebos that dotted the gardens, this one reached by a wooden walkway built over several streams and a pond, leaning over the railing of it to watch silver and gold fish dart about the water below. The water lilies were in bloom; so were all the springtime flowers, and the valley was filled with them, like a bright patchwork quilt, and bright with the sound of birdsong. It was a quiet afternoon, and a rare one without visitors. They had been coming in a steady stream ever since Elrond had set foot on the dock at Avallónë, and though he had expected them, any respite was something of a relief. 

There was always music in the valley, too, just as there had been in Rivendell. Elrond reflected, as he watched the fish, that it would not be long before his sons’ voices joined those singing out among the flowers nearby. Unlike Imladris, Imloth Ningloron was wide and sported few trees except the ones that Celebrían had planted—apples and peaches and other fruits that Elrond had never tasted before coming west. The sky was wide and blue overhead, and north and south hills rose up, wooded and wild, and the road wound lazily out of the valley and away, some days’ ride north toward the larger one that passed through the Calacirya and down to Alqualondë; they would take it, soon, and then sail across the bay to Avallónë, to await the ship bringing Elladan and Elrohir at last. And Maglor. He had promised he would come, but Elrond had still not gotten rid of the habit of fearing that he would disappear again. And the knowledge that both Arwen and Aragorn were gone from the world—that made everything harder. 

Imloth Ningloron was also the only little realm in Valinor—now a land of many little realms—that had a space set aside for the dead. There were three graves there, now: three hobbits given the honor and grace of healing from their long ordeals in the land of the Valar before they went to their final rest. They had built a garden around it, where elanor and niphredil bloomed, and snapdragons and laburnums and lilies, and forget-me-nots that had been Frodo’s favorite, and all three had been buried beneath a mallorn tree that Galadriel had planted there, from a seed brought back over the Sea from Lothlórien; a rose bush grown from a cutting that Sam had carried from the gardens of Bag End grew beside his grave, too. There were other little memorials scattered throughout that garden, for those the folk of Imloth Ningloron had known and loved in Middle-earth. There was one for Merry and Pippin set beside the graves of Frodo and Sam, and Elrond knew that something would soon be erected to honor Aragorn and Arwen. He had taken no part in those discussions; the grief was too near, still. He had refused the suggestion that Nerdanel be asked to make statues the moment someone—he couldn’t recall who, now—had spoken of it. Hers were so lifelike that he knew he could not bear it. Celebrían had agreed, to his relief. 

He left the gazebo, thinking he would make his way to that garden. It was always quiet there, and he could feel his mood dipping, his desire for music and even sunshine waning swiftly. He wanted the shade of the mallorn tree and the tall green hedges between him and the rest of the world. But when he stepped through the gate he found that someone had come there before him. 

Elrond had met all of Fëanor’s sons by now, mostly by chance meetings in Tirion or when Nerdanel brought them with her to visit Imloth Ningloron, and of course Celebrimbor was a frequent visitor. But he had seen Maedhros only once or twice in all the time he had been in Valinor. It was widely known though little remarked upon that Maedhros avoided most company. He dwelled still with Nerdanel outside of Tirion, and Elrond did not know how he spent his days. 

He had wanted to make some kind of overture, but Maedhros had always been a figure set apart, unapproachable in both memory and in life. As a child Elrond had feared him; as he had grown older that fear had not gone away, exactly, though it had lessened, little by little. Even that had faded by now, for Elrond had faced far more frightening things in his life that Maedhros Fëanorion, but that did not mean he knew what to say to him, or even how to fully understand him. He had come back from Mandos unhealed, and it seemed to Elrond that he had rejected it in life also. Grief and guilt lay on him like a too-heavy cloak in high summer, uncomfortable and doing more harm than good, no lighter than they had been in Beleriand long ago. Some of it Elrond knew—the pain of watching everyone you loved die, or leave, and being the only one left standing in the end without knowing why; he understood that all too well. But Maedhros’ brothers and kin were all alive again—or almost all—and still he seemed unable to leave the past where it belonged.

Maedhros was not who Elrond had expected to see, particularly in this part of the gardens. Maedhros turned as Elrond entered through the gate; he had been contemplating the memorial to Gilraen. Elrond had made it himself only recently, for she had been much in his thoughts of late—she and Arathorn and all the others who had come before. 

“You have no monument to Elros,” Maedhros said before Elrond could think of how to greet him. 

“We made this garden first for Bilbo,” said Elrond, going to stand before the small flower-covered mound. Sam’s roses were in full bloom, and the air was thick with the sweet smell of them. “The other remembrances have been added only slowly. And Elros has his monument in Avallónë.” Finrod had made it, and Elrond had seen it when he’d first come there. The likeness was not inaccurate, but Tar-Minyatar of Númenor was not the Elros whose memory lived in Elrond’s heart. It had been hard to look at, and anything he tried to make himself would only be worse. Were it up to Elrond alone there would be no memorial to Arwen or Aragorn, either—though he knew that was selfish, and in time he would come to appreciate whatever was done. He looked up from the roses at Maedhros, who had tilted his own gaze up to the mallorn tree, branches swaying gently in the breeze over their heads. Elrond wanted to ask why he was there, but he could not think of a way to do it that did not sound either rude or like he was unhappy to see him. Even if it was true, it was unkind.

“I heard of your daughter,” Maedhros said finally, lowering his gaze to meet Elrond’s. “I am sorry.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Will your other children come west now?”

“Yes. We expect to hear of it anytime now. Lord Celeborn is coming, too.” Elrond thought he understood now what had brought Maedhros there. His concern was not for Elrond or for Elrond’s children, not really. “I also expect Maglor to sail with them,” he said. 

Maglor had written to Nerdanel—a fairly short letter that he had entrusted to Galadriel. Elrond did not know what it had said, but he imagined that Maedhros did. What Maglor had done and what had happened to him over the course of the Second and Third Ages of the world was not Elrond’s tale to tell, so he had remained quiet, and no one had come to him to ask. Now Maedhros asked, “Why did he not come with you before? He was—” He turned away, hand balling up into a fist. “He was put to torment. I know that he was—I saw it in one of my father’s palantíri.”

Elrond had not known of that. If he had, he would have tried harder to speak to Maedhros before. “He was,” he said quietly, “but he was long ago brought out of that place. He found healing in Imladris.” 

“Some hurts cannot be healed in Middle-earth,” Maedhros said. 

“It seems that some cannot be healed even here,” Elrond said, and was rewarded with a glare, Maedhros’ eyes flashing with that fire that had once made armies flee before his coming. Elrond met it without flinching; of the two of them there, he was the mightier now, no longer a frightened child but a Ring-wielder and lord of Elves and Men in his own right. Grief weighed on him, too, but he knew how to carry it, rather than letting it devour him. He wondered if Maedhros wanted to be devoured. “Maglor sought healing, and so he found it. What will he think when he sees that you have done neither when he comes?” 

“Do you think I could so easily retreat to Lórien and let myself sleep the years away while my brother lay in darkness and in pain?”

“He has not been in darkness or in pain for many years now,” Elrond said. 

“How do you know? I have looked for him and I have not found him again. I have seen only mist over the shore.”

“Because he came to me after he was brought out of the darkness of Dol Guldur, and dwelled with me in Imladris until I left it. Because I know the world in which I left him, and there is no darkness left that could hold him. Do you think I am so poor a healer that I would have left him behind if he truly needed to come here?” At this Maedhros looked away, and Elrond took a breath, and softened his voice. “Maglor has long hidden himself from any who might seek for him. Even Galadriel could never find him. It does not surprise me that he has fallen back into old habits.” 

“Not from me,” Maedhros said in a low voice. “He never—he has never hidden from me.” 

Elrond swallowed a sigh. He did not know how to answer. He knew some of Maglor’s fears, and he could easily guess that his grief for his brothers, and Maedhros in particular, was far more complicated than merely missing them. Resentment and bitterness mixed up in love and grief made for a thick knot that would take time and pain to unravel. He would have been lying to himself if he tried to say that he had not dealt with some similar bitter feelings in the wake of Elros’ choice.

“Whatever answers you seek, Maedhros, I cannot give them to you.”

“I had thought perhaps the wisdom for which you are famed would offer some insight.” The words were almost sneered, and spoken with unmistakable bitterness.

“Even if I could, why should I?” Elrond asked, tiring at last of this. “Tell me, Maedhros son of Fëanor, why should I give you anything at all?” Maedhros looked at him, eyes widening slightly. “I have heard that you went to everyone that you once wronged, from Alqualondë to the court of Nimloth my grandmother to offer apologies and whatever restitution might have been asked of you—but when you come at last to my door—to this garden—you offer nothing but bitter words and thinly veiled accusations. Have you nothing else to say to Elwing’s only living son?”

“I came to learn what you would tell me of my brother,” Maedhros said after a pause, having recovered from his surprise enough to be angry again. 

“And you have learned it.” With that Elrond left the garden, knowing that even if it was Maedhros who left he would find no peace there that day, and knowing that staying longer would only cause his resentment of that fact to bubble to the surface, doing neither of them any good. He retreated inside instead, up the stairs to the bedroom he shared with Celebrían. It was open and airy, with more windows than walls, for she had chosen a place far enough south that the weather was warm year-round. The breeze was flower-scented and made the gauzy curtains billow and wave gently. Everything was warm in that room, pinks and reds and warm brown floors and walls. Elrond sank onto the edge of the bed and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

After a few minutes he heard the door open, and then the mattress shifted and dipped as Celebrían slid across it from the other side to wrap her arms around him from behind. “Maedhros is here,” she said, after kissing his temple.

“I know,” he said without lowering his hands. “We spoke.”

“Mm. Perhaps I should not have told him to join us for supper, then. What did he say to you?”

“Nothing—nothing awful, really.” Elrond allowed her to catch his wrists and lower them, and he leaned back, turning his face into her neck. Her hair was softer than silk against his cheeks. It was still a marvel, a miracle, such a blessing to be able to do this whenever he liked—to touch her and kiss her and just speak to her, to know that she was somewhere nearby even when out of his sight. “He wanted to know about Maglor.”

“Did you tell him?”

“That we expect him to sail with the boys? Yes. Now I think I should not have. I don’t even know if Maglor will want to see him.”

“That’s simple enough to fix,” Celebrían said. “I’ll have a word with my uncle, and if Maedhros appears on Eressëa and Maglor does not want to see him, Finrod will keep him away.”

Elrond thought of that glimpse of fire in Maedhros’ eyes. “I’m not sure that it will be so easy.”

“It will be,” Celebrían said. She slid her fingers through his hair, removing the circlet that he’d been wearing, and tossed it aside. “Maedhros can be quite determined, it is true, but so can Finrod—and these days Finrod is one of the few who Maedhros will both speak and listen to. And if it turns out that Maglor does want to see him right away, it will only be a matter of sending him to Finrod’s house rather than bringing him to ours, and no harm is done.” She had moved on to undoing the braids that kept the remainder of Elrond’s hair out of his face now that the circlet was gone, ridding him of that tension on his scalp. “I think, though, that you believe Maglor will not want to see him.”

“I know that he would not have, had he sailed with me,” Elrond said. He lifted his head to let Celebrían reach the other braids, and sighed. “He was healed, but he was not—he was still fragile in many ways. I fear he is still.”

“He may always be,” Celebrían said softly, as one who knew only too well of what she spoke. “But that does not mean he needs always to be wrapped in cotton wool, or that you need always take the role of his protector.”

“Old habits,” Elrond murmured, leaning back against her again. He sighed. “I spoke more harshly to Maedhros than I should have.”

“I know what it takes to provoke your temper, Elrond—and I am also sure that you did not speak nearly as harshly as he probably deserved.”

“He is not well.”

“And whose fault is that? If he is content to wallow in his misery, that is his business, but he does not need to drag us all down with him. And I will tell him so if he is unpleasant at supper.” When Elrond smiled in spite of himself, she added, “And let us leave tomorrow or the next day for Avallónë. I can pace the halls of our house there as well as here, and it will be a much shorter walk to the harbor.”

“You’ll have no argument from me,” Elrond said. 

“Of course not! When do you ever argue with me?” Celebrían laughed and kissed his forehead, and then his cheeks, and then at last his lips.

“Whenever you are wrong,” Elrond said. He sat up and kissed her back. “But that happens so rarely.” That made her laugh again, the sound sweeter than birdsong in spring. He felt better just hearing it. 

Before he could so much as reach up to thread his fingers through Celebrían’s hair, however, the clatter of hooves echoed up through the windows from the courtyard below, followed by cheerful calls and greetings from others in the household out and about. Elrond sighed, and Celebrían made a face as they parted and went to the window to look down. “Oh, it’s Celebrimbor!” Celebrían leaned out of the window to call down to him. “Well met, Cousin!”

Celebrimbor looked up and smiled from beneath a mess of dark windblown hair. His companion also looked up, though his expression remained more stern. As Celebrían drew back inside Elrond wondered aloud, “What is Curufin doing here?” Celebrimbor was a frequent visitor to Imloth Ningloron—so much so that he could almost abandon the title of guest—but his father had never before accompanied him.

“Looking for his brother, perhaps?” Celebrían said. “We’ll find out soon enough. Let me fix your hair.”

“My hair that you unfixed, you mean,” Elrond said as she picked up the circlet. 

“Hush, you.” She combed her fingers through the strands to set them in order, and set the circlet back over them. “There. Now you look like a proper lord and not as though you just rolled out of bed.”

“I rather wish I had just rolled out of bed,” Elrond said, just to hear Celebrían laugh again as she took his hand and pulled him from the room. 

Celebrimbor was not in the courtyard or the entry hall when they descended the stairs. Curufin was, and he bowed in greeting. “Lady Celebrían, Lord Elrond,” he said.

“Well met, Cousin Curufin,” Celebrían said, stepping forward to take his hands and kiss his cheek as he straightened. “To what do we owe this visit?”

“My brother Maedhros,” Curufin said. “I do not know where Tyelpë has gone—”

“To the gardens, I think,” Celebrían said. “We’ll follow after. He always goes to the memorial garden when he comes, to pay his respects.” She took Curufin’s arm, and Elrond fell into step beside them as they made their way back outside. They did not go to the little walled garden, but instead to the rose garden by the house, where there were benches and fountains aplenty. “Maedhros is here,” Celebrían said as she directed them to her favorite bench. “Though I am not sure where, at the moment.”

“Is something amiss, Curufin?” Elrond asked, watching him. There was something unsettled and almost nervous about him, which did not bode well. 

Curufin did not answer until Celebrimbor reappeared, with Maedhros in tow. Maedhros avoided Elrond’s gaze as he bowed over Celebrían’s hand, and greeted his brother with as much surprise as Elrond had felt upon seeing him. “Did someone send you after me?” he asked, sounding resigned and almost wryly amused. 

“Amil did,” said Curufin. “And she sent Caranthir to track down Celegorm and the Ambarussa.”

“Why?” Maedhros asked, voice sharp—something of the lord of Himring in it, Elrond thought. “What has happened?”

“A message came from Mandos two days ago,” Celebrimbor said when Curufin hesitated. “Fëanor is to be released from Mandos.”

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When Maglor made his way back down to the deck, Daeron was nowhere to be seen. It was something of a relief, though he knew he’d have to endure more too-keen looks and most likely more questions. He went towards the prow of the ship where he found Círdan leaning over the railing to speak to a figure in the water—a figure of water, with hair like streaming foam, keeping pace with the ship with ease. He stopped, and Uinen looked back at him and smiled, eyes glinting like stars before she said one last thing to Círdan and slipped away, dissolving like sea foam beneath the surface of the water. 

“I did not mean to interrupt,” Maglor said when Círdan beckoned him forward. 

“You did not. The lady has a fondness for you and your singing.” Círdan looked at him, his own eyes nearly as keen as Lady Uinen’s, with the light of ancient starlight in them. “Would you sing for us today, or tonight?”

“Yes, of course.” He summoned a smile. “It would not do to disappoint Lady Uinen.”

He remained at the prow as Círdan went back to the helm. Behind him elves walked or sat scattered across the deck; sailors climbed through the rigging to adjust the sails, singing lilting shanties and laughing with one another. The melancholy of departure had faded into the cheerfulness of the journey, and the eager anticipation of what they would find at its end. Maglor leaned on the rail and watched the water foam about the ship as it cut through the waves. He imagined what lay beneath the waves, the shattered remnants of Beleriand. He thought of the Gap and of Ard Galen, a sea unto itself of green grass and a rainbow of flowers, rippling in the wind, trembling under the hooves of their horses as they had raced one another, or charged into battle when the orcs crept down out of the north. He thought of Doriath, where Daeron had for so long made his music in glades of niphredil and hemlock umbels as Lúthien danced beneath the stars, and of the misty lands of Hithlum and the highlands of Dorthonion where his cousins had dwelled…

All of those lands were ruined and left behind so long ago, but it still felt strange to think that he passed above them again, with miles of ocean in between. Fish now made their home in the caves of Menegroth, and whales swam where once eagles had flown. One such whale surfaced quite close to the ship, shooting its spray high into the air. One large dark eye regarded Maglor for a moment before the great creature sank again beneath the surface. Some distance away another breached, leaping almost fully into the air before crashing back down with a great splash, to the delight of the other elves aboard the ship. 

After a time someone else came to stand beside Maglor. It was Elrohir, and he leaned on the railing too, and against Maglor. He had been very quiet ever since they had left Rivendell. “What are you thinking of?” Maglor asked. 

“Of my mother.” Elrohir did not raise his gaze from the water, and his hair fell forward, half-hiding his face from view. Maglor recognized that instinct, it being one he shared, and he did not move to brush it out of the way. It had been Elrohir who had first told Maglor of Celebrían and of her torment in the Misty Mountains. It had been a shorter ordeal than Maglor’s own, but perhaps the worse for it, and she had not been able to remain in Middle-earth. Maglor had seen how that weighed upon Elrond, and in turn upon their children. Arwen had wept bitter tears the day before they had arrived in Minas Tirith, grieving her mother’s absence on her wedding day.

“I do not doubt that she will be waiting for you on the quay,” Maglor said quietly. “Healed and whole again.” Elrohir nodded, and tried to smile, but could not quite manage it. “And your father will be beside her.”

“Yes, I know. But it still seems—here we are on the ship and it still seems like a dream, like I’ll wake up in my own bed at home and it will still be sometime far in the future.” Maglor hummed quiet agreement. He still could not quite believe it either. “Who do you hope to see at the harbor?”

“Elrond,” Maglor said.

“Is it really hope if you know that he’ll be there?” Elrohir asked. “Is there no one else?”

He thought of his brothers, and his parents… “Perhaps…perhaps my mother,” he admitted quietly. “But I do not expect it.” He’d attempted to write to her a few times since he’d sent that letter with Galadriel, but all of them had ended up scribbled over and in the fire. He had had better luck in writing to Elrond, but he’d never been a great correspondent. Elrond’s children had all been much more prolific; Maglor knew for a fact there was a chest full of letters collected over the years from Aragorn and Arwen, and even their children, written over the course of many years and finally ready to be delivered. 

“Why not?” Elrohir asked. “Will Lady Uinen not take word ahead of us to Eressëa?”

“Doubtless. But you forget how I left that land. It was not—I have no reason to expect any particular welcome from anyone except Elrond, and perhaps Galadriel.”

“Not even your own mother?” Elrohir looked at him askance, distracted from his own distress for a moment by exasperation with Maglor. It was familiar, that exasperation. He often found himself on its receiving end from both twins. Usually there was good reason for it, when he got caught up in shadowy thoughts and needless melancholy, but now he just shrugged. He truly did not know. That sort of hope was still beyond him. “What of your brothers?” Elrohir asked. “Or your father?”

“No!” Maglor surprised even himself by the vehemence in his voice. Elrohir blinked, and Maglor gripped the railing with both hands, though the edges of it were sanded to a round and silky smoothness that did little to ground him. “I do not think he will be there,” he said when he’d mastered himself again. “Nor do I wish it.” He let his own hair fall forward, shielding his face from whatever look Elrohir was giving him now. “And my brothers…they may not even have been released from Mandos. They or Fëanor. I suppose if anyone were to come to greet me it would be Finrod.” They had been friends, once upon a time, and if anyone would forgive him all his past deeds it was Finrod, the most openhearted of their kin. 

“Mm.” Elrohir bumped his shoulder into Maglor’s. “I think you underestimate how many people care for you, as usual,” he said. 

“You forget again—”

“I have not forgotten. But it has been a very long time, even for the Eldar, and I thought that it was all forgiven long ago after the War of Wrath when so many Exiles returned home.”

“Some of us didn’t,” Maglor murmured. He himself had not been there to accept or decline the invitation to repentance and homecoming—but the final theft of the Silmarils, he thought, had been answer enough to that. He looked down at his palm, still scored with the scars of it. Beside him Elrohir sighed, and though he couldn’t see Maglor knew that he was rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes, I know. Truly, I am not trying to be difficult. But one people reconciling with another is one thing. More personal wrongs—those are something else altogether. I am not worried about being dragged before the Valar to answer for all my crimes, but that does not mean there are many even among my own kin who eagerly await my return. Elrond will be there, and that is enough.”

“Very well.” Elrohir looped his arm through Maglor’s and leaned on his shoulder again. “I would be very glad if you remained with our household.”

“I have no other plans,” Maglor said. 

“Will you keep up your wandering?”

“Probably. I’ve never been content to stay still for too long—even when I was young—and I am curious to see what has changed and what has stayed the same; but I am in no hurry to go off on some long journey into the wilds, don’t worry.”

“Good.”

“None of us need hurry for anything,” Maglor murmured, as he watched the horizon. He remembered being told as a child and as a youth that he did not need to always be moving, that he could spend a year or a decade or a century studying one single thing or staying in one place and it would not matter, because he would still have all the rest of time to do everything else. It had not been true, in the end. Even as he spoke the words Maglor knew that he did not really believe them now, in the deepest parts of his heart. He had learned of fear and of danger and of endings too well, and even in Imladris there had been the constant awareness of darkness gathering outside of the valley. 

Maybe he would do well to visit Lórien, where Estë gave the gift of rest and healing, and Irmo brought peace to dreaming. He had other places to visit first—the Noldor and the Teleri were long reconciled now it was true, but he owed it to Olwë and to Elwing and to whoever led the Sindar now, and Turgon and the remnants of the Gondolindrim, to at least take a knee and try to apologize. No verses, no laments. Just plain words. Someone needed to, on behalf of his house, if his brothers did indeed still reside in Mandos—and even if they did not, he needed to for himself. But after all of that…perhaps he would emerge from sleep among Irmo’s poppies able to grasp at hope again. 

Elladan came to bring them both back to the rest of the company to eat lunch and tell stories. Most of the elves on the ship were from Mithlond, but a few had come from Ithilien and the Greenwood. It was a merry meal, with much laughter, and afterward there was singing, bright songs of the Woodelves, and older and stranger ones that Daeron had learned in his travels east of Rhûn. He spoke little of himself when asked about his travels, instead telling of cities and realms of both Elves and Men that he had visited, and of the great deeds done in the East in the fight against Sauron, of which those in the West knew little. 

Not unexpectedly, the talk soon turned westward, and Maglor was called upon to sing them songs of the Blessed Realm. Elladan fetched the smaller harp that Maglor had brought. “I will sing you some songs written by Elemmírë of the Vanyar, who was my teacher long ago,” Maglor said as he put his fingers to the strings. It took a few moments for him to recall the melody, for he had sung no songs of the Trees since the Darkening, but he found it and settled into it, playing through the first verse once without singing before starting again and lifting his voice in praise of golden Laurelin as the Sun passed high overhead, bright and warm and yet still only an echo of what had once been. That song passed into a paean to Yavanna Kementári, and as the Sun sank into the west and in the east the Moon rose, he sang of silver Telperion. The song he sang to the stars was still one of Elemmírë’s, but it had been brought to Middle-earth and sung in many tongues of Elves and Men since the exile, and when he began to play everyone joined with him as the stars came out, like a spill of diamonds across the black velvet of the sky. 

As the song faded away, someone asked to hear the Lay of Leithian. Maglor looked at Daeron, who had been watching the sky. “I will sing it,” Daeron said, turning to them with a smile. If it pained him he did not show it. “If Maglor will accompany me.” Maglor bowed his head and began to play. He and Daeron had performed in this way often at the Mereth Aderthad, one of them playing harp or flute while the other sang. 

Maglor remembered being amused at all the talk of Daeron, loremaster of Doriath, accounted the greatest singer of the Eldar in Beleriand. Many jokes had been made comparing the two of them, and everyone seemed to expect him to care. Even Maedhros had teased him, saying he would have no patience for Maglor’s sulking on the way back to Himring if Daeron did indeed prove the mightier. Maglor had only rolled his eyes. He had had his pride, in those days, but it had not been that great. Maglor had wanted to meet him so that they might learn from one another and, perhaps, forge a friendship through their music—meeting someone who had the same passion for it that he did had been his great hope in going to the Mereth Aderthad, and he had not been disappointed, though there had been little chance for that friendship to grow afterward. Certainly not after the truth of Alqualondë came out and Thingol issued his Ban; all hopes of anything more than a brief acquaintance had faded away after that. But it had been wonderful while it had lasted, and it seemed that now they had another chance at being something more than feast-time acquaintances. 

Many other songs were sung after the Leithian. Elladan and Elrohir sang many songs of Rivendell and of the Shire, and Círdan sang of the Sea, his voice clear and bright. The harp was passed around and played by nearly everyone at one point or another, as the ship sailed on. More than once Maglor caught the sound of Uinen’s voice on the breeze, as ancient and ever-changing as the Sea itself, harmonizing with them. 

Maglor slipped away back to the prow once he was sure no one would ask him in particular for another song. He leaned over to watch the water foam about the ship, silver under the starlight and moonlight. When he looked up he saw clouds on the distant horizon, like mountains in the distance. They would sail through rain before too long. He was not very surprised when Daeron came to join him. “I did not know you were a student of Elemmírë,” Daeron said.

“Did you imagine I sprang into being already a master singer?” Maglor asked.

Daeron laughed. “No. I suppose I imagined you had learned at the feet of the Valar.”

“I did learn much from them,” Maglor said, “but that came later. And…” 

“And?” Daeron looked at him. It was hard to see his face behind the shadows of his dark hair. 

“I feel that I learned the most from listening to the Sea,” Maglor said quietly. “But that came much later.” And then he had lost his way in silence and confusion and fear, and only slowly learned how to hear it again, the echoes of that Music that had made the world, and how to weave its lessons into his own voice and his own songs once more. Even now, he was not the singer he had once been. That in itself did not bother him, really, though he missed the ease that came with skill and long practice. It was a little surprising to him that Daeron had not yet commented on it. 

Instead Daeron said, “I can hear it in your voice—the Sea. And I, too, have learned much by listening to the waters of the world.” 

“I hear it in your voice, too,” said Maglor. “The songs of rivers and mountain streams.” He did not say that he’d recognized the song of the Esgalduin when he had finally heard it—muffled though it had been by sorrow and by the midwinter ices—because he had heard the echo of it in Daeron’s voice before. One more little grief to be added to the pile of greater ones that he had been making by then. He caught himself rubbing his thumb over the scars on his hand, and made himself stop. 

Daeron caught that hand and turned it over so the moonlight fell on the scars. “Does it hurt?” he asked. 

“No, except that it aches sometimes.” And on dark nights when shadowy dreams plagued him he woke sometimes with it throbbing, so when he turned on a light he was surprised to find scars there instead of raw and burned skin all over again. Those were bad nights, when the ghosts of his brothers came out of the shadows to stare at him, as they had for years in Dol Guldur. They had retreated for a time, after he had come to Imladris and begun to remake himself, but in the months leading up to their departure for Mithlond he had been dreaming of them again. He thought perhaps he’d left them behind on the shore—but then, it was probably foolish to believe he’d ever be entirely free of nightmares. Daeron released his hand, and Maglor let it fall to his side, gripping the railing with his other hand to stop himself rubbing at the scars again. 

Days passed. The rainclouds passed over them, and broke apart with rainbows arcing over the ship, which, rain-dampened, seemed to sparkle in the sudden beams of sunshine. Most of the days passed in song, and often in laughter, though sometimes in the quiet hours of the night the singing turned melancholy, quiet and somber, for this voyage could never be anything but bittersweet for all of them who had lived so long in Middle-earth—indeed, Maglor was the only one aboard who had not been born there. It was their home, though it was changing in ways that few Elves could stand to witness. Perhaps there would always be Elves in Middle-earth, Maglor thought, but they were a dwindling race now, and someday they would be nothing more than tales told around the fire by the children of Men. Even Arwen’s children’s children would someday forget from whom they were descended. They would forget what the Evening Star had once meant. He looked westward, though it was late enough that Gil-Estel was no longer visible over the horizon.

As he did the wind changed, and he caught a sweet scent on it—the scent of flowers, and of something else fresh and nameless that brought to his mind memories of towering mountains and wide green fields, and bells ringing in Tirion and in Valmar. Maglor stilled, and one by one the others noticed too, and everyone gathered at the prow except for Elladan and Elrohir, who scrambled up the rigging to the crow’s nest. “I see land on the horizon!” Elladan called down. “Mountains!”

“The Pelóri,” Maglor whispered. The moon rode high in the sky overhead, bright and full, and the wind picked up. The sails billowed, and Uinen’s laughter echoed around them as she sped the currents on. Soon those on the deck could see the mountain peaks, too, and they grew and grew—taller even than Maglor remembered, silver in the moonlight. He gripped the railing until his hands ached; Daeron stood on one side of him, Celeborn on the other. No one spoke. 

The moon set behind the mountains, and then the sun rose behind them in the east, leaping out into the sky to illuminate the lands before them, growing steadily larger, all green and gold, and the snowy mountain peaks blushing in the dawn. Someone burst into song, and all around Maglor everyone joined in, a song of praise for the sunrise and hope for joy as they came at last to the end of their journey. He did not sing; he had had no songs for departure, and found now that he had none for arrival, either. 

He was coming home, he tried to tell himself, but the word felt empty and meaningless. It was the land of his birth but it wasn’t home anymore. He had wandered Middle-earth for far longer than he had lived in Valinor, but even there he had never really called any one place his home. Unable to watch the mountains any longer Maglor looked down into the waves, and he saw Uinen there, keeping pace with the ship. She caught his eye and smiled before vanishing beneath the surface, speeding away ahead of them to herald their arrival. 

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Elrond and Celebrían were kind enough to excuse themselves after Celebrimbor’s revelation, and he went with them, leaving Maedhros alone in the garden with Curufin. They stood in silence for some time. A nightingale was singing in a nearby hedge, and bees flew lazily around them as they went from flower to flower. Finally, Maedhros said, “Maglor is coming back.”

“Is he?” Curufin looked at him, raising one brow. “I thought you did not know where he was. I suppose Elrond told you?” Maedhros nodded. “Have you not looked into the palantíri? I know Amil has them.”

“I did, once,” Maedhros said, unable to keep himself from shuddering at the memory of it. The image of Maglor chained and brutalized was seared into his memory, and he was glad none of the others had seen it. Bad enough their mother had. “But it was long ago, and ever since I have seen nothing but mist.”

The nightingale ceased its singing; somewhere else in the gardens elven voices burst into song, though it was not as merry as Maedhros might have expected after all he had heard of Elrond and Celebrían’s home in Middle-earth. They were all in mourning in this place, in spite of the bright sunlight and the merry music of the rivers and streams. He knew it had not been a good idea to come here now, knew it was unkind, but not knowing anything of Maglor had been eating away at him and he could not rest until he learned something. 

“That is not right,” Curufin said quietly after a moment. “He has never hidden from you.”

“He does now.” Maedhros turned his gaze to the nearest flower, tracing its many petals that seemed to glow in the bright sunlight. It was a deep red color; the color of blood, his mind supplied, and he tried to push the thought away, for it had no place in Lady Celebrían’s garden. “Have you looked into the palantír?”

“No. What would be the point? If he hides from you he hides from us all. But Maglor is not yet here, and our father is—or will be soon. Amil does not yet know what she wants to do and wants all of us with her when she decides whether she will see him again.”

“Will you? See him again?” Maedhros turned back to Curufin, who looked away in his turn. He kept his hair cropped short, as he had when he’d been younger and too impatient to always be braiding it back out of the way of his work. It had grown longer in Beleriand. Since his return to life he’d thrown himself back into making, as he’d fallen away from it before his death, but this time focusing all his energies on making what he wanted to make, and not what he thought their father would approve of, or what might be thought Great. He had no work to compare to the Silmarils or to his son’s Rings, but at last Curufin seemed content with that—like he did not need it anymore. Maedhros was glad of it, but now that their father was returned, he found himself fearing they would all fall back into old patterns—the patterns of the darker days, the unhappy time even before the Darkening, when Fëanor’s fire had been all rage and jealousy instead of love and joy. 

Finally, Curufin said, “I don’t know. I have only just…I need to speak to Arimeldë.” Their reconciliation was still a new and fragile thing. “I will not abandon her again—and going to him if she does not wish it would be an abandonment.” 

“Good,” Maedhros said. 

Curufin smiled, but it was unhappy and short lived. “Will you see him?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I remember he tried—in the Halls. I did not think before that anyone could burn too hot for Atya, but you…” Curufin was watching him almost warily now. “You still burn. Have you truly found no rest, not anywhere?”

“If I could not find it in Mandos, why does anyone think I will find it outside?” Maedhros asked. He’d asked the same of Estë herself, and of Nienna, and he would have demanded an answer of Námo if he’d ever been able to find him. Both Estë and Nienna had told him that he had not found it because he refused to look. “I don’t want to see him, but if Ammë asks it of me I will go with her. Or stand by her when he comes.”

“She won’t ask. You know that. We’ve all—we’ve all sacrificed enough for him.”

They had sacrificed everything. Their freedom, their lives, their very selves. It was more than a father should have ever asked of his children, and Fëanor had not asked but demanded. They had all stepped forward willingly to swear the Oath, not knowing to what they were condemning themselves. But as he lay dying Fëanor had demanded they swear again even after Alqualondë and Losgar, binding them to it even more tightly, knowing that it would be fruitless and end only in grief. Maedhros hadn’t seen it then, but he did now, and he could not forgive Fëanor any more than he could forgive himself for what he’d led his people and his brothers into. All of his baby brothers, destroyed before their deaths and then cut down in bloody battle in pursuit of a gem none of them even wanted. 

“It was not all your fault, you know,” Curufin said after a few moments of silence. “You did not want to go to Doriath. You were our liege lord and you are our eldest brother, but when did that ever stop us disobeying or overriding you?”

“I did not want any of it,” Maedhros said, “but I still did it.”

“Maedhros—Nelyo. You can’t keep going like this.” 

Were it anyone else Maedhros would have bristled, and probably left the conversation entirely. He knew that Curufin was right. But he could not shake the thought that if he went long enough, if he kept refusing, if he kept burning, either he would burn out and dissolve into ash on the wind, or else the Valar would take pity on him and just send him back to Mandos. It would not work any better the second time but maybe they would at least let him stay there. There were plenty of others who would not return—why could they remain there until the world’s ending and he could not?

Finally, Curufin relented, and asked, “When is Maglor returning?”

“Soon, I think. With Elrond’s sons.”

“Will you go to Eressëa to wait for him?”

“I…” That was the question, wasn’t it? He would not be welcome to go to Avallónë with Elrond and his wife—Elrond had made that quite clear—and now he did not even know if he should. Once he had been the first to whom Maglor would turn when in need of comfort or even just companionship. But now, after all he had endured—the centuries of lonely wandering, the decades of torment—Maedhros wasn’t sure that still held true. He did not think he could bear that particular rejection. It might send him to Mandos again whether the Valar wished it or not. “No,” he said finally. “No, I won’t go.” 

“One of us should,” Curufin said. “He can’t come back to no one at all.”

“He isn’t. Elrond will be there.”

“Elrond is not his family.”

Maedhros gave Curufin a look. “Do not start that nonsense again. The line of Fingolfin—”

“You know what I mean,” Curufin said with a roll of his eyes. “He is kin of course, but he is not—”

“Maglor raised him. He is the only family Maglor is sure to want to see,” Maedhros said flatly. He knew that he was not hiding the hurt well, but it didn’t matter. Who was Curufin going to tell about it? And Curufin did not know what Maedhros knew. Neither Maedhros nor Nerdanel—nor Finrod, for that matter—had ever shared what they had seen in the palantír. There had been no point except to cause unnecessary pain. Better that the rest of his brothers did not know. Bad enough that he did, when there was nothing to be done about it. Elrond now claimed that Maglor had healed, but however great a healer and however wise he was said to be, Maedhros still could not see him as more than a half-grown child with more nerve than sense, and doubt lingered. 

Have you nothing else to say to Elwing’s only living son? 

A bell rang, and Celebrimbor came to find them. “That is the dinner bell,” he said. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Yes, of course,” Curufin said. Maedhros said nothing, but he followed after them into the bright and airy dinner hall. Woven hangings adorned the walls, all scenes of Middle-earth that Maedhros did not recognize. There was nothing there of Beleriand. He saw Celebrimbor pause by one bearing the image of a shining door between two great holly trees, and brush his fingers lightly over the symbols of Durin before he went on. Beyond the seats of Elrond and Celebrían was an enormous tapestry showing a view of another valley, tucked at the feet of mighty mountains, all shades of green and blue with rivers and falls and trees of many kinds, and in the midst a rambling house that was both like and unlike this one. Every detail had been woven with care and with love and with the melancholy of homesickness. 

“That is Rivendell,” said someone at Maedhros’ side. He turned to see an old Man, bearded and clad in silver and white, with knowing eyes. “The Last Homely House east of the Sea, it was called. How was it that Bilbo put it…? Ah, yes, a perfect house, whether you like food or sleep, or story-telling or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mix of them all, I believe it was. He was quite right.”

“Gandalf!” Lady Celebrían swept across the hall to embrace the old man. “We were not expecting you! Welcome, welcome. What brings you here?”

“Need I have a reason beyond visiting old friends?” Gandalf replied, eyes twinkling. There was something odd about him, but Maedhros did not know what it was. Something like the Maiar, but also not. The name, too, was familiar, but Maedhros had not cared enough to keep up with all the tales and rumors coming back from the east with every ship. “I hear that your sons are coming at last,” Gandalf was saying to Celebrían. “I am very glad to hear it. And I think your father, too, is coming with them.”

“Is he?” Celebrían’s whole demeanor brightened. “Oh, I hope so! Does my mother know? Of course she does. She is probably already in Avallónë waiting for him. Do come sit down! And Maedhros, your seat is also this way.” She graced him with a smile and swept away with Gandalf on her arm, both of them laughing together. Maedhros trailed after them, having lost sight of Curufin and Celebrimbor as the rest of the household filed in. Everyone seemed happy to see Gandalf, whoever he was, and he was taken to a seat of honor beside Celebrían at the table on the dais. Elrond greeted him in the same bright manner. Maedhros had to stop himself staring, as he realized that he had never seen Elrond so happy before. 

Maedhros was seated near the head of the main table, across and up a little from Curufin and Celebrimbor, who was speaking to those around him like they were old friends. As food was brought out, Maedhros’ right-hand neighbor turned to him with a smile. “Well met, my lord. I am glad to see you again.” He looked at her, startled, and was surprised to recognize her.

“Dringil,” he said. “Well met.” And looking past her he saw others that he had once known, in Valinor before the Darkening and in Beleriand, who had followed him to Himring, or Caranthir to Thargelion, or even Curufin and Celegorm to Himlad. Now that he was looking, he saw that there were many who had once followed the sons of Fëanor scattered throughout the hall, mingling with those who had served the House of Fingolfin or Finarfin. 

“It is a long way from Himring,” Dringil said. “Did you know it still stands? It is an island off the coast north of Lindon, now.”

“I did not know,” Maedhros said.

“We rescued a great deal from it after the storms settled,” Dringil said. “It was taken to Lindon and much afterward to Imladris.” She nodded toward the tapestry. “I know that Master Elrond has copies of the records too in the library here.”

“I didn’t know that, either,” Maedhros said. He also did not know how he felt about it, that of all Beleriand it should be his fortress that had survived everything that came after. “Thank you.” Dringil smiled at him, and then was distracted by someone across the table calling for her opinion on something related to the forges. Others stopped by Maedhros’ seat to greet him, or smiled at him from down the table, and it felt very strange to be so warmly welcomed by all of the members of Elrond’s household while Elrond himself sat close by looking anywhere but at him. 

It was Maedhros’ own fault, and he knew it—he’d gone about it all wrong. He watched Elrond from the corner of his eye, as he leaned in to speak into Celebrían’s ear, both of them sharing secret smiles, all sweet softness. When they were not caught up in each other they were laughing with Gandalf, who seemed to laugh more than he spoke, and whose ease with them spoke of long, long years of friendship. 

“Who is he, Gandalf?” Maedhros finally asked Dringil when he could catch her attention again.

“Gandalf? Why, he is—he is Gandalf! He was one of the Istari sent to Middle-earth long ago by the Valar to aid us against the Enemy,” Dringil said. “He has many names—Gandalf, Mithrandir, and Olórin that was his name here before he went back over the Sea. There were other wizards, too—Radagast has not yet returned to the west, and Saruman…” A shadow passed over his face. “Saruman is no more. There were two others, but I never met them. But it was Gandalf who led the Company out of Rivendell, and it was due to his councils that the War of the Ring was won at last.” She smiled. “He bore also Narya, though of course none of us knew anything about it until after it was all over. He was a dear friend of Bilbo and Frodo and Sam—the Ringfinder and the Ringbearer and his companion. I do not think you ever met them…?”

“No,” Maedhros said. Even he had heard of them, of course. Their names were honored throughout Valinor. But he had thought it better to keep away; they had come to Valinor to heal, not to be beset by ghosts of the ancient past. 

“That is a shame,” Dringil said, to his surprise. “Bilbo would have been delighted to meet you—he was certainly very happy to meet Lord Caranthir.”

“He sounds…rather singular, this Bilbo,” Maedhros said, unsure what exactly he meant and not quite sure that it was a compliment. But Dringil laughed and agreed, and so perhaps Bilbo would have taken it as a compliment. Perhaps Maedhros should have paid closer attention to the tales of the War of the Ring. 

After the meal ended there were calls for music, and someone began a song of the deeds of the Three Hunters, who had raced unceasing over many leagues in pursuit of their comrades taken by Uruk-hai. It sounded like a thrilling tale, but Maedhros saw a spasm of grief pass over Elrond’s face before he whispered something to Celebrían and got up from the table. As he turned he caught Maedhros’ eye, and nodded toward a door at the back of the hall. Surprised by the summons, Maedhros did not hesitate in rising and following. 

In the hallway, Elrond said, “It is a good story, that of the Three Hunters, but I cannot hear it tonight.”

“Does it end badly?”

“No!” Elrond smiled briefly. “No, it ends well.” He did not say more, instead leading Maedhros up a staircase, past an enormous library, and to a smaller more private study. “There is something I’ve been meaning to give to you, only I have not yet had the chance,” Elrond said as he stepped inside. The furniture was sturdy and plain, made of warm golden-brown wood. A braided rug covered the floor, and the bookcase held more trinkets than books, several of which had the clumsy but earnest look of something a child had made. Maedhros stood by the door as Elrond went to a chest in the corner. It was by far the oldest thing in the room. 

“Elrond,” Maedhros said. 

“I do not want to revisit our earlier…conversation,” Elrond said as he opened the chest. 

“You were right, though. I am sorry—I should not have come here as I did. Not now. I should have come long ago.” He just had not been able to bring himself to do it. He had avoided Elrond as much as possible through the entirety of his childhood, and it was only easier now that they were not forced into close quarters by the dangers of living in the wilds of war torn Beleriand. His feelings about that time were nothing, of course, to Elrond’s, but Maedhros knew that he was too much caught inside his own mind these days. He just did not know how to step out of it. 

Elrond drew a satchel out of the chest, and laid it on the desk. Maedhros looked into his face, really looked, and saw the weight of years, saw the bright joys and sharp sorrows that Elrond bore with such astonishing grace, saw the wisdom there, and the power—he was Eärendil’s son but also a child of Melian, and Maedhros knew that it had been a mistake to ever forget that. This was not the frightened child that Maglor had carried out of the wreckage of Sirion, or the stubborn youth who had insisted that neither he nor Elros could stay back any longer from the fighting in the north. Maedhros wondered if he knew how that parting had broken Maglor’s heart. 

That was an unkind thought; it was Maedhros’ fault that it had been so. Maglor could have—would have—gone with them, had it not been for him. If not for the Oath. 

“This was yours,” Elrond said, and Maedhros looked at the satchel. He almost did not recognize it, one of his last remaining possessions at the end. If anyone had asked him he would have said he’d taken it into the fire with him. 

“Where did you…?”

“It lay near the casket that had held the Silmarils.” Elrond was the only person to speak of the Silmarils so frankly before Maedhros. Most avoided the subject of them entirely, or tried to at least avoid saying the name. Even his mother never spoke of them.

“You…” Whatever Maedhros had expected, it was not to learn that Elrond, and presumably Elros, had gone after them. The thought had never crossed his mind. “And you kept the satchel.”

“We thought you might want it, if we ever found you. We learned the truth later, and then we thought Maglor might want it. After a time, keeping it just became habit; I have so few things from that early part of my life. Still, it isn’t mine—and there are some things inside I thought you would want.” 

Maedhros stepped forward, feeling like an intruder in this small and private space, and flipped open the satchel. There were only a handful of things inside, all carven wood. Maglor’s work. He pulled out two combs, a horse, a spoon, and a knife handle. They were not as brittle as he would have expected by their great age, but that was Elrond’s work, he thought. “Thank you,” he said softly, running his fingers over the details carved into a horse’s mane. “Did he…did he still carve things, after…?”

“Sometimes,” Elrond said. “He found most joy in clay, after Dol Guldur.” He spoke the name of that place so easily, almost carelessly, that Maedhros flinched. “That place is gone,” Elrond said, because of course he noticed. “It was toppled and its pits laid bare; Galadriel herself sung down the walls with the same songs that Lúthien used to topple the towers of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. By now the Greenwood will have overtaken that hill again, the spiders all driven out, and life brought properly back to the forest. The fear there was in that name is ended.”

“Is it?” Maedhros said without thinking, his head full of other pits and other dungeons—the name of Angband still tasted bitter on his tongue, though it was even longer gone than Dol Guldur. “For those who were there—”

“I was there,” Elrond said, voice suddenly sharp. “Not at Dol Guldur, but I have stood upon the slopes of Mount Doom and seen the might of Barad-dûr, and felt the heat of Sauron’s gaze. Do not tell me about fear, Maedhros son of Fëanor. I learned the taste of it as I watched you drive my mother into the Sea.” Maedhros met his gaze for a moment, but had to look away. He was cursed to always say the wrong thing to Elrond, it seemed, even when he did not mean to wound. After a beat, Elrond said, “Dol Guldur and Barad-dûr and all that Sauron ever built are now no more than rubble, with moss and grass and flowers slowly creeping back in to cover them. The fight against Sauron was long, and grievous, and some scars will never fade, but it is over.”

“If you know about fear, you know it does not end with the crumbling of stones,” Maedhros said quietly. 

“Fear of a name fades with time, and with the using of it. Once we avoided the use of Sauron’s name for fear that he would hear it. That danger is gone, and by naming him as he was I reject the hold that name might still have upon my heart or on the hearts of those who hear me speak. And I will say the same of Angband, and of Morgoth,” he added, and Maedhros did not flinch only because he had anticipated it. “If you truly came seeking my wisdom, Maedhros, I will give it to you. My counsel is to go to Estë, or to Nienna. Your spirit burns hot in you but you do not have to keep fueling it. Listen to what they have to tell you.”

Maedhros looked down at the carving of the horse in his hand. His mother would like to see these, he thought. He slipped it and the others back into the satchel, and picked it up. “Thank you for this,” he said, raising his gaze to meet Elrond’s, though it was hard to look at him. His eyes were soft grey and starlit, but his gaze seemed to pierce through to Maedhros’ very core, and it was not a comfortable feeling. “I am sorry,” Maedhros said. “For all of it.”

“I know,” said Elrond. His eyes softened, just a little. “I forgave you long ago.”

“Did Maglor?”

Elrond hesitated, which was answer enough. “He loves you,” he said finally. “But more than that, I cannot say. I do not know.”

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Evening was coming on as they entered the Bay of Eldamar, and the shadows of the mountains were lengthening over the bay and Tol Eressëa. Alqualondë glittered on the shore, surrounded by its rainbow beaches. The towers of Avallónë rose up from the green mound of the island, gleaming in the light streaming through the Calacirya from the sun sinking westward on the other side of it. It was strange to see, Maglor thought, both like and unlike the golden light of Laurelin long ago. Boats and ships of all sizes and kinds drifted about the bay, some racing each other and zipping across the water, others moving more slowly. Their sails were dyed all rainbow colors, and the silver-haired mariners call called out in merry greeting. 

A crowd was gathered in the harbor at Avallónë—a larger crowd than Maglor had anticipated, and he stepped back from the railing. It was for Círdan, of course. Círdan and Celeborn and Daeron, all come West at last. He glimpsed Galadriel near the front of the crowd, and someone with bright silver hair beside her. Celeborn leaned over the railing, his eyes trained on them as though everyone else had ceased to exist. Elrond must be with them also, but Maglor did not see him and he did not want to linger to look.

“There is Elu Thingol,” Daeron said, sounding startled. 

Someone laughed at him. “Did you think you could slip unnoticed into Valinor, Daeron? Especially coming with Círdan!”

Daeron laughed with them, before retreating back toward the middle of the ship with Maglor. “I did think that,” he admitted ruefully. “Or at least I did not expect Thingol himself to be waiting on the dock!”

“I was not expecting such a crowd, either,” Maglor said.

“Stop that.” Daeron reached out to catch his hand, where Maglor had been digging his nail into the scars. “Doesn’t it hurt you when you do that?”

“No.” It had once upon a time, before the burns had healed, but Maglor didn’t think he could explain why he’d developed the habit. “I’m going to get my things.” It would take him into the cabins and away from searching eyes, and if he lingered perhaps the crowds would disperse, or at least thin out a little. 

“I’ll come with you.” Daeron followed him down into the hold. “Was that small harp all that you brought?”

“No. I have a larger one as well. I suppose someone will come to get the big luggage after we disembark…”

Daeron picked up the small harp from the bunk that Maglor had not really used. “Driftwood?” he asked. Maglor nodded. “I like it. The shape is interesting.”

“I have long favored driftwood for making things,” Maglor said as he picked up his satchel, and took up his cloak. It was the one Galadriel had given him long ago when he’d left Lórien. It would do little to hide him in Avallónë, he thought, but at least it had a hood—and at least the breeze off of the mountains had been cool, and an excuse to wear it. “Even when I could get other wood,” he added, looking over at Daeron. “Driftwood is—the sea changes it in strange ways that I find I like.” Daeron hummed agreement. “You do not have to linger down here with me.”

“I know. Is your other harp also made of driftwood?”

“Yes. But I’m not going to get it out now to show you.”

Daeron laughed. “Of course not. I will see it later.” Someone called to him from on deck. “Are you not coming back up?”

“I will. Don’t wait for me.” He didn’t know how to explain the sudden suffocating anxiety that so many faces, so many eyes, had caused in him. He needed a moment to breathe, somewhere he could at least know who was coming through the door. It was not unlike how he had felt upon leaving Lórien and crossing through the wide and empty lands of Eriador with Elrond’s sons, so long ago now. He was not that fearful anymore—or at least, he had not thought that he was. The way he couldn’t manage to fill his lungs all the way spoke otherwise. Before he’d feared being noticed by someone in particular; now he just did not like to be noticed at all. Daeron was watching him, and Maglor tried to pretend nothing was wrong. “They are waiting for you. And anyway, I have to find my cat.”

“All right.” Daeron set the harp down. “Farewell for now then, Maglor. I am certain we will meet again soon.” Maglor offered a smile, and Daeron went away back up the stairs. Once alone Maglor leaned against the wall and counted his breaths. Then he picked up his harp and slipped it into its case, and began the search for Pídhres.

As he passed the stairs, he met with several silver-haired Teleri coming down, who started in surprise and then laughed at him. “What are you waiting for?” they cried. “Go on, go on! We’ll take your things where they should go, have no fear!”

“Thank you,” Maglor said, trying to smile at them, and glad that the shadows in the passage hid the scars on his face. “But there is a cat hidden away on this ship—small, grey, and prone to climbing, and I cannot find her.” They found this highly amusing, but were eager to help, and before long one of them discovered Pídhres on top of a stack of crates in the hold. 

“Now, go! Surely there are folk awaiting you.”

“Thank you!” Maglor said again, accepting Pídhres into his arms, where she meowed plaintively, and made his way back up to the deck. It took some convincing, but she went back into his satchel and curled up atop his extra shirt with only one more grumbling sound at being disturbed in her explorations of the ship’s hold.

There were still plenty of people in the harbor, though less than before, and they did not pay any attention to the solitary figure making his way down the gangplank. Maglor stepped off of the wooden dock onto solid ground and stood for a moment, gazing down at the stones and letting it all stop tilting around him. A part of him had been worried that something would happen, that the Valar would come swooping down to clasp him in chains or something. And now, of course, nothing at all strange had happened and no one was looking at him and all the fear was just foolishness. He took a breath and lifted his head, walking a little way farther from the dock toward the road that everyone else seemed to be taking into the city. There were statues along it—depictions of the Valar in poses of welcome. Maglor stopped before Nienna’s and gazed up at her veiled face. Her hands were held in front of her, and he found himself thinking of her statue in the courtyard of Imladris, far away. That one had often had small offerings in her hands, pebbles or flowers or leaves. This one did not, and on a sudden whim he reached into his pocket and drew out a small white stone that had once sat nestled among the heather in Eriador, part of a larger stone that marked the path to Imladris. It had cracked and broken over many years, and Maglor had taken a handful of the pieces as he’d last passed it without really knowing why. Now he placed one in Nienna’s hand, and a murmur of thanks for the grace that had allowed him to return at last.

He looked up at the sound of his name, and relief made his knees weak at the sight of Elrond, striding toward him through the growing twilight. “Elrond,” he said, stepping forward to meet him. They embraced, both of them holding on tight. “Oh, it is so good to see you again.”

“I’ve missed you,” Elrond said, stepping back to look into his face. There were tears on his cheeks, a remnant of other earlier reunions. He did not ask why Maglor had been so long in disembarking. “I am so glad you came.”

“I promised I would,” Maglor said. This was a much gladder meeting than when he’d first come to Imladris. There was no fear or pain to overshadow it. Elrond was as Maglor remembered him, though he no longer wore Vilya, and the weariness that he had been suffering after the power of the Rings ended was gone. It was worth coming just to see that, to see how easily he smiled and how many lines of care had been smoothed away from his face. 

“I remember.” Elrond slipped his arm through Maglor’s, in the same way Elrohir often did, and they fell into step down the road, away from the harbor. “Our house is not too far. It is in a quiet part of town.”

“You live here then?”

“We have a house here, but Celebrían made her home in the south, where it is warm all the year round, and we spend most of our time there.”

“A second Imladris?” Maglor asked, smiling.

“Like and unlike. The valley is wider and flatter, and there are few trees but for her orchards. It is beautiful, though, all filled with flowers. And the house was fashioned after the one at ho—the one in Imladris.”

Maglor slipped his arm out of Elrond’s and put it around his shoulders instead. “I cannot wait to see it,” he said, and was rewarded with a warm smile. “Or to meet Lady Celebrían, of whom I have heard so much.” Elrond’s smile brightened even more, and it was astonishing to see just how much grief he had been carrying for her on the other side of the Sea—such a part of him then that it was only noticeable now that it was gone. There were other griefs of course—Arwen, Aragorn, Middle-earth itself—but being with Celebrían again had taken such a weight off of Elrond’s shoulders that Maglor was almost surprised he could remain on the ground. 

“Uncle!” The quick patter of footsteps behind them made both Maglor and Elrond turn; Elrond did not look surprised, but Maglor froze at the sight of Celebrimbor racing down the street toward them. He only barely slowed down before he barreled into Maglor, throwing his arms around him. Maglor’s arms came up on reflex as he staggered under the force of the embrace—for Celebrimbor was not small—but he couldn’t do anything else, too shocked to speak. When last he had seen Celebrimbor in life, before the Dagor Bragollach, he had been so young—and when he had last seen him in the nightmarish visions shown to him in Dol Guldur, he had been bloodied and broken, mutilated and murdered. Yet here he was, alive again, whole and solid and not broken in the slightest. 

And somehow he was glad to see Maglor. His embrace was crushing, for he had the broad shoulders and the muscles of a smith and apparently little concern for what that might do to Maglor’s ribs. He drew back to look into Maglor’s face—and when had he grown so tall? They were of a height when Maglor would have sworn that Celebrimbor was shorter than he, closer to Curufin’s height. “Tyelpë,” he said, feeling ready to burst into tears at the sight of his smiling face. The echoes of his last screams echoed in the back of Maglor’s mind. 

“Welcome home,” Celebrimbor said, but then his smile faltered. “What’s the matter?”

“You—I thought that you—”

“Oh—you mean Eregion. It’s all right—now, I mean. I was long in Mandos and returned rested and well.”

“After the War of the Ring,” Elrond said quietly. After Sauron had been defeated forever. 

“Everyone is returned,” Celebrimbor added. “My father, all of my uncles—and now you too are back at last!”

Maglor couldn’t stop himself flinching, and he knew that Celebrimbor saw it, but before he could say anything Elrond stepped in and reminded them both that Celebrían and the twins were waiting. Maglor found himself caught up between the two of them, each holding onto an arm or a hand as though he was a child with a tendency to run off into a busy street. It was absurd, but with Elrond there at least he did not have to speak. He watched their feet instead, letting his hair fall forward to hide his face. 

All of his brothers, alive again. Their faces flashed through his mind, the ghostly visions that had haunted him in Dol Guldur and afterward imposed over the youths they had been before the Darkening. He was no closer now to reconciling all of the thousand things that he felt than he had been in Imladris when he and Elrond had spoken of seeing them again—whether he ever could, whether he even wanted to. He hadn’t known, then. He found rather abruptly that he did know now: he did not want to see them. He did not want to see them all made whole and fair again, healed of all hurts and weariness while he was still—

Stop that, he told himself, and looked up as they approached Elrond and Celebrían’s house. It was a large and fair place, made of white stone as were so many of the buildings in Avallónë. Climbing roses twined about the pillars, and golden lamplight glowed in the windows and flowed out of the door when it opened. Inside Elrond led the way to a large parlor where others were gathered. Elladan and Elrohir sat with a silver-haired woman between them—that must be Celebrían. He had expected someone like Galadriel, but Celebrían was smaller and more delicate looking, with bright eyes that sparkled when she looked up to see Elrond. Her silver hair was woven with sapphires and pearls, and if he had not already known what had befallen her in Middle-earth, Maglor would have never guessed at it. 

Galadriel and Celeborn were there also, and Galadriel came forward to greet Maglor as Elrond went to his family. “It is good to see you, Maglor,” Galadriel said, taking his hands and leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” he said, grateful that she had not said welcome home. But then, if anyone understood how strange it was, it would be Galadriel. She had planted roots in Middle-earth even deeper than he had. “I am glad to see you again, too.” She smiled at him, and led him farther into the room where Celebrían rose to embrace him, greeting him as a long lost friend rather than a stranger.

The room was filled with laughter and conversation as stories were exchanged and questions asked and answered. Maglor sat near Elrond, and Celebrimbor sat beside him. He was aware of Celebrimbor watching him, and aware that in Celebrimbor’s memory he was not nearly as quiet as he was now. And in the bright light of the room all of his scars would be visible, so he did not turn to look at his nephew. He didn’t know how much Elrond had told him—how much Elrond had told anybody—and he had already endured Daeron’s scrutiny and questions. It would be worse coming from Celebrimbor. 

They were called in to supper before too long. Maglor had little appetite but he ate anyway, knowing Elrond would be watching. The joyful conversation continued into the dining room. Even Celeborn was merrier and more lighthearted than Maglor had ever seen him, seated between Celebrían and Galadriel. Maglor, too, felt his spirits lifting as the wine flowed, though he still spoke little and only when called upon. It was not out of the ordinary for him these days, and Elrond and his sons knew it, but Celebrimbor down the table kept frowning at him during lulls in the talking. 

When at last Maglor managed to excuse himself in a way that wouldn’t cause undue worry, it was Celebrimbor who rose and offered to show him his room. Elrond glanced at him, and Maglor smiled agreeably, and followed Celebrimbor from the room, down a wide hall and up the stairs. There were many others coming and going, members of Elrond’s household that Maglor remembered from Rivendell, and others he did not know who had come with either Galadriel or Celebrían. As they passed a large workroom where many women were gathered around working on some large sewing project Maglor heard his name, and turned to see Eleryn rising from her place. 

“Welcome!” she told him with a bright smile, taking his hands in hers. “I am so glad to see you! You look very well.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said, smiling back. 

“You’ve arrived earlier than we thought.”

“We had fair winds and weather all the voyage.” 

“Good!” 

“When did you get to know Eleryn?” Celebrimbor asked a few minutes later, after they left her to return to her work and went on up another flight of stairs. 

“I spent a winter in Lórien. I was…not well. Eleryn looked after me.” Celebrimbor looked at him—at the scars on his face—and Maglor ducked his head, hair falling forward to hide it again. “Please do not ask me more.”

“Elrond never told me of this. Nor Galadriel.” Celebrimbor sighed, and then said, “Here. This is the room that has been waiting for you since Elrond sailed.” It was a spacious, airy room with a view of the garden that sloped down to a small private stretch of beach, where the water washed gently up onto the white sands. The sound of it was quiet and soothing, and the air smelled of the roses that Celebrían grew. Maglor went to the window to admire the view before looking around at the rest of it. There was no hearth; none was really needed on Eressëa. The rugs on the wooden floor were soft, and everything was a shade of green or of warm brown. It was not much like his room in Imladris, but it was lovely. He could see Celebrían’s hand in it, he thought. His bag sat atop a chest at the foot of the bed; the flap was open and Pídhres was nowhere to be seen. Doubtless she had gone in search of the kitchens, and would make her way back to his bed later in the night. 

“Where is your room?” he asked Celebrimbor.

“Down the hall,” Celebrimbor said. “I stay often with Elrond and Celebrían when I am not with my mother in Tirion.” He paused, and Maglor knew he was waiting for him to ask after Curufin, or the others. The words stuck in his throat. Finally Celebrimbor said, “You do not want to see any of them, do you?” It was impossible to tell whether he was surprised or disappointed or if he felt any way about it at all. 

“No,” Maglor admitted. “I do not.”

“Not even Maedhros?”

Especially not Maedhros. “I cannot—”

“He came too soon from Mandos,” Celebrimbor said. “He is not…he is restless and unhappy, and I think he has been trying to look for you for years in the palantíri that Grandmother Nerdanel still keeps. We have all missed you, but none more than he.”

Then why did he leave me? Maglor bit his tongue to keep the words from escaping. It wasn’t a fair question to ask Celebrimbor, of all people. When he mastered himself he said, “I need time, Tyelpë. Yes I know how much time has already passed,” he added when Celebrimbor opened his mouth. “And I am glad to see you. But I—I’ve only just come here, and until—for a long time I did not expect to be allowed back. Let me at least find my footing. Please. And—I do want to see my mother. I will see her. Soon.” If she wanted to see him. And he was painfully aware that that jumble of clumsy and disjointed words was as unlike his old self as the scars on his face or his new habit of remaining quiet in company.

“I was not going to argue. Of course you must take the time you need. You could not have known who would be waiting for you. Grandmother Nerdanel lives near her father’s house, on the other side of the plum orchard,” said Celebrimbor. “It isn’t hard to find—when you’re ready.”

“The orchard is still there?”

“Yes, it’s still there. And the river with the willows beyond it. On the other side of the river it’s all woodland now.” Celebrimbor came farther into the room and joined Maglor by the window. “Maedhros lives with her still. Cousins Finrod and Fingon keep trying to take him to Tirion but he never stays long. But—there is something else. You should know, before you go to see her…”

“What is it?” Maglor asked. 

“Grandfather Fëanor is to be released from Mandos. Word came of it only just before Elrond and Celebrían and I came here to wait for you.”

Maglor felt himself go rigid, and his hand throbbed with the sudden memory of searing pain. “I see,” he made himself say past the sudden roaring in his ears, after the silence outside of his head stretched too long. His heart was pounding and his lungs did not seem able to fill all the way. 

“I don’t think anyone has decided yet whether they want to see him,” Celebrimbor said ruefully. “I would like to, I think—but it is less fraught for me.”

Of course it was. Celebrimbor had sworn no oaths, and slain no kin. Whatever his faults, Curufin had always shielded Celebrimbor from the worst of Fëanor, and the worst of the rest of them. Maglor looked out of the window at the moonlight on the water. “Galadriel told me once that you kept a place for me in Eregion,” he said after a moment, needing to speak of anything except his father. “I am sorry that I did not come there.”

“I am, too,” Celebrimbor said. “It was—it was wonderful, what we made there. Until it all went wrong.” He sighed. “In trying to avoid the mistakes of the past I made new and worse ones.”

“His deception and treachery were not your fault.”

“No, but I had warnings. Galadriel distrusted him, and so did Elrond and Gil-galad. I just—” Celebrimbor shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now, I suppose.” He rubbed one hand over the other, as though recalling old hurts. Maglor remembered again the visions shown to him of those hands broken and bloodied, of Celebrimbor’s face swollen and bruised almost beyond recognition. He swallowed and pushed them back. That place should not still be haunting him, all these years and all these long leagues later. Dol Guldur was long thrown down and left to be overtaken again by the forest. He had seen it himself, and had joined with Celeborn and Thranduil and Radagast and others to sing songs of green and growing things, of trees and of birdsong and flowers under sunshine and spring rain, to speed the healing of the land. He had looked down into the pits laid bare by the power of Galadriel, opened to the skies so they might never hold such horrors again. 

“I am leaving in a few days,” Celebrimbor said after a few moments, “to return to Grandmother Nerdanel’s home; they are all anxious for me to bring news of you. Is there any message you wish for me to take?”

“I…I might write a letter to my mother, if you will carry it for me.”

“Of course,” Celebrimbor said immediately. “Anything you like.”

Maglor managed to smile at him. “Thank you. And—thank you for coming here, Tyelpë. I missed you very much.”

“Thank you for getting on that ship,” Celebrimbor replied. “I have missed you, too—we have all missed you.”

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After supper Galadriel and Celeborn disappeared, and Elrond and Celebrían took Elladan and Elrohir outside into the garden. They sat together on the grass in the twilight to talk of all the things that felt too close and too fragile to speak of in front of others. Elladan and Elrohir had hardly moved from Celebrían’s side since they had tripped over one another in their haste to get off of the ship, but now they lay on the grass, Elrohir with his head in Celebrían’s lap, and Elladan’s in Elrond’s. He ran his fingers through Elladan’s hair, catching on a few tangles every now and then and working them loose as both of his sons spoke of the rebuilding of Annúminas, and of Arwen and Aragorn’s family. None of them had dry eyes, but the tears were of a cleansing, healing kind. It helped to hear from her brothers that Arwen had been happy, truly and deeply happy, and that her son and her daughters were thriving, with families of their own, more than capable of continuing the work that their parents had begun. 

It was a grief also to know that Rivendell now stood nearly empty, visited only by wandering elven companies as they drifted through the world, but such was the way of things. It had served its purpose, and now the world was changed, and so the valley would change too; the roses would overtake the walls as they slowly began to crumble, and moss would grow over the hearth in the Hall of Fire. The path down into the valley would be worn away by wind and rain until it was gone entirely. Only the trees would remember, for a time, the elves that had once lived and laughed and made music there. 

Elrohir fell asleep after a time, while Elladan grew restless. He and Elrond left Celebrían and Elrohir to walk down to the water. A glance up toward the house told Elrond that Maglor was in his room; he could see someone moving about, and the lamps were lit. “How is he, really?” he asked Elladan, who had followed his gaze. 

“He is well,” Elladan said, “but nervous I think. We were not paying much attention but I think he retreated below deck as soon as he saw how big the gathered crowd was.”

“He does not like large crowds, still?” 

Elladan shrugged. “He performed sometimes at court, in both Annúminas and Minas Tirith, and never seemed troubled by it—though it was always only when Estel or Arwen asked him. But it’s different, isn’t it, when the audience is unexpected, and there are such figures as Elu Thingol in it?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Elrond turned away from the house, and wrapped his arms around Elladan. It was such a relief to be able to do so again, after so long. “And how are you, and Elrohir?”

“We are…it’s hard. Even knowing what was coming.” Elladan rested his head on Elrond’s shoulder and sighed. “Seeing you and Naneth again has helped. Especially Naneth.”

“We have both missed you,” Elrond said. 

“There are several chests and crates of things that Arwen wanted us to bring to you,” Elladan said. “And many letters—from them both and from their children.”

They could wait until they returned to Imloth Ningloron, Elrond thought, looking out over the water. The moon shone bright in the sky overhead, turning the bay silver. Ships still drifted out over it, for the night was fine and cool and the waters calm. “Eärendil came back to port this evening also,” he said after a while. “I expect he and my mother to come sailing into Eldamar tomorrow or the next day—they are eager to meet you.”

He felt Elladan smile against his shoulder. “We are eager to meet them, too.”

After they returned to Elrohir and Celebrían, and roused the former enough for him to stumble upstairs with Elladan to bed, Celebrimbor came outside, looking troubled. Celebrían kissed Elrond. “I will be upstairs,” she said. He smiled at her, and waited until she disappeared inside, and Celebrimbor joined him on the lawn. 

“Something terrible happened to him,” Celebrimbor said. “What was it? He said that he was not well when he spent a winter in Galadriel’s realm, but would say nothing else. Not how he came there or where he went afterward.”

Elrond grimaced. Not well was such an understatement it was nearly painful. “Come with me,” he said, and turned back down toward the beach. It was quiet there, though he did not go all the way down to the water. Instead he turned into a stand of trees where they could speak without being either seen or heard, or worrying about their voices carrying over the water. Once there he turned to face Celebrimbor, who fidgeted, agitated, his weight shifting from foot to foot as he crossed and uncrossed his arms, leaves rustling under his feet. “You have heard of Dol Guldur?” Elrond asked.

“Yes, but—no.” Celebrimbor’s eyes went wide. “No, he wasn’t—”

“He was. He was there for many years until the White Council drove Sauron out. Sauron knew who he was…” 

Celebrimbor turned away, hands coming up to grasp at his hair. Of all people he knew best what Sauron was capable of, the lengths to which he would go in pursuit of what he wanted, and what Maglor had endured. Elrond could only imagine the memories this had conjured. “Celebrimbor,” he began, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say. 

“There are scars on his face. Around his mouth. If I did not know better—” Celebrimbor turned around again. In the scant moonlight that reached them through the trees Elrond could see his eyes, bright with unshed tears. “What am I to tell my grandmother?”

“She already knows something of it,” Elrond said. “As does Maedhros.” Celebrimbor looked away, jaw clenching. He looked as though some things about his uncle at last made sense to him. “He was left alone in the dark for a very long time,” Elrond said quietly. “That was the worst of it, I think—that is what haunted him the longest.”

“He was alone for too long even before that,” Celebrimbor said. “I should have looked more. I could have. After the city was built—”

“So could I,” Elrond said. “But he is here now. He left that place long ago. There is no use in dwelling on what might have been.”

“If I had not made the rings,” Celebrimbor said bitterly, tears escaping to trace pale lines down his cheeks, “Sauron would not have survived the Last Alliance and returned to capture him.”

“Celebrimbor.”

“I know. I know. It’s only—he does not want to see his brothers but he is glad to see me, who—”

“Who has always been the best of us.” Maglor stepped through the trees, making Celebrimbor jump. “It was not your fault, Tyelpë.”

“The blame lies with Sauron, and Sauron alone,” Elrond added as Maglor folded Celebrimbor into his arms. “And he is gone.”

“He is gone,” Maglor agreed, “and we are here. Do not weep for me, Tyelpë. I do not like to speak of it, but the scars don’t hurt anymore.”

Celebrimbor drew back to look at Maglor. He reached up to touch the scar on his cheek, and one of the smaller ones about his mouth, where the skin had been torn away with the cords after his rescue, leaving a small divot behind. Then he turned and left the trees without another word, shoulders hunched. Maglor watched him go before turning back to Elrond. The white strands in his hair shone like silver in the dappled moonlight. “I did not want him to know.” It was not an accusation; he just sounded sad and weary. “I still do not know what I am going to tell my mother.”

“She knows you were held in Dol Guldur,” Elrond said. “She has palantíri—”

“Oh, those.” Maglor grimaced. “I had forgotten those. They were made so our parents could more easily us when we were young. I wish she hadn’t…”

“Maedhros saw you, too.” The sound of Maedhros’ name had Maglor flinching. “But you’ve been hidden from their sight since you were brought out of there. I suppose you weren’t doing it on purpose.”

“Yes and no. I have always been able to hide if I wished to—and I often wished to, if only to get some quiet once in a while.” His mouth quirked in a small smile. “Six brothers makes for a noisy household.”

But he had never wished to hide from Maedhros before, Elrond thought. So Maedhros had said, and it was easy to believe. Even as a child he had seen the bond between them, almost as close as the one he’d shared with Elros. Always Maglor had been turning to look for Maedhros, and always Maedhros was keeping watch over Maglor. That more than anything had eased Elrond’s fears of him, little by little. It still grieved him that after Maedhros’ death Maglor had not believed anyone else would look for him, or care what happened to him. 

“Did Celebrimbor tell you…”

“Of Fëanor? Yes.” Maglor leaned back against a tree, arms hugged across his stomach. “It was not what I was hoping to hear when I came.”

“I know. It has been a surprise to all of us.”

“I cannot see him. I cannot even see…” Maglor looked away. “But if he wishes to see any of us, I do not see how to stop him. There was never any stopping him when he wanted something.”

“Well, now there is me,” Elrond said mildly, startling Maglor into laughter, though it faded away quickly, absorbed by the trees and the leaves blanketing the ground under their feet. “You are a part of my family and my household, Maglor. That puts you under my protection.”

“I know.” Maglor’s smile was wry. “But I do not like to think of you having to protect me from my own father.”

“What can he do except shout at me?” Elrond asked. “If nothing else I can give you time to slip out of a window and away.”

“I did that one time, Elrond.” But Maglor was laughing again, the tension in his shoulders easing. 

“You never did explain why.”

He shrugged. “I just did not want to see anyone, or be seen, and it was easier than trying to creep through the hallways.”

“Well, I wasn’t wholly joking,” Elrond said. “No one in our household will help someone find you if you do not want to be found.”

“I know.” Maglor smiled at him. “Thank you. When I flee unwanted visitors I’ll be sure to use the proper doors.” 

They left the trees together and walked down to the water. Elrond was tired, but not yet ready to go back inside, and though Maglor might have been he did not seem like he wanted to sleep. “Is the idea of seeing your father so bad?” Elrond asked after a little while. He had been anxious before seeing his own father again, but he had wanted to see him—desperately, as he had as a child whenever Eärendil had sailed away and Elwing had turned her back to hide her own tears. 

“I am not afraid of him, if that is what you are asking,” Maglor said. “Or at least…I don’t think I am. But I think I might…I don’t know if I hate him or if I miss him so much it just hurts in the same way. If I were to see him I know I would say things I would regret.”

“I wonder if he does not need to hear some of those things,” Elrond said. 

“I do not want to be the one to say them. I don’t…I don’t like being angry.” Maglor’s shoulders were hunched a little, not unlike Celebrimbor’s had been. “But I am angry. I am so angry I could scream, and I don’t know how I never realized it before.” He did not sound angry, only tired and sad—but then, he was not angry at Elrond.

“It’s different when the objects of our anger are far away and beyond our reach,” Elrond said, “when there are other things closer at hand to worry about or to occupy us.”

“It’s been so long,” Maglor said. He stooped to pick up a pale seashell from the sand. “I thought I’d left it all behind me, all the ghosts of the past, only to find them come back to life ahead of me here.” He sighed. “I meant to ask you whether you think I should go to Alqualondë, or to whoever rules the people of Doriath these days, or…”

“All of your brothers did,” Elrond said. “There is no hurry. You do not need to make any public declarations either—in fact I think most would prefer if you didn’t. You can speak to Olwë here—he came to meet Círdan—as well as Thingol, if you want to get it over and done with.” He’d had a few somewhat awkward conversations about it with both Thingol and Olwë, and he thought they would appreciate a briefer, private meeting sooner than later. Thingol in particular seemed determined to mend the rift between himself and Finwë’s children, even with the House of Fëanor. 

“That’s a relief, at least,” Maglor murmured. “I do not have any grand speeches or fair words in me.”

“I would not be surprised to see my parents here as soon as tomorrow afternoon,” Elrond said. “They are eager to see Elladan and Elrohir. I think you should speak with them, at least.” It was difficult to articulate just how badly he wished that the most important people in his life all at least tolerated each other, even if they could never be friends. “Even if just for a few minutes.”

“Whatever your mother wishes to say to me, I’ll listen without complaint. I’m sure I deserve it all.”

“Maglor, don’t.”

“I’m not trying to—it’s only the truth.” Maglor looked up and smiled ruefully. “Not everyone is as forgiving as you, Elrond. I do not know where you got it from.”

He hadn’t really had a choice, Elrond thought. Maglor let the shell drop back into the surf and they turned to walk back to the house. He was not someone who could use grudges or old hurts like fuel on a fire to keep him moving. They felt like weights instead, and if he had not learned forgiveness he long ago would have suffocated under them. Forgiving was letting go, and letting go was the only way he had found to keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

That did not mean it was easy. And it could only be even harder when those who had hurt you had been far away and were suddenly not. He had spoken at length with Elwing about Maglor, about his childhood and about what had come afterward, but he did not know what she would say when she and Maglor met at last. As for Eärendil—if Elrond had inherited his ability to forgive from anyone, it must have been from him. He had no temper to speak of, and Elwing had spoken with exasperated fondness of his inability to even be annoyed for more than an afternoon. Eärendil had retorted with something about weighing anchors—following Elrond’s own thoughts of shedding weights.

“Should I not have asked you to come?” he asked abruptly as they drew closer to the house. “If you were not ready—if you did not wish—”

Maglor caught him and embraced him. “If I had not wanted to come, I would have said so when we spoke of it in Imladris,” he said into Elrond’s hair. “I would have sailed with you, but for Arwen. I’ve missed you, and I am glad to be here with you. I only regret that you’ll be caught up in whatever mess my father makes next.”

“I am not afraid of Fëanor,” Elrond said. 

“You have not met Fëanor,” Maglor muttered as he drew back. 

“No, but I am married to Galadriel’s daughter.” That, at least, made Maglor laugh. Elrond had never thought Galadriel terribly fearsome or even very intimidating, and he knew that made him the exception rather than the rule. He still did not find the idea of Fëanor, even in his wrath, all that frightening. What could scare him after the War of Wrath, after the Last Alliance, after Angmar? And he did not truly believe that Fëanor would really come rampaging into his house demanding to see Maglor; if he was likely to do such a thing he would still be in Mandos. Most likely he would not come at all—if he had any sense, he would wait for his sons to come to him.

Maglor sighed as they stepped inside. “There is one I would dearly like to see, and cannot,” he said.

“Who?”

“Finwë. But it is said, isn’t it, that he remains in Mandos so that Míriel could return to life?”

“That is true. But it was also said that Fëanor would not return from Mandos until the ending of the world.”

Maglor’s mouth quirked in a small smile. “True.”

“There is always at least a little hope,” Elrond said. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to keep hoping for me, at least for now. I have not yet relearned how to fully grasp it.” He turned to smile more warmly at Elrond. “My room is wonderful. Please thank your lady wife for me.”

“I will. Good night, Maglor.”

“Good night, Elrond.” Maglor kissed his forehead and they parted. 

Elrond retreated to his room in relief. Celebrían was there, propped up on pillows with a book on her knees. Her sleeveless nightgown showed the scars that still marred her arms and crossed over her chest, but they did not trouble her any longer, and Elrond was learning to ignore them too. He slid under the cool blankets and sighed as she put her arm around him and he leaned against her shoulder. “All is well?” she asked, fingers catching in his hair.

“As well as it can be. I promised Maglor we would keep any unwanted visitors from him.”

“His brothers, you mean.”

“And his father.”

“I confess to a great curiosity about Fëanor, but I do not blame Maglor for wanting to keep his distance.” She set her book aside and turned to kiss Elrond. “It has been a long day.”

“It has.” The waiting at the harbor had been the hardest part in the end, watching the ship get ever closer—inexorably but so slowly. And they had known who was aboard; he could not imagine the toll it took on those who waited for every ship to come in, hoping for a loved one’s face at the railing, only to be disappointed each time. “But a good one,” he said.

“Yes, a very good one. And tomorrow will be better.”

“Maglor wished for me to pass on his thanks for his room.”

“I’m glad he likes it. I hope he will like the one in Imloth Ningloron even better.”

“I have no doubt.” 

“By the way, I noticed a little cat making herself at home; she seemed very sweet, but I haven’t the faintest idea where she came from.”

“I think she is Maglor’s. Or he is hers.” Elrond had not seen her, and Maglor had neglected to mention a cat, but ever since his first summer in Imladris had had one at his heels or draped across his shoulders more often than not. It would have been strange for him not to have one follow him across the Sea.

“Ah, I should have guessed. You told me about the cats’ fondness for him.” Celebrían turned the lamp off, and the room plunged into gentle darkness, softened by the silver moonlight through the curtains. The windows were open, and the sea scented breeze swept over them, soft as a caress. Elrond closed his eyes and sighed, drifting into sleep as from a nearby room came the quiet music of a harp. 

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Maglor had not expected to sleep well his first night on Eressëa, and he didn’t. He tried, but soon gave up and unpacked his harp instead. It was one he had made himself, of driftwood like the smaller one Daeron had admired. He had other pieces of driftwood tucked into the bottom of one of his trunks; he had no real plans for them, he just wanted to have them, little bits of Middle-earth’s shores that he could bring with him. It seemed less absurd than a jar of sand, although he did also have a small box of shells and sea glass. And the bits of broken Rivendell stone.

Pídhres, as expected, made her way into the room eventually, after her own thorough investigation of the whole house and, doubtless, the garden as well. “There you are,” he said as she climbed up his arm to drape herself over his shoulders. “I wondered where you had gone.” He set his fingers to the harp strings and began a quiet melody, making it up as he went along, keeping time with the steady wash of waves he could just hear outside of the window. The house was quiet; not everyone was asleep, but the excitement of the day had passed.

A soft knock heralded Celebrimbor, slipping in and coming to sit at Maglor’s feet the way he’d done when he’d been a child. “Where did the cat come from?” he asked, looking up at Pídhres in surprise.

“Imladris,” Maglor said. 

“You did not have it at the docks.”

“She was in my bag.”

Celebrimbor huffed a quiet laugh and leaned against Maglor’s side. Maglor dropped a hand briefly to his hair. “I like this,” he said, reaching out to run a hand over the harp’s frame. “You always made such lovely things from wood. I could never make it work for me.”

“What do you work with now?”

“Glass, lately. I am working on a series of stained glass window panes for the palace in Tirion.”

“Which windows?” Maglor asked. 

“The council room. They do not depict anything in particular—I have been experimenting with the patterns, but Fingolfin seems pleased. He rules the Noldor, now,” Celebrimbor added, a little unnecessarily. “He did not take up the crown immediately upon returning, but my mother tells me it was sooner than everyone expected.”

“I’m surprised Finarfin held off more than a few days,” Maglor murmured, changing the melody to an older one that he’d played often when he visited Himlad during the Long Peace. Unless a great deal had changed in his absence, Finarfin must have been very unhappy as High King. 

“Only because Fingolfin did not go immediately to Tirion, I think,” Celebrimbor said. “But things are—there is peace again, and though there are still factions they all different from before, and they all get along more often than not. It helps I think that many of the Noldor do not live in Tirion anymore. Turgon has his city in the west, and there are some settlements on the coast, south of here—a little like Vinyamar—and of course there are those that dwell with Elrond. Even my father and my uncles’ returning did not cause more than a brief stir.”

“Good,” Maglor said. “I’m glad. Do they dwell in Tirion again?”

“My father does now. He and my mother are…” Celebrimbor waved a hand. “I’m not sure what they are, but it’s better than it was before. Celegorm and Ambarussa rejoined Oromë’s hunt some years ago, and are away in the wilds more often than not. Caranthir comes rarely to the city; he and Maedhros live with Grandmother Nerdanel.”

“So you said before.”

“You really will not see them? Not even…?”

“Not yet, Tyelpë.”

“Is it because of—of Dol Guldur…?”

Maglor stopped playing and let the notes fade away into the quiet of the evening. “No,” he said. “Or—not entirely. I don’t…” He looked down at Celebrimbor, who looked back up at him somberly. Maglor had never been one to trip over his words before, he knew, but how could he explain to his nephew the complicated and ugly tangle of feelings lodged in his chest that throbbed whenever he thought of seeing his brothers again? All they had been through together, all they had done—they had all gotten to escape it in Mandos, to find rest and healing and maybe even peace. His own peace was still such a fragile thing—more fragile than he’d realized before stepping off the ship—paid for with blood and tears unnumbered. “Do they even want to see me?”

“Of course they do. Were it not that Fëanor…were it not for that, it would have been Maedhros here to meet you instead of me.”

“I am glad it was you,” Maglor said before he could stop his tongue. “I knew what had happened to you, Tyelpë, and I am so, so glad to see you alive again and whole.”

Celebrimbor looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “For a very long time I did not think I could be,” he admitted. “It wasn’t until—until I saw the tapestries of his final defeat, of the One going into the fire—that hope returned to me. It was still some years after it all that I came back. I am glad I was in time to meet the Ringbearers, and to know them a little.”

“I am glad, too,” Maglor said. It would have been good for both Celebrimbor and Frodo, he thought, to speak to one another. He had been Sauron’s prisoner, but he had never known him, not in the way that the two of them did, in their different ways. “I too am grateful to have known them.” 

With a sigh, Celebrimbor leaned his head against Maglor’s thigh. Maglor rested his hand on his nephew’s broad shoulder. “Sometimes I find myself thinking that I miss Tirion, even when I am there,” Celebrimbor said softly. “It is the same but it isn’t. The districts are all rearranged, and parts of it are empty still. Grandfather Fëanor’s house stands empty. I think Grandmother Nerdanel has gone back a few times, but never to stay. It’s falling down now, and the gardens are all overgrown. And I can’t…I cannot quite remember what it looked like before.”

Maglor could, all too well. “Time passes, even here,” he said softly. “There is no turning it backward.”

“Or stopping it,” Celebrimbor said. 

“Do not regret your rings, Tyelpë. I would not be here were it not for them.”

His nephew sighed, a sound so mournful that Maglor’s heart nearly broke. “Most days I do not regret them,” he said, “but they would not have been without Annatar, and I cannot…he was my friend. Or at least I thought that he was. I believed in him. I thought he must have some secrets in his past, some shadows, but did not we all? And he made such lovely things—we made lovely things, working together, and we laughed and we sang and—I still cannot make sense of it. That he was lying all that time. I cannot believe it. Or maybe it is only that I do not want to think myself so easily deceived.”

“I cannot say,” Maglor said. “But you were not the only one to be deceived. No one knew the truth of him until it was too late.”

“But others suspected.”

“That he was Sauron? I doubt it. Galadriel sees much, but if she had seen through to the full truth she would not have stayed silent. Do not forget what Sauron was. And do not forget that all of us, even the Valar, were deceived by Morgoth once. He walked among us in Tirion in fair guise, with fair words, and it was not until far too late that we realized that the unrest and discord had its roots in him.” Maglor could not speak to Sauron’s intentions in going to Eregion in the first place. Maybe he had wanted to change. Maybe it had been a lie all along. It was impossible now to tell, and in the end it didn’t matter. All he could think of was his journey through that land with Elladan and Elrohir, going from Lothlórien to Imladris. They had crossed the Redhorn pass down into Eregion and there had been nothing. No ruins. No sign that anyone had ever lived there. Sauron had erased Ost-in-Edhil and its surrounding farmlands and outlying towns and villages from the face of the earth so that only the stones afterward remembered, quietly lamenting the Elves who had once lived there. Nothing in Middle-earth now remained of the beautiful works of his nephew’s hands. Not even the doors of Moria remained. “You could not have known, Tyelpë. Not if even Galadriel did not.”

“I’m sorry. We already spoke of all this earlier.”

“I’m no stranger to circling thoughts,” Maglor said.

“Will you play me something?” Celebrimbor asked after a moment, sounding very young.

“Anything you want,” Maglor said, and put his hands to the strings again. 

He played most of the night, sometimes singing, sometimes not. Celebrimbor listened, and by the time the sun peeked over the waves in the east he was more cheerful. Maglor glanced out of the window as the sky brightened. Already there were many boats flitting about on the bay, and the bells in Avallónë were ringing to welcome the new morning. As he watched, Uinen rose up suddenly out of the waves, laughing with the mariners, her hair all pale streaming foam. It startled him into missing a string, and the song he was playing ended on an abrupt and discordant note. 

“What’s wrong?” Celebrimbor asked. As Pídhres jumped to the floor and vanished under the bed. 

“Nothing. I just forgot how the Ainur are, that’s all.”

Seeing Uinen out of the window, Celebrimbor smiled crookedly. “It takes getting used to,” he agreed. 

They went down to breakfast, where Celebrían greeted them both warmly, kissing Celebrimbor and clasping Maglor’s hand. “I am very glad to meet you at last,” she told him as Celebrimbor went to pour himself tea. Up close and in the morning sunshine Maglor could see the resemblance she bore to Celeborn, not only in her silver hair but in her light green eyes. It was she from whom Elladan and Elrohir had inherited their freckles, too. “I also wanted to thank you,” she said, smile fading into a look more grave and somber, “for staying with our children. With Arwen.” 

Maglor squeezed her hand. “I was glad to do it,” he said. Celebrían kissed his cheek and turned away. There would be time later to speak of Arwen, and of her family, but the grief was still too near for all of them.

Elladan and Elrohir came down next, followed by Elrond. Breakfast was a casual affair, with the household members coming and going, chatting and laughing, some only staying long enough to grab an apple, others lingering over full plates and cups of tea. There were many foods and fruits that did not grow in Middle-earth—things he’d eaten in his youth and some that he had, once, dramatically lamented the lack of in Beleriand. He had been only half serious about it, putting on a show to make his brothers laugh more than anything. But he really had missed the spiced teas that had been popular in Tirion before the Darkening—and were still popular, or popular again, on Tol Eressëa now, to his delight. He was perfectly content to sit near the window and watch everyone come and go and listen to the talk flow around him as he sipped his tea and relished the familiar-and-not warmth on his tongue. 

After breakfast Maglor heard visitors arriving, and upon hearing Olwë’s voice he prepared to make himself scarce. He went to his room for his smaller harp and then retreated into the garden, where there was a tree he could climb and find a good place to sit and play to himself and to the birds. Pídhres followed after him, meowing plaintively until he scooped her up to perch on his shoulder. She purred and rubbed her head against his ear. “Hold on, then,” he told her as he came to the tree. She made a small disgruntled noise when he jumped up to grasp the lowest branch, digging her claws into his shirt and the strap of his harp case. “You can climb yourself if you don’t like it, silly cat,” he said, and swung himself up onto the branch. As he hooked his leg over and hauled himself up he caught a glimpse of a small boat pulled up onto the beach, and saw the couple who had brought it there making their way into the garden from it; in his surprise he over extended himself and instead of swinging onto the branch he tipped over the other side, and lost his grip. Pídhres jumped from his shoulder at the last minute to land safely on the branch, while he hit the ground hard enough to leave bruises, though he at least managed to avoid landing on top of his harp case. “Oh stop it,” he said when Pídhres meowed at him, as though asking what he was doing lying in the dirt when he could be up in the tree with her. She meowed again, sounding positively judgmental, as though she would not be crying to him within ten minutes because she could not get out of the tree by herself.

Then an amused face framed by golden hair appeared above him, along with an extended hand. “Are you all right?” Eärendil asked. 

“Yes, thank you,” Maglor said. He accepted the hand up; it was not how he had expected this meeting to go, and he wasn’t sure if it was better or worse. Eärendil obviously knew who he was, and Elwing too; she stood a little distance away regarding him as though she did not quite know how to reconcile what he was now with what he had been. The resemblance of Elrond to his mother was obvious and striking, both of them dark haired and starry-eyed in the manner of Lúthien’s children. What Maglor had not realized before was that Elrond’s smile was Eärendil’s—perhaps it was Tuor’s, or Rían’s, or some other forebear among the Edain. Perhaps it was all their own; it did not look like Turgon. 

He still did not know what to say. He did not want their enmity, especially for Elrond’s sake, but there was nothing he could say now to make better what he had done so long ago. 

Eärendil stepped back, still looking amused, though that was fading. “I confess,” he said, “this is not how I expected to meet you.”

“Nor I,” Maglor said, glad they could at least agree on that. “I beg your pardon.” He bowed, though he wasn’t sure it was at all graceful. “You are wanting to see Elladan and Elrohir. They are inside, I think with King Olwë and Elu Thingol.”

“Thank you,” Eärendil said. Elwing, though, did not move.

“Why did you do it?” she asked suddenly. He had heard her voice before—shrill and harsh with fear and fury, just before she had cast herself into the Sea. He did not know if she had seen him; he had hung back to keep others from following up the cliff face after Maedhros. It had been an awful night, and it was worse now in memory, filled with sick shame and grief all tangled up together. Ambarussa had died that night, and they hadn’t even been able to take their bodies for burial. And Elwing had fallen into the sea and Maglor had not seen, then, that she had been saved. 

“The Oath,” he began.

“No,” Elwing said, shaking her head. She stepped forward so they came face to face. She was not as tall as he had expected her to be, a daughter of Thingol’s line. He looked down into her eyes, which Elrond and then Arwen had inherited, grey and shining with the light of stars. “I know why you did that. Why did you take my children?”

Oh. That, at least, had an easier answer. “I did not know whether other help would come for them before orcs did,” he said. “I did not mean to keep them—but there was no way back to Balar after.” 

Elwing searched his face; he watched her gaze linger on the scars there. She did not ask about them. “Is it true what is said of your brother?” she asked then. “That he looked for my brothers—to save them, not to slay them?”

“Yes. That’s true.”

“Did you look for them?”

“I did—but he looked longer, and was nearly lost himself.” Doriath had been a dangerous place, even in Melian’s absence. Her Girdle had been broken but not fully dissolved, and Maglor and the twins had dragged Maedhros out of it before any of them could be ensnared forever in the lingering enchantments. “I am sorry, Lady Elwing,” Maglor said. He met her gaze. She had the same starlit eyes as her sons. “I wish there were better words to say how sorry I am, but if there are I do not know them.”

She did not smile, but her expression softened. “You love my children,” she said, “and for their sake I can forgive much. I am glad that you are here, for Elrond’s sake.”

“I too forgive you, for their sakes,” Eärendil said. He reached out to take Maglor’s hand again; his grip was firm, his hands covered in sailor’s callouses. His smile was warm. “And we are, after all, kinsmen. I watched you wander for a very long time. I am glad you found your way to Imladris in the end.”

Maglor had not expected this, to have been noticed by the Mariner in his voyaging, and he did not know what to say. Pídhres chose that moment to woefully remind them of her presence and the fact that she was now stuck in the tree with no way to get down. Eärendil looked up and laughed. “Is that your cat?” he asked.

“I am hers, rather,” Maglor said, glad of the excuse to step back. “And I had better rescue her.”

“Goodbye for now, then,” Eärendil said as he and Elwing left the tree to head up to the house. “I am sure we will be seeing each other often.”

Once they were away, Maglor swung himself up into the tree—successfully this time—and picked up Pídhres. “You absurd little animal,” he said as she curled around his neck. “Did I not name you climber?” He hoisted himself up a little higher until he found a comfortable spot where the trunk split, with a space just big enough for him to sit with his harp on his lap. Comfortable again, Pídhres purred as he took it out and set his fingers to the strings. Heartened by his encounter with Elrond’s parents, he chose a more cheerful tune than he had been thinking of earlier. 

“Maglor, is that you?” a bright voice called out, and Maglor fumbled the next notes. As they died away he leaned forward to see none other than Finrod looking back up at him from beneath the tree, hair gleaming gold in the bright sunlight, bound up with ribbons and strands of emerald beads. “I thought it must be,” he said, and sprang up the tree with much more grace than Maglor had managed. “Well met, Cousin! You certainly took your time, didn’t you?” 

“Finrod,” Maglor said, and didn’t know what else to say, how to meet this cheerfulness. “What are you…?”

“I came to see you, of course! And Elrond’s sons,” he added. “I do not say I have come to see Celeborn, for I expected that he and Galadriel would be shut up somewhere, and I was right. Move over, then, let me join you!” He wedged himself into the tree fork alongside Maglor. “And who is this sweet creature?”

“Pídhres, though she is not living up to her name today,” Maglor said as she accepted the scratches that were her due. “It is good to see you,” he added, and was rewarded by one of Finrod’s bright sunbeam smiles. 

It faded quickly, though, as Finrod reached out to touch Maglor’s face. His thumb traced over the scar on Maglor’s cheek, and his gaze passed over the smaller scars about his lips. He did not look surprised at the sight of them. “Maedhros saw you after this happened,” he said, his thumb tracing down over one of the more obvious scars by Maglor’s lip. “In one of your mother’s palantíri.” Maglor looked away. “I feared for a time it would send him back to Mandos, especially when the stones clouded over again and no one could find you.” 

“I’m all right now,” Maglor said.

“Are you?” Finrod asked, disbelieving but kind. 

“I am certainly better than I was,” Maglor said, thinking of those first months after he had been freed, of the fear and the pain and the resurgence of all the things he’d buried within himself in the centuries prior. Of being too afraid to even try to play the harp, lest he somehow draw the Enemy’s attention back to him so he might be snatched up again, and this time too broken to resist. He had taught himself again slowly how to hear the Music of the world in everything from the Sea to the quiet patter of the rain. His voice did not hold the power that it once had, but he’d long ago stopped caring. And the fear was gone—it had died with Sauron, crumbled with the stones of Barad-dûr.

He looked back at Finrod, who searched his face solemnly. He was no less keen-eyed than Galadriel, but he was also more open. Maglor could see in his eyes the memory of his own captivity long ago, in the dark of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. “I thought of you when I first came to Dol Guldur,” Maglor admitted quietly. “When I first saw the place I thought of your fair Minas Tirith and what it became afterward.” 

“It makes it worse, doesn’t it—that he took our towers and made them into places of horror?” Finrod sighed. “But they are gone, and he is gone, and we are here.”

“Yes. I said that to Tyelpë last night.”

“Will you say it to Maedhros, too? Your other brothers do not know what happened, but he and Aunt Nerdanel have suffered greatly from the uncertainty.”

“I wrote to my mother,” Maglor said. “Galadriel was to see it delivered.”

“I am sure she did—but you know that isn’t the same. But Aunt Nerdanel is not who I worry for.”

Maglor didn’t answer. Was he to have this conversation with everyone? Frustration bubbled up in his chest and made his fingers clumsy on the harp strings. Pídhres butted her head against his ear, and he reached up to pet her. A burst of laughter drifted down the garden from the house. From the other direction came the gentle sound of the waves on the sand, and the rhythmic sound of them lapping against the wooden hull of Eärendil and Elwing’s boat. Somewhere above a few birds sang to one another—a familiar sound in the way that so much in Valinor was familiar, something stepped out of his long-ago youth that felt like it belonged to someone else. 

“Maglor?”

“I do not want to speak of Maedhros. Please do not ask me again.”

“Will you at least tell me why?”

Maglor sighed, and let his hands fall to his lap. Finrod’s shoulder pressed against his; the emerald beads in his hair clicked together as he tilted his head forward to peer into Maglor’s face. Maglor tried to think of how to say it that would not just sound awful, but could only shake his head. There was no good way to say all the things that were true at the same time: I miss him too much, and it hurts, and I love him, and most of all: it was easier not to hate him when I thought I would never see him again. 

“I just—can’t.”

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Nerdanel’s house had not been built with seven grown sons in mind; only Maedhros and Caranthir lived there still, with Curufin having returned to Tirion with his wife, and Celegorm and the twins spending most of their time in the wilds with Oromë’s folk. Now all of them were there, and the place felt crowded, though not precisely uncomfortable in spite of the tensions running between them all. It had been days since they had all gathered, and in that time they had spoken of everything except the reasons they had come there. No one seemed to know how to start. Maedhros certainly didn’t. 

Now the six of them were gathered in the dining room. It was the only room where they could all sit around and see each other clearly to speak, and they had all arranged themselves as they had long ago in Himring or Amon Ereb, with Maedhros at the head of the table and his brothers in order of age down it, with Celegorm on his left. It was far more orderly than the chaotic and unpredictable seating arrangements at dinner in their youth, and it was only after everyone was seated that they realized a space had been left at Maedhros’ right hand, where Maglor should have been. 

No one moved to fill the gap, and Maedhros tried not to look at the empty chair. Maglor was in Avallónë by now, at the house of Elrond and Celebrían; word always spread quickly when a ship came out of the east, and this one in particular was of note with Círdan himself come west at last. There was a chance Maglor would appear on the doorstep alongside Celebrimbor, but Maedhros thought at best they would receive a letter. At worst, he would have refused to see even Celebrimbor. 

Finally, Celegorm broke the silence. “Which one will we speak of first? Atar or Cáno?” He looked at Maedhros. “Why did you not go with Tyelpë to Avallónë?”

“Elrond advised against it,” Maedhros said, though it was not strictly true—Elrond had not said the words aloud, but he’d made it very clear that Maedhros was not welcome, but that Celebrimbor was. Celebrían had been kinder, but no less firm in her farewell to both Maedhros and Curufin. 

It seemed strange to be sitting around a long table with his brothers with nothing on it but mugs of tea and a plate of jam-filled pastries that someone—he thought perhaps Caranthir—had baked that morning. There should have been a scattering of papers and parchment, maps and lists and notes. But of course they needed no such things now—they were not at war, there were no battles to plan, no defenses to manage, no supplies to source or inventory. Only a father no one was sure they wanted to see, and a brother no one was sure wanted to see them. Though a meeting with Fëanor might as well be a battle, Maedhros thought sourly. None of them were happy to know that he was returning, and he would not be happy in his turn that they did not welcome him. 

“I didn’t realize you were lately in the habit of taking advice from anyone,” Celegorm said. Maedhros did not reply; there was no sting in the words, only truth. “But why? What does he know that we do not?”

“Maglor is a member of his household,” Maedhros said, “or he was in Middle-earth. It seems to me that Elrond knows him better than we do, now.” An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. It had once been that no one knew any of them better than the other six—good and ill, better or worse. For almost all of their lives they had been united—not only outwardly, but inwardly too, with no squabble or fight ever big enough to break them apart. That unity had fractured and broken in the end, unable to hold up under the weight of their Oath and what they had done in its pursuit both separately and together, and now none of them quite knew how to talk to one another. Maedhros had yet to see Celegorm and Curufin exchange more than a handful of words, and never outside of other company. Caranthir spoke little to any of them, and Maedhros knew himself to be nigh unapproachable. He did not want to be, but did not know how to be otherwise. Only Ambarussa remained as close as they had always been.

It was Amras who broke the silence next. “What about Atar?” 

What about Atar, indeed. Maedhros looked at all of them, and realized the question had not been a general one, but directed at him. “I do not want to see him,” Maedhros said finally, sighing. “But that should not dictate what the rest of you do. This is not Beleriand.” And Fëanor was, after all, still their father. 

“Our loyalty is to you, Nelyo, not to him,” said Amrod, as Amras nodded. 

“I’ll not see him, whatever anyone else does,” said Celegorm, voice low and fist clenched on the table. “I know I cannot blame the Oath for everything, but I hate what I became in Beleriand, and I would not have come there if not for him.” 

“I miss Cáno more than I have ever missed Atar,” said Caranthir quietly. “I will follow you in this, Nelyo.” 

Maedhros made himself unclench his own fist on the table, and to take a sip of his cooling tea. It was the spiced tea that had once been Maglor’s favorite, and he wished whoever had made it had chosen something else. “I am not your liege lord,” he said, catching Curufin’s eye as he spoke, receiving a there-and-gone-in-a-blink smile in return.

“You are our brother,” said Caranthir. 

“You had the wisdom to give the crown away after all he did trying to take it,” added Curufin. 

“You hated me for that,” Maedhros reminded him. 

Curufin shrugged. “I was wrong.” And that was no small thing for any of them, to admit error so frankly. “What good did the crown ever do anyone, in the end? And anyway,” he added, picking up his own mug with an affectation of carelessness that fooled no one, “I never hated you, Nelyo.”

“I might hate him,” Celegorm added, “but I could never hate any of you.” 

“Are we united in this, then?” Caranthir asked. “That none of us want to see him?”

“If he comes to Tirion, I will not refuse to speak to him,” Curufin said, “but I will not seek him out, and I will take no part in whatever quarrels he wants to start with Fingolfin this time.”

“Surely they would not allow him to leave Mandos if he was going to do something like that,” said Amras. 

“I don’t think even Námo can tell what he will do,” muttered Celegorm. 

“Whatever Ammë decides,” Maedhros said, “she at least deserves our support. Whatever she decides.”

“Thank you!” said Nerdanel, coming into the room. “Goodness, is this what it looked like when you call came together to plan battles in Beleriand? It’s too grim for this house. You did not need to form a war council just for your father. But I am glad to have you all here. It gives me the strength to meet with him when he comes.” She came around to the head of the table to drop a kiss on top of Maedhros’ head. “I have not decided whether I wish to reconcile with Fëanáro, yet. I cannot, until I speak with him.” Her gaze strayed to the empty chair, and her expression softened into something wistful and sad. “I do wish I could have you all under my roof again,” she said. Maedhros put his arm around her waist, leaning his head against her chest as she stroked his hair. “Even your father—though what I suppose I am really wishing is to turn the years back.” 

And that was impossible, even for the Valar. 

“Is there any word from Mandos, or from Eressëa?” asked Curufin. 

“Not yet,” said Nerdanel, “but I came to tell you I saw Fingon and Finrod coming down the road.”

“I asked them to come,” Maedhros said, seeing eyebrows rising and wishing to forestall any remarks from his brothers. If the tension between Curufin and Celegorm was bad on a normal day, it was even worse when Finrod was nearby. “I will speak to them.”

“About Atar?” Amrod asked.

“Yes. If Finarfin and Fingolfin have not been told, they should be.” 

Maedhros rose from his seat, and heard his brothers following suit as he left the room. When he reached the courtyard he found Fingon and Finrod just dismounting. “Well met, Russandol!” Fingon said, grinning at him, as bright and exuberant as he had ever been. “To what do we owe this rare honor?” 

“Walk with me?” Maedhros said rather than answering. 

“Of course,” said Finrod, and the three of them fell into step together, walking around the house and out past the orchard. “I have just come from Avallónë,” Finrod said after a few moments. “I spoke to Maglor.” 

Maedhros felt his fist clench and made himself loosen his fingers. “Is he well?”

“Oh, yes. I found him playing music in Elrond’s garden with a cat purring on his shoulder. Celebrimbor was there as well; I think he will bring a letter to Aunt Nerdanel.”

“Did Maglor not send any messages with you?” Fingon asked, sounding surprised. 

“No, none.” Finrod glanced at Maedhros as he spoke, and Maedhros kept his gaze on the ground. “But I do not think you called us here to speak of Maglor.”

“No.” Maedhros stopped beneath one of the trees. They were heavy with pink flowers, the fragrance of them almost sickly sweet. “Word came to my mother from Mandos a few weeks ago. Did messengers visit your fathers?”

His cousins looked at each other before shaking their heads. “No,” said Fingon. “Or at least none that my parents have spoken of.”

“Nor mine,” said Finrod. “But why would Mandos—oh.” His eyes widened slightly. “Fëanor?”

“He is returned?” Fingon exclaimed.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not yet,” said Maedhros, “but soon. That is why I wanted to speak to you.” They’d met like this before, the three of them—in the early days of the Noldor’s unrest, the eldest of each house trying to hold everything together between the three of them. It had not worked. Maedhros had had no influence on his father in those days, and his and Fingon’s failures to be heard had contributed to the rift between them in turn, and Finrod had been caught in the middle before giving up entirely. Maedhros did not like to remember those days. But they were older now, knew themselves and their people better, and Fingolfin at least would heed Fingon better than he had in the past—especially with Finrod and Finarfin there too. “I do not think he will try…I do not think he will seek to cause trouble, else the Valar would not release him. But beyond that I do not know what to expect. Your fathers at least deserve a warning before he makes his way to Tirion.”

“Do you think he will want the crown, still?” Fingon asked. 

“I hold to my decision in Beleriand,” Maedhros said. “It has passed from our house.”

“Fëanor might not see it that way now that he is back to speak for himself.”

“Then he will stand alone.”

“Do you brothers feel the same?” Finrod asked.

“Yes,” Maedhros said, and saw the surprise on both of their faces. He did not repeat Curufin’s words, however true they were. The high kingship had never been an enviable thing—not to those who knew what it really meant. It was not a symbol of Finwë’s love or approval; it was not a gift. It was a burden. Across the Sea it had been a death sentence—for Fingon, for his father, for his son. It was not so in Aman, but Maedhros would tell anyone who cared to ask him that Fingolfin was better suited to it than Fëanor had ever been. Fingolfin understood it for what it was.

Fingon sighed. “Thank you, Russo,” he said. “I will return to Tirion to speak to my father.” He glanced at Finrod, who nodded.

“I’ll catch up to you,” Finrod said. 

“Come to Tirion yourself,” Fingon added before leaving, catching Maedhros’ hand. “Stop hiding away. And do not only say perhaps and then never come!” he added when Maedhros started to reply. “If you wish to avoid your father, where better to go than to Gilheneth and me?”

“Perhaps,” Maedhros said. Fingon rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he went back to the house, the golden ribbons in his hair shining in the sunlight. 

Maedhros waited until he was out of sight before turning back to Finrod, who fiddled with the necklace he wore, an uncharacteristically simple pendant on a chain. “How is he really?” Maedhros asked. 

“He is well, as I said,” Finrod said. “He kept mostly to himself while I was there, but that I think was due to the stream of visitors coming and going from Elrond and Celebrían’s house, all wanting to see Celeborn or to meet Elladan and Elrohir. He is quieter than he used to be, but when asked to after supper he sang many merry songs for us.” It was a relief to hear that. Maedhros had dreamed the night before—again—of Maglor in the dark, alone and silenced. There had been no reason to disbelieve Elrond when he had spoken of Maglor’s healing, but it was different to hear this clear evidence of it—to know with certainty that he still sang and laughed and lived. After a moment Finrod went on. “He bears the marks of Dol Guldur, however. Scars on his face. I think—I do not think he is ashamed of them exactly, but no one likes having such things stared at. Elrond tells me that Maglor knows that you and your mother looked into the palantír and saw him, and that the fact distressed him, especially when he heard that your mother had seen it. I don’t know what has passed between him and Celebrimbor, but he would not speak of you at all with me.” 

It was said so gently, but the words still felt like a knife between his ribs. “So it was…” His voice came dangerously near to breaking, and he had to stop and clear his throat. “It was for the best, then, that I did not go to Avallónë.”

“Celebrían had asked me, if you did come there, to keep you away,” Finrod said, only half-apologetically. 

“Would you have done it?”

“Of course I would have. What sort of uncle would I be if I did not indulge my beloved niece’s every whim?” Finrod affected an insulted expression before softening and saying more seriously, “Yes, I would have. What good would it do for you to barge into Elrond’s house when Maglor did not want you there? He is healed—healing—but he is not who he was.”

“Are any of us?” Maedhros asked. 

“Of course not. But do not mistake him for you, Maedhros. You did not break in Angband—”

“No, that came much later,” Maedhros said. 

“—but I think that something in Maglor was broken in Dol Guldur,” Finrod said. Maedhros turned away, unable to look at him as he said such things so frankly, no matter how gentle his voice. “I say was, for he is not broken now. But the scars remain, and there is something fragile about him.” Finrod paused for a moment, as though in thought. “There is something about him that reminds me a little of Frodo Baggins. Frodo too found healing and peace, but he was not entirely whole, even after he came here. The marks of his torment remained, even if they did not trouble him any longer.”

“I never met Frodo Baggins,” Maedhros said without turning back to Finrod. He fixed his gaze on a low hanging branch, laden with flowers. Bees crawled over them, dusted with golden pollen, seeking the sweet nectar. 

“But do you understand what I mean?”

No, Maedhros didn’t know. He was unable to comprehend Maglor as broken, or has ever having been broken. He had always been a pillar of stability, the one constant that Maedhros had been able to count on. He had also, Maedhros thought with a sudden sinking feeling, always been a performer. I can do almost anything in front of an audience, Maglor had said once. He’d been laughing, and Maedhros couldn’t recall what it was they had been speaking of when he had said it, but now he thought there had been more truth to that than he’d realized at the time. And he had been the audience, hadn’t he? What if Maglor had been performing all along—putting on a mask of strength that he did not really possess? And Maedhros, who of all people should have seen through it…hadn’t. 

“Is he happy?” he asked finally. “With Elrond—is he happy?”

“Yes, I think so. But do not forget that house is one of mourning, now. There is much laughter and joy in the coming of Elrond’s sons, but grief lies over it all.”

“All the more reason for me to keep away, you mean.”

“Wait at least for Celebrimbor to come back to hear what he has to say,” Finrod said. “He was preparing to leave Avallónë when I departed after receiving your note; it should not be long. We may return to the house to find him there already.” He paused, and then shifted the subject abruptly back to Fëanor. “What will you do when your father comes?”

Maedhros turned away from the flowers and sighed. “I do not know,” he said. “Curufin is the only one of us willing to speak to him at all, but even he won’t seek him out. Ammë will speak to him when he comes—we are all assuming he will come here first, I suppose; it’s what we all did—but I do not think she will welcome him so quickly back into her house.”

“Of course not,” said Finrod. “Just because the Valar have seen fit to release him from Mandos does not mean anyone else has to welcome him back with open arms. Though if he does not stay here I suppose he will have to go to Tirion.”

“There is still a house there,” Maedhros said. Crumbling and overgrown, now—no one had set foot in it at least since he had returned from Mandos. He had only seen it at a distance, a glimpse of a forest of vines and crab apple trees over the garden wall, and climbing roses taking the place of roof tiles. Let Fëanor return there alone. If anyone could rebuilt it, it was him. If anyone could want to, it was him. 

“Maedhros,” Finrod said, and then fell silent, as though he wasn’t sure what else to say. That was not like him, to be either silent or uncertain. But, Maedhros thought again, looking up at him, they were none of them who they had once been. Maglor was not the only one who had been held in torment by Sauron. “Maglor did not expect to find any of you returned from Mandos,” Finrod said finally. “Elrond told me that. Give him time.”

He didn’t have a choice, did he? Elrond and Celebrían and all their relations would conspire to hide Maglor away if he tried to go to him. Maedhros sighed, suddenly exhausted and sick of company. “I will,” he said, because it was what Finrod needed to hear. 

“Thank you.” Finrod stepped forward to lay a hand on Maedhros’ arm. “And listen to Fingon and come to Tirion.”

“You and he are the only ones who want me there,” Maedhros said. “I think you misplaced some of your wisdom in Mandos.”

“If disdaining a beloved cousin is wisdom, then I don’t want it,” Finrod said. “At least think about it. Please.”

When at last he was left alone Maedhros slumped against the tree and pressed his hand to his face. His eyes burned, but no tears fell. He’d wept after seeing Maglor in the palantír, and that had been the first time since before the Nirnaeth, but afterward his tears had dried up again. Somewhere behind him he heard a brief rush of raised voices. His brothers. Hopefully they weren’t directing whatever it was at Finrod. Maedhros thought that he should go back to see what was wrong—but he couldn’t make himself do it. Instead he went forward, making his way down to the river. Clouds were gathering in the distant west, and the wind from there smelled of rain, but it would not reach them before nightfall. Maedhros sank down into the tall grass and rested his arms on his knees, staring at the sun-spangled water as it flowed along over the stony bed, and at a heron picking her way through the shallows by the opposite bank. 

It was peaceful there by the river. He kept coming back to it and hoping some of that peace would stay with him when he left. It never did. 

That peace was shattered when Celegorm appeared like another storm cloud; the heron took flight, winging away upstream to find more peaceful hunting grounds. Caranthir was just behind him, and when Maedhros looked back he saw their other brothers too, alongside Celebrimbor in the distance. “Why did you not tell us what happened to him?” Celegorm demanded as Maedhros got to his feet. 

“What good would it have done?” Maedhros replied. 

“What do you mean—we deserved to know!”

“Ammë and I agreed—”

“Of course Ammë would not tell us,” Caranthir said. “But you should have.”

“I ask again, what good would it have done?” Maedhros said. “There was nothing any of us could do about it.” 

“You cannot tell us not to follow your lead and then deny us something like this!” Celegorm was close to shouting, and visibly holding himself back from doing so. “You just said today that you should not dictate what we—”

“What would you have done, then?” Maedhros snapped. “If I had told you that Maglor was locked away in torment—what difference would it have made except to make you—”

“He is our brother too!” Celegorm did shout then, voice ragged and every line of him drawn taut with something horribly like anguish. “You are not the only one that loves him, Maedhros!”

“We would have known,” said Caranthir more quietly. “Nelyo, It was not a burden you needed to carry alone.”

“I will not apologize for protecting you,” Maedhros said. Their upset now was only confirmation that he had chosen right. Celegorm snarled, baring his teeth before storming away, back toward the orchard. Huan melted out of the trees when Celegorm reached Curufin and the twins, and all of them retreated to the house together. Caranthir, though, lingered. Maedhros turned away, looking back toward the rainclouds. 

“You said earlier that this is not Beleriand,” Caranthir said finally. “You were right—and if we no longer have to follow your orders, then you no longer have to protect us. We are not at war, and we are no longer children.”

Maedhros did not answer.

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Maglor sat at a writing desk in Elrond’s library and stared down at the blank paper in front of him. He had told Celebrimbor he would write to Nerdanel, and Celebrimbor was set to depart that afternoon, so here he was—and with nothing to say. In his last letter he’d avoided speaking of—well, of everything important. He’d described Rivendell and had assured her of his safety there and his happiness, trying to sound like the son she remembered. He had written a little of the War of the Ring and of Gondor, and of music. 

Now, though. She knew more than he had anticipated, but he could not tell her the full tale. It would only break her heart. He could not promise to visit her soon, because he did not know if that was a promise he could keep. He could tell her of the voyage and that he was safe, but she deserved more than a single paragraph about fair winds and maybe a description of his cat. 

At least it was quiet in the library. He’d had a painful and awkward conversation with both Olwë and Elu Thingol that morning; he’d stammered out an apology and they had accepted it, and Thingol had said something about wishing to mend the rift between himself and Finwë’s children, and then something about Maglor’s friendship with Daeron, but Maglor had been looking for any excuse to flee the kindness on Olwë’s face by then and wasn’t sure what he had meant by it. 

And now he was here, almost wishing himself back to face Elu Thingol instead of a letter to his own mother. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. 

“What is ridiculous?” Galadriel had appeared from somewhere, moving soundlessly across the floor. He started, and she smiled at him. “I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you. May I?” She gestured to the chair beside the desk. 

“Of course.” Maglor leaned back in his own seat as she sat down. She had pearls woven through her braids, pinned up that day instead of falling down over her shoulders. “Where is Lord Celeborn?”

“With Celebrían. How did your conversation with my grandfather and my uncle go?”

Maglor grimaced. “It…went. At least it is over.”

“There is truly no ill will left,” Galadriel said. “It need not be awkward forever.”

“Yes, I know.” Maglor picked up a pen and spun it in his fingers. “It was less embarrassing at least than my meeting with Elwing and Eärendil.”

“Eärendil thought that was very funny,” Galadriel said. Indeed, Elrond’s parents were still guests there and Eärendil kept grinning whenever he caught sight of Maglor, especially if he had Pídhres on his shoulders. “I hope you weren’t hurt.”

“I’m not so fragile as all that.” Not anymore, anyway. Maglor tried to smile, but it didn’t work very well. “And Tyelpë is to return to my mother’s house, and I had intended to write to her, but…” He gestured with the pen at the blank paper. “I don’t…what do I say?” 

“Only an assurance in your own hand that you are here, and you are safe, and well,” Galadriel said. “Nerdanel will expect nothing more.” 

Maglor glanced at her. “You sound very sure.”

This earned him a smile. “I see her often when she comes to Tirion to visit Aunt Anairë and my mother. She often asks after you. Fortunately, my grandsons are more prolific letter writers than you are, so I have usually been able to give her tidbits. Celebrían has been kind enough to copy out the songs that they have sent so I could pass them on to Nerdanel.”

“My songs?” Maglor did not know why he was surprised. He had long known that Elladan and Elrohir sent batches of letters with almost every ship that had set sail from Mithlond between Elrond’s departure and their own. He had sent one or two over the years, but always only to Elrond. He had been so uncertain of his mother’s reception of that first letter that he hadn’t dared send more. Now he dropped his gaze back to the paper, which now had an ink blotch near the top where he had rested the pen. He set it aside. “Thank you.”

“You need not thank me. I enjoy gossiping about my cousins as much as anyone,” Galadriel said, startling him into laughter. “And I have a great deal of it if you would like to hear.”

“I would,” said Maglor, surprising himself. It was something he had not missed until that moment, all the messy and silly and amusing stories that circulated through Tirion, whether about his own family or about others—the harmless tales, the ones that had made them all laugh before the unrest, when gossip and whispers had taken on a darker edge. “Only I need to write something to my mother.”

“Later, then,” Galadriel said. “I’ll tell you about this past Midwinter and the rounds of parties in Tirion. Even your brothers made an appearance.” She had to notice the way his smile froze at the mention of his brothers, but she said nothing of it. Instead she rose and paused to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Do not fear your mother, Macalaurë. She misses you and will treasure whatever words you choose to send.”

“Thank you,” he said. Galadriel disappeared into another part of the library, and he picked up the pen again, this time refusing to allow himself to think any more about it. He wrote a short description of Mithlond, and of the voyage, and of his cat, and told her of his plans to go to Imloth Ningloron with Elrond and his family when they departed from Eressëa. 

I miss you, he wrote at last. I will come to see you, if you do not choose to come instead to Imloth Ningloron. He paused again, adding another ink blotch to the paper before he made himself write of the past. Elrond has told me that you know something of what befell me in Wilderland. I wish that were not so. Please do not worry any more about me, Ammë. I am well, and I found much joy in Imladris and in the wider world afterward. He should have added, he knew, that he expected to find joy there in Valinor too, but he couldn’t bring himself to write it out. It wasn't untrue, but it wasn’t true enough to commit to paper. 

The worst part, he thought as he signed his name at the bottom—scratching out Maglor to write Macalaurë instead—was that his memory of Nerdanel’s face remained fuzzy and distorted. Sauron had used it only once in Dol Guldur to try to break his will, and it was that memory that came to his mind every time he tried to imagine her. He hated that. Hated that Sauron still had that much power over him even in memory. 

He took the letter to his room, realizing suddenly that he should send something else—a gift, something he’d made with his own hands. That would reassure Nerdanel better than any words he wrote. He had not brought many such things with him; almost all that he made he gave away. But he had a cup that he thought Nerdanel would find pleasing. It had been broken by one of Tári’s clumsier kittens, long ago, but he had repaired it with gold and lacquer and the help of Ifreth, who had taught him how to do it. She had taught him many things of the Avari, and in return he had carved many beads for her, for she preferred wood to metal or gemstones for her hair, and had brought back pearls and seashells from his wanderings. Ifreth had left Imladris long before he had, though he did not know if she had taken ship with Dringil and others who had departed at the same time, or if she had made her way back east to find any who might remain of her clan beyond the Sea of Rhûn. They had been friends, but she had always liked to be mysterious. 

The cup itself was big enough to hold a large handful of brushes or pens. He had glazed it a dark green color which complimented the golden repairs nicely. Maglor turned it over in his hands for a moment, rubbing his fingers over the cracks and filled-in chips, and then wrapped it back up in the soft leather he’d used before. Then he dug out a stick of wax and his seal, which he used so rarely that he’d almost forgotten that he had it, and sealed the letter before taking it downstairs in search of Celebrimbor. 

“What is this?” Celebrimbor asked as he accepted the wrapped up cup.

“A gift. She always used to be wanting places to keep her brushes and pens, and I thought…”

Celebrimbor laughed. “She does still.” He tucked the letter and the cup into his bag and looked back at Maglor. “Are you sure there is no other message you want me to take?” he asked. A message for Maglor’s brothers, he meant. Maglor shook his head. He hated that his nephew was caught in the middle of whatever strange mess was brewing in their family, but he had had enough trouble finding the right words for Nerdanel, who he did want to see again. “Can I…can I tell them about…?” Celebrimbor gestured at his own face. 

“Yes,” said Maglor. “Yes, of course. It isn't a secret, Tyelpë. Do not burden yourself with it.” He embraced Celebrimbor, and the two of them held on very tight for a few moments before Maglor kissed his temple and drew back. “Safe travels,” he said. 

Celebrimbor smiled. “There are few other kinds, here,” he said. “Farewell for now, Uncle.”

After Celebrimbor departed, Maglor retreated back to his room. The house was bustling; he heard Elladan laughing somewhere outside of his window, and when he peered out of it Maglor saw him with Eärendil; Elwing and Elrohir were nearby, sitting among flowers and speaking more quietly. It was not a bright and sunny day; the clouds had moved in, but Maglor did not think it would rain—at least not that afternoon. Maglor sat by the window and drew a knee up to his chest, looking out over the water. Celebrían had chosen her house in Avallónë well; it had a view of the whole bay and Alqualondë across the way, as well as the open Sea beyond. The breeze off the water was cool and fresh smelling. The bells in Avallónë tolled the hours, but little of the other noise of the bustling city reached this part of it. 

A knock at the door heralded Elrond’s entrance. Maglor turned to smile at him, and saw the flicker of relief in his eyes as he did so; old worries faded only slowly. “Did you write to Nerdanel?” Elrond asked as he crossed the room.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Elrond paused by the harp. “This is new. You made it?”

“Yes.”

“What became of the other harp?” 

The other harp was one that had sat in a storage room of first Lindon and then Imladris for years uncounted before Maglor had come there. It had been rescued, as best anyone could guess for the records were lost, from the slowly crumbling halls of Himring after the War of Wrath; his brothers Curufin and Caranthir had made it, though Maglor still did not know when or why. “I left it with Halbarad in Annúminas,” he said. “Arwen’s grandson, the Steward of Arnor.” He had taught all of Arwen and Aragorn’s children and grandchildren to play music at one time or another; Halbarad was the only one who had taken to the harp, so it had seemed fitting to leave it with him, to become an heirloom of that house. 

It was also something, Maglor thought, to leave a work of his brothers’ hands in Middle-earth, something of beauty and joy rather than destruction. For that same reason he had gifted the little porcelain dancing figure that Elrond had given him to Eldarion on his wedding day. It had been made by Nerdanel and given to the House of Andúnië in Númenor long ago, and Maglor had thought it only right to give it back. 

Elrond smiled a little wistfully. He would never know his grandchildren, and Maglor could only imagine what a grief that was. “We have not yet spoken of Arwen,” Elrond said. 

“We need not, not yet,” said Maglor. “There is no hurry.”

“I would rather be at home when we do.” Elrond shook his head, and this time his smile was stronger. “You have a visitor downstairs.”

“Me?” Maglor said, surprised. “Who?”

“Your grandmother. She is in the front room.”

Of all who might have come to see him on Eressëa, Maglor had to admit that Ennalótë was one he had least expected. He rose from his seat. “I’d best not keep her waiting, then.” 

But it was not Ennalótë who was waiting for him in the front room. Instead there was a small and slender figure, silver hair caught up in a silver net dotted with diamonds that glinted in the sunlight coming through the window. She was clad in a gown of a rich deep red color, the sleeves richly embroidered with flowers and butterflies so lifelike that they almost seemed ready to rise out of the fabric to flit about the room. Maglor almost stumbled as he came to a halt just inside the doorway. She turned, and he found himself staring into his own eyes, soft grey shot through with just a little bit of green. 

Míriel smiled at him. “Macalaurë,” she said. “Or should I call you Maglor?”

“Whichever you like best,” Maglor said, glad that she had not offered up Canafinwë. 

They sat together by one of the wide windows. Maglor did not know what to say. Míriel had always been so very present in her absence throughout his childhood, the grief of it a thing that his father and grandfather had carried with them always. He had heard the tales, come to Middle-earth by way of Númenor, of her return to life and of Finwë’s fate to remain in the Halls in her stead. But still he had not expected ever to meet her. 

In her turn, Míriel gazed at him as though committing every small detail to memory. “I will not ask what you have been doing all this time,” she said at last, “for I have woven and stitched much of it.” She reached out to touch his face, her thumb gracing one of the scars at the corner of his mouth. “This we did not render into thread, but I knew of it all the same.”

“I am sorry,” Maglor said. “You should not have had to…” To see any of it, really. The fire and the death and the blood. He wondered if it had been Míriel to take up the needle and red-dyed thread every time one of them fell. Or killed. 

“I would not have seen those things recorded by any other hands. The tale of our family was mine to weave, as the tale of the Noldor was yours to sing.”

“I have not sung the Noldolantë in a very long time.”

“I am glad. I hope you have been singing of happier things.”

“I have.”

She lowered her hand from his face and took his hand again—his right hand, her fingers closing over the scars on his palm. “Your father followed your wanderings through the tapestries of Mandos,” she said. “It grieved him deeply to see you walk alone for so long.”

Maglor did not pull his hand away, but only with great effort. “I don’t…I cannot—I am glad to meet you at last, Grandmother, but I cannot speak of my father. Please.” He braced for her disappointment or disapproval, but it did not come. 

“There are few who can,” she said, and sighed. “It grieves me, but he has earned it, and I played no small part in the shaping of him.” Maglor wanted to protest; he was no stranger to the pull of death on one’s spirit. Had things been different, had he not been so afraid of what would stop him, he might have followed Míriel’s path to Mandos—and he would not have been the first or the last. But he did not know how to say it without also saying something worrying. But she seemed to trace the direction of his thoughts anyway, and her smile was soft and kind. How unlike Fëanor she was, he thought as she spoke again. She did not say more of Fëanor, instead turning the subject away. “I do wish that my return to life did not mean that Finwë had to remain. You would rather he were here to greet you, I think.”

“I don’t!” Maglor protested. “I would rather both of you were here.”

She laughed. “Yes, but if you had to choose one it would be Finwë. I do not take offense. He has also grieved for your long exile in the Halls.”

Maglor dropped his gaze to his hands. “I do miss him,” he said softly. Even when he was young he had known not to take for granted those hours spent in his company, for any time alone at all with the King was precious. Especially when he cast aside the trappings of his office to instead be only a grandfather and teacher, storyteller and woodcarver. He had just not known how precious—none of them had, until it was too late. And now…

“There is hope yet for his return,” Míriel said. “Ours is not a singular case—his and mine and Indis’. There are many others who desire their spouses returned to them, yet who found love after death.” She squeezed his hand. “But we do not need to dwell on such things. It it too fine a day and I am too happy to be speaking with you. Tell me of your voyage here. Who else was aboard the ship?”

They spoke of the ship and of the Sea, and of Daeron and Círdan and others that Maglor had known in Middle-earth, until Celebrían came to find them for supper. It was a quieter affair that evening than it usually was; the guests were limited to only Elrond’s parents and Míriel—a reprieve from the flood of kinsfolk and acquaintances who wished to meet Elrond’s sons. In turn the formality of the meal dropped away, and there was much laughter and teasing. Maglor was still in the habit of speaking little, but Elladan and Elrohir knew how to draw him out and make him laugh, and he let them. The wine was sweet and light and flowed freely, and after the meal they retreated to the large parlor where Celebrían called for music. Maglor fetched his harp, and Elrond his own, and Elladan his flute, and as a soft light rain fell outside they sang many songs and told many tales. Celeborn and Galadriel sang songs of Doriath, and Maglor joined with the twins to sing songs from Gondor. Elrond played the song of Eärendil that Bilbo had written long ago, to make them all laugh, and then Eärendil told them of how he had taken Bilbo with him on one of his voyages through the stars, and of the old hobbit’s delight in it. 

Míriel spoke little and did not sing, but she listened intently, her eyes bright and hands busy with a hook and some fine yarn. Maglor sat on the floor near her chair with his harp. Pídhres eventually made her way into the room, and Elladan and Elrohir burst into a song about the many cats of Imladris that followed Maglor around. Maglor laughed as he picked her up and scratched her behind the ears. She purred and shoved her face against his chin before climbing up to curl around his shoulders.

It was very late when he made his way at last to bed. As he undressed he heard laughter coming from other rooms down the hall and from out in the garden, heedless of the rain. When someone burst into a merry tra la la lally he almost felt he could be in Imladris again, but for the scent and sound of the Sea underneath it all. He was smiling as he fell into bed. 

At first his dreams followed the track of his thoughts, winding through the paths of Imladris as birds and elves sang in the trees. But unbidden the paths turned darker, and the trees closer together, dense and black and hung with tattered remnants of thick spider webs. The singing turned into jeering and cursing, and he was no longer alone on the path. Orcs were coming up behind him, and sudden fear made him trip before he could catch himself and start to run—but the path split and twisted and he did not know where he was going, which way led out of hate wood. Roots and stones rose up before him to catch at his ankles and trip him up, and always the orcs drew closer, taunting now as they shouted at him and laughing at his fear. And then the trees ended abruptly, and he did fall then, on his hands and knees on bare and pitted earth, sharp stones digging into his palms. The sky overhead roiled with dark clouds, and the tower of Dol Guldur rose up before him, windows glowing red. The Eye within focused on him with an almost physical weight. 

He woke with a start, choking on the ghost of a hand around his throat. Pídhres had fled his thrashing, and when he finally pushed himself up he found the sun peeking over the edge of the sea in the east, the rainclouds all gone to leave behind a sky washed clean and pale. Maglor raised a hand to his throat, half expecting to find bruises there. But of course there were none. “Only a dream,” he whispered, and dropped back onto the pillows. It had been a long time since such a nightmare had come to trouble him. He felt wearier than he had when he had gone to bed, and if he had been back in Imladris he would have allowed himself to linger, letting the warm breeze and the sunshine ease the bone-deep cold that such dreams always left in him. It was tempting to do it anyway; he would be awful company if he dragged himself down to the breakfast room, and he would worry both Elrond and Míriel—and the twins, and Galadriel, and others—regardless. He sighed, closing his eyes. Pídhres crept back up the bed to curl up at his side, and he dropped his hand down to sink his fingers into her soft and warm fur. 

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Míriel did not stay long. She never did, when she came back among the Eldar. That first day Maglor had been bright and merry, but something had happened to make him withdraw again, though Elrond could see the effort he put forth to hide how poorly he was sleeping. He spoke little and played no music. If he held to old patterns it would pass before long, Elrond knew, but he still hated to see it, especially when there seemed to be no reason for the old shadows to come creeping back. 

Then he remembered the news of Fëanor, and thought perhaps it was not only Dol Guldur that was haunting Maglor. 

Before she left, Míriel came to Elrond in the garden, where he was thinning some unruly athelas plants. “I am no healer, as you know,” she said, sitting on the bench beside where Elrond knelt. “But I can tell that my grandson is not well.” Her face was grave as she looked down at Elrond. “I recognize the shadows in his eyes, for they once lived in mine also.”

Elrond sat back on his knees. “I long ago ceased to fear that he would fade away,” he said. “The shadows are only memories; we all have them. You need not fear for him.” 

“Fear is perhaps not the right word. But I am worried. It is, regrettably, not the habit of my line to seek help or healing.” Her gaze strayed away from Elrond across the garden; Elrond followed it and saw Maglor sitting under a tree, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. Pídhres lay on his lap, clearly purring as he scratched her behind the ears. At a distance it might seem that there was nothing troubling him at all, except that he was not smiling.

There was no point in telling her that she need not worry, either. “Maglor is not Maedhros,” said Elrond. “The past comes back to haunt him at times, as it does us all, but the dreams and dark thoughts do not linger as they once did. If they do, I have no doubt that he will tell me. And if he needs more help than I can give him, it will not take much to convince him to go to Estë in Lórien.”

“And if it does?” 

“It will not,” Elrond said. Maglor had confessed to him once that he had been desperately afraid to go to Imladris from Lothlórien, and that he had more than once thought of fleeing on the way, and hadn’t only because Elladan and Elrohir would have caught him immediately. It had never been stubbornness that held him back in those early weeks and months, only fear. But that had been many years ago. If Maglor needed to go to Lórien he would likely be the one to tell Elrond of it. Indeed, he might decide to go without any great need. And most importantly: “He is not alone.”

“No,” Míriel agreed, and smiled at him, though only briefly. “I am glad of it. But my son—he is alone, though it is no one’s fault but his own. I have seen and spoken to him both in death and in life, but my home now is with Vairë, and he could not stay long in those halls even if he wanted to. Maglor would not speak of him to me, and I fear that his other sons will not see or speak to Fëanáro either. He loves them, you know. Desperately.”

“It is not my place to pass judgment on Fëanor,” Elrond said. 

“He loved his father,” Míriel said softly. “Loves him still—but he lost both of us as no child should lose their parents, and Finwë’s death was a far worse thing than mine. I do not defend what he did—the bloodshed in Alqualondë, the ships burning—but that madness is passed. He is not Maedhros either, coming from the Halls unhealed.” 

“I am glad of it,” said Elrond, truthfully. “But he—it was his own children that he harmed most of all.” Elrond understood grief all too well. But he did not understand that. No matter what happened, he could never have bound his children to such an oath, not only for what it drove them to do, but what it promised if they failed. “If he comes to my home seeking Maglor, he may not find me an accommodating host.”

Míriel sighed. “Fëanáro is too stubborn to be put off by a simple no.”

“He will have to learn, then,” said Elrond. “The world is very different from the one he once knew. Fëanor will have to find a new place within it—and to learn to live with the lasting consequences of his deeds. Fëanor is not my concern, but Maglor is. Many of the shadows you perceive in him are of Fëanor’s making.” 

It was not long after Míriel’s departure that his own parents prepared to leave. They went walking along the beach, just the three of them, as was their custom at the end of every visit. Elrond was always reminded of the walks they had taken in his early childhood. Eärendil had been little at home then, too, and those sunlit afternoons of laughter and sandcastles had been more precious than gold—more than the Silmaril—for his return was not guaranteed. Elrond and Elros had understood that even when they were very small. Now, of course, there were only three of them, Elros’ absence a presence in itself, though they did not often speak of him. 

“Elladan has asked if he may go up in Vingilot with me,” Eärendil said, pausing to nudge a crab in the sand with his toe. 

“He has dreamed of that since he was small,” Elrond said. He and Arwen had both dreamed of it, but of course Arwen had long ago set that aside. Elrohir had been afraid of heights as a child, and thought his brother half mad for the desire. If his mind had changed in the years since, he’d never spoken of it. “He is not going with you this time, is he?”

“No, not this time. I told him he had best consult you and Celebrían first, but I will be very glad of his company in the future.”

“I have no objections,” said Elrond. He wanted to keep his sons close for now—but in time the two of them would be off to explore every inch of this new land, and he would rest much easier knowing that they would be safe doing so. “Nor will Celebrían.” The wind picked up from off the water, blowing his mother’s hair out of its braids and lifting his own off his neck. It carried the distant sound of horns. 

Elwing slipped her arm through Elrond’s. “I know you have been worried about having us and Maglor in your house at the same time,” she said. “You know now that you do not need to, I hope.”

“Yes, and I’m glad of it,” Elrond said. Even if they were not friends, it was a relief beyond words that he could have all those he loved most in the same room without awkwardness or tension. 

“Seeing him fall out of a tree at the sight of us did much to dispel old fears,” Eärendil said. “It’s hard to be angry at or afraid of someone when they are lying on the ground being scolded by a kitten.”

“He isn’t very fearsome any other time, either,” said Elrond. 

“Perhaps not,” Elwing agreed. “But Elrond, you are hardly the best person to judge that.”

Elrond felt his eyebrows go up. “What does that mean?”

“That you are the hardest person to intimidate in the world,” Eärendil said, grinning. “I do not know where you get it from. Certainly not me.”

“Did you not stride into Valinor to face all of the Valar on their thrones by yourself, then?” Elrond asked, and both of his parents laughed. “And was it someone else who flew Vingilot into battle with Ancalagon the Black? I was there, and quite afraid of him.”

“Well, I suppose after facing all of the Valar at once it is hard to be frightened by much else,” said Eärendil. “Even dragons.” He grew serious, then. “But I was terrified, walking into the Ring of Doom. I shook so badly I still cannot believe I was able to speak at all. I could only do it because—well, because I had nothing left to lose except Elwing, and whatever my fate was she would share in it. I do not even know that I had any hope left when Eönwë brought me there.”

“Speaking of Maglor again, though,” Elwing said, “I suppose I found it as easy as I did to see and speak with him here because I had not seen him before, not really. I heard him, at Sirion, but it was not he who chased me up to the cliff.” 

“Did Maedhros ever come to you?” Elrond asked. 

“Yes,” said Elwing. “Long ago. I shut the door in his face and would not hear him. Even for you, Elrond, I do not think I can speak to him with civility.”

“I did fear him, for a very long time,” Elrond admitted. “But now—I have faced far more frightening things since, and it is hard to be frightened of very much when all of the worst things you can imagine have already happened to you.” He had not actually meant to say that out loud, and bit his tongue afterward. Both of his parents stepped in to wrap him up in their arms. “I’m all right now,” he said. 

“And not afraid of Maedhros at all, I would wager,” Eärendil said.

“No, all his fire its turned inward.” And speaking of fire… “There is something I need to tell you before you go.”

“What is it?” Elwing drew back first, brow furrowing. She pushed her dark hair out of her face, only for the breeze to blow it back again. “What is amiss?”

“I do not know if amiss is the right word,” said Elrond, “and I don’t think that this news should yet be spread widely—but Fëanor is to be released. He may have been already.” 

“Well,” said Eärendil after a few moments of silence, broken only by the waves and by a gull wheeling over their heads. “That is…unexpected news, certainly.”

“You will be caught up in whatever happens next more than us,” said Elwing, reaching out to take Elrond’s hand. She smiled at him. “Will you tell us now that you are not intimidated even by Fëanor himself, mightiest of the Noldor?”

“Yes, I will. I do not fear Fëanor, or what he might do or say. But he is still Fëanor, and I am glad to have been given a warning of his coming at least.”

“True,” said Eärendil. “And I suppose I should also be grateful, since it is I who bear the Silmaril. The Oath may no longer drive his sons, but who is to say that Fëanor won’t still seek to take back what is his?”

“The Valar would not release him if he meant to do that,” said Elwing. 

“He may have no intentions now,” said Eärendil, “but he might change his mind. The last thing we must expect is for Fëanor to be predictable. But you can all sort it out while I sail the skies, safely out of his reach!”

They walked back to the house where Elladan and Elrohir were sitting in the grass outside with Maglor, whose quick fingers were weaving dandelions together into a wreath. Both twins already wore crowns of them, the pollen falling into their hair to leave golden streaks in the dark strands. All three greeted Elrond and his parents with smiles, though Maglor’s was quicker to fade away and he dropped his gaze back to the flowers in his hands almost immediately. There were dark circles under his eyes still that Elrond did not like. Eärendil laughed at the twins with their golden-green crowns, and the two of them sprang to their feet to walk away into the roses with Elwing and Eärendil, to say their own farewells. 

Elrond sat on the grass beside Maglor. “You aren’t sleeping,” he remarked. Maglor shrugged. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” Maglor offered him another smile. “It will pass. It always does.”

“Which ghosts are the ones that haunt you now?”

He shrugged again. “Dol Guldur. I don’t know why.”

“I thought perhaps…”

“My father?” Maglor shook his head. He wore his hair in a loose braid that was already starting to come undone, and strands fell forward in front of his eyes. When he brushed them away he left a smear of dandelion pollen on the bridge of his nose. “I do not think that is the cause. I haven’t dreamed of him.”

“Perhaps not. Are you ready to leave Eressëa? Celebrían was talking this morning of returning home, since everyone who is on the island has come to see us already.” 

“Yes, I’m ready. I think that I know what valley you mean when you talk of Imloth Ningloron, and I want to see if I am right.” 

Elrond kept forgetting that Maglor had wandered almost every inch of Valinor in the years before the Darkening. “I think we will leave in the next few days.”

“I should seek out Daeron, then, to tell him I am leaving soon,” Maglor said. “Unless Thingol has already returned to the mainland?”

“I don’t think so,” said Elrond. He had heard that Daeron had come on this last ship, but at the docking his attention had been elsewhere. “I did not know that you were friends.”

“Only briefly—at the Mereth Aderthad. I did not see him again after that until I boarded the ship. Probably for the best,” he added, like a confession. “I am…I am very glad that he did not stay in Doriath.” He finished the wreath in his hands and set it on Elrond’s head with a sudden grin. “It’s only fair that you match your sons,” he said. Then someone called his name, and he turned toward the path leading around the house to the road. “It seems I do not have to seek out Daeron after all.” 

As though summoned by their conversation, Daeron of Doriath appeared around the corner, with pearls and amethyst glinting in his dark braids. Elrond rose to his feet alongside Maglor, and watched as Daeron looked at him once and then again—very briefly and with only a slight widening of his eyes, before he covered his reaction with a smile and a graceful bow and a greeting of fair words. It was not unexpected; Elu Thingol had nearly turned around and left the room again upon first seeing Elrond. It had long ago ceased to trouble him, his resemblance to the grandmother he had never known, but he knew it was hard for those who had known her. “I am glad to meet you at last, Master Elrond,” said Daeron, his smile flashing across his face. In person he was not much like the tales and songs that spoke of a melancholy or jealous singer lurking in the shadowy glades of Neldoreth, or wandering the wilds lamenting for Lúthien. This Daeron did not seem as though he lamented very much at all these days, or made music for the breaking of the heart. His voice, however, did live up to the songs. Even only speaking Elrond could hear the power that lay behind it, both like and unlike Maglor’s. 

It was also clear that he had not come to see Elrond. After the necessary pleasantries Elrond excused himself and went inside. Celebrían was with her parents, and so he went to their room where a small but growing pile of letters awaited him. Everyone from Finarfin to Ingwë had sent invitations to Midsummer festivities. Elrond wrote notes of thanks to each of them but declined them all; they would be spending Midsummer at home this year. Gandalf had promised fireworks, and already a feast with all of Elladan and Elrohir’s favorite foods was being planned; it was to be as much a welcome party as a holiday celebration. There were other notes from the loremasters of Tirion who were forever asking Elrond questions about all kinds of things, and who could never seem to wait long enough to compile a list of them in a single missive. There would be even more waiting for him at home. 

“Why do you suppose they keep writing to me about Bandobras Took?” he remarked when Celebrían joined him a few hours later. “I haven’t the faintest idea of the color of the horse he rode into the Battle of Greenfields, nor why it would matter.”

“Someone must have taken it into their head to illustrate it,” said Celebrían. “They keep writing to you because a letter is surer to reach you than Gandalf.” 

“If I ask Gandalf to go to Tirion to answer all their questions in person, do you think he would do it?” 

“I think,” Celebrían said, laughing, “that he would give different answers to each asker and cause even more confusion.”

“Perhaps I should do the same,” Elrond said. “They might stop asking me, then. I have been a loremaster, but the Shire was never my focus of study.”

“Was not Elladan just telling us last night about their friends among the hobbits?” Celebrían said. “When we go to Tirion, introduce our sons to the loremasters, and they shall never write to you about the Shire again.”

Elrond laughed. “How cruel you are to your children, Celebrían. If we take them to the loremasters of Tirion we may not see them again for a thousand years.”

“Oh, nonsense. We raised clever and courageous sons; I’m sure they’ll escape before then. Five hundred years at the most. Are you coming down to supper?” 

“Is it time already?” Elrond glanced out of the window, finding that the sun had nearly set. “Is Daeron still here?”

“He and Maglor went off some hours ago to explore a little of Avallónë,” Celebrían said. “Your flowers are wilting.” She helped to lift the dandelions out of his hair—he had forgotten all about them—and she laughed when she ran her hand down his back, holding it up to show him her yellow fingers. “Golden hair does not suit you, my love. Let me comb this all out before we go downstairs.”

Elrond caught sight of one last letter that had been nearly lost in the chaos of the rest, and as Celebrían combed out his hair he turned it over to see Fingolfin’s seal. Curious, he opened it and read the short letter—written in Fingolfin’s own hand, a request somewhere between a kinsman asking a private favor and a king requesting aid in a serious matter. “What is that?” Celebrían asked. 

“Fingolfin wishes to visit us at home after Midsummer.”

“He must know that he need not ask permission,” said Celebrían. “Especially not if he only wants to greet his nephew. Our doors are always open.”

“It isn’t only that,” Elrond said, sighing. In fact, Fingolfin had not mentioned Maglor at all. Elwing had been right: he would be caught up in whatever happened next. “He wishes to speak with me of Fëanor.” 

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At Daeron’s suggestion, they left Elrond’s house to walk through the streets of Avallónë. It was a market day, and the streets near the main square of the city were filled with people and with open-air stalls in addition to the more permanent shops. Daeron plunged into the crowds without hesitation, pulling Maglor along in his wake. He paused at different stalls and tables to admire the wares or to greet the sellers if he happened to know them of old, and by the time they emerged at the other end of the street Daeron had a small basket of trinkets, and two cinnamon and sugar filled pastries in his hands, one of which he handed to Maglor. It was still warm from the oven, the sugar sticky and the cinnamon fragrant. 

“Have you seen much of the city yet?” Daeron asked as they walked down a quieter street lined with flowering trees, ambling slowly to enjoy the quiet and the pastries. 

“No,” said Maglor as he swallowed the last bite of his. “I have…” he trailed off as they came to a small square where, instead of a fountain in the center, a monument stood. There were sculptures of many familiar faces and others that Maglor knew only by description—beloved Elf Friends among the Edain, from Bëor and Hador and Barahir to Haleth and Bór, to Húrin and his family, to Andreth and Rían, and, at the forefront facing them as they entered the square, there was King Tar-Minyatar, holding Aranrúth in his hands with the point resting before his feet, his chin raised proudly, a crown upon his head emblazoned with the Star of Eärendil, the Ring of Barahir upon his finger.

Daeron looked at Maglor, and then at the statue. “Is it a good likeness?” he asked. “I wondered if they just used Elrond as a model, but it does not quite look enough like him.”

“He wouldn’t pose for such a thing,” said Maglor, unable to look away from it. “It is not a good likeness of the Elros that I knew,” he said finally, “but we parted long before he took up the crown—long before the war was ended.” He hated to think of that last parting, which had been bitter, and of the years afterward, which had been a steady downward spiral of misery and destruction, culminating in… His hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into the scars. The twins had been adults, but only barely, half-wild with having grown up in the wilderness while dodging orcs and worse things, having not had a permanent home since they were six years old. This glimpse of Elros as the king he had become was a mixed blessing—he was glad that he could see it, glad to know that Elros had risen so high, but grieved that he had never seen it in life, had not gotten to say a proper farewell before Elros had left Middle-earth forever.

He was aware of Daeron’s gaze on him, and he tore his own away from Elros’ face to look around the square. The buildings were all public ones: a library, a hall for meetings and audiences, and others he could not immediately identify. They were all relatively small, not meant for any great ceremonies or gatherings, and made of that strange and lovely mishmash of styles, Sindarin and Noldorin, mixed together with other newer innovations. On the side closest to the harbor, which lay just the width of a street away, is a plain tower of white stone, its door standing ajar, though no one was coming or going from it. The top of it stood open, like a lighthouse or a watchtower. Maglor found it curious, but not curious enough to venture inside.

Daeron led the way past the monument to the Edain away from the harbor, and they came soon to a lush garden filled with spring flowers. “I am leaving with Elrond and his household tomorrow or the next day,” Maglor said as they passed under a flowering cherry tree and sat beneath a maple, lush and green overhead. The ground was cool under his hands, and the tree rustled its branches in quiet delight at their choosing it for their rest. “Most likely tomorrow; he and Celebrían are eager to be home.”

“And I am leaving with Elu Thingol tomorrow morning,” Daeron replied, laughing. “Which is why I came to find you today.” He leaned against the tree and stretched his legs out in front of him as he began to sort through his purchases. “I heard about your meeting with Thingol and Olwë.” Maglor grimaced. “Nothing bad; you were not the only one to feel awkward. It has pained Thingol from the beginning to be at odds with your and yours, you know.”

“He said something of that to me,” said Maglor. 

“He’s heard that you were especially close to Finwë,” Daeron said.

“I was the only one to take much interest in woodcarving,” said Maglor. “Finwë did not have much time for other crafts, but he always made time for that. And to teach me.” 

Daeron hummed. He slipped the baubles and trinkets he’d acquired in the market back into the basket, and bent one knee to wrap his arms around it. “Beleg taught me woodworking when I was young,” he said. “I wanted to carve my own flute.” 

Maglor smiled. “I wanted to make my own instruments, too,” he said. “I can make them out of most things: metal, wood, clay—once I experimented with glass—but wood was always the most satisfying.” 

“I was too particular about what I wanted for anyone else to make something satisfactory. Well, no, that’s not quite right. I had friends among the dwarves that made me lovely flutes and viols and drums. What in the world did you make out of glass?”

“Nothing useful,” Maglor said. “I think I just wanted to see if it would work. It didn’t, but I don’t know if that was because I lacked skill or if it was just a ridiculous idea.”

“You could try again,” Daeron said. 

“Maybe someday,” said Maglor. “If I am feeling ridiculous. Or perhaps Celebrimbor would take up the challenge.”

“I have not met him,” said Daeron. 

“He was here only briefly to see me.” And now he was gone back to Nerdanel’s house, bearing tales of scars and torments that Maglor wished he did not have to. Maglor tilted his head back to watch the leaves dance in the breeze above their heads. “What do you make of Eressëa?”

“It’s lovely, but too small,” Daeron said. “Ask me later what I make of the mainland, after I have had a chance to explore it.”

“Do you intend to? Go exploring, I mean.”

“Yes, of course.” Daeron looked over at him and smiled. “Are you going to return to your own wandering ways?”

“Yes,” said Maglor. 

“Would you object to a companion? You know these lands better than I.”

“I did once, perhaps.” Maglor returned the smile. “I would like that.”

“Come find me at Thingol’s court, then,” said Daeron. “Or perhaps I will come to you.”

“You’ll find me easily enough at Imloth Ningloron,” said Maglor. “Even if you do not come to drag me off on some journey.” Daeron laughed, and Maglor grinned, and for a moment he felt as light and easy as he had at the Mereth Aderthad when they had slipped away from the feasting to talk in private. They had spoken of all kinds of things—mostly music, but also of writing and of trees and flowers and of Maglor’s many cousins, of the Gap, of Doriath, of a possible future of letters passing between their realms, and perhaps occasional visits. That had not happened, of course. Word of Alqualondë had spread before the first letter could be sent by either one of them, and fate had laid out their roads in very different directions. But there was no reason they couldn’t exchange letters now. Letters and visits, songs and stories and gossip and jokes. Daeron had said on the ship he would rather they make music together than exist in unhappy silence. They made no promises or plans that day, but the knowledge that they would, someday—perhaps someday soon—was as pleasant as the cinnamon pastries.

Before they parted, Daeron caught his hand and pressed something into it. “Here. To keep your hair out of your face—doesn’t it bother you, the way it is always falling forward?” Before Maglor could answer he was gone, striding away into the evening, hair swinging behind him, whistling a cheerful tune. Maglor looked down into his hand to see a hair clip, silver, adorned with a row of purple enameled aster flowers. He slipped it into his pocket, glancing once more at Daeron’s retreating back before turning to make his own way home.

It was late before Maglor returned to Elrond’s house. The stars were out and the pale crescent of the moon was rising over the water in the east. He found his things all neatly packed and a note by his bed telling him they intended to cross the bay to Alqualondë after lunch the next day. “Are you ready for another boat ride, Pídhres?” he asked as the little cat jumped up onto the bed beside him. She made a disgruntled noise, and he laughed. “Last one, I promise. I imagine you’ll be very happy about that.” She purred and butted her head against his cheek. “I thought so, silly thing.” 

The cat fell asleep quickly, curled up by his side. Maglor lay and stared at the ceiling for a long time, thinking of the Calacirya and what lay beyond. They would likely pass by Tirion rather than entering into it, and take the road south. Seeing Tirion again…he thought that he was prepared. He was less prepared for what lay on the road beyond, for his grandfather’s estate was south of the city, less than half a day’s easy ride. Celebrimbor had said that Nerdanel lived just beyond Mahtan’s house, on the other side of the plum orchard. Maglor closed his eyes and could see the orchard, see the house and the workshops of his grandfather set back from the road, reached by a long lane through his Grandmother Ennalótë’s gardens. They were always changing, and so he knew that his memories of the flowers and the shrubs was inaccurate. There had not been a house beyond the orchard when he’d been young. In his mind he pictured a smaller version of his grandparents’ house, and a large workshop beside it, bright and airy the way his mother liked. 

His imaginings took on the slant of dream and memory, and for a moment he was back in the vision Sauron had conjured, with his mother smiling at him and looking all wrong from across the room lit by Treelight just a few shades too dark, slightly blurry and with her freckles in all the wrong places. 

Maglor sat up, inhaling deeply the smell of roses and lilac and the sea breeze, fisting his hands in the blankets to stop himself rubbing the scar on his chest, which burned with fell memory. Sleep would not find him that night. 

He slipped back out of the house and went down to the water. The waves were gentle and cool as they washed up over his bare feet as he sat in the sand, and with the starry sky wide open above him he felt like he could breathe again. He listened to the water and hummed along with it, weaving a lullaby around the soft whispers of the water. It soothed him, alongside the lingering warmth of cinnamon on his tongue, and though he did not sleep that night he found something like rest. 

It was Celebrían that came to find him in the morning. She was dressed for travel, in simpler clothes and a single long braid down her back, though it was adorned with green ribbons that matched her eyes. “You seem better this morning,” she said, dropping onto the sand beside him.

“I am,” Maglor said. The sunrise over the water had chased away the last of the night’s ugly and dark thoughts. He was still tired, but he thought that the dreams would leave him be.

“They never really go away,” said Celebrían after a moment. “The memories. But it does get easier—and if it does not you must go to Lórien.”

“I will,” Maglor said, and she looked at him a little skeptically. He didn’t know whether to be frustrated or worried that everyone except Elrond seemed to expect him to give them difficulties. “I don’t like being haunted by old horrors,” he said. “They come and go and don’t stay long, these days, but if they grow too dark of course I will seek help.”

Celebrían’s smile was exactly like Eldarion’s. “Forgive me,” she said. “I keep imagining that all you and your brothers share the same sort of stubbornness.”

“You mean Maedhros,” Maglor sighed, looking back out over the water. 

“Well, yes. He is the most egregious example, certainly. He spent so much time in Mandos but would not allow himself to rest, or to accept any kind of comfort, and so he was released. I suppose the Valar hoped he would find in life what he would not in death, but it has not proven so. I never quite understood what the stories meant when they said that his spirit burned like white fire in him, until I saw him here. And he is one of your brothers that I have met most recently. He came to visit Elrond just before we left home to come here; Curufin came too, seeking him. He seems much more settled.” 

Maglor shivered. It was one thing to see his brother’s spirit flare, fiery and bright, in the midst of battle, when the force of it was directed outward at the enemy, when it was a beacon to all their own people, a rallying point—the sort of thing to praise in the histories and songs. It was another to watch that same fire eat away inward. “I am not my brother,” he said quietly. “I have been as guilty as he is of punishing myself, but it was not like that.” 

“Good,” said Celebrían. She laid her hand on his arm. “And I hope you are not punishing yourself anymore.”

“I am not,” Maglor promised. “And—I really am fine. The dreams will pass. No one needs to treat me like I am made of glass.”

“Oh, believe me, I will not!” Celebrían laughed suddenly. “I know all too well how that feels, to feel so much better but to not quite look it, and have no one really believe you when you try to reassure them.”

Maglor laughed, as much in relief as in response to her own laughter. “That is exactly it,” he said. 

“Just tell me when someone tries to coddle you,” Celebrían said. She got up and dusted the sand off her skirts. “I shall set them straight. Or Elrond will, but he himself is inclined to coddle.”

“He isn’t that bad,” said Maglor, also getting to his feet. 

“Who isn’t that bad?” Elrond asked from a little ways up the path. 

“You,” Celebrían said, springing up it to kiss him. “You are perfectly acceptable and we have decided to keep you. Come on, both of you! Breakfast is on the table, and we are leaving before noon!” She swept away toward the house, leaving Maglor to shake the sand off his bare feet while Elrond gazed after her fondly. 

“I will be very glad to be home again,” Elrond said at last, as Maglor stepped up to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “You received a few letters this morning.”

“Letters?” Maglor said. “Me?”

“One is from Nerdanel, by the seal. I think the others are from your brothers but I cannot be certain; I do not know their writing.” Elrond was watching Maglor’s face carefully, and Maglor didn’t really know what it was doing. “You don’t have to read them.”

Yes, he did. Eventually. “Maybe when we reach Imloth Ningloron.” 

He did open the letter from his mother, though, when he got back to his room to make sure nothing had been overlooked in the packing, and to find Pídhres. His name was written neatly on the front of it, but inside was a more familiar, nearly illegible scrawl. It had been so long since Maglor had had to decipher a note from his mother that he was half afraid he had forgotten the trick of it—but he hadn’t, and the mere sight of his name in her hand brought him to tears. He blinked them away and sank onto the bed to read it. 

Dearest Macalaurë,

I was so happy to receive your letter, to know you are back again! Forgive me for not being there on the quay when you arrived. I am sure you know by now that your father has returned from Mandos, and I have been trying to decide what to do. Your brothers have all been here and holding war councils in my dining room about it. I’ve laughed at them for it, but it really isn’t funny. Nor is the way they keep a seat empty by Maitimo’s right hand, every time, no matter where they are seated, whether at the table or out in the garden. They are all united in not wanting to see Fëanáro, which I expected but which also grieves me too deeply to describe. From the way you did not write about either him or any of your brothers, and from what Telperinquar has said, I must suppose you do not want to see any of them. I wish it were not so, but I am not going to try to mediate. There is too much between all of you that I do not know about, and it all goes far too deep to be fixed by locking you in a room together until you make up.

Of course, that is the only thing that unifies your brothers. When Telperinquar brought back the tale of what happened to you—well, even as I write this there is shouting going on somewhere outside. They are not angry with me for keeping the secret, because I think they are all being very careful not to be angry with me about anything, but they are furious with Maitimo, and he is furious right back. At least they have not come to blows.

You have asked me not to worry about you, but I am still your mother and I do not think I can ever stop worrying. But it is a great relief to know that you found joy after everything. I do not know Master Elrond well except by reputation (I know Lady Celebrían a little better, for she has commissioned a few things from me over the years), but I have spoken of you often with Galadriel and I know that he loves you dearly. 

You also spoke of coming to see me, or of me coming to see you, but I will make no plans until I have seen your father and know what it is he intends to do. Of course, I may only be flattering myself in thinking that he intends to come here first. He might go to Aulë’s halls, or to Tirion, or somewhere else entirely. All your brothers are very reluctant to leave me alone until he does appear, wherever or whenever that may be. I don’t need their protection, but it is a comfort to have them all close. 

Whatever happens, I hope to see you very soon. 

Oh! Your gift! I have it here in my workshop with me to hold my brushes. It is beautiful, and Tyelpë tells me that you made it. I will always treasure anything made by your hands, whether it is pottery or a woodcarving or a letter. I love you so very much, Macalaurë. 

Ammë 

Maglor read it through again, and had to put it down so he didn’t drip tears onto it and smear the ink to make it truly illegible. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and took a few breaths. Then he folded the letter up and slipped it into his satchel. He had a box in a trunk somewhere probably already on its way south that held other equally precious letters; he would add this one to it when he was settling in there. 

The other two letters…Elrond might not recognize his brothers’ hands, but Maglor did. One letter was from Caranthir, and the other from Curufin. They were not as thick as the one from Nerdanel, but he couldn’t bring himself to open them, not even when he felt something small and hard tucked into the folds of Curufin’s. He slipped them into the satchel beside Nerdanel’s, and then went to coax Pídhres down from the wardrobe. By the time Elladan came looking for him he was dry-eyed and able to smile again. “All is well?” Elladan asked.

“Yes,” said Maglor, as Pídhres curled herself around his neck. 

The trip across the Bay was short, and horses were waiting for them. Maglor sprang into the saddle after tucking Pídhres safely into one of the saddle bags so she could nap in the cozy dark, suddenly eager to be on the road, to see again the lands that lay beyond the Calacirya in spite of the way his heart rose into his throat as they made their way up the pass, many in the party already singing a merry traveling song. Soon Tirion came into view, its towers gleaming under the bright sun. At a distance it looked exactly as Maglor remembered it, though of course the light was different. Up close he knew it would be much changed, the districts shifted around, many buildings still empty, perhaps some of them slowly crumbling as he had been told his own family’s home was. He allowed himself only a few moments to stop and stare at the sight before turning away to follow Celebrían toward the southward road. Elrond caught his eye, but seemed reassured by what he saw. It was not as overwhelming as he’d once feared. 

Worse was when they came, after only a few hours, to the lane turning off the main road to his grandfather’s house. The land was aglow with flowers and flowering trees. Maglor saw the buildings beyond them, saw the smoke rising from the forges and heard voices calling to one another over the distant ring of hammers. There past it was the plum orchard, also all in bloom, pink and fragrant, and he saw figures walking through the trees—one of them a very large hound. His breath caught and his horse tossed her head as his hands tightened on the reins. He saw the hound’s head go up—damn Huan and his nose—and saw the figures with him turn towards the road; one of them was very tall, and he thought that he saw a gleam of copper-colored hair. 

Maglor urged his horse forward, coming up between the twins. “Care to race?” he asked them, and did not wait for an answer before breaking into a canter and then a gallop. The orchard passed in a pink blur, and then he had a brief glimpse of a house, and then nothing but fields and little patches of wood, and the river gleaming in the distance. 

A shout from behind him had him looking back to see Galadriel swiftly catching up and then passing him, her hair coming loose of its braids to fly in the wind behind her. Elladan and Elrohir were just behind her, and Maglor forgot all about his reason for starting the race to begin with as he laughed for the sheer joy of it. With the wind in his hair and the sun on his face, and a swift horse beneath him, Maglor felt almost like the Lord of the Gap again, racing across the plains careless and bold. 

It was many miles before they slowed—the horses could have gone even farther, being born and bred there in the Undying Lands and surpassing even Shadowfax in endurance—and Maglor found himself laughing again as he and Galadriel argued over who had won while they waited for the rest of their party to catch up. Elladan and Elrohir were breathless with the thrill of the race; Pídhres meowed plaintively in her saddlebag, having not quite enjoyed the sudden burst of speed, but she was placated when Maglor drew her out to lay across his shoulders instead. 

“Did you always have a fondness for cats, or is that new?” Galadriel asked. 

“I don’t think I thought about them one way or another until I came to Rivendell,” said Maglor as he scratched behind Pídhres’ ears. 

“One adopted him, and he has since been passed down through the generations like a very strange family heirloom,” Elrohir said. “Pídhres is one of Tári’s descendants, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Maglor. “I left the rest of the litter in Annúminas to terrorize the royal court there.” Galadriel laughed. She was busy combing her hair out with her fingers and tidying it into a new braid. “I had not intended to bring one with me, but this little one refused to be left behind.”

Galadriel’s fingers stilled as she looked back up the road. “Does she do well with dogs?” she asked. 

“Well enough,” said Maglor. “Why?” He followed her gaze, and his mouth went dry. “Oh.”

“What?” Elladan twisted in his saddle. “Where did that hound come from? It’s huge!”

“That is Huan,” said Galadriel. 

Huan reached them just ahead of Elrond and Celebrían and the rest of the party. He trotted up and laid his great head on Maglor’s knee with a soft woof of greeting. Maglor held very still, but for the hand he made himself lay atop Huan’s head. “Hello, Huan,” he said softly, and earned himself a lick up his entire arm. “Ugh, Huan!” 

Celegorm must have sent him, Maglor thought as Elladan and Elrohir laughed and dismounted to make the great hound’s acquaintance. He licked them all over their faces, doubtless recognizing them for Lúthien’s children. Maglor didn’t know what to think or feel about it—about his brother sending his hound to—what, keep an eye on him? Drag him back to Nerdanel’s house? He wouldn’t put such a plan past Celegorm, though he doubted whether Huan would really go through with it. 

“I think,” Galadriel said quietly beside him, “this means your brothers are worried about you.”

“I wish they wouldn’t,” Maglor said. It had been easier when he could imagine them as resentful and angry, like the ghosts and dreams that had haunted him in the dark—easier to justify to himself, in the privacy of his own heart, why he did not want to see them, if he could believe they did not want to see him either. It was one thing to be told that wasn’t true—by Celebrimbor, by others—but another to have two letters and a dog in front of him, like an admonishment for racing past on the road. He glanced back up it, but no one else was following. 

When their party continued on, he did not look back again.

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There was nothing of particular note about the merry company heading south down the road until Huan lifted his head, sniffing the air and letting out a short whine. He was looking toward the riders, and as Maedhros followed his gaze he saw one horseman break away from the rest of the group, letting out a cry of challenge as he sped into a gallop, dark hair lifting behind him like a banner as he leaned forward in the saddle. Another three sped after him, two dark and one fair, who called out an answer to the challenge. 

Maedhros knew both of those voices, but it was the first that took his breath away, not heard for so long but forever unmistakable. He had to brace himself against the nearest tree before his knees gave out entirely. Beside him Celegorm went very still, and Curufin, having not at first noticed Huan’s actions, spun around, eyes going wide. They all watched the horseman disappear into the distance, chased by the other three. The remainder of the party burst into bright laughter. 

“Huan,” Celegorm said, breaking the silence so suddenly that Maedhros started. “Huan, go after him.”

“And do what?” Curufin demanded. “Drag him back by the scruff of his neck like a wayward puppy?”

“Just—just stay with him,” Celegorm said. He did not look at Curufin, or answer him directly; he never did, these days. “Make sure he’s all right.” Huan butted his head into Celegorm’s shoulder, and obeyed, loping away through the trees. 

“You did not have to send him,” Maedhros said. If Maglor was well enough to race Galadriel like that, surely he was well enough not to need constant watching. Celegorm did not answer. Instead he watched the rest of the party—Elrond and his household, returning from Tol Eressëa—until they too were past the house. Then he stalked away through the trees, back toward the river, the beads in his hair clicking together with each step. 

Curufin remained where he was. “Do you think it was coincidence that he decided to start a race just there, or do you think he wanted to put as much distance between himself and us as he could?” he asked. Maedhros didn’t answer; they both knew it was not coincidence. Maglor would have recognized the orchard and Mahtan’s house instantly. He may even have seen them from the road. Huan was difficult to mistake, and they had not been hiding. 

It hurt, even having known to expect it after what both Finrod and Celebrimbor had said. Maedhros breathed through the feeling—remarkably like being stabbed—and pushed himself off of the tree. “At least we know he’s happy,” he said. Curufin was still watching the road, though even the last of Elrond and Celebrían’s party had disappeared from sight by now. Maedhros turned away. He did not follow Celegorm, but took a slightly different track, away from the road and toward the river. Once there he followed it upstream until he came to one of the willow trees, with its thick curtain of leaves that he could slip behind and pretend that the rest of the world outside did not exist. The tree knew him well by now; he came often to sit between its roots to bathe his feet in the cool water, or to sit with a sketchbook because his mother insisted that he do something with his hands, and at least a drawing could be ripped up or burned afterward if he hated it. 

He hated most of his drawings. But he had found that he did like the act of drawing. 

His sketchbook was back at the house, though, and he did not want to go get it. Instead he drew his knees up and rested his head on his arms. He did not look up when someone else slipped through the willow fronds to sit beside him. “Curufin told me you saw Maglor,” Caranthir said, leaning his shoulder against Maedhros’. 

“At a distance.”

“Mm.” Caranthir sat back and moved behind Maedhros, picking up his hair to finger comb the tangles out of it and begin braiding. Maedhros lifted his head then, unable to deny that it felt nice, and unable to deny Caranthir anything, let alone this simple kindness. Neither of them spoke. They’d spent more time together since Caranthir had returned to life than they ever had in their previous lives, with the two of them lingering in Nerdanel’s house while their brothers went off into the wilds or back to Tirion, but it was most often like this—speaking little, both of them following the track of their own thoughts while glad of company that demanded nothing else. 

“Why haven’t you returned to Tirion?” Maedhros asked after a while. 

Caranthir didn’t answer immediately. He finished one braid and began another, fingernails scraping lightly over Maedhros’ scalp. It felt like he was braiding ribbons into it. Finally, he said, “Nearly everyone who died in the Nirnaeth is there.”

For a moment Maedhros didn’t understand. Then he turned to look at Caranthir; the half-finished braid fell from his fingers to unravel. “That was not your fault, Moryo,” he said, horrified to realize that he’d never said it before—not aloud, not to Caranthir himself. 

The smile that Caranthir offered him did not reach his eyes. “I know that, truly. I would not be here if I didn’t. But it’s—I still failed to see it in time, and it’s hard to see now everyone who suffered because of it.”

“Moryo…” Maedhros had two twist even further to put his arms around him. “You know I never blamed you. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Caranthir said, voice muffled where his face was pressed into Maedhros’ shoulder. “Yes, I know. Maglor—he made sure that I knew, afterward.”

The days and weeks after the Nirnaeth were a blur of pain and grief and fear. They had all been wounded badly—and Caranthir the worst. Had Maglor not been there, Uldor would have killed him. They had all trusted Ulfang and his sons. They had all failed to see the treachery in front of them until it was too late. 

And of course then, as had so often been the case, it had been Maglor that kept them together, kept them moving, kept them breathing, teasing and cajoling and singing until they had gone far enough south into Ossiriand that they could stop—stop and figure out what had happened, and what to do next. Stop and mourn. Maedhros had been unable to find any tears by then, and so Maglor had shed them for him. Maedhros had been the eldest, the leader, but of course it had been Maglor to step in when he had been unable to even put together a coherent thought, let alone a plan of action.

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros whispered. 

“Their treachery wasn’t your fault, either.”

“I know.” That wasn’t what he was apologizing for. 

Caranthir drew back, and reached for Maedhros’ hair again, retrieving the ribbon that had fallen out. “I hate that we are all at odds,” he said, as Maedhros obediently turned around again. “Hardly any of us speaking to each other. Maglor staying away entirely. It feels wrong. Just like it felt wrong to—to have to sit and discuss meeting Atar again like were were planning for a battle.”

“I know,” Maedhros said. The willow fronds swayed in the breeze; somewhere a lark burst into bright and joyful song.

“We loved him once,” Caranthir said, very softly, as he tied off the second braid. 

“Do you not still?” asked a quiet voice. Maedhros went still, immediately recognizing the twist in his stomach and the tightening of his throat for fear and hating it, hating that it was Fëanor’s voice that caused it. Hating that he was there and that they had not heard his approach. Behind him Caranthir shifted, and Maedhros turned to see his hand falling away from his belt, where he had been reaching for a weapon that was not there. 

Maedhros hated that, too, because his hand had also gone to his side, seeking a sword that no longer existed. He dropped it to the ground and pushed himself up, Caranthir following, and they both turned to face Fëanor, who had ducked under the willow to join them. He was clad in the familiar plain robes given to those returned from Mandos. Like the ones Maedhros had been given, his bore small bits of subtle embroidery along the sleeves and the collar. By instinct, without thinking about it, Maedhros had stepped forward, putting himself between his brother and danger. He saw the moment Fëanor realized it, saw the hurt flash across his face before it was masked again. 

This was not the Fëanor that haunted their memories. The manic fire in his eyes was gone, restored to the bright candle flame it had been in their youth. Why was that worse? Fëanor met his gaze and Maedhros was suddenly glad that they had met this way, glad—not to see his father, but to have his father see him, to see what he had wrought. 

He did not want witnesses to this meeting, though. It would be painful enough without someone watching. “Caranthir,” he said, “return to the house.” He spoke in the tongue of the Easterlings, the first one he thought of which Fëanor would not know. 

“But you…” Caranthir began to protest, in the same tongue, but Maedhros looked at him and the words died on his lips. His face was flushed, the sadness from just a few moments ago replaced with anger. He did not like being startled or taken unawares any more than Maedhros did. He set his jaw and said, “We just spoke of this, didn’t we? You do not have to protect me.”

“That isn’t why I’m asking,” Maedhros said. That wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t the whole of it, or even the biggest reason. “Go back to the house, tell the others he’s here. Please.” 

They stared at each other for another few seconds. Finally, Caranthir took a breath and nodded. “I will warn the others,” he said, and reached out to grip Maedhros’ arm. Maedhros returned the gesture, trying not to think of how it was one they’d used when parting before battle. Caranthir glanced at Fëanor, who opened his mouth to speak, and then left, passing away through the willow and down the river before another word could be said. 

Maedhros looked back again at Fëanor, who watched Caranthir until he was out of sight. “That was no elven tongue,” Fëanor said finally, looking back at Maedhros. In this, at least, he had not changed—anything new and strange would catch his attention and interest without fail. Or maybe it was not that he hadn’t changed, Maedhros thought, but that he had changed back. Everything about him was now like who he had been before it had all gone wrong; as the tension had ratcheted ever higher in Tirion before the exile to Formenos, and then the Darkening, Fëanor’s focus had narrowed and narrowed—to jealousy and anger and fear—and would not be swayed. That had resulted in the forging of their first swords, and culminated in the drawing of one against Fingolfin, before the king and before all of Tirion.

It should have been a relief to see this glimpse of the father he’d once loved so dearly. Instead it felt like the twist of a knife deep inside him, because Maedhros was not and could never be again who he had been before it had all gone wrong. 

“It was spoken by Men,” Maedhros said after a moment in which he made himself take a breath. “By the Secondborn you scorned ere ever they woke under the first sunrise.”

Fëanor grimaced. “Nelyafinwë—”

He could not bear the sound of that name in that voice. “Maedhros.”

There was a flash of temper, however brief. “Nelyafinwë,” Fëanor repeated, doggedly. “So I named you, and you are still my son, whatever—”

“Yes,” Maedhros said as his hand throbbed with sudden, searing pain. His father’s eyes widened as he took a step back, though whether because of his tone or whatever his face showed, Maedhros could not be sure. He tried to bring forth the manner and speech of the Lord of Himring, but he could feel it cracking already as he went on, a tremor belying the hard and flat tone he strove for, lest he loose all control and begin shouting. Or weeping. “Eldest and leader of the Sons of Fëanor I have been, dispossessed and accursed, Kinslayers and thieves. That is our legacy, Atar.” He held out his hand, showing the scar pattern on his palm. It was no real scar tissue, only a memory of the wounding; it was usually unnoticeable except up close, but now it was pink and livid on his skin, tender and painful. Fëanor looked at it, and his face grew pale. 

“I did not want this,” he said at last into the silence that fell between them. The singing lark had departed, and no other birds dared take its place. “I did not want any of you—”

“It doesn’t matter whether you wanted it. It is what happened.” Maedhros dropped his hand, and saw his father’s gaze go to his right arm, which ended before the sleeve of his tunic did. “All I have ever been is your son,” he said, the words spilling out of his mouth before he could stop them, voicing a hurt that he had not even known he had until Curufin had been born, and had not known how to name until years and years later. His voice broke on it now, like falling on a blade; he wasn’t the Lord of Himring or even the leader of Fëanor’s Sons anymore. He was just—Maedhros, broken so far beyond repair that even the Fëanturi had despaired of him. “From the moment of my birth, that is all I was. Nelyafinwë: the third—not strong, nor clever, nor swift, only the third. A point to make, a shot taken at your brother. Were you pleased that Nelya happened to sound so like Nolo?” 

His father’s face had been pale before; now it was ashen. “That is not what I—”

Maedhros found that he did not care what his father thought he had been doing. “Of all my deeds in Beleriand there are only two that I do not regret.” It was not the full truth—he had done many things he didn’t regret, but none of them were as important. “They were the two things that went against the path you chose for us. I gave the crown to Fingolfin.” He paused for a moment, but Fëanor said nothing. “And I gave myself to the fire.” Something passed across his father’s face at that, but Maedhros was done trying to read his father’s moods. It didn’t matter anymore. “Wait here. Amil will come to speak with you.”

“And your brothers?” The question was spoken softly, almost whispered, as unlike Fëanor as ice was unlike fire, and after such a long pause that Maedhros had almost turned to leave without expecting any reply at all. “Will they speak to me, or do they all feel as you do?”

“Wait here,” Maedhros repeated. He took a step backwards, wishing there was something else he could say. Something that would make Fëanor really understand. There wasn’t. Or rather: there was, but Maedhros could not bring himself to be so cruel as to invoke Finwë. Instead he just turned his back and walked away, keeping his pace deliberate as he made his way back downstream toward his mother’s house.

He met Nerdanel halfway back. “He is under the willow,” Maedhros told her when she stopped. 

She took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead when he leaned down. “I am sorry, Maitimo,” she said. 

He shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for, Ammë.” He kissed her in return, but did not linger to watch her go to meet Fëanor. She had not come with any of his brothers; like him, she surely did not want witnesses. 

Maedhros made it to the garden before the twisting in his stomach turned to something sharp, clawing its way up his throat. He could hear his brothers inside, all talking over one another—about their father this time, instead of Maglor. He couldn't face them, and slipped in and upstairs to his small bedroom. It overlooked the garden and the way to the river beyond but he did not look toward the window. Once the door latched and he had something truly solid between him and the rest of the world his knees buckled, and he slid to the floor, back against the wall, and buried his face in his arms. He couldn’t stop shaking. His palm still hurt.

Part of him, he realized, had hoped that he would see his father and feel differently. That he would want to run to him as he had when he’d been young and the name Nelyafinwë had not sounded like a curse, when his father had been a source of comfort and protection, of love and warmth. Now, though, even after all this time, resentment and fear won out, tangled up in shreds of that old love dug in like barbs, nothing now but a source of pain. The dashing of that hope he hadn’t even known he harbored was the worst thing that he had felt since his return from Mandos. 

It wasn’t until the door opened and his brothers all slipped inside, one by one, to join him on the floor that Maedhros noticed the tears soaked into his sleeves. No one spoke; they just all piled onto him, hands on his legs or his arms, arms around his shoulders, someone’s head resting against his. 

“What did he say?” someone asked finally. One of the twins. 

“Nothing,” Maedhros replied, voice thick. “I spoke. I did not want to listen.”

Silence fell again. Maedhros tried to stop the tears, but failed. This wasn’t the awful storm of grief and horror that had accompanied his glimpse of Maglor in the palantír. This was a steady river of them, tears that he should have shed many years ago but didn’t. Tears that seemed to take some of the heat of him away as they fell, leaving him feeling empty and desolate. 

Curufin spoke next. “Come with me and Moryo to Tirion, Nelyo. Don’t stay here alone.”

“Or come with us into the wilds,” said Celegorm. 

He wanted to protest. “If Ammë…”

“Ammë told us to take you away somewhere,” said Curufin. “If you don’t want to stay with me, go to Fingon like he’s always asking.”

“Or,” said Caranthir, very softly, “you could go to Lórien.”

“Or we could all go—anywhere. Somewhere far away to leave all this mess behind for a while,” said Amras. “We are strangers to each other and—and that should not be. Maybe we can fix what is broken if we are away from Tirion and from—everything.”

Once again the gap was left. No one spoke of going to Maglor, even though it surely took no great insight to know that where Maglor was, was the one place Maedhros wanted to be—and the one place he did not dare to go. How could he bring his misery there when Maglor had so clearly found joy and laughter again? But there would be no fixing what was broken between the rest of them without all of them coming together, and they all knew it. Still. Maybe Amras was right. If they could not fix it they could at least patch it, glue it together so it might hold until Maglor came to them.

Finally, he raised his head. Five faces looked back at him solemnly. Curufin’s eyes were red, and Celegorm’s face was very pale. Maedhros sighed. “I do not want to go to Lórien,” he said, “but beyond that—I don’t care. I’ll go wherever you want.”

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Imloth Ningloron was in fact the valley that Maglor had thought it was—a wide bowl-shaped thing filled with flowing water in between the green grass and yellow flowers. Under the bright spring sun it sparkled and seemed to glow, all emerald and gold. He’d visited it before in his youthful wanderings, but he found he liked it better now, with the sprawling house in the center and the outbuildings and workshops beyond. The gardens and orchards lent a splash of bright rainbow color, and though it was quite different at first glance, the feeling of it was so like Imladris that following the road down into it felt like coming home. 

Elladan was the one to say so, and Celebrían laughed. “Good!” she said. “I tried very hard to make it so.”

“It’s perfect,” Elrohir said.

Huan trotted along beside Maglor. Pídhres lay over his shoulders, watching Huan warily. She did not usually mind dogs, in the little time she had spent in their company, but Huan was no normal dog. Maglor scratched her behind the ears as he looked around, drinking in the flowers and trees and the streams and ponds. He might have missed the forests of Imladris more keenly, except that the hills beyond the valley, between it and the towering Pelóri, were thick with trees, and there was nothing stopping him from slipping way into their cool shade if he ever desired it. 

Everyone in the household had turned out to greet them, all of them more than eager to welcome Elladan and Elrohir at last. Maglor dropped out of the saddle and found himself also surrounded by old friends, though they were taken aback by Huan’s presence—especially since he refused to leave Maglor’s side, to Pídhres’ clear dissatisfaction. “No, I don’t know why he is here,” Maglor said more than once. “But I can’t very well make him go home if he does not want to.”

His things had been taken to his room already, and his clothes and harp unpacked for him. The room itself was similar in size and shape to his room in Imladris, and similarly decorated in shades of blue. The wooden floor and the furniture were of a different, lighter colored wood, and the hearth was smaller, but there would be little call for warm fires here except in the very heart of winter. Likewise the windows were bigger, letting in the fragrant breeze. He leaned out of one to look out over the valley. Pídhres had vanished as soon as he’d set foot inside the house, off exploring and making herself at home. No doubt she would acquaint herself with the kitchen and the cooks, and charm them all into slipping her treats and tidbits at all hours. Huan, of course, had followed at Maglor’s heels. 

“I really don’t need you watching my every move, you know,” Maglor said to him, turning away from the window. Huan ignored him, nosing instead at his satchel until it tipped over and opened, spilling some of the contents over the rug. “What are you doing, you ridiculous animal?” Huan raised his large head and woofed at him reproachfully. “There’s nothing in there that needs immediate unpacking.” Maglor went to pick up the satchel, and felt the crinkle of paper under his fingers. “Oh.” He glared at Huan as he sat down on the floor. “You want me to open these, don’t you?” He pulled out the letters—the ones from his brothers. Huan lay down, pressing against Maglor’s leg. That head would rest on his legs if he tried to get up, Maglor thought. He sighed, and stared down at his name, in Curufin’s neat script and Caranthir’s scrawl, which was not unlike Nerdanel’s except that it was a little neater. “And if I don’t want to?” he asked Huan. “If I want to toss these back into the bottom of my bag and forget about them?” Huan only looked at him with that same reproachful expression.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Maglor called, glad of the distraction. Elrond came in, and raised his eyebrows at the scene. “I think Huan might be plotting to kidnap me,” Maglor said. 

“I hope not,” said Elrond. He joined them on the floor and said to Huan, “Please do not kidnap Maglor. We are all very fond of him here.”

“I hope he listens to you, son of Lúthien,” Maglor said, “but if I disappear without a word, I suppose you’ll know where to look for me.”

“I’m glad you can joke about it,” said Elrond. “Are those the letters you received on Eressëa?”

“Yes.” Maglor sighed. 

“Well, if Huan will allow it, set them aside for now and come walk with me. I want to show you the gardens.”

Maglor gladly tossed the letters back onto his bed and got to his feet. Huan huffed and butted his head into Maglor’s back, nearly knocking him over. “Enough, Huan,” Elrond said. “The letters are not going anywhere.”

Huan relented, but still followed them outside. The gardens were as large and sprawling as the house, and there were many bridges and stepping stones laid out to cross the myriad streams and little rivers that flowed through the valley. Gazebos and benches were scattered everywhere, offering places to sit and rest, or to gather, or to seek solitude. “Celebrían thought of everything,” Maglor said as they stepped over a bridge over a series of tiny falls down which water foamed and churned. 

“She did,” Elrond agreed. “There is the path that leads to the workshops,” he added, pointing to a white gravel pathway that vanished between two enormous lilacs.

“I shall go explore them as soon as my chaperon allows it,” Maglor said, earning himself another head butt from Huan. 

Elrond smiled, but only a little. “Here, this is what I wanted to show you.” They came to a hedge, unexpected in the midst of the wider open gardens, where the view was blocked only by occasional shrubs or trees. Beyond it a mallorn tree grew, almost entirely finished shedding its golden flowers in favor of dark green and silver leaves. Maglor followed Elrond through the gate and found himself in the midst of a memorial. It as not like the grand monument that the Elves of Eressëa had erected for the Edain; it was instead a collection of small and personal remembrances—devoid of historical meaning but filled with meaning of a more important kind. There were a handful of statues, but more stones with symbols or names engraved on them, or sculptures of something more abstract but made with great love, nestled gently in among flowers and bushes and small trees. 

And there were graves: three of them, there under the mallorn tree. “The hobbits?” Maglor said quietly. Elrond nodded, and Maglor stepped forward to kneel before them. They had no markers, but they needed none—not here. Snapdragons grew around Bilbo’s small mound, and forget-me-nots over Frodo’s, and Sam’s was shaded by a rosebush. Maglor remembered visiting him in the Shire before he sailed, as he trimmed his rosebushes and talked of maybe taking a cutting or two with him, if he could be sure they would survive the voyage. At least one had, and Maglor was very glad of it. 

“Did Frodo find the healing he sought?” he asked, looking back at Elrond. 

“He did.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Maglor rose, and looked around further. One of the few statues in the garden was of Gilraen, hands clasped together at her breast as she gazed upward toward the sky, or toward the branches of the mallorn tree. 

“Gilraen has been often in my thoughts, lately,” Elrond said softly, coming to stand by Maglor. 

“And in mine,” Maglor said. 

“Celebrían cannot bear to ask you, but…were you there, at the end?”

“Yes.” Maglor held out his arms and Elrond stepped into them, trembling a little. “Her grave lies atop Cerin Amroth, covered in niphredil and elanor and simbelmynë. Her grief was bitter, and she could not bear the thought of being buried under stone in Minas Tirith, but she found peace in the end. And her children and their children are strong and fair, and wise and kind.” Elrond wept, and Maglor stroked his hair. Tears pricked his own eyes. “Estel rests in Rath Dínen, with Merry and Pippin on either side. He passed beyond the Circles of the World in a time and manner of his own choosing, and he was entirely at peace.” 

“As Elros did,” Elrond whispered. 

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Thank you for staying with them when I could not.”

Maglor tightened his arms just a little. “They were happy, Elrond. So very, very happy.” 

They sat on the grass beside the hobbits’ graves, and for a time Maglor spoke, and Elrond listened, of all Aragorn and Arwen’s children, and their children, and the things they had built and the deeds they had done. Huan had not come into the memorial garden with them, perhaps realizing at last that his presence would not always be wanted. Elrond leaned on Maglor’s shoulder, weeping quietly, and when the tears stopped he straightened, refreshed from the release of them, rather than wearied. He turned his gaze up toward the mallorn tree as the breeze picked up, sending the branches waving and the leaves dancing. A few flowers drifted down onto the grass before them. Maglor reached out and caught one in his cupped hands. Like the month of May, he had a particular fondness for mallorn trees and their flowers, and the golden winter leaves—almost the very first thing he had seen upon his waking after being rescued from Dol Guldur. There was no other shade of gold that he thought so beautiful as a winter mallorn leaf. He was both unsurprised and very glad to find such a tree here in this place. 

“Galadriel planted it,” Elrond said after a little while, his voice steady again. “From a seed she brought from Lothlórien.” 

“The one in the Shire still thrives,” said Maglor. They had stopped by Bag End on their last journey west to leave little gifts underneath it for the Gardner family. Celeborn had laid his hands on the smooth silver bark and sung a quiet song of growth and resilience, though the tree hadn’t really needed it. The soil of the Shire was rich, and its roots ran deep and strong. “As does the White Tree.”

“I am glad,” Elrond said in a low voice. He ran his fingers over a few small forget-me-nots. “I am glad that Celebrimbor returned to us before Frodo left. They spoke a great deal and I think it helped them both.” He took a breath and said, more lightly, “And now Gimli too is come. No one was expecting that—except perhaps Gandalf, but you can never quite tell with him.”

Maglor laughed. “They made it then, he and Legolas? I’m glad, though I told them it was a mad idea.”

“Gimli was welcomed with great honor, when we all got over the shock, and they are currently guests of Aulë.” Elrond rose to his feet, and Maglor followed him out of the garden. “It is always quiet there,” Elrond said as the gate swung shut behind them. 

“Thank you for showing it to me,” said Maglor. 

“There will be something placed there for—for Aragorn and Arwen, sometime soon. I do not yet know what it will be.”

“There is no hurry,” Maglor said.

“I know.” 

Huan reappeared, muzzle and feet wet from whatever stream he had been splashing around in. Maglor ran his hand over Huan’s head, scratching behind his ears the way he did for Pídhres. “What else have you got to show me?” he asked Elrond. 

Elrond smiled. “The courtyard by the library, to start,” he said. “It was Bilbo’s favorite spot to read—and where he drank many cups of tea with Finrod.”

“Of course he did,” Maglor laughed, as he followed Elrond down another path lined with white and grey stones. “Terrible gossips, the both of them. It surprises me not at all that they were friends.”

As Maglor and the twins and Lord Celeborn settled in, preparations began in earnest for Midsummer celebrations, which would double as a welcoming celebration for all the newcomers. Fewer guests were expected than Maglor would have thought, but then he recalled the festivals held in Tirion and in Valmar and Alqualondë, and was relieved that Imloth Ningloron would be smaller. 

Huan continued to follow at Maglor’s heels as he went about the valley. It was the subject of many jokes and silly songs, and the source of much frustration for poor Pídhres, who as it turned out did not like to share. Maglor was her person, and Huan was an interloper and usurper. This provided even more material for Lindir’s songs, which were not only teasing but catching, so Maglor even caught Celebrían humming them as she tended to her orchards and her roses. He didn’t mind—the songs were very funny—though he would have preferred it if Pídhres could keep her claws sheathed when she sat on his shoulder. 

A few days before they expected anyone to arrive for Midsummer, Finrod appeared with Celebrimbor in tow, and several bottles of wine in hand. They found Maglor in the pottery workshop, where neither Huan nor Pídhres were permitted, at last digging his hands into a lump of clay and humming one of Lindir’s sillier songs about dogs and cats. He was alone that afternoon, and did not notice anyone coming up the path until Finrod’s shadow fell over his wheel. “Hello, Cousin,” Maglor said, looking up in surprise and letting the clay collapse beneath his hands as the wheel wound down to a stop. “What brings you here?”

“You do, of course,” said Finrod. He held up a bottle of wine. “We are going to get drunk, you and I and Celebrimbor.”

“We are?” Maglor leaned over to look past Finrod at Celebrimbor, who leaned on the door frame and shrugged. “Why?”

“Because Finrod says so,” said Celebrimbor. 

“So put that away and wash your hands,” said Finrod. “We’re going off into the woods so as not to disturb my niece and her husband.”

“You think no one else gets drunk in this valley?” Maglor asked even as he rose from his seat to obey. The clay went back with the rest, his plans of an afternoon shaping a vase dashed. 

“Not like we will,” said Finrod, following Maglor outside to a nearby stream. “There is one thing the three of us have in common, and I think I am going to burst if I do not talk about it soon with someone who understands.”

Maglor knelt to scrub the clay off his hands, and frowned into the water. “What do we have…” His hands stilled, and he watched the pale cloud of clay sloughed off of them float away downstream. “No,” he said. 

“Yes,” Finrod replied.

“No, Finrod.”

“Do you know who the last person who successfully said no to Finrod was?” Celebrimbor asked. Maglor glared at him. “Right, I don’t either.”

Maglor made himself rub the last bits of clay off his arms and stood to face his cousin. “I am not going to get drunk and talk about—about that,” he said. 

“Have you ever spoken of it?” Finrod asked. 

“That isn’t—”

“Because I haven’t,” Finrod went on, “except once to Nienna, while I was still dead. It helped, of course, but even she cannot truly understand. Come on—what is Huan doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Maglor said. Huan trotted around the corner of the workshop. “But he won’t leave me be.”

Finrod frowned at Huan, who sat down and scratched himself. “…Well, I suppose he won’t go telling tales. Come on. There’s a small glade up in the hills that is quite pleasant this time of year.”

As Finrod strode off, Celebrimbor looked at Maglor. “He won’t leave either of us alone until we go along with it, you know.”

“I can’t, Tyelpë.”

“That’s what the wine is for!” Finrod called over his shoulder. “Come on!” He was at his most imperious, missing only the Nauglamír and the crown of Nargothrond upon his head. He wore a circlet of jade instead, and strings of jade beads around his neck and rings of emerald upon his fingers—resplendent and princely, and clearly prepared to be insufferable. 

“I can’t believe I ever missed you,” Maglor said as he and Celebrimbor followed after. Finrod only laughed. Huan, of course, kept pace with them, coming up between Celebrimbor and Maglor so they could both rest their hands on his head or his back. Maglor was glad of his company in that moment, rather than merely resigned. 

“My father and uncles have left Grandmother Nerdanel’s house,” Celebrimbor said quietly. “They have gone on some journey out into the west, as you all used to when you were young.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Celebrimbor took a breath. “Maedhros met with Fëanor. It was not planned and it…did not go well.”

Maglor halted, all kinds of horrible things coming into his mind. “Define not well, Tyelpë.”

“No one was hurt,” Celebrimbor said, “but Maedhros had words with him and then—well, I didn’t see him afterward, but I have not seen my other uncles so united in anything since returning here as they were in getting him somewhere far away.”

“Are you coming?” Finrod called from far ahead of them.

“Yes, we’re coming!” Celebrimbor called back. They started to walk again. “But—well. Fëanor is back. Grandmother has spoken to him. I don’t know how that went, but he did not come back to the house with her. I went back to Tirion then—and then Finrod came to drag me out here.”

Wherever Fëanor went, Maglor thought as they left the paths of the garden and struck out across the meadowland beyond, he was sure to end up at Imloth Ningloron sometime. Maglor’s return was no secret. He could think of a few reasons his father might want to come find him. None of them were good. Last and least of Fëanor’s sons, he had been called, and it was still too easy to imagine those words in Fëanor’s own voice, as he remembered the arc of the Silmaril as it soared through the air into the Sea. 

By the time they came to the glade that Finrod had spoken of, Maglor was a little more willing to take a large swig when the first bottle of wine was presented to him. He was not willing to talk, however. Not about Sauron, and certainly not about Fëanor. They sat beneath a large beech tree, and Huan lay with his head on Maglor’s lap. “I am still shocked to see him away from Celegorm’s side,” Finrod said, pointing at Huan with the bottle.

“It was Celegorm that sent him,” Celebrimbor said. He took the bottle and took a sip. “All right, Finrod, this was your idea. I do not want to talk about it any more than Maglor does.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, either,” said Finrod, “but if I do not I will burst, and at least I know neither of you will pity me for it.”

“We cannot be the only ones you can talk to,” Celebrimbor said. “You were not alone—”

“I led them into that place once,” Finrod said, uncharacteristically sharp—but sharp like broken glass, jagged and pained, rather than sharp like a blade. “I will not take them back in memory just for my own comfort.”

Maglor drew a knee up to his chest; the brand there hurt. “At least he did not know who you were,” he said before he could bite his tongue. 

“He knew enough, after I was foolish enough to challenge him.” Finrod took the bottle back. “Did you try? You would have done better than I.”

“He challenged me,” Maglor whispered. He buried his hand in Huan’s thick fur, and couldn’t make himself look up. “But I…even before that, I was diminished. I resisted him for a time but it was not enough. And later…I tried to sing the foundations down, but he…” His other hand went to his mouth. He made himself stop touching the scars and held out his hand. The bottle was pressed into it, but he barely tasted the wine when he drank. His mouth was full of the taste of blood, and his throat ached with the memory of Sauron’s iron grip. 

Celebrimbor took the bottle and drank. “We did proper battle, with armies and songs and everything we could muster,” he said as he passed it back to Finrod. “It was hopeless from the start. We just needed to give everyone else time to get away; I did not even know that Elrond was coming. No messages had gotten through the siege.” 

“He had his Ring then,” Maglor said quietly. 

“Yes. He did. And I gave him the rest.” Celebrimbor was staring at his hands, flexing his fingers. Maglor reached out to take one of them in his own. Celebrimbor had a smith’s grip, but his hand shook as he closed his fingers around Maglor’s. 

“Not the Three,” Maglor said. 

“They were not there to surrender.”

“But you never told them where they were,” Maglor said.

Celebrimbor looked at him. “How do you know that?” he asked. 

Oh. Maglor looked at the bottle that had somehow ended up in his grasp again. He did not take another drink. “What is in this wine?” he asked instead of answering Celebrimbor’s question. It was meant to be a joke, a distraction from what he’d just revealed, but his voice shook too badly for it.

“Grapes,” said Finrod. “And I think some spices, but Elenwë is horrible and cruel and won’t share the recipe. How do you know? I thought you had never come to Eregion.”

Tears stung his eyes, and Maglor shook his head. He did not want to talk about this. He closed his eyes but he just saw Celebrimbor in torment. 

“Did he show you?” Celebrimbor whispered. “Uncle, did he show you what he—oh, oh.” He moved closer to put his hands on Maglor’s shoulders, pressing his forehead to Maglor’s temple. “That was pointlessly cruel,” he whispered.

“It was all pointless,” Maglor choked out. 

“It is over,” Celebrimbor said. “It is as you said on Eressëa. He is gone, and we are here.”

“Blessed be the race of the halflings, and may their Shire remain forever green and fair,” Finrod said, raising the bottle in a toast to the sky before taking another drink. “And more than that, Macalaurë. You survived.” 

“Do not mistake that for strength, Felagund,” said Maglor. “I kept my tongue and I kept my hands and my life but only because he wanted—he wanted—” He couldn’t say it, and had to cover his face with those unbroken hands, shuddering with the memory of cold stone against raw and bleeding flesh, the memory of a needle dragging coarse cord through skin, of the weight of earth above and around him, blocking out all air and light and slowly crushing everything that made him himself out of him. 

With his eyes closed he did not see Finrod move, but he heard him muttering at Huan until the hound moved, so Maglor was crushed between his nephew on one side and his cousin on the other, both of them whole and alive and always stronger than he had ever been. “My strength failed in the end,” Finrod said. His voice wavered at last, either from drink or grief. “He locked me in dungeons that he had delved beneath the beautiful tower that I had built, and one by one he slew my dearest friends, the only ones who would follow me out of Nargothrond—no, Celebrimbor, do not apologize! I would never have asked it of you!—and when he sent the last wolf I did not think I was buying Beren anything more than just a little more time. I had tangled him up in my own doom, I thought, and in trying to fulfill my oath I had instead led him into the hands of the Enemy.”

“But he lived,” Celebrimbor said softly. “And he lived because of you.”

“Eldarion wears your ring, the ring you gave to Barahir,” Maglor whispered. He leaned against Finrod, who shook with sudden sobs. They were all weeping by then, more than half drunk on both the horrors of the past and the wine. “This was a terrible idea, Felagund.”

“I’ve had many terrible ideas,” Finrod said when he had recovered enough to speak, voice thick still with tears, “challenging Sauron to a duel of song not least among them—but this is not one.”

“If we were meant to feel better for it,” Celebrimbor said as he opened the second wine bottle, “then it has been a failure.”

“The feeling better comes after,” Finrod said. He paused, then added, “Maybe after the hangover.”

“I was fine before you dragged us out here,” said Maglor. 

“You cannot even speak your brothers’ names,” Finrod said. “How is that fine?”

“That has nothing—nothing to do with—” 

“Doesn’t it?” Finrod asked. “What about the way you wear your hair loose so you can use it to hide at a moment’s notice, or the way you no longer perform, or even speak when in company?”

“None of that—” 

“And what about your mother?” Finrod asked.

“What about my mother?”

“You haven’t yet gone to see her. But she already knows what happened—”

“Finrod,” Celebrimbor said.

“I don’t want her to see it.” Maglor pressed his hands over his mouth again, and silently cursed the wine. He curled in on himself, hating this weakness, hating the scars, hating the way that Finrod could see him so clearly. Huan lay in front of him, head against his legs where he had them drawn up. His mother had all of his brothers back already and they were—perhaps they were not all well, but they were whole. She did not have to look at them and see the remnants of horror and pain. 

“She’s already seen it,” Finrod said quietly. “It was she who brought the palantíri out—just so she could look for you. What did Sauron do to make you stop believing that we all love you?”

Sauron did not do that, Maglor thought, but knew better than to say—even drunk. Sauron did not have to do that; I did that, long before I ever came to Mirkwood. It was one of those truths that lived deep in the shadowy places of his heart, that he could bury underneath sunshine and music and his cat and the company of Elrond and his family most of the time—even almost all of the time—and it was enough. It had to be enough.

“That is what he did,” Celebrimbor said, of the three of them the one that understood Sauron best, better than anyone ever should. “He sought out the most—the deepest and most tender parts of you and just—just hit them until they broke apart. He did not kill me so much as he unmade me, little by little.” His voice broke, and he stopped speaking for a moment. Then he said, unsteadily, “I’ve never said that aloud before.”

“That is why I brought the wine,” said Finrod.

“He knew how to do it because I had trusted him. He did not need to find your secrets immediately, Finrod, because you had companions—he could take them away instead, one by one, until there was nothing left for you but the darkness, and if you had not died he would have—” Celebrimbor shook his head. “He—he did it to himself when he made the Ring, and the Ring tried to do it to everyone who took it up. When he looked at you, really looked…”

“It was like a weight,” Maglor whispered. “Like a knife. Like—like a brand.” His hand went to his chest. 

“He put visions into my head, too,” Celebrimbor said. “I don’t remember them now, only that they were there once. I asked Námo to erase them—I begged for it, and he took pity on me in the end.”

“He did not bother with such things for us,” Finrod said. “The wolves in the dark were enough, and the cold iron, and the dripping stones, and the knowledge that I had brought them there.” He was shivering a little. Maglor wrapped his arm around Finrod’s middle, and Finrod leaned on his shoulder. “Maybe if he had learned the truth of me he would have done more. And, maybe, if I had chosen a different route north—”

“Don’t,” said Celebrimbor. “That way lies only madness, and you know it.”

They finished the second bottle of wine in silence. Maglor thought that he should tell them how Sauron had silenced him at the last moment before his rescue, but he couldn’t make himself form the words. He couldn’t speak, either, of the slow and painful return to music that had come even after he could speak again. Bad enough they’d both noticed everything else.

“Well, this was not fun at all,” Finrod said at last. The afternoon was wearing on. “It was cathartic, though. I can’t remember the last time I wept so hard. We should do it again sometime.”

“Absolutely not,” said Maglor. He felt hollowed out, though in a strange and clean sort of way—like he’d purged some lingering poison by speaking some of it aloud, though he’d never admit it to Finrod, who would only be smug about it, and then really insist that they do it again.

“I don’t think I have ever been this drunk,” Celebrimbor muttered as he staggered to his feet. “This is worse than that stuff Thranduil’s son brought.”

“Sing something for us, Maglor,” said Finrod. 

“You sing something,” Maglor said. He did not try to stand, and instead leaned forward to wrap his arms around Huan’s neck, pressing his face into the thick fur so that the trees would stop spinning. 

“I can’t think of any appropriate songs. You’re better at mournful laments—or do all the tales get it wrong?”

“Ugh, no laments,” said Celebrimbor. “Come on. I would like to return to the house before it gets dark and one of us breaks an ankle getting out of the woods.” He reached down to haul them up, one by one. Huan licked all their faces thoroughly, leaving them spluttering and protesting and then laughing, because if they didn’t laugh they would start weeping again, and none of them could bear more tears. 

Elrond met them in the garden just outside the house, and looked between them in astonishment and then alarm, for their faces were still red and splotchy, and Finrod’s eyes were swollen. “What in the world have you been doing?” he asked. “Why do I feel as though I should be scolding you like wayward children?”

“Finrod can explain,” said Maglor, “for it was his idea.”

“I merely followed my elders,” Celebrimbor said, swaying on his feet. 

“What’s your excuse?” Elrond asked Maglor. 

“Finrod is insufferable when he doesn’t get his way.”

“I beg your pardon,” Finrod protested, attempting to sound dignified but ruining the effect by falling into Maglor. “I am never insufferable.”

“You are often insufferable,” Maglor said. “And full of terrible ideas.” 

“You all three need to go sleep whatever this is off,” Elrond said. Maglor couldn’t quite tell if he was trying not to laugh at them or not. 

Outside of Maglor’s room, Celebrimbor halted and turned to him. “It was all lies in that place,” he said. “Nothing he told you was true. You know that, don’t you?”

Even a liar like Sauron could take the truth and use it to his purposes, Maglor thought. “I know,” he said out loud. Celebrimbor gave him a doubtful look. “Don’t mistake this afternoon for—for anything like normal. I meant what I said—I was fine before Finrod came with his awful ideas, and I will be fine when this wears off.” He reached out to brush a strand of hair from Celebrimbor’s face, and cupped his cheek for a moment. “I’m only here because you did not give up the Three,” he said quietly. “Your strength saved my life, Tyelpë.” 

A few tears escaped to slide down Celebrimbor’s face before he turned away to return to his own room. Huan all but shoved Maglor into his, toward the bed. “If you had wanted to be helpful you could have stolen Finrod’s wine before we drank it,” Maglor informed him, and received a deeply unimpressed look in return. With a sigh, he sank onto his bed and let himself fall face first into the pillows. 

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Elrond had sensed that Finrod had come there for a reason, but he had not expected that reason to be getting drunk enough to weep in the woods with Celebrimbor and Maglor. He fetched miruvor and water, and went to make sure they did not suffer too badly for their indulgence.

Celebrimbor was sprawled across his bed, already asleep; the pillow was damp beneath his face. Elrond left the cups where he could reach them, and went to Finrod next, finding him turning his circlet over in his fingers, gaze far away. “What is amiss?” Elrond asked as he set the cups before him. 

“Nothing,” Finrod said, eyes focusing at last as he looked up at Elrond. He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. 

“Then why are you weeping?” 

“Am I?” Finrod touched his cheek and laughed softly to find the tears there. “So I am. Worry not, Elrond. They are cleansing tears. Did you know that Edrahil has returned?”

“I did not.”

“All of them are here now, at last,” Finrod said. He reached for the water and lifted it in a toast to Elrond. “Save Beren, but he is gone somewhere none can follow. He went singing sorrowless, or so the songs say. I hope it is true.”

“I have no reason to believe otherwise,” Elrond said. He took the circlet from Finrod’s drink-clumsy fingers and set it aside. “Go to sleep, Finrod.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Thank you for the miruvor; you are kindness itself.” Finrod waved him away, careless and airy in a false, brittle sort of way, and Elrond went. 

Maglor was not asleep, but his tears had dried, and he lay on his bed with Huan halfway on top of him. “I hate this dog,” he said into his pillow as Elrond entered the room. 

“Yes, I’m sure the dog is the problem,” Elrond said. “Huan, will you please let him sit up?” Huan obeyed, and Maglor rolled over. In spite of his words he wrapped an arm around Huan’s neck as he sat up. Elrond sat by him on the bed and handed him the miruvor. “I would like to laugh at you,” he said, “but this does not seem like Finrod wanting to begin celebrating Midsummer early.”

“No,” Maglor agreed. He sipped the miruvor and sighed. “I am not going to repeat what we spoke of,” he said. “Half of it should not have been spoken to begin with.”

“I won’t ask it of you,” said Elrond, “but I am worried.” Only that morning he had been laughing and throwing jokes back and forth with Lindir, as merry as Elrond had ever seen him. Now—the shadows behind his eyes weren’t quite back, but he had clearly been weeping, and was still deeply unhappy, eyes red and still damp, and a fragile sort of look to him that Elrond had not seen in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” Maglor said.

“Finrod should not have dragged you into whatever he is battling.”

“He might have had a point.” Maglor turned the empty cup in his hands. “Don’t tell him I said so. I wish he hadn’t chosen today, but…perhaps I will feel better for having said some of it aloud, however ill-advised.” 

Elrond had never pushed Maglor to speak of what had gone on in Dol Guldur. It would not have gone well and it wasn’t as though he couldn’t guess for himself. “I hope so,” he said. “You know that I will listen, if you wish to speak of it. You need not get drunk, either.”

Maglor huffed a quiet laugh. “I would not have said any of it if I’d not been drunk. Nor would Tyelpë or Felagund. That was the point. I told you that my cousin has terrible ideas.”

“If this doesn’t prevent a hangover, come to me in the morning,” Elrond said. He kissed Maglor’s temple, as he might have Elladan’s or Elrohir’s. “We are expecting guests and you do not want to meet them still feeling the effects of Finrod’s bad idea.”

“Thank you,” Maglor murmured. “I do not say it enough, Elrond. Thank you.”

“You do not have to say it at all.”

Maglor sighed and drank the water, and lay back across the bed. Huan did not climb on top of him again, but he rested his great head at his side. Maglor’s fingers tangled in the thick fur. “Will you play something?” Maglor asked. 

Elrond looked at the harp by the window. It was a beautiful thing, carved of interlocked pieces of driftwood that had been bleached and shaped in strange and lovely ways by the sun and saltwater. He rose from the bed and went to it, running his hands over the smooth frame and plucking a string to hear the high clear note shiver through the room. “It is very different from your other harp.” Not in shape or even in general sound, but one would never mistake a harp Maglor had made for one made by any other hands.

“Halbarad is making good use of that one. Gilraen’s son. Arwen’s daughter Gilraen, I mean.”

“I know who you meant,” Elrond said, smiling a little in spite of himself. He’d never actually seen Maglor drunk before—even on feast days in Imladris he’d never over-indulged. 

“There will be little Elronds running around before long, I imagine,” Maglor murmured. 

The thought had never crossed his mind before that his daughter’s children might name their children for him, the way the line of Elros had often used other names out of history, or of their ancestors. It had never occurred to Elrond that he was another such figure, or at least he’d never thought of it in quite the same way. “Good heavens,” Elrond said as he sat down at the harp, just to hear Maglor laugh at him. “What do you want me to play?”

“Anything,” Maglor said, plaintive and quiet again. “Anything you like. I have missed your playing.”

Elrond put his fingers to the strings and began to play a song that had always soothed Frodo when his memories grew too heavy. It was not an elvish song, but one of the Shire—the tune was, as Bilbo had once said, as old as the hills, and many different words had been set to it through the years and generations. Elrond sung none of them now, only played the quiet melody that was as gentle as the Shire itself, all rolling hills and green fields, tilled earth and little rivers, quiet woods and children’s laughter. He watched Maglor shake for a little while with silent tears, and put forth a little of his power into the music, in the exact way that Maglor had once taught him, and slowly the tears ceased and Maglor’s breathing evened out and deepened into sleep. Elrond kept playing, and turned his thoughts to Irmo, the Lord of Dreams, with a quiet plea on Maglor’s behalf—and on Celebrimbor’s, and Finrod’s—for peaceful dreaming. Let the past remain where it belonged. Let the darkness recede in this land that promised light and rest, to trouble them no more. 

He played the song twice more before he let go of the strings and let the last notes fade away. Huan watched him as he got up, and Elrond paused to stroke his large head for a moment before slipping out of the room. 

Celebrían was out in the orchard singing to the peach trees as the shadows started to lengthen. Elrond sat down underneath one to wait for her to be done, and when she joined him he leaned into her arms, unable to hold back a sigh. “What’s wrong, my love?” she asked. 

“Your uncle got himself, Celebrimbor, and Maglor drunk.”

“Oh dear. Not a happy drunk, I must assume.”

“No. Not at all.”

“Mm.” Celebrían ran her hands over his hair. “He and I got drunk like that once. It was…well, it was miserable, but I did feel better afterward—after I got my voice back, having screamed myself hoarse—though I’ve never accepted more than a single glass from a bottle he has brought me since. I don’t know how he manages to find the strongest spirits in Aman every time.”

Elrond had been drunk exactly once, just after the War of Wrath was over and someone had managed to distill something into something else. It hadn’t been wine or brandy or anything that tasted at all good. It had not been a pleasant experience; he had hated the dizziness and feeling like he couldn’t quite control his own limbs. “I will have to remember never to find myself alone with your uncle and a bottle,” he said. 

“I’m fairly certain no one in Aman believes you are capable of getting drunk, Elrond,” Celebrían said with such deep fondness that he had to laugh. “Even I have never seen it.”

“Oropher has,” said Elrond. He had been the one to bring the two of them the alcohol in the first place. “And plenty of others—we were celebrating. It only ever happened once.”

“Not a happy drunk?”

“It wasn’t unhappy, but I didn’t like it much. And the next morning was awful.” Oropher had laughed at them and insisted they drink some other vile concoction that he had claimed would cure the hangover. It hadn’t. Celebrían laughed again. Elrond smiled into her shoulder, feeling that same quiet thrill that he had every time he was the cause of it. It was the same now as it had been the very first time he had said something she found funny—it was stronger now, in fact, because now he knew what it was like to try to make her laugh and to fail. He took her hand, their fingers sliding together as they had always been meant to. “Celebrimbor also brought a bit of news today.”

“Oh?”

“Fëanor came to Nerdanel’s house.”

“Did it go well, or has he come to warn us?”

“He did not say that it went well,” said Elrond. “He didn’t have a chance to say much of anything, really, before Finrod dragged him off.”

“A warning, then,” Celebrían decided. “I suppose we must prepare ourselves to find him on our doorstep next. I hope he waits until after Midsummer; I have been so looking forward to that.”

“Mm.” Elrond sat up. “It’s only a few days away now. I think our chances of getting through it without mishap are good.”

“Oh, and now you’ve gone and said it aloud, so something will happen!” Celebrían laughed and smacked his arm. “The kitchen will catch fire or someone will get drunk and fall in one of the fishponds and nearly drown, or Fëanor will arrive right in the middle of it all and cause a terrible disturbance…”

“Maybe Fëanor will get drunk and fall into a fishpond,” Elrond suggested, and both of them dissolved into laughter at the thought. It was Celebrían who recovered first and got back to her feet. 

“Come on,” she said, pulling Elrond up after her. “Help me start picking these peaches.” 

When they returned with a full basket for the bakers and the dozens of pies they have planned for the feasting, they found that Glorfindel had arrived, with Ecthelion in tow—and another guest that Elrond had not expected. The three of them were laughing about something with the twins, and as Celebrían and Elrond approached Ecthelion and the unexpected guest turned to bow. “Welcome,” Celebrían said, holding out her hands. “Elemmírë, I did not expect to see you here! Are you not wanted in Valmar?”

Elemmírë laughed. Her voice was bright and light as morning birdsong and the chiming of golden bells. Her hair gleamed in the afternoon sunshine like liquid gold, a deeper color than Galadriel’s, and it was wound through with aquamarine, which winked in her ears and on her fingers as well. “I certainly am, but I thought this year I would see what goes on elsewhere at Midsummer.” Her smile turned a little crooked. “And I have been told an old student of mine has come home at last.”

“We heard also that Daeron of Doriath had come west,” Glorfindel added.

“True on both counts,” said Celebrían, “but Daeron will be very much wanted at Thingol and Melian’s court this Midsummer if I am not mistaken.”

“Someday,” said Ecthelion, “I hope we are fortunate enough to hear all three of you sing together.” 

Elemmírë smiled. “I too would like that,” she said. “I have heard much of Daeron of Doriath, and heard many of his songs—and I am very eager to meet him. Perhaps I shall go to the Sindar after I leave here, if I am not called home again. But where is Macalaurë?”

“My uncle is also here,” Celebrían said breezily, “and he and Maglor and Celebrimbor have indulged in some early celebrations, and Elrond has sent them to bed to sleep it off. If they do not emerge sometime this evening, you’ll see all three of them tomorrow at breakfast I am sure.” Elrond saw Glorfindel’s brow furrow, but he said nothing after Elrond caught his eye and gave a small shake of his head. 

Ecthelion was called away then by old friends come to greet him, and Celebrían and the twins took Elemmírë away to show them to their rooms and exchange gossip out of Avallónë and Valmar; Glorfindel lingered with Elrond. “It is not like Maglor to indulge in that way,” he said. “Not unless a great deal has changed since we last parted.”

“It was not his idea,” Elrond said, “nor was it quite as celebratory as Celebrían said. I can only hope it was cathartic in some way. Finrod seems to think so, anyway.”

“I see. How is he really—Maglor, I mean?”

“Finrod’s dubious decisions aside, he is well, if troubled by the news of his father.”

“His father?”

“Is that news not spread so far yet?”

“Not to Turgon’s realm, certainly,” said Glorfindel. It was not Gondolin rebuilt, Turgon’s city to the west of Tirion, but only in appearance. Gondolin in Middle-earth had been an echo of Tirion, and there was no need for that here. This new city that did not yet have a name—or rather, it had so many names that a common consensus had not yet been reached—but it had called nearly all who had lived in the Hidden City to it, including Glorfindel. “Should I be worried?”

“I am not worried,” said Elrond, “but as Maglor is fond of reminding me, I have never met Fëanor. I will not say that I do not think he will cause trouble, but I do not think it will be…the same sort of trouble, at least.”

“Yes, he would find new and interesting kinds of trouble,” Glorfindel said. “What will you do if he comes here?”

Elrond shrugged. “I suppose that depends on what he does, and when he comes.” 

“That is the trouble with your valley no longer being a hidden one,” Glorfindel said, and Elrond had to grin. “Anybody can come to your doorstep at any time. I am glad to hear that Maglor is well, though—and to see your sons again. What news from Gondor?” 

The rest of the afternoon and evening was taken up in Midsummer preparations and merriment. Finrod emerged around supper time, looking only a little worse for the wear. He greeted Elemmírë brightly, and Elrond thought that he, having seen it earlier, was the only one who could tell that the brittleness had not quite left him. Finrod met his gaze and flashed a bright smile that rang only a little false. Elrond smiled back, deciding that Finrod could look after himself. 

Elrond had not expected to see Maglor until the morning, but he and Huan came wandering outside when the stars were out. His eyes were clear and he looked a little tired, but the shadows had receded, and Elrond did not think he hid his relief well at the sight. “Was I really that bad, earlier?” Maglor asked, stopping to put an arm around him. 

“Bad enough to be worrisome. Come; we are out by the pond and Elemmírë is about to sing for us.”

“Elemmírë is here?” Most visitors had been a cause for at least mild alarm thus far, but Maglor brightened at the name of his old teacher. “You did not tell me that she was coming!”

“I did not know until she arrived,” Elrond said.

They made their way out to the gazebo on the water; the stars were out and sparkling on the pond’s surface, and laughter and music echoed across it from their small party and others scattered across the valley. Since Elladan and Elrohir had come, the weight and haze of grief had begun to lift, and the songs were merry again. 

“Macalaurë!” Elemmírë rose as they crossed the walkway over the water, and she stepped out to embrace him. “You’ve returned to us at last! I was beginning to fear you would never come home.” 

Maglor replied, but it was too low for Elrond to hear as he went to take his place by Celebrían. Maglor’s smile only faltered a little, though, when he caught sight of Ecthelion, sitting by Finrod, and he recovered upon receiving Glorfindel's rib-crushing embrace. “Come sit by me,” Elemmírë said when Glorfindel released him, “and let us sing together.” 

“Of course,” said Maglor, settling on the floor by Elemmírë’s legs as she returned to her place on the bench, bracketing himself between her and Galadriel, who rested a hand upon his shoulder for a moment. “I would have brought out my harp if I had known there was to be singing.”

“No matter,” said Elemmírë. “Our voices are enough.” She began to sing, her voice rich and full, a song of the splendor of the stars and of Varda Elentári. A beat after she began Maglor joined her. 

Maglor had said more than once that his voice and skill were not what they had once been, but listening to him then, harmonizing with Elemmírë as the stars shone down upon them, Elrond did not think that was true. It was not precisely what he remembered from his own childhood, for no one could wander so long by the Sea, learning its moods and its songs, and not be changed. It had been changed too by pain and grief and fear, but not diminished. There was yet power in it, steady and rolling as the tides. Elemmírë’s power was of a different kind, shaped by different things, but Elrond could hear the kinship, could hear the ways that she had helped to shape Maglor into the singer that he was—and even the ways in which her teachings had been passed from Maglor to Elrond himself. 

Elsewhere other singers fell silent as Elemmírë and Maglor’s voices soared up toward the sky. Elemmírë led the way, from verse to verse to song to song, and Maglor followed unerringly; they were songs from the Years of the Trees and even before, some in a tongue older than the split between Quenya and Sindarin. It was not often, even there in Valinor, that Elrond felt young. He did that night—and it was not overwhelming as it had been at other times; instead it was a thrill, to hear the music of the ancients sung by those who had been there, or whose parents had been there, and sung with such skill that it took one’s breath away. 

Eventually their performance wound down, and silence descended over them all. As Elrond remembered how to breathe, Elemmírë looked around and laughed. “Now I wish to be the audience! Someone sing something of Middle-earth for me.” 

Maglor hummed a few notes, and looked to Elrohir, who raised his flute to his lips and began to play. It was a simple tune; the original song had not had accompaniment. Maglor sang softly and in simple Westron, and from the way he glanced across the gazebo, Elrond thought the song was not as much for Elemmírë as it was for Finrod—a quiet song of defiance in the dark. 

Above all shadows rides the Sun,
And stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the day is done,
Nor bid the stars farewell. 

Galadriel lifted her voice as that song faded, singing of Lothlórien far away, and Celeborn joined with her, singing of golden mellyrn and the rushing Silverlode shimmering in the starlight. Then Elladan and Elrohir sang a song of Rohan in that tongue, of the rolling fields and the horses and the shining spears of the Riders. And on they went, everyone taking a turn, even Finrod, who had been very quiet until then. 

It was dawn before they dispersed. Elrond lingered with Celebrían and Maglor, who had Huan half on top of him again. This time it was because Huan had fallen asleep, and with a hound such as Huan one had no choice but to let the sleeping dog lie. Finrod also hung back, lying down on the empty bench with one knee bent, his hair spilling over the edge in a half-braided tangle. “Uncle,” Celebrían said, “are you going to tell us what’s the matter, or must I have my mother drag it out of you?”

Finrod waved a hand. “Don’t trouble Galadriel,” he said. 

“I am not the only one with ghosts,” Maglor said quietly. “Or at least, one particular ghost.”

And Edrahil had recently returned from Mandos. Elrond was glad no one had thought to sing any part of the Lay of Leithian that night. “Did it help?” he asked, glancing between them. “Getting inadvisably drunk in the middle of the day?”

“Yes,” said Finrod. 

Maglor shrugged. “I don’t know. But I am not doing it again.”

“If you say so.”

“Regardless, it isn’t the sort of thing to make a habit of,” said Celebrían. “Or at least not a frequent habit, however good Elenwë’s wine is. Uncle, are you returning to Tirion or will you join us here for Midsummer?”

“Ugh, do not make me go back to Tirion! My father and uncle won’t stop dithering about whether to tell anyone about Fëanor’s return, or who to tell if they do decide to share the news. And anyway, when he does turn up I do not want to be there.”

Maglor rolled his eyes. “And so you came here, to one of the only other places in all of Aman he is likely to come?”

“Why would he—oh.”

“Yes, oh.”

“Well, if he does come here at least we can all hide behind Glorfindel.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Celebrían primly. “He is only Fëanor, not a balrog.”

“Never mind,” Finrod said to Maglor, “we shall hide behind my niece. I should like to see that confrontation, though from a safe distance.”

“I don’t have confrontations,” Celebrían said. “Honestly, Uncle. Are you still drunk?”

Finrod laughed. “No, my dear niece. I promise I am as clear-headed as can be.”

“Hm.” Celebrían rose, shaking out her skirts. “Well, I am to spend the morning preparing pastry dough for baking this afternoon. Please hold off on further indulgences until Midsummer, when the actual feasting and celebrations are going on!”

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Midsummer in Imladris had always been a merry affair, even when the valley’s inhabitants were dwindling, trickling away west. It promised to be even merrier in Imloth Ningloron. Gandalf arrived the evening before with a cart full of his famous fireworks. The twins burst out into the courtyard to greet him and help unload. Maglor trailed after them, Huan at his heels and Pídhres on his shoulders.

Gandalf took one look and laughed. “Soon we shall not be able to find you at all underneath the host of animals that follow you!”

“I hope not,” said Maglor, holding out his hands. Gandalf grasped them warmly. “It is good to see you, Gandalf.”

“And you, Maglor. You look very well! What is this little one’s name, then?”

“Pídhres,” said Maglor, as Gandalf gave her a scratch behind the ears. “She will climb up anything, but never back down.” Gandalf laughed. He was not much changed from when Maglor had seen him last after the War of the Ring—he had been freed of his labors and cares, and constant joy bubbled under the surface of him just waiting to be released, and Maglor was glad to see that that had not changed. He had even kept his hat, broad-rimmed and summer-sky-blue. 

“And Huan?” Gandalf asked, turning to bow before giving him some scratches of his own. “I am quite surprised to see you here, my good hound. Should you not be making sure another son of Fëanor is staying out of trouble?”

“I cannot answer for Huan,” said Maglor, thinking briefly of the letters he still had not opened. Neither one of them were from Celegorm—but perhaps Huan was Celegorm’s letter. At least he hadn’t really tried to drag Maglor off somewhere. He was just there, a large and steady presence. 

Maglor did not think that he felt better for having gotten drunk and said some foolish things to Finrod and Celebrimbor, but he did not feel worse. The shadows had receded, and his dreams remained untroubled. Celebrimbor had been quiet but his eyes were clear. Finrod did seem better, less fragile than he had been before, though it had been so well hidden that Maglor hadn’t noticed until it had gone away. He still didn’t know why Finrod had been so troubled all of a sudden, what had brought back those particular dark memories, but it didn’t seem right to ask now that they had been banished.

Gandalf was full of news and gossip, none of which meant anything to Elladan and Elrohir and only a little of which Maglor could follow. As he and Elladan retrieved the last of the fireworks from the cart another visitor arrived, a lone horsewoman with dark hair and dark eyes and fingers more or less permanently stained with ink. “Macalaurë!” she exclaimed, swinging down from the saddle. 

He straightened, startled. “Rundamírë,” he said. It was absurd to be surprised, he realized as she came forward to embrace him. Of course she would make her way here for Midsummer, with Curufin off with the rest of his brothers and Celebrimbor here. Maglor had always liked her, his brother’s wife. She took their loud and boisterous family in stride, and had a similar level-headed sense to Nerdanel, and Curufin had been so obviously deeply in love, even before he'd gifted her the epessë Arimeldë, that it had been hard not to love her too just for that. 

It was impossible not to love her all over again for the way she did not so much as glance at the scars on his face, and the way she was so obviously glad to see him, beyond all reason. Everyone was glad to see him, so far, and he still did not quite understand it. “It is good to see you, at last!” she said, stepping back to smile up at him. “I hope you’ll come visit us in Tirion sometime soon.”

“Perhaps,” said Maglor, and turned to wave the twins over; Rundamírë had met Gandalf before, of course, but Maglor introduced the twins, and Elrohir volunteered to take her in search of Celebrimbor. Gandalf waved Elladan and Maglor away, insisting that he take care of the rest of his fireworks himself, for he had a certain order to setting them up and storing them that made no sense to anyone but himself, and he neither cared to explain nor trusted anyone else to get it right. 

Elladan was watching Maglor as they made their own way back toward the house. “You’re making me itch,” Maglor told him. “What’s the matter?”

“I just want to be sure you’re all right,” said Elladan.

“Of course I am. Are you?” Maglor stopped to look at him. He wasn’t truly worried; Elrond and Celebrían—and indeed, the whole of their household—would have been keeping a close eye on both of Elrond’s sons. But sometimes it was nice to turn concern back on the other party.

“Yes, of course,” said Elladan. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Because it was far too soon for this place to be home, no matter how homely it was, and in spite of the merriment of Midsummer and the excitement of new places and new faces, Arwen’s absence remained so palpable that it was a presence unto itself. Maglor did not say any of that out loud, instead tousling Elladan’s hair and disordering his braids, enjoying the squawk of protest before they walked on back into the house. 

Midsummer itself dawned with clouds and a brief shower of rain. Maglor woke to the sound of it on the window, and when he sat up he saw robes draped over a chair across the room that he did not recognize. He untangled himself from his cat and Huan, and went over to look at them. His breath caught when he held them up, for they were… 

They were a prince’s robes, something he would have worn on such a holiday long ago in Tirion, young and bright and shining, with gems in his hair and rings on his fingers and in his ears. They were also not like anything he would have worn then. There was something of the Sea in these robes, in the way the fabric moved and in the soft noise it made when it did, and in the colors of it, all greens and greys and blues. Tiny pearls were sewn into the collar, and the sleeves bore delicate and intricate embroidery—waves and sea foam and gently swirling seashells. 

It was his grandmother’s work, clearly. Maglor laid the robes back down and ran his fingers over the stitches. He rarely wore finery anymore—had only started to take particular care in his appearance after the War of the Ring was done and he found himself spending time in Aragorn and Arwen’s court. But he had never worn anything like this. Only Finwë had ever had robes like this, made by Míriel, that he wore on high days and for solemn ceremonies. They had been far too precious for everyday wear. 

He did not put them on yet, going instead to the window, pushing it open and leaning out to feel the rain on his face. It was cool in the warm air, and he could see blue skies coming up behind the rainclouds. The breeze picked up as the rain faded away, and when the clouds broke the whole valley sparkled in the bright Midsummer sun. Someone below burst into song, and Maglor joined his voice to theirs, singing praises to the raindrops and the flowers and to Arien above them on this longest day of the year. When the song was done Maglor withdrew inside, and found Huan looking at him reproachfully, as he usually did in the mornings. He sat by Maglor’s writing desk, where the letters had been tucked into a drawer. “Absolutely not,” Maglor told him. “Not today.” Huan whined. That was new. Maglor picked up his comb to tease out the tangles of sleep and the dampness of the rain. He heard a drawer opening, and turned to see the one holding the letters now ajar, and Huan looking very reproachful. “It’s a holiday,” Maglor informed him. Huan just woofed. “Ugh. Fine.” 

He set the comb down and went to take the letters out. One from Caranthir, one from Curufin. Curufin had sent something with his, and Maglor gave into curiosity and opened that one first. A pair of earrings fell out onto his palm, small hoops of silver set with minuscule sapphires that glittered as he tilted his hand to look at them. They were delicate and simple, matched perfectly with his new robes, and were exactly the kind of earrings Maglor would have chosen for himself—but not what he would have asked Curufin to make long ago when his brother had made jewelry instead of swords, when Maglor had cared more about such things. His throat went tight, and he set them, very carefully, on the desk, and then sat down on the floor to lean against Huan as he unfolded the letter. 

Maglor,

I don’t really blame you for not wanting to see any of us. By the time I died I had lost myself almost entirely and—well, you remember what was left. I have been trying to build myself into something new, something better. Mostly by making things. Pretty things, mostly. Nothing complicated. It is easier when I am not striving for something great or something beautiful, something that might compare to—

Do you remember the combs that I made you, after I spilled that glue in your hair and you had to cut it all off? You didn’t speak to me for two months afterward, and they were the worst two months of my life before the Darkening. I found them, and a box of the beads you used to weave into your braids. I would send them with this letter but they are back in Tirion and I am still at Amil’s house. 

I hope you’ll accept these earrings instead. They are not what you once wore but it felt right to choose them for you. 

Curufin 

Maglor lowered the letter and breathed out. The worst two months of his life? Surely that was exaggeration. He set the letter on the desk above his head and turned to bury his face in Huan’s fur. He remembered very well having to cut all his hair off because Curufin had spilled some kind of experimental glue all over it. He never had learned what it had been for, and he had been furious, though it seemed ridiculous now. It was only hair. When next he had had his hair cut short, it had been to rid it of the years of matted filth from the dungeons of Dol Guldur. It had been strange and uncomfortable and it had grown back far more slowly. 

When he felt he could breathe again, he opened Caranthir’s. 

Cáno,

No one else is going to ask you to come home because they are trying to give you time or because they are afraid you’ll say no, but if it were me in your place, even if I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to see anyone or not, it would hurt not to be asked. I would stay away too if I thought that I was not wanted. But you are wanted. We are all here, because Ammë wanted us here, but no one is really speaking to each other and everything feels wrong and off balance. I’m sure Tyelpë and Finrod will have told you how badly Maedhros misses you, because it’s true, but the rest of us miss you too.

I miss you. Please come home. 

Moryo

Maglor set that letter on top of the other one and pulled his knees to his chest so he could bury his face in his arms. Huan lay down next to him, pressing against his side. His eyes burned, but the tears didn’t fall. Maglor allowed himself a few minutes to just sit and not think about anything at all, and then pulled himself up. He folded the letters and tucked them into the drawer again. “Satisfied?” he asked Huan, who woofed softly, which didn’t answer the question at all.

He finished combing his hair and braided it more elaborately and with more care than normal, winding silver ribbons through, pale enough that the white in his hair could be mistaken for them. He had not planned on wearing any jewelry, but the earrings sat on his desk and glittered as he pulled on the robes his grandmother had made, and it felt strange to wear such fine clothes and no jewels at all. There was a box of rings and armbands and necklaces, and another with a few circlets that he had been gifted over the years by friends in Imladris, by Elrond and his sons, by Arwen and Aragorn. He wore few of them and only seldom—really, only when he visited Minas Tirith or Annúminas—but now he opened them up and chose a few rings, and a circlet. Then he picked up the earrings and slid them into place. 

Ready at last, he turned to the mirror. He looked…not like Macalaurë of Tirion, exactly, but closer than he had looked in many centuries. Maglor stared at himself, and then looked at Huan. “I do not feel nearly as splendid as I look,” he said. Huan yawned. “All right, come on.” Maglor scooped Pídhres up off the bed and went downstairs. 

The whole household and all the guests were turned out in their own finery. Elrond was resplendent and Celebrían radiant. “These are new,” said Elrohir, appearing at Maglor’s side as he poured himself tea, reaching up to touch the earrings. “They’re lovely.”

“They were a gift,” Maglor said. Elrohir tilted his head, eyes bright with curiosity, though he didn’t push. He had half a dozen small golden hoops glinting up the curve of his own ears, bright gold against the dark fall of his hair, which was entirely loose and held back from his face by the golden circlet he wore. “Where is Elladan?”

“Outside already. Come on!” Elrohir looped his arm through Maglor’s and drew him outside to the wide flowery field where picnic tables and blankets had been scattered about, and tents raised against the heat of the summer sun, though it was still early enough to be pleasantly warm instead. There was music everywhere, and footraces and other games, but most were sprawled out on the picnic blankets or sitting at the tables. Maglor sat between the twins on their blanket and let himself get swept up in the merriment. 

And it was merry. The whole day was games and singing and music, of more laughter than speech, and rich food and flowing wine and all the joy that summertime brought. Maglor played music more than he danced, and he sang with Elrond and with Elemmírë. Maglor did not think about his brothers at all. 

The sun set in a glory of fire in the west, with clouds billowing up to shine red and orange, haloed with light like molten gold. “That is my favorite thing about Anar,” Elemmírë said to Maglor as they watched it, sitting among irises and violets. “Sunrises and sunsets. We did not have these with the Trees.” Maglor hummed agreement. He became aware of her gaze on him; Elemmírë missed very little, but she had not asked about the scars. Not even the ones on his wrists, bared for the world to see when he shook back his sleeves to play the harp. “Your voice is changed,” Elemmírë said. 

“Yes,” Maglor said. “I am…not what I was.”

“When you say it, you mean that you have diminished,” Elemmírë said. “But that is not so. It is as strong as it ever was.” 

Maglor turned to her, startled. “No it isn’t,” he said before thinking better of it. It was not the kind of argument he could have with Elemmírë, of all people, and hope to win. 

She looked at him gravely. “It is stronger in the way a bone is stronger after it has healed from a break,” she said. “I do not ask what happened to you, Macalaurë; I can see and hear enough to know it was grievous.” She placed her hand over his. “But you survived, and you are here, and I am very glad.”

“I forgot,” Maglor said softly. “The first lessons you taught me—the most important ones. I forgot them in the dark.” In the dark of his own self, in Beleriand, when the Oath and the blood and the grief had drowned everything else. And then after, in the dark of Dol Guldur where there was nothing but cold stone and the heavy weight of the Eye upon him.

“But you relearned them after,” Elemmírë said. 

“Maybe. I think I would like to learn them again from you,” Maglor said. “And whatever else you would teach me now.”

“You can come to me whenever you like, Macalaurë. My door is always open.”

“Thank you.” Maglor hadn’t even known that he had feared this particular rejection until it did not come to pass; it felt as astonishing as seeing Uinen smile at him from just beneath the water’s surface as they sped toward Eldamar rising up in the distance. 

Her smile brightened a little and she added, “I hope you will bring Daeron with you when you visit. I have heard much praise of him and I am eager to meet him.”

“The tales are all true when they speak of his skill,” said Maglor, grinning. “He would like to meet you too.”

“Do you know him well? I had heard you sailed together, but one voyage does not necessarily a friendship build.”

“We had met before,” Maglor said, thinking of the sunlight on the Pools of Ivrin, the sweet honey mead of the Northern Sindar, and the first proper wines that the Noldor had made in Beleriand, and the easy laughter and hours of music shared both in front of and away from audiences. “I think you will like him. He was a student of Queen Melian of Doriath.”

“A mighty teacher indeed,” said Elemmírë. “I look forward to meeting him, and to all three of us singing together.” She took up her violin and began to play, sliding the bow across the strings with liquid smoothness, teasing out a gentle melody for the coming of the evening. Maglor put his fingers to his harp strings, and they played together until Gil-Estel was shining in the west and night had come, and Gandalf set off the first of his fireworks to burst in the air above them, hanging red and green against the sky. Somewhere nearby Elladan and Elrohir burst into song—one that Bilbo had written based upon a verse that Sam had once made, turning grief into joy afterward, of the finest rockets ever seen, and stars bursting in all colors of the rainbow, sending a rain of sparks down onto the water. Lindir joined them with his flute as Gandalf sent another firework soaring into the sky with a whine to erupt in a bright flash of fire and crackling white sparks that burst in all directions like shooting stars. 

After the fireworks there was more singing, and bonfires with more dancing, wild and ancient beneath the stars, to drumbeats and chanting, heads thrown back, arms flung out wide. The night was a short one, as the day had been long, but it was moonless, starlit and beautiful; the ponds and the streams sparkled with it, and as the wildness faded away the songs grew older still, songs of starlight upon other older waters, songs of a home left willingly but still missed even by those who had never seen it. 

By the time Maglor got back to his own room it was nearing dawn, and he was tired but not enough to sleep, feeling loose and warm with good drink and good food, but not drunk. Pídhres was already on the bed, curled up asleep on a pillow, and Huan followed Maglor in; for the first time that day he’d left Maglor mostly alone, instead leaping about and cavorting with the dancers, jumping into ponds, and acting more like a dog than whatever it was he was doing with Maglor. Guarding him? Chaperoning him? Waiting for a chance to drag him off to wherever Celegorm was? 

“I wish you would talk,” Maglor told him as he carefully slipped out of his robes. The garment was not a fragile thing but it was precious, this first gift from his grandmother that he had ever received. He hung it up with equal care, and then sat down to take his jewelry off. It was a strange and jarringly familiar ritual, in the same way that Tirion had been strange and familiar, in the way that the whole land of Valinor was, changed and unchanged at the same time. “I wish you would tell me why Celegorm sent you.” Huan woofed and butted his head into Maglor’s shoulder, not quite hard enough to knock him out of the chair. “I don’t need you to keep an eye on me, you know. I have not needed that in a very long time.” Huan butted his head against him again and this time he did knock Maglor out of the chair. “Huan!” One of his new earrings went rolling over the floor, and Maglor had a moment of absurd panic that it would be lost, before he got his wits back and snatched it up. 

He put the earrings into the box with the rings and other bits of jewelry, and loosened his hair from its braids, tossing the ribbons by the jewelry box to put away properly later. Then he turned to the desk, and took out the letters again.

You didn’t speak to me for two months afterward, and they were the worst two months of my life before the Darkening.

I miss you. Please come home.

Maglor looked at Huan, who looked back at him with dark, solemn eyes. “You left once,” Maglor said. “Why did you go back, I wonder?”

Of course Huan did not answer. 

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The first journey that Maedhros could remember had been taken with his parents. It was before Maglor had been born—maybe even in the early day’s of Nerdanel’s pregnancy, for he had so few memories of the time before he was a brother—and he had been small enough to be carried against his father’s chest, strapped up snugly and securely. It had not been a long journey, only a few days out into the woods where he could explore the thickets and splash in a stream and sleep curled up between his parents on a blanket spread over ferns and moss. He remembered waking up disoriented and afraid—there had been some noise in the underbrush, maybe—and his father had been there to gather him up and pepper kisses all over his face until he giggled, forgetting his fears. Fëanor had been warm, his hands calloused and rough from forge work, strong but always gentle with it, whispering Nelyo, my Nelyo, of course you are safe, I’m right here, in the soft silver-edged shadows under the trees until Maedhros had drifted back to sleep. 

Maedhros lay in his bed and stared at the plain white-washed ceiling, listening to his brothers prepare for departure outside. They had refused to let him do anything besides pack his own bags, united in this as they had not been since the last of them returned from Mandos. Just as well, since he couldn’t seem to get his mind to focus on anything useful—just memories, going around and around in circles, the good ones fading into the awful ones, all of them hazy like he was seeing them through smoke. 

A knock on the door heralded his mother. She sat down on the bed beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. Maedhros couldn’t stop a shuddering sigh from escaping as he closed his eyes, turning towards her. She smelled of fresh air and clay. “What did he say to you, Maitimo?” she asked softly. 

“Nothing,” Maedhros said. “I didn’t let him speak. It was—I needed him to—to see me.” 

“He saw you, my love,” Nerdanel said, “with clear eyes.”

“Did he?” Maedhros whispered. 

“He saw the fire of his own spirit burning in you,” Nerdanel said, “and saw and heard how it hurts you, and it grieves him, Maitimo. It truly does.”

“Did he come…”

“No. No, I will not have him under my roof when it will do nothing but hurt you. I sent him to my father—they know to expect him, and I think it might do him good to hear all that his old teacher has to say. He and I will speak again once you have gone.” Nerdanel kept stroking his hair, the way she had when he had been small, when the things that had troubled him had been foolishly simple—the dark under his bed or a quarrel with one of his brothers about something silly. “I think it will be good for you to get away from this place,” she said after a while. “You’ve shut yourself up here for long enough.”

“Ammë…” 

“What is it?”

“Did Mag—did Macalaurë send a message to you with Tyelpë?”

“He wrote to me. Do you want to see it?”

“No. I just…wondered how he is.”

“There’s nothing in it you should not see, nothing that he asked me to keep in confidence.” Nerdanel rose from the bed. “I’ll fetch it.” 

Maedhros sat up as she left the room, rubbing his hand over his face. He glanced out of the window, which looked toward the river. No one was there, but he felt uneasy still, knowing that Fëanor had not gone far. The ugly twisting in his stomach returned, but retreated when he got up to open the window, letting in the breeze and the sound of his brothers bickering over something. Maedhros leaned against the window and listened for a moment, but it sounded—well, if not good natured, then at least not dangerous. 

“Here it is, Maitimo.” Nerdanel returned with a letter. There was a smudge of ink near the top, as though he had put the pen there and hesitated for too long. The first few paragraphs, short, were cheerful as he described a little of his voyage west, and the cat that he had brought with him, and his rekindled friendship with Daeron of Doriath. 

Maedhros hadn’t known that Daeron had come west. He hadn’t thought of Daeron since—since the Mereth Aderthad, probably. He’d seen Maglor come worryingly close to losing his heart to the minstrel of Doriath, though Maglor had laughed it off, and seemed to forget all about Daeron himself once they returned to the east. Maybe that was just one more thing that Maedhros hadn’t seen, or had chosen not to see because it had been easier to let Maglor reassure him than to ask more questions.

Near the bottom there was another ink spot, and a few lines alluding to what befell me in Wilderland, and an entreaty to Nerdanel not to worry anymore. 

“Do you believe him?” Maedhros asked finally, handing the letter back, thinking again of his brother the performer, his brother who knew exactly what to say to put others at ease. Thinking of how that letter did not sound like the brother he had once known. Maglor’s letters had always been infrequent but long, rambling, with bits of verse and sometimes small drawings. In this one not even his cat had earned a couplet, let alone a tiny sketch. In this one even the bright tones of the beginning paragraphs sounded brittle and false. They were too short. When had Maglor lacked words for anything as song-worthy as his return voyage from Middle-earth? When had he had to think so hard of what to say that he left ink plots on the page? “Do you believe that he is well?”

“Both Telperinquar and Finrod have told me the same,” Nerdanel said. “They say that he laughs and sings and is a beloved member of Elrond’s household. Galadriel, too, has told me such news as Elrond’s sons wrote to her or to her daughter over the years, and all of it has been good. I’ve shared some of it with you.”

Galadriel, though, did not know Maglor. “But he does not want to come here,” Maedhros said. 

“Finrod also told me that he was not prepared to learn that all of you were returned to us,” Nerdanel said.

“Yes, I know.” Finrod also said that Maglor had not even wanted to speak of Maedhros, let alone see him.

“Give him time, Maitimo. Let him find his footing. You know how much these lands have changed since he last walked them. When he is settled he will come.” 

“Maedhros?” Celegorm appeared at the door. “We’re ready to go.”

“I’ll walk down with you,” said Nerdanel, taking Maedhros’ arm as they followed Celegorm. “Do not think about your brother,” she said to him quietly, “or your father. You used to love to wander and explore, all of you. Let that be all that you concern yourself with for a time. And there is time, Maitimo. There is all of the time in the world for Macalaurë to find his way home. And for you.”

Outside, Nerdanel embraced them all and admonished them to be careful and watch out for one another—all of the things she had told them when they were young, including: “And do you have one of the stones?”

“Yes, Ammë,” said Celegorm, to Maedhros’ surprise. “I have it.”

“Good. Be sure to use it once in a while!”

Maedhros pulled himself up into the saddle; he’d ridden very little since his return and riding without anything heavier than his own clothes and a hunting knife on his belt still felt strange. “Don’t look at me,” he said, trying to lighten his voice a little, when his brothers all glanced at him—almost as long a habit as Nerdanel’s words. “I am not leading this journey.”

“No,” Celegorm agreed with a swift and bright smile. “I am! We are heading west. Farewell for now, Ammë!”

“Farewell, my sons,” Nerdanel said. “Remember it is Midsummer very soon. Find something to celebrate!”

“I shall celebrate being far away from Tirion,” Celegorm said once they had left the courtyard and struck out at an easy pace across the fields, westward, toward the river. “Did anyone think to pack wine?”

“I did,” said Curufin and Amras at the same time, before exchanging either a grin or a grimace; Maedhros couldn’t tell which. He was not at all sure getting drunk would be wise for any of them, but he said nothing. The worst that would happen, probably, was that they argued and shouted at each other, and by the time Midsummer rolled around they would likely be very far from anyone that would be disturbed by it. 

He glanced back once, as they splashed across the river. There was movement near the gate leading into Ennalótë and Mahtan’s garden, but he could not see clearly who it was. The lights were on in Nerdanel’s workshop. He turned away, not liking the sense that someone—he knew precisely who—was watching them go. “Where are we going?” he asked. 

“West,” said Celegorm, in that tone that said he knew he was being infuriating. 

Maedhros pinched the bridge of his nose, but before he could say anything Caranthir said, rolling his eyes, “West is a direction, not a destination.”

“Do we need a destination?” Celegorm replied. “That isn’t the point. We’ll turn around when we’ve gone far enough. Or when we reach Ekkaia, I suppose. Whichever happens first.” He spoke breezily, but glanced over his shoulder at Maedhros, eyes uncertain above his careless smile. 

“I have no objection,” Maedhros said. “I told you I don’t care where we go. I only wondered.”

“Won’t Rundamírë wonder where you went?” Amrod asked Curufin after a few minutes of riding in silence.

“Tyelpë will explain,” Curufin said. “He said he would ask her to spend Midsummer with him at Imloth Ningloron.” The words dropped into a sudden weighty silence, because to speak of Elrond’s valley was to speak of Maglor, even if they did not say his name. Maedhros looked away. 

It was Caranthir who broke it. “I spent Midsummer there once. It was—very merry.”

“When did you go to Imloth Ningloron?” Amras asked.

“And why?” Amrod added. 

Caranthir flushed, but it wasn’t an angry red. “I was—I was introduced to the Ringbearers once in Tirion by accident, and then the older one, Bilbo, wouldn’t stop writing to me. He wasn’t much of a gardener himself, but he loved flowers, and that’s mostly what we wrote about. He sent an invitation, so…I went.”

“What were they like, the halflings?” asked Celegorm, having dropped back to join the rest of them. 

“They were…strange. I think they were accounted strange even among their own people. Bilbo used to laugh about it. But—I don’t know. I liked Bilbo. Frodo was…” Caranthir trailed off, gaze going distant. “Frodo was the one that carried the Ring to the fire, he and Sam—Sam was a gardener. It became his family name. I liked him too. I liked them all. But Frodo…Tyelpë knew him better than I did. There was very little laughter in him for a long time, not like Bilbo who laughed at everything. He had been…hollowed out.” For a little while none of them spoke. They all knew what that felt like, though their cause had not been nearly so noble, nor so selfless, as that of Frodo Baggins. 

Maedhros asked, quietly, “Did he find the healing he sought?”

“Yes,” Caranthir said, quiet but firm. “Yes, he did. And so did Tyelpë.”

“Tyelpë has never spoken of him much,” Curufin said. “But he was restless when he first came back, and after he started to visit Imloth Ningloron he grew steadier. He started to make things again.” He paused, and added a little sadly, “I do not think he will ever make jewels again, though.” 

“He’s making those windows for Fingolfin, isn’t he?” asked Caranthir. 

“He is.”

“What do we think Fingolfin will do about Atar?” asked Celegorm after a little while.

So much for not thinking of Fëanor, Maedhros thought. “Fingolfin has never done anything unless provoked,” he said. “I told Fingon and Finrod that Atar would have no support from us if he tried to make trouble.” 

“Will we support Fingolfin instead, or will we keep out of it entirely?” asked Amrod. 

“If I am asked I will stand by Fingolfin,” Maedhros said. He did not think he would be asked. All their old followers were either still in the Halls, or scattered throughout Eressëa and Tirion and Imloth Ningloron, or other smaller settlements that had sprung up over the last few thousand years. There was no reason to believe any would come if he called—and he did not want to have to call. It would be enough, he thought, that he did not stand behind his father.

No one asked what had passed between him and Fëanor, and Maedhros was grateful for it. They soon spoke of other things—of the land, of the forests, of where they might stop that night to make camp. It was simple and light and if not for the fact that there were only six of them it might have been easy to pretend they were in Beleriand during the Long Peace, taking a hunting trip or traveling between their strongholds together. It was so easy to forget that there had been joy then, not only death and grief and war. There had been peace for a while, even if it had been false. There had been beauty, and the thrill of wide new lands to explore under the open skies and the new-risen sun and the stars. It was easy for Maedhros to forget that he had been happy. He had been grateful beyond words to Fingon for bringing him out of Angband, astonished and overjoyed to still be alive after everything…

He remembered it in a strange, distant sort of way. He remembered having the feelings, but not what they had actually felt like. He remembered wanting to keep living, to keep going, to keep fighting, but that desire had left him long before he had at last left the world and he did not know how to find it again. If he could just see Maglor again, maybe…

Maedhros didn’t know what that would achieve. If he saw Maglor again more than likely all it would do was hurt both of them. 

The conversation had gone on without him, and when he listened again he found them talking about Bilbo Baggins again, and his passion for songs and poetry. Ambarussa insisted that Caranthir sing them one of Bilbo’s songs, but it was only after Celegorm added his own entreaties that he obliged. None of them could claim a voice comparable to Maglor’s, but Caranthir’s was fair, low and warm and well suited to the cheerful and silly songs that Bilbo Baggins had brought into the west. He sang of the Man in the Moon coming down to an inn and getting drunk, and even Maedhros had to smile at such cheerful nonsense. Ambarussa joined him on the second round with their songbird bright voices. None of them had learned Westron until fairly recently, but it was a language well suited to such songs, Maedhros thought. Their own tongue felt too old for it, too heavy for quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle and the cow jumped over the moon. 

After they finished laughing, Celegorm sang a traveling song of their own, one they had often sung together while riding through Beleriand, between Himring and Thargelion, or from Himlad to Hithlum. Maedhros did not sing, but the remaining sick feeling in his stomach ebbed with each step they took away from their father, and he felt steadier, less like he was going to dissolve into ashes at the slightest provocation, even if he still did not feel quite…himself, or as close to himself as he’d gotten since his return from Mandos. 

They did not stop until well after sunset, when the moon was rising behind them. Celegorm came over to take the reins of Maedhros’ horse, and Maedhros caught his arm before he could turn away. “Thank you,” Maedhros said quietly. 

“We should have done this years ago,” Celegorm said. He hesitated, and then said, “Nelyo…you should have told us about Maglor.”

“I can’t apologize for keeping it from you.”

“It can’t be worse than what we saw before,” said Celegorm. 

Maybe that was so. They had all seen the work of Angband before, in prisoners and escaped thralls, but… “It was never your brother before, Tyelko.”

Celegorm looked at him in astonishment. “Who do you think I meant?” he asked. “Nelyo, of all of us it is you who never before had to watch a brother suffer so.” Maedhros felt his mouth drop open, but he couldn’t think of what to say. “You must stop trying to carry all these burdens alone. First Cáno, then Atar—don’t speak to him alone again next time.”

“That wasn’t the same,” Maedhros said. “That wasn’t—it was what I said to him that I did not want Moryo to hear.”

“Well, now you have said it, so you won’t need to send anyone away. You aren’t alone, Nelyo. That’s all I need you to understand.” 

Celegorm led the horses away, leaving Maedhros to wonder just how bad he had looked when he’d come back from Thangorodrim. By the time he had been given a mirror he’d recovered enough that it had not been so terrible to look at, and his memories of those first days were so hazy… 

“Nelyo, come sit down,” Ambarussa called from where they had started a fire. Maedhros obeyed, and found himself pulled down between them so each twin could claim a shoulder to lean against as all three leaned against a fallen log. Caranthir carefully placed increasingly larger pieces of wood onto the growing fire, and Curufin was digging through one of the bags and muttering to himself. 

It was all so normal. Overhead the stars shone down on them, and in the east the moon had risen, waning but still mostly full. Maedhros allowed himself the small luxury of leaning back against the log and staring up at the stars while Ambarussa whispered together in the half-sentences they used when they weren’t worried about anyone else needing to understand. He did not trace new constellations as he watched the stars; that had been a game he and Maglor had played. But he counted them, and by the time his attention was called back to his brothers he could accept a piece of way bread and an apple and be able to eat them without choking.

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Once he read the letters Huan, for reasons known only to himself, left Maglor alone for whole hours at a time. It was nice not to be continually watched by a great hound, though Maglor did wonder what Huan was doing with himself otherwise; if his errand had only been to get Maglor to read the letters, why did he still linger in the valley? 

During one such stretch of freedom, he went looking for Galadriel, and found her with Finrod and Celeborn, talking of Doriath. “Cousin, may I borrow you for a while?” Maglor said, leaning on the door frame. Finrod started to rise. “No, I meant my favorite cousin.” 

“I beg your pardon!” Finrod exclaimed as he sank back into his eat, and Galadriel rose laughing. “When was I supplanted as your favorite, Maglor?”

“Who has said Galadriel is supplanting you?” Maglor replied, just to see Finrod splutter.

“Who was it, then?” Finrod demanded when he regained his ability to speak. “Do not say Fingon! He’s everyone’s favorite and I would be ashamed of your unoriginality.” 

“Elessúrë,” Maglor replied without hesitation. He held out his arm to Galadriel, who was still laughing as she accepted it, and they left Finrod sputtering again while Celeborn laughed at him.

“If I recall correctly,” Galadriel said as they stepped outside into the sunshine, “your cousin Elessúrë was a child when we left these shores.”

“He was,” Maglor said. He had been just big enough to want to follow Maglor around wherever he went, before they had all packed up and removed to Formenos. Maglor hadn’t thought, then, that they would be gone so long. He had thought that he would come home to visit—he and his brothers had not been under exile, however his father spoke of it. In the end he had only seen his mother’s family once more before they left, a brief and grievous parting; his baby cousin had clung to him and wept, begging to either go with him or for Maglor to stay. “I was his favorite cousin, anyway.” Elessúrë would be grown now, perhaps with a family of his own. Maglor likely had other cousins, too, that had been born after the rising of the Sun and Moon that he had never known. “And on your side of the family my favorite was Finrod, but for heaven’s sake don’t tell him that.”

“Of course not, so long as I really am your current favorite,” Galadriel said. “What was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

“I said it to tease Finrod, but it is true,” Maglor said. “And I wanted…let’s go this way.” He led her to the memorial garden, where it was quiet and set apart. The mallorn’s branches rustled as though in greeting as they stepped through the gate. Galadriel stepped forward to lean over the rose bush, which had a fresh and sweet scent not quite like any other roses Maglor had known. He went to the statue of Gilraen, running his fingers over hers in greeting before turning away. By unspoken agreement they passed to the other side of the mallorn tree where there was a bench in the shade. Maglor sat, toying with the end of one of his braids, as Galadriel joined him and waited. He no longer feared the keenness of her gaze, but it was easier to look at another flowering bush as he said, “Have you seen much of my brothers since you came back?”

“Not as much as my brother has,” said Galadriel. “They come but rarely to Tirion except for Curufin, and he’s been subtly avoiding our branch of the family. He and Finrod have spoken, I think, but Finrod has not told me what passed between them. Are you sure you do not want to speak to him?”

“I’m sure,” Maglor said, and turned to look at her. “He wants me to go to see them even more badly than Celebrimbor does.”

“He is one of the few that can speak to Maedhros these days and expect to be listened to,” Galadriel said. “What do you want to know of them? I will tell you what I can.”

“I don’t…I don’t know. I know…several people have told me that Maedhros isn’t well, but…”

“He is not,” Galadriel said. “Celebrían describes him as wallowing, which is perhaps accurate but not entirely kind.”

“But no one has told me of the others,” Maglor said. “I have six brothers, not only one, and…I don’t know if I want to see any of them, but—” It was so hard to explain. “Tyelpë has told me a little,” he said. “He told me his parents have reconciled, and that Celegorm and Ambarussa spend all their time in the wild, but—perhaps if knew what questions to ask I would…” 

“I cannot pretend to understand exactly how fraught it all is,” Galadriel said. “My own reunions were much different. From what your mother has said…they are all well, in their own ways. Tirion is not unwelcoming but it is not quite welcoming, either. Caranthir spends his days in his own gardens or in Mahtan’s workshops. I cannot speak for Ambarussa or Celegorm. I have heard it said they’ve rejoined Oromë’s host.”

“You said that they made appearances in Tirion at Midwinter,” Maglor said. Galadriel had shared many absurd and silly stories from the last few years, but she’d skirted around his brothers. He had been grateful for it—was still grateful, for this conversation was making everything inside him twist and knot up, and making it hard to breathe. The only versions of his brothers’ faces he could conjure in his mind were the dream-ghosts that had haunted him in Dol Guldur, and he did not know if they were how he really remembered them or if it was another trick of Sauron’s, distorting them the way he had distorted Nerdanel. He hated the fear that kept clawing its way back up his throat, burning like bile.

“They did. Fingolfin invited them and I think it was only Nerdanel’s insistence that made them come. Even Maedhros came, though he did not stay long and he only spoke to Fingon. The rest were cheerful enough. Again, Finrod would be the better one to ask; he spoke to them more than I did. If it eases your mind, your mother does not seem worried about them.”

“I suppose it does,” Maglor said. 

“You did not want to hear anything of them before we left Avallónë,” Galadriel said softly. “What has changed?”

“They wrote to me. Caranthir and Curufin. Curufin sent…he sent a gift.” Maglor rubbed a hand over his face, feeling tears gathering. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Did they ask something of you that you are not willing to give?”

“Caranthir asked me to go home,” Maglor whispered. “But I don’t…it isn’t that I am unwilling, I just…” He pressed both of his hands to his face, and after a moment Galadriel moved closer to embrace him. He leaned into it gratefully. The tears didn’t fall, but they burned behind his eyes. “I did not think they would be here. I didn’t think I would have to…”

“I am sorry,” Galadriel said.

“Tyelpë said they have all gone off somewhere,” Maglor said. “They would not be there if I went looking, anyway.”

“Will you go to your mother?” Galadriel asked. 

He sighed, and lowered his hands, though he did not lift his head from Galadriel’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Yes, I must, I…” He bit his tongue, and then wondered if it would help to speak aloud this particular torment. He didn’t need to get drunk for it—in fact, he never wanted to get drunk and talk of it again—but there was something to be said for voicing the worst things that lived in his heart, and being heard. Galadriel had already seen him at his weakest and most broken. It was she who had removed the stitches from his lips and given him a room where the first thing he saw upon waking was the bright gold of the mallorn leaves outside of his window. He had been so badly mistaken in his judgment of her once, but he knew better now than to expect anything but compassion.

He sat up, and Galadriel released him so that she could hold his hand instead—the scarred one. “What is it?” she asked. 

“In…in Dol Guldur…” He put his free hand to his lips, feeling the scars there. “He tried to use my mother against me, and I…”

“It didn’t work,” Galadriel said softly. 

“No,” he agreed, “but I cannot remember what her face looks like—I can only see the mockery of it that he used. I don’t—I don’t know why this makes me so hesitant to see her but it does, and I…”

Galadriel squeezed his hand. “You do not need to explain yourself to me. It is enough to know that he sullied your memories of her. It is as unforgivable a thing as anything else he did. I am sorry, Macalaurë. I would have sought to show you her face in my mirror had I known.”

“I could not have looked into your mirror,” Maglor said. “It would have only drawn me to see…things I would rather not.” He did not know much of that sort of power, but he was sure of that. His own will would have had to be stronger than it was, regardless of Galadriel’s own power.

“She is so close by now. You can be there in a day or less if you ride hard.”

“I know.”

“Anyone would accompany you if you asked.”

“I know,” he said again. And Huan would accompany him whether he asked or not. But Celebrimbor had said that Fëanor had come there, and Maglor did not know if he was still nearby. Mahtan’s house was so close by, and that was another place Maglor needed to visit soon. To see his grandparents and his aunt and uncle and whatever cousins might be there, who he had never met or who he had left behind long ago. What would little Elessúrë think of what his once-favorite cousin had become?

“I think,” Maglor said finally, “what I really wanted to ask you is—are my brothers now as they were when you last saw them in Middle-earth?”

“I saw very little of any of you in Beleriand, as you know,” Galadriel said after a moment. “But…no. No, they are not. The Oath is long over and done and they are trying to find their way to who they might have been had it never been sworn, and for the most part I think they are succeeding. Mandos was kind to them. Even to Maedhros—it is Maedhros who will not be kind to himself. I do not say that to try to convince you to go to him,” she added when Maglor looked away. 

“I know,” he said. 

“And I will tell my brother to stop trying to convince you,” she said after a moment.

“He hasn’t been,” Maglor said. “But if I tried to speak to him of this I think that he would. I know that he means well…”

“Well, there is a reason I am your favorite and not him,” Galadriel said, with just enough smugness that Maglor couldn’t help but laugh, a pathetically small and damp sound, but still enough to lift some of the weight of this conversation from his spirit. “What will you do?” she asked. 

“Today? I will go throw clay on the wheel until I feel steadier. Maybe I will even make something worth firing; maybe I will be able to decide what I want to do afterward.”

“A good plan,” said Galadriel.

“I don’t think I will come back for lunch,” Maglor said. It was nearing noon, but he had no appetite, and he could not bear other company. “Will you tell Elrond? He still worries about me eating.”

“I will tell him, but should I be worried about you eating?” 

“No.” Maglor summoned a smile for her as they rose, knowing he looked something of a mess. “By now Elrond just worries out of habit. I’ll eat later, I promise.”

“I will hold you to it.”

Maglor embraced Galadriel, and kissed her cheek. “You really are my favorite cousin,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Macalaurë. Tell me when you decide what to do. I will go with you if you wish.”

“I will.”

Maglor stopped by a stream to wash his face before going on to the workshops. No one else was working with clay that day, and with relief he settled down at the wheel, throwing the clay down onto it with a satisfying thwack. He worked it for a while with no particular purpose, just enjoying the feeling of it shifting underneath his fingers. Clay was clay, whether in Valinor or Middle-earth, and there was comfort in that. He hummed as he worked, no particular song, just an old melody he’d learned long ago. After a while he heard a familiar thump outside the door, and looked up to see Huan sprawled out in the shade of the workshop. “Hello, Huan,” he said, receiving a lazy woof in reply. He turned back to his clay, which seemed to want to be a bowl. As he focused on the making rather than just the feeling, he started singing properly, a making-song he had learned in Rivendell. It was best when sung in company, but even alone it lifted his spirits and steadied his fingers, so that when he was finally done the bowl was even in form and in thickness. He carved a design into the rim of it, wavy and curling, and then etched a small M rune into the bottom before he set it on the rack to dry in anticipation of firing later. 

For a long time he had not found any particular satisfaction in making anything. It had been something to do with his hands and something to think about outside of himself. Now, though, he was smiling as he left the workshop to wash the clay from his hands. Huan followed him down to the stream, and when he was clean Maglor threw his arms around Huan’s big neck and kissed his nose. Whatever else was wrong, he could still make things. He could shape clay and he could carve wood and he could write songs, and he could fix things that were broken in a way that brought new beauty to them. Sauron had taken his memories and twisted them, and he had taken his freedom and he had taken his strength and even his voice—but he had not, in the end, taken everything. And what he had taken could be recovered. Had been recovered. 

It occurred to him that maybe the distorted memories could be recovered too. “Perhaps I should go to Lórien,” he said aloud. Huan licked up the side of his face. “Ugh, Huan!”

“Maglor?” Elladan and Elrohir came up the path. “Have you eaten lunch yet?” Elrohir asked, coming to sit beside him. “No? Of course not.”

“I’m fine,” Maglor said, but he accepted the bowl of raspberries presented to him. He ate one and savored the bright burst of sweetness on his tongue.

“Visitors are coming down the road,” Elladan said, sitting on Elrohir’s other side. “With banners.”

“What banners?” Maglor asked. 

“Silver and blue,” said Elrohir. “Ada neglected to tell us that he is expecting a visit from High King Fingolfin.” Maglor made a face. “Do you want to avoid him?”

“No…no, I shouldn’t.” Just a minute ago he had been feeling more confident than he had since disembarking in Avallónë—but this news might be almost enough to undo all the good that a few hours working clay had done him, if he was not careful.

“Do you want to? For today, anyway,” said Elladan. “He’ll likely be here for several days at least.”

Maglor grinned at them. “Are you trying to avoid meeting my uncle? He is your grandfather.”

“He is our very formidable grandfather,” said Elladan.

“You are rather formidable yourselves,” Maglor pointed out as he ate a few more raspberries. 

“Not in these lands, we are not,” said Elrohir, laughing. “We fought at the Black Gate but that is not the same as challenging Morgoth himself! You’re right, though, that we shouldn’t hide away like children—but we needed to prepare ourselves. This is all even worse than when Glorfindel came to Rivendell for the first time—it took us almost a full month to get up the courage to speak to him longer than a good morning or good evening. But I think Fingolfin wishes to speak to Ada about something in particular, so perhaps we should wait a little before we go back in.”

Maglor lifted the bowl away from Huan’s questing nose. “I will not argue,” he said. “Let the great ones take counsel together, and then I can go say hello to my uncle. Huan!” Huan had abandoned the raspberries but had returned to licking Maglor’s face, which was worse. “What is the matter with you—” Elrohir, laughing, managed to rescue the berries when Huan shoved Maglor down onto the grass, presumably to make licking him easier. 

“It’s nice to know that the great Hound of Valinor is, sometimes, just a dog,” Elladan said as he took a berry from the bowl. 

“The great Hound of Valinor is a menace,” Maglor said through gritted teeth, trying and failing to shove Huan off of him. 

Someone called up the path, and still Huan did not stop trying to coat Maglor in as thick a layer of drool as possible. Elladan and Elrohir scrambled to their feet, and it wasn’t until Maglor heard laughter that he recognized the voice. Of course Fingon would come to find him at the least dignified moment imaginable. “Help,” he said, and it took both the twins pulling and Maglor shoving to get Huan off of him. At least when Maglor got to his feet he wasn’t knocked over again in an instant. He wiped his face as best he could, but knew he still looked a disheveled mess when he turned to greet Fingon. 

Fingon only laughed at him, of course, and embraced him with as much force as Celebrimbor had by the docks of Avallónë. “At last, Maglor, you’re here! Whatever took you so long?”

“It’s good to see you too,” said Maglor as he returned the embrace, and he found that he really meant it. Fingon had always shone, an exuberant and joyful presence even as the shadows lengthened and the wind out of the north grew bitter and colder with every passing year, and in the bright summer sunshine, with golden ribbons in his hair, he seemed even brighter than he had before. 

His smile dimmed, however, when he drew back enough to see Maglor’s face properly. Maglor spoke before he could. “I know, I am a mess. Huan decided I needed a bath like I was a puppy.” Fingon laughed, but his smile no longer reached his eyes, and Maglor saw his gaze linger a moment on the scars. He turned away from it. “Have you met your nephews yet? Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond and Celebrían.”

“I have not!” Fingon turned his blinding smile on them, and Maglor could step back as they exchanged greetings, both twins a little overwhelmed at yet another kinsman of renown appearing to welcome them to Valinor and to the family. It wasn’t long before Fingon set them at ease, though, and they were all laughing as they turned back to head toward the house. Fingon said nothing of the scars. Huan tucked himself up at Maglor’s side, and Maglor rested his hand on Huan’s head. 

“I’m surprised to see Huan here,” Fingon remarked, glancing over at him. “He has stuck to Celegorm’s side like a bur since he came from Mandos.” 

“I don’t know why he is here,” Maglor said. “I’ll catch up with you in a moment. I need to wash all of Huan off of my face before I see my uncle.”

“Come on, Huan,” said Elrohir as Maglor turned down another path to another stream. “If you are going to knock someone else over, let it be Glorfindel.” Fingon laughed, and Maglor ducked behind a bush to kneel by the water and rinse his face off. He finger-combed the snarls and bits of grass out of his hair, and undid the smaller braids to pull half of it back out of his face, sliding Daeron’s hair clip into place to secure it. He did not want to meet Fingolfin by ducking his face behind his hair, however hard it was to be stared at. He did not want Fingolfin to think him still broken. He stared at his reflection in the water, though he knelt in the shade and it was little more than a shadow. He knew what was there, though. There was no hiding some scars, but he rolled his sleeves back down his arms to hide the marks around his wrists, and some of the fainter and fading scars higher on his arms from the orcs’ knives long ago. 

Fingon hadn’t known. Maglor had seen the surprise there. It would be too much to hope that Fingolfin did. If they met among other company, though, surely he would not ask questions. Maglor rubbed his hands over his face and got to his feet. Elladan was waiting for him down the path. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Fingolfin is formidable to us, but you did not seem to think him so earlier.”

“He is formidable,” Maglor said, “and he is the High King. That’s why I stopped to wash off the dog drool. I’m all right, Elladan. You really don’t need to worry about me.”

“I think Fingon is worried about you,” Elladan said. 

“Hopefully he won’t be insufferable about it. If he is I’ll shove him into a fishpond later.”

Elladan laughed, delighted. “Is this what it was like when you were younger?”

“Not really.” Maglor smiled and threw his arm around Elladan’s shoulders. “I never had to shove Fingon into a fishpond before. Hopefully I won’t have to now. Come on. Fingolfin will probably not be quite so terrifying as he is in the tales.”

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In the corner of Elrond and Celebrían’s bedroom was a neat collection of packages and chests of various sizes. The largest packages were as tall as Elrond was, wide and rectangular, carefully wrapped up. He knew they must be paintings, perhaps done by Arwen’s own hand, for she had been as skilled with a brush as she had been with a needle. The chests held letters and documents and diaries, and perhaps other books and other gifts as well. Neither he nor Celebrían were quite ready to look at any of it, but its mere presence was a comfort—something solid and tangible existing as evidence of rich lives well lived. Elrond had not even had that much when Elros had died, until he had come to Avallónë and met Finrod, who had given him a chest overflowing with letters, and several journals that Elros had written over the course of his life and given to Finrod to keep on Eressëa for Elrond’s someday-arrival. 

Elrond still had not read all of them. It took a particular kind of mood for him to have the heart for it, and it was one that came only rarely. He suspected the same would be true for Arwen’s papers. 

The thickest haze of grief was lifting from the valley, now that Elladan and Elrohir were there and settling in as easily as though they were come home to Imladris. They were full of small stories and details to share about Arwen and Aragorn and their children—things that were brought to mind by a particular flavor of jam at the breakfast table, or the scent of lilacs in the air, or the sound of some instrument or another. Things that made them all smile, rather than weep.

He sat on the bed behind Celebrían, braiding amber beads into her hair. They’d spent a lazy morning in bed together for no particular reason except that they could—a thing that still felt wondrous and precious after so many years apart. “When do you expect Fingolfin to arrive?” Celebrían asked after a while, gazing out of the window that faced toward the road, though from the bed the road itself was not visible. 

“Any time now, I suppose,” Elrond said. “He did not give a particular date in his letter.”

“Has anyone heard anything more of Fëanor?”

“No, but I expect Fingolfin will have news when he arrives.” Elrond fastened one braid with a gold clip, and began the next. He did not work quickly, unwilling to put an end to their quiet morning. “I still can’t understand why he wants to take counsel with me. It isn’t as though I ever met Fëanor.”

“Maybe that is precisely why,” said Celebrían, “aside from the fact that you are justly renowned for your wisdom.” She laughed when Elrond gently tugged on her hair. “Anyway, you might also seem to him to be a neutral party.”

“Oh yes,” Elrond murmured, “Galadriel’s son-in-law, Elwing’s son, Eärendil’s son, Fingolfin’s own grandson—I suppose I should take it as a great compliment indeed to be thought neutral in the matter of Fëanor.” Celebrían laughed again, and Elrond finished off the last braid before leaning forward to kiss the back of her neck. “All done, love.”

“Thank you!” She turned around to kiss him before taking the box of beads and clips away. “Though now I must ask how you do feel about Fëanor.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Elrond admitted. “I think Fëanor new-come from Mandos will not be the same Fëanor that led the Noldor into exile. I think he will rather be more like how he was before the Morgoth first began to spread discord among the Noldor; but while we do not have to worry about the Oath there is still a Silmaril that might come within his reach. And—well, and there is Maglor, who wants nothing to do with him regardless. If I were to take any side it would be his.”

“If there are sides to be taken, it will be regarding the kingship,” said Celebrían. “Maglor’s feelings are rather more personal than that.”

“For the House of Finwë the personal is often political, and the political personal,” said Elrond. “Maglor won’t back any claim of his father’s. Beyond that I don’t think he much cares.”

“Do you care?” Celebrían asked.

“My loyalty has always first lain with Gil-galad,” said Elrond. Gil-galad was yet to return from Mandos, and he would never be High King again, so it meant little. Still… “Fingolfin was High King far longer than Fëanor ever was, and I have never heard it said that he was a bad one in Middle-earth, and I have not seen that he is a bad one here, either.”

“Well, it’s only been a few decades,” said Celebrían. “He wears the crown easier than my grandfather did, though.” She sat back down on the bed. “It seems to me that Fëanor will have very little support if he tries to cause any trouble.”

“I honestly don’t think he will,” Elrond said. “Try to cause trouble, I mean. I can’t claim to know what the dead see of Vairë’s tapestries or what they are aware of, but I’m not sure it is coincidence that his return coincides with Maglor’s.”

“Then the trouble will come when he finds that his children have not forgiven him,” Celebrían murmured. “I know we’ve joked about him falling into fish ponds and things, but I do pity him. I could not bear it if Elladan or Elrohir ever decided they never wished to speak to me again.” She glanced toward the corner that held all of Arwen’s letters, proof that her choice had never been a rejection of them, but an embracing of something else. Elrond reached out to take her hand. “I have hope that they will reconcile—Fëanor and Fingolfin. And Finarfin and Findis and Lalwen, when it comes to that.”

“I do, too,” Elrond said. “Choosing to hope has not steered me wrong yet.”

“I hope that he can someday reconcile with his sons, too,” Celebrían said. “For all of their sakes.” 

Whether reconciliation was possible between Fëanor and his sons was up to them. Elrond was certainly not a neutral party in that matter: he would take Maglor’s side, every time.

They went downstairs and found Celeborn and Finrod together in a sunny room, Finrod sprawled across a sofa, though Elrond couldn’t tell if it was for the dramatic effect or to take advantage of the sunbeams that fell across his face. “Celebrían!” he cried as they entered the room, making Elrond decide the sprawl was, in fact, for dramatic effect, “Come distract me from a cousin’s betrayal. What have you been doing all morning?”

“Oh dear,” said Celebrían as she went to sit by Celeborn, leaning against his side as he put his arm around her shoulders. “I have been enjoying my husband’s company, Uncle. What sort of betrayal have you suffered?”

“It seems,” said Celeborn with a smile, “that Galadriel is Maglor’s favorite cousin. Poor Finrod has had something of a shock.”

Elrond sat on Celebrían’s other side. “Poor Finrod indeed,” he said gravely.

“And to hear him tell it I was never his favorite,” Finrod said plaintively. “I don’t believe him, of course, but at least he didn’t try to convince me it was one of my brothers. Or Fingon. Fingon is everyone’s favorite. Except mine; my favorite is Turgon.”

“Well, who was it before it was my mother, then?” Celebrían asked. 

“Elessúrë. His only cousin on Nerdanel’s side of the family—well, his only cousin at the time, who was very young when we left, so I can’t even argue with him about it because that would be absurd.”

“Whereas bewailing to everyone else who will listen isn’t absurd at all!” Celebrían laughed. “I’m rather fond of Elessúrë, myself. He and his sisters did many of the mosaics on the guest rooms walls here. Elrond, you met them your first Midwinter in Tirion, you remember.”

“I don’t remember; I met everyone my first Midwinter in Tirion,” Elrond said. Finrod laughed. Celeborn laughed too, until Elrond reminded him, “So will you, come wintertime. They’ll all be lining up in Tirion to meet Galadriel’s husband—and coming from Valmar, no doubt, and Alqualondë—”

“Who’s to say Galadriel and I will be in Tirion at Midwinter?” Celeborn asked. “We may well be at Thingol's court, where we are both well known already.”

Galadriel herself reappeared then, and Finrod sat up so she could take a seat beside him. “Where is Maglor?” he asked. 

“Gone to spend the day working clay,” Galadriel said. “He asked me to tell you, Elrond, that he will not be back for lunch but not to worry about him.”

“Should we be worried about him eating?” Finrod asked with a frown.

“No,” Elrond said. “Maglor just worries about me worrying.”

“What an odd relationship you two have.”

Elrond shrugged. Worry was a hard habit to break after so many long years filled with it in Middle-earth. He worried for Maglor for many reasons, of course, but whether or not he was getting enough to eat had long ago ceased to be one of them. Galadriel shook her head and laughed when Finrod asked what she and Maglor had spoken of, but Elrond could tell she was concerned too. It was Fëanor, Elrond thought, and the uncertainty of his aims and his movements, and all the other old wounds reopened by that uncertainty—and by being back in Valinor in the first place. However Maglor might laugh it off or insist that he was fine, Elrond knew better. There was just nothing he could do about it. 

With Midsummer behind them, the valley had settled into summertime laziness. There was very little for Elrond to do besides answer a few letters and make some progress on a text he was copying for the library. Pídhres joined him as he worked, curling up on the windowsill beside his desk in the workroom. It was on one of the upper floors of the house and the window overlooked the road, so when silver and blue banners appeared Elrond saw them almost immediately. He did not get up, but finished the paragraph, and set his pen aside. “Come along, little miss,” he said as he rose, and scooped up Pídhres. She squirmed a little in his hands before climbing up onto his shoulders. “Can’t have you leaving paw prints all over my hard work.” She purred and rubbed her face against his cheek, just as he often saw her do to Maglor, and he scratched her behind the ears as he went downstairs, arriving at the bottom of them just in time to see Elladan and Elrohir escape out a side door. 

“They’ve gone to find Maglor,” Erestor said, coming around a corner, “though I think they just need a bit of time to find their composure before Fingolfin comes through the door. Do you remember when Glorfindel arrived at Imladris?”

Elrond laughed. “Yes, I do.” Theirs was a family—on all sides—populated by many great and formidable names, and he couldn’t blame his sons for needing a moment before meeting Fingolfin. In person, though, he was not at all the sort of person Elrond would have expected to challenge Morgoth to single combat if he hadn’t already known the stories; he was much like Fingon, kindhearted and often merry. The crown did not weigh so heavily there in Aman as it once had in Middle-earth. “I hope it won’t take them a month to get up the courage to meet Fingolfin. I don’t think he’ll be here that long.”

“Is Fingolfin here?” Finrod and Galadriel came around the corner behind Erestor, accompanied by Celebrían. “Whatever for?” Finrod asked. 

“Because my husband is the wisest of the wise, and all kings should come to consult with him on occasion!” Celebrían said. “Not to mention he is Fingolfin’s own grandson, and I flatter myself that he might want to meet my sons also.”

Fingolfin came inside then, accompanied by Fingon. “Well met, Cousin!” Finrod cried, springing forward to embrace him. “Hello, Uncle! I hope Midsummer in Tirion was merry.”

“It was!” said Fingon. “Where is Maglor, then? It must be my turn by now to scold him for taking so long.”

“Out by the workshops, I believe,” Elrond said. 

“Thank you!” Fingon smiled at Elrond, kissed Celebrían and Galadriel, and vanished out of the same door the twins had taken. 

Fingolfin greeted everyone only a shade less cheerfully than Fingon. He seemed tired and tense, and declined Celebrían’s invitation to lunch. “We ate on the road. I would speak with you, Elrond.”

“Of course.” Elrond led him to a small parlor off the entry hall, little used except for such private conversations, but they left the door ajar. “Any news of Fëanor?” he asked as Fingolfin dropped into a chair by the window. 

“Nerdanel came to Tirion with Rundamírë after Midsummer, and we spoke; she will not receive him into her house—not yet, anyway. For her part she is encouraged and hopeful, but his meeting with Maedhros did not go well, and while their sons won’t speak to him, she can’t have him under her roof.”

“How did Fëanor take it?” Elrond asked as he took his own seat. Pídhres jumped down onto his lap, and purred as he stroked her back. 

“As though he’d expected nothing less, according to Nerdanel. She sent him to stay at her father’s house, but I doubt he will stay there long. I had hoped,” Fingolfin said, passing a hand over his face, “that we might contrive to bring him here. I would reconcile with him myself, but I do not want to bring him to Tirion for it. It is too…” 

Too fraught. Too full of memories both good and ill. “You think Imloth Ningloron is a better place? Maglor is here.”

“I know.” Fingolfin grimaced. “But I cannot think of another place that is as close to neutral ground as this one, and Celebrían has always said it is her intention to make this valley welcoming to all, no matter who they are.”

“That is true,” said Elrond. “But we can’t welcome Fëanor without making Maglor unwelcome, and he is not only a guest here, Grandfather. This is his home.”

“It is only a matter of time before Fëanor comes on his own, isn’t it?” Fingolfin asked. “He wants to see his sons—all of them. The others have all gone off somewhere west, but Maglor is still here.”

“He can’t believe that Maglor will be any happier to see him than Maedhros,” Elrond said. 

“Perhaps not. But when he is set upon a course there is very little that can turn him aside. I understand this course, at least. I’m not sure I would be able to rely on someone else’s assurances, if one of my children had been lost for as long as Maglor has been. I’m surprised that Nerdanel has not come, or that his brothers have not descended upon your valley in search of him.”

“Their reassurances came from Celebrimbor,” Elrond said, “and from a letter Maglor wrote to Nerdanel. It isn’t all third-hand reports. Maglor told Celebrimbor that he is not ready to see them.”

“I do wonder at that a little,” Fingolfin said. “They were inseparable, growing up—all of them, but Maglor and Maedhros especially.”

“Maglor was…he was alone for a long time,” Elrond said. “I think he is still learning how not to be.” 

“Six brothers is rather a lot,” Fingolfin said. “Particularly those brothers. But—of course Maglor must be consulted, but if he is agreeable, will you allow me to use this place to meet with Fëanor?”

“If Maglor is agreeable,” Elrond said after a moment’s thought. “I would dearly love to see all the members of our family able to live in—in peace, if not in friendship, and you and Fëanor most of all. But I won’t send Maglor away just so Fëanor can come, or ask Maglor to meet with someone he does not want to see.”

“Of course not. If it cannot be, I will think of another place, or just go to Mahtan’s house myself, I suppose, but that feels as wrong as Tirion in its own way.”

Voices in the corridor heralded the arrival of Fingon and Elrohir, and Huan with them. “Maglor is coming with Elladan just behind us,” Elrohir said to Elrond as he and Fingolfin rose. 

Fingolfin smiled warmly as he took Elrohir’s hands in greeting, and then Elladan’s when he joined them a moment later, putting them both at ease immediately. Maglor came in then, having hung back to allow that first meeting. He was slightly damp and disheveled, and Elrond gave Huan a look; Huan sat down beside Fingon and looked back at him, tongue hanging out as he smiled in dog-fashion, apparently quite pleased with himself. 

“Maglor,” Fingolfin said, “it’s so good to see you at last. Welcome home.” If he was startled by the visible scars he gave no sign; Maglor looked surprised at the warmth of his greeting and at his embrace, but he returned it readily.

“It’s good to see you too, Uncle,” he said. 

“What took you so long? You never did say,” Fingon said. 

“Maglor stayed back with us,” Elrohir said when Maglor hesitated a moment too long, “for we weren’t ready to sail with Adar.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Fingolfin said. “You are here now, and we are all glad of it.”

Maglor smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Erestor appeared in the doorway, looking unusually flustered. “Elrond,” he said, and then caught himself, adding to Fingolfin, “Your Highness.”

“What is it?” Elrond asked, as Huan’s ears pricked up at the sound of other voices in the entrance hall. 

“It is Fëanor,” Erestor said. Maglor’s face went ashen. “He’s just arrived.”

For a moment no one in the room spoke. Then Fingon said, “Well, so much for trying to make plans around him! We should have expected something like this.”

Maglor crossed the room to Elrond. “I cannot see him,” he said in a low voice in Elrond’s ear. “Not here in the house.” He held his right hand to his chest, as though it pained him, and he spoke in quiet Westron. 

“You needn’t see him at all if you don’t want to,” Elrond said in the same language. He reached for Maglor’s hand, but Maglor drew back, shaking his head. “I can give you time, at least, to slip away and prepare yourself if you think he won’t be dissuaded.”

“I know he won’t,” Maglor muttered. “Just—enough time to get away from the house. If I start shouting I don’t want…”

“Elrond,” said Erestor, “where shall I take him?”

“To the larger parlor, the one looking out over the rose garden,” Elrond said. “We’ll be there in a few minutes.” He glanced at Fingolfin, who nodded. 

Unfortunately, it seemed Fëanor was not any more patient now than he had been in his previous life, and before Erestor could do more than step back from the doorway, he had stepped into it. Elladan and Elrohir immediately stepped into the middle of the room to block Maglor from his sight, but Maglor was taller than they were, and Fëanor’s gaze was quicker. 

Everyone else was looking at Fëanor, but Elrond looked at Maglor, who had gone so still that Elrond didn’t think he was even breathing. A rapid and complicated series of things passed over his face in quick succession—grief, fear, pain most alarmingly, and then a flash of anger so intense that Elrond nearly took a step back, viscerally reminded that Maglor was the son of Fëanor, the Spirit of Fire. If asked a minute before he would have said that of course he’d seen Maglor angry—he had seen Maglor in all of his moods at one time or another. Now he realized that he hadn’t, not really. Not like this, an anger born of betrayal and hurt that ran far deeper than any other scars he’d received in Middle-earth. 

“I don’t like being angry…I am so angry I could scream.”

There was another door leading to a small corridor that, eventually, led outside. Maglor slipped through it, pausing for only a fraction of a second when Fëanor said, with the kind of desperation only a parent could feel, “Canafinwë!” Then he was gone, and Elrohir after him. Elladan stepped in front of the door when Fëanor would have followed—Elrond didn’t think Fëanor had noticed anyone else in the room—and brought him up short, blinking in shock. 

It was almost funny, Elrond thought distantly, how Elladan had been so shy before meeting Fingolfin, but he was able to stare down Fëanor without so much as blinking—except that it wasn’t funny at all, because it was the difference between wanting to make a good impression, and not caring for the opinion of a source of danger. “Let me pass,” Fëanor said. 

“He does not want to see you,” Elladan said calmly, without moving. As though to lend his support, Huan moved to sit in front of the door, so no one could come in or go out of the room by it. 

Fëanor was a striking figure, even clad in plain traveling clothes of muted reds and browns, with his hair caught back in a simple, unraveling braid (the same way that Maglor’s hair was forever coming loose of its braids). He could see the similarity in features between Fëanor and Maglor, but it was as though Fëanor had been drawn with a bolder hand, with sharper lines. There was a fire in him that put Elrond in mind of Maedhros, except that the fire in Maedhros burned inward. The look on his face, though, Elrond knew well. He’d worn that look himself before, desperately needing to see his sons and assure himself they were well—after a battle, after a long journey away from Rivendell, most recently on the docks of Avallónë. 

Only Elrond had never had to fear that his children would not be glad to see him. 

For a moment Elrond feared that Fëanor’s temper would show itself, and any hope of a peaceful meeting for any of them would be lost—but he visibly restrained himself, gritting his teeth as he said, “If that is so, I would hear it from Canafinwë’s own lips.”

“Is not his leaving the room as soon as you entered it not enough?” Fingon asked from where he’d leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. His voice was light but his eyes had gone hard. His father gave him a warning look, but Fingon did not seem deterred, not even when Fëanor turned toward him. “You can glower at me all you like, Fëanáro; I am no longer a child, and I have seen far more frightening things since we last spoke.”

“Findekáno,” Fingolfin said sharply. 

“I speak only the truth! I did not quail before a host of balrogs; I shall not quail before Fëanáro now.”

Elrond suddenly understood perfectly how only a few well-timed whispers on Morgoth’s part could have done such damage to the House of Finwë; they could have done the rest all by themselves—and they could do it all over again now, when they were all so much older and sharper, better able to wield weapons of all kinds, whether words or blades. 

“I came here to see my son,” Fëanor said. “I had thought he was a guest here, not a prisoner to be ushered away from—”

“A prisoner?” Fingon repeated, incredulous, as Elladan also voiced his outrage at his mother’s home called a prison.

“It did not seem to me that he left on his own, rather that he was pushed—”

“Enough,” Elrond said. He did not raise his voice, but he put just enough power into it to remind them all why he had once been chosen as Gil-galad’s herald. The room fell silent; even the birds outside the window ceased their chirping. Elladan had heard it before, but neither Fingolfin nor Fingon had, and they both blinked at him in shock. Fëanor turned, and his look was not one of surprise, but rather assessing, curious and wary, and Elrond realized that Fëanor did not know who he was. It was rather startling, not to be recognized. He could almost hear Elros laughing at him for being surprised. He ignored everyone else, even Pídhres, who hissed at Fëanor from the chair by the window, meeting Fëanor’s gaze as calmly as Elladan had. “No one is a prisoner here,” he said, “and Maglor is not a guest. This is his home.”

“Then let him say so himself,” Fëanor said. “Tales told and claims made second- and third-hand is what led us into turmoil, and I will not make the same mistake twice.”

“That is not what is happening, Fëanáro,” Fingolfin said quietly. “No one here is a stranger, least of all Elrond.”

“He is a stranger to me,” Fëanor said. 

“But not to Maglor,” said Fingon. 

“Huan,” Elrond said, “please move away from the door.” Elladan looked startled at the order, but Huan got up and obeyed, going to Fëanor and sniffing his hand—a far more thorough greeting than he usually gave. He concluded with a huff and sat back, looking at Fëanor solemnly, but he did not move to block the door again. 

“Come with me,” Elrond said then, and with a nod to Fingolfin, he led Fëanor through the door and down the corridor. There were few rooms in this house that did not have multiple doors, or windows that could be opened easily. It had been built by the same hands that had made Rivendell, with the memory of Gondolin or Doriath or Ost-in-Edhil clear in their minds, where to be trapped was to die. There was no fear of that here, but it remained a comfort—and as Bilbo had laughed and reminded them all, there were always unwelcome visitors one might wish to escape. 

Would that Fëanor were only as troublesome as as a gossipy neighbor from Bagshot Row. 

Outside in the gardens, Elrond stopped and turned to face Fëanor. “He doesn’t want to see you,” he said, “and I do not believe either of you are ready for this meeting. Will you not wait?”

“What do you think I am going to do that you need to protect him from me?” Fëanor asked. “He is my son.”

“You have already done the worst thing that I can imagine a father would do to his children,” Elrond said. He was no doubt souring whatever hope there was for an amicable relationship between himself and Fëanor, but he didn’t care. Someone had to say it. “Slaying them yourself would have been kinder than binding them to that Oath. All of Beleriand suffered for it, and your sons not least of all; I was born in Sirion—I saw what they had become by the end. Maglor is now a member of my household—of my family—and I will protect him from harm if it is in my power, whatever form it takes. However,” he added, before Fëanor could do more than open his mouth to respond, “it is not Maglor that I am trying to protect in this moment. He is very hurt already, and very angry, and I don’t think he will hold himself back when he sees you.”

Fëanor’s hands were balled into fists, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. “Whatever he has to say to me, I will hear it,” he said. “It is the least that I can do.”

It was a better answer than Elrond had feared. “Then take the path through the lilacs, past the workshops. He will have left the gardens and may be across the valley in the hills by now.” He watched Fëanor disappear around a bend in the path, and sighed.

“Was that a good idea?” Elladan asked, coming up behind him.

“Sometimes a festering wound needs to be lanced before it can heal,” Elrond said. He turned to put his arm around Elladan’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to his temple. “I love you.”

“I’ve never doubted it, Ada.”

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Everything had been going so well. 

Maglor broke into a run as soon as he made it outside, needing to get away. He did not care where he ended up as long as it was away. He flew down the paths and away past the workshops, out over the streams and past the ponds, through the flowering meadows until, out of breath and shaking, he reached the wooded hills where Finrod had taken him and Celebrimbor a few weeks before. He did not go to the glade where they’d drunk and wept together, instead walking only far enough under the trees to lean against one of them, in the shade and invisible from the house. He leaned his arm on the trunk and his head on his arm, staring down at his right hand. The scars were livid, red and tender as they had not been in years. As they never hurt for more than a moment when something triggered that particular memory, which happened with increasing rareness these days—except now. The terrible agony had faded away but he could still feel his heartbeat in his entire hand. 

“Maglor?” Elrohir had followed. Of course he had. Maglor didn’t know whether he was grateful or not. “What’s the matter with your hand?”

“I don’t know,” Maglor said, after swallowing the instinctive nothing that nearly slipped out first. He turned to lean his back against the tree, allowing Elrohir to take his hand an examine it with a healer’s eyes. He was very careful not to touch the scars. Maglor tipped his head back against the rough bark and tried to focus on the quiet, easy thoughts of the tree, or on the breeze through the branches above, but his head was too full of other noise. 

He’d thought he would have more warning. He’d thought he’d have more time. He had joked about it with Elrond, about escaping through windows from unwanted visitors like Bilbo used to talk about hiding from his rude relations in the Shire.

Fëanor had stepped through the door and it was like the world had stopped. Maglor hadn’t been able to breathe. His hand had started to burn, like the fire of the Silmarils was the fire of his father’s spirit, and he had felt so, so angry. It had burst upon him like a sudden wave and he was still dizzy with it. Still shaking like he’d just come from battle. 

He hated being angry. Anger meant losing control, and from the moment he had begun to understand the power that he held in his voice he had known that for him, losing control could mean anything from a bit of broken glass to someone bleeding. Later in Beleriand he had worked hard to maintain iron control on his voice and on his temper, which was slower than some of his brothers’ but no less potent when it was provoked. Only once in battle had he lost that control, during the Nirnaeth when he’d seen Caranthir cut down by Uldor, and the next thing he’d known Uldor and half his men were dead or dying and everything around them was falling into chaos. He still didn’t know how much of that chaos was his fault. 

And the last time he’d gotten really, truly angry, the last time he’d let that fury out on purpose, tried to use it—well. He hadn’t had the strength to do anything with it, hadn’t even cracked the foundations of Dol Guldur, and he had paid for it dearly afterward. His chest ached for a moment in time with the throbbing in his hand; he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to find calm. It didn’t work. 

Elrohir had started humming a few bars of a song meant to ease pain, but it made no difference, and he gave up quickly. “Maglor, you need to want me to help you,” he said. 

“It’s fading already,” said Maglor. “You don’t have to—” Elrohir released his hand but only to throw his arms around him instead, holding on so tightly that Maglor had to wonder what his face looked like, how much of his distress could be read there. He wrapped his arms around Elrohir, leaning again against the tree. The bark pressed against his back, against the scars that still criss-crossed the skin there. They were not scars he thought about much, because he couldn’t see them, but sometimes he felt them and remembered everything that had happened all over again. 

He wanted, abruptly, desperately, to be back in Middle-earth, to be on a stretch of stony beach with the waves crashing into the nearby cliffs. He could picture the precise place, grey and wild and beautiful under pale cloudy skies where seagulls circled, the wind strong and with a bite to it and the scent of coming rain, south of Lindon and northwest of the wide floodplains of the mouths of the Brandywine, far away from any cities or villages, unknown to anyone but him. The desire to be there was so strong that it hurt, an ache settling under his ribs like a cat curling up on his lap. 

“What do you need?” Elrohir asked without letting go. 

To find a way back across the Sea. “I don’t know,” Maglor said. 

Movement in the trees caught his eye, and he looked up to see Galadriel; he hadn’t known she was nearby when he’d fled the house. Their eyes met and he let her look, let her see whatever there was to see. Whatever it was she saw, it did not surprise her. She came to join them under the tree. “Perhaps you might think of leaving for your mother’s house earlier than you intended,” she said. 

He couldn’t go to his mother now. And just leaving would feel like running away—which was what he had just done, and which he had no real objection to, except that to run invited the possibility of being chased. It made him feel hunted. “What does he want?”

“To see you,” Galadriel said. 

“It can’t be that simple,” Maglor said. Elrohir eased his grip around Maglor, but did not draw fully back, instead resting his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “It is never that simple with my father,” Maglor said. 

“I don’t think that was always true,” Galadriel said, “and it may not be true now.”

“It isn’t me that he wants to see.” Maglor felt the telltale burning behind his eyes, and blinked a few times, trying to keep them dry. When he saw his father again he did not want to have been crying. “Not as I am now. He wants what I was then.” An unflinchingly loyal son, who would question nothing and who would do anything—from drawing his sword on a darkened quay to throwing a torch onto a ship—just because his father ordered it. A person he no longer was and would never be again. 

“You don’t know that,” Elrohir said. “It has been a long time, Maglor.”

“Your father followed your wanderings through the tapestries of Mandos. It grieved him deeply to see you walk alone for so long.”

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. There was a stream nearby and he focused all of his thought upon it, on the music of its waters as they flowed cheerfully down the hill over time-worn stones, caring nothing for the turmoil in any elvish heart. The trees around him were awake, whispering to each other of things so far removed from a son’s hurt and anger at his father that it was as though they lived in another faraway world. It was one he wished he could enter into and never have to think of anything but rich soil and rainfall and the breeze in his hair ever again. 

Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at Galadriel. “Will you counsel me, Cousin?” he asked quietly. “What do you think I should do?”

“I think,” Galadriel said after a few moments, “that you should meet with your father on your own terms, in your own time. It may be best if you left this place…” 

Elrohir protested, “It isn’t right that you should have to leave just because he has come here. This is your home, Maglor, not his.”

“I would have left sooner or later anyway.” Maglor reached up to tug on one of Elrohir’s braids, a silent apology for being at the center of the turmoil that had just descended upon the valley. “And my—he and my uncle need to have it out between them. This is a better place for it than Tirion, and it will go far more smoothly if I am not here.” 

Elrohir sighed, and stepped back. “I’ll go pack your things,” he said, “so you need not go back to the house.”

“Thank you, Elrohir,” Maglor said softly.

Galadriel remained behind when Elrohir departed. “He is right,” she said. “You should not have to leave this place just because Fëanor is here. Elrond will say the same.”

Elrond had promised to keep unwanted visitors away, including Fëanor. It had been easy to laugh about on Tol Eressëa, when Fëanor had been far away and they could pretend he had not even been let out of Mandos yet, when the fear and anger had been only a rolling in his stomach and not something with teeth gnawing on the back of his throat, tasting like bile. But he was here, now, and it would be easiest on everyone if someone left. “And you are right that I should,” Maglor said. “If I do not—I have not been angry like this in a very long time, Galadriel. Not since—not since Dol Guldur.”

“What did you do then?”

“I tried to sing the place down around us,” Maglor said, and there was a strange relief in speaking it aloud. “But I was too far gone by then. Even rage did not give me the strength I needed. I paid for it afterward.” He gestured at his face. Galadriel’s lips pressed together, and he sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Galadriel said. 

“Neither do you. Not to me.” Galadriel had apologized before, long to in Lothlórien, for not acting against Do Guldur sooner. Maglor had not been able to answer her, then. “I never expected anyone to come for me, Galadriel. You did not know I was there. You could not have known.”

“But I should have seen earlier that Saruman’s advice was not what it seemed,” Galadriel said. 

“Not even Gandalf mistrusted him.” Maglor had never met Saruman, in the end—not until that encounter on the road back to Rivendell from Gondor, when he had been a wretched and hateful thing. Maglor had pitied him, as he had pitied the Nazgûl—such a distorted and twisted thing he had become, warped by his own ambitions and the machinations of Sauron—even as he had been repulsed. But if Elrond, Galadriel, Gandalf—if all of the wise had trusted him, then he must have fallen very far and had been as good a deceiver as Sauron had once been. No one had seen all the way through Sauron’s deceptions in Eregion, either.

She shook her head. “We all have our regrets, Macalaurë. You have yours, and I have mine—and this is one of them.”

They started the walk back across the valley. Maglor still felt shaky and unsteady, but it was the shakiness of anxiety rather than anger, at least in that moment. He more than half expected to see his father making his own way across the meadows as they emerged from the trees. 

And he was right. Halfway down the hill Maglor saw him coming, and he halted. The anger did not return with as much force as it had when he’d first glimpsed Fëanor’s face, but it was there alongside the fear and the pain and everything else, jagged and sharp. His hand throbbed, and he forced himself to keep walking.

“Macalaurë,” Galadriel said, taking his other hand. “You do not have to do this now.”

“No, I think I do,” Maglor said; he could turn around and vanish into the hills, and his father would not find him if he did not wish to be found—but that would only delay this meeting, and to no good purpose. “I would much rather follow your advice, but maybe it is better—and I expected him to follow, when I came out here. I can lose my temper out here and disturb nothing but the birds and the flowers, and then I can leave him to—I don’t know, whatever it is Fingolfin wants to do.”

“Do you want me to stay?” she asked.

“No. Thank you.” 

“Tell him what is in your heart, Maglor, and then go find your peace. If he loves you still, he will not try to hold you back.” Galadriel kissed him and released his hand. She passed by Fëanor and they exchanged glances, but if they said anything Maglor did not hear it. He walked to the bottom of the hill and knelt by the bank of the small stream ruining by his feet, and dipped his scarred hand into the cold water. The relief was nearly instant, and he sighed, closing his eyes. The echo of the Music of the World was quiet in this small spill of water, but it was there, and it was an even greater comfort than the cold. 

When he raised his eyes again his father had reached him, standing several paces away just out of reach. His expression was in that moment as blank and inscrutable as the ghost of him had been in Dol Guldur, and the sight of it hurt, like being stabbed with a jagged piece of glass. Maglor rose slowly to his feet. 

“Canafinwë,” his father said finally, voice heavy. Maglor flinched. “Cáno. I—in Mandos, I—”

The sound of his father’s voice made something in him snap. “Don’t speak to me of Mandos.” He heard the power in his voice and felt it hum in the air between them, a threat not yet made manifest. “I don’t care what you did there, or what healing or peace you found.” His voice shook with the strain of not shouting. “I don’t care what happens in Mandos. I have never been there.”

Something flickered across Fëanor’s face, there and gone again before Maglor could see what it was. “Cáno,” he said, so quietly, and Maglor hated that he wanted to run into his arms in that moment, seeking the comfort once found there when he had been small and upset over something that seemed now so insignificant as to be absurd: a scraped knee or a broken toy, or some thoughtless remark by a brother or a cousin. His father had spoken in that same soft way then; he had been big and warm and safe, and he had made all kinds of promises—of love and safety and a swift end to tears and the passing of whatever had caused them. 

And then he had broken every single one of those promises in one fell swoop. They had been overwritten by the Oath, withered like the Trees and burned like the Swanships of Alqualondë and the tapestries of Menegroth.

“Do you know what we did for you?” Maglor asked. “Do you know what we became? Treachery and fear of treachery we were warned about—and it was ours. Our treachery, when we slew our kin and our allies, when we turned into monsters worse than orcs and burned down everything in our path—and it was for nothing.” He thrust out his hand, and his father actually took a step back. “Your Silmaril did that,” Maglor said. “The jewel you prized above every single one of us. Will you slay me now for it, Atar?”

Fëanor’s eyes snapped to his face. “What?”

“Whoso hideth or hoardeth or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth. That is what the Oath said, what we all swore. I cast it away; I threw it as hard and as far as I could into the Sea at the end of the world, and I would do it again in a heartbeat! It is the only thing I have ever done that I have never regretted, not even once, while I haunted the mists on the shores like a shadow, dropping vain tears into the Sea.”

His father actually flinched. “Cáno, I never wanted—”

“I don’t care!” Maglor shouted. The air around him shivered with it. “I don’t care what excuses you have now! I know what you wanted then and I know what you did, and I know all that came after, and it is terrible! I haven’t gone back to visit my own mother because I cannot look her in the eye knowing what I have become because I didn’t have the strength to do what I knew was right.”

Fëanor did step forward then, catching Maglor’s arms. “Cáno, your strength is beyond anything I have—”

Maglor jerked back out of his grasp. Fëanor let him. “It was never strength. If you followed me through the tapestries as Grandmother said, you know it wasn’t.” It had never been strength that kept him moving, kept him breathing, and it was not strength now; it was not even anger, really. Oh, the anger was real, and it burned so hot in him in that moment that he was afraid to look down lest he see the grass at his feet smoking and blackening. But the anger would fade; in him it burned hot but never long. When it was gone all he would be left with was fear. Fear of his father’s disappointment, fear of his acceptance. Fear that he had been marked too deep for even Estë to heal the shadows and ghosts that still clung to his heart. Fear that his mother would look at him and see him for what he was instead of the bright and beloved son he had once been.

“What do you want me to say, Cáno?” Fëanor asked. He stood almost as though he was bracing for a fight, or maybe just a blow. He had not yet raised his voice, which was unexpected. Maglor had expected a shouting match, not for his father to just listen. “What do you need me to do?”

“You’ve done enough.” Maglor took a step backward. “I want nothing from you. You made it very clear long ago what we meant to you. Finwë chose you, always, every time, even when he shouldn’t have. In your turn you set the works of your hands above everything, and set us on the road to our own destruction.” He saw the blow land, saw Fëanor’s mouth drop open and tears spring to his eyes. “And that isn’t even the worst—” His voice failed him as the anger drained away all at once, leaving him empty and cold and afraid that if he began to weep he would never be able to stop, until all of him just dissolved into saltwater and sea foam. 

Silence fell between them. There was always birdsong and music in the valley but where they stood it was utterly silent. Even the water at Maglor’s feet had gone quiet. Finally, Fëanor said, in a voice that shook with some emotion Maglor couldn’t identify—it did not seem to be anger, but he had forgotten what Fëanor sounded like otherwise, “What was it, Cáno, the worst thing that I did?”

“You died, Atya.” 

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It took longer than Maedhros had expected for things to start breaking down. Cracks started showing five days into their journey—all of them snappish and chafing against the constant company of the others—but it was a full week before Celegorm and Curufin got into some snarling argument that none of the rest of them understood, and which resulted in both of them storming away from the camp into the woods. 

“Should someone…” Amras ventured hesitantly, once they were out of sight. 

Maedhros sighed. Caranthir, not looking up from a tear in one of his saddlebags that he was mending, said, “No.”

“Shouldn’t we at least try to find out what it was they’re fighting about?” Amrod asked. 

“No,” said Caranthir again, and cursed as he stuck himself with the needle. “Whatever it is isn’t what the fight is really about, and they won’t tell us what it’s really about, so it would be useless.” Ambarussa exchanged a glance, eyebrows raised; Caranthir was not known for such insights, though Maedhros had learned by now that he saw a great deal more than he let on. It was, Maedhros hoped, a good sign that he had decided to share it. 

“Just leave them be,” Maedhros said. If anyone should get up and do something about it, it was him, but he couldn’t immediately muster the will for it. He leaned against one of the rocks that surrounded the little hollow they’d chosen for their campsite, and stared up at the sky without really seeing it. He had a few guesses about what the fight was really about—Nargothrond foremost among them—but Caranthir was right. Neither Celegorm nor Curufin were likely to confide in anyone this fresh off the fight. “Give it an hour or so,” he added after a moment. If they weren’t back by then he’d have to decide who to go after, and likely no one would be happy with whoever he chose. 

An hour passed, and neither of them returned. Maedhros got up and considered which one was more likely to get into trouble, and decided that it was Celegorm without Huan there to temper his wilder impulses. He was also, Maedhros thought, the one more likely to talk to him. “Keep an eye out for Curvo,” he told the others, and headed in the direction that Celegorm had gone.

Surprisingly, Celegorm had not gone far. Maedhros found him halfway up a tree, lying on his back across a limb, whistling back at some birds hopping around on the branches above. Maedhros sat down on one of the large raised roots to wait; he’d climbed trees before one-handed, but only when absolutely necessary, and this one’s lowest branches were high enough above his head that he didn’t think he could have gotten himself up even with two hands. 

Finally, Celegorm heaved a sigh and dropped down, landing in a crouch in front of Maedhros. “You didn’t have to come after me.”

“I thought we were out here to fix us,” Maedhros said. Celegorm sank down onto the mossy ground beside Maedhros, crossing his legs. The birds in the tree above kept cheeping at each other; higher, in the sky, a hawk cried out, a plaintive and lonely sound. “Tyelko?”

Celegorm sighed again, and this time it was a shaky sound. His eyes were over-bright before he closed them as he leaned against Maedhros’ leg. Maedhros rested his hand on Celegorm’s head for a moment before he started to pick leaves and twigs out of his braid. “Curvo and I were awful,” Celegorm said finally. “Unforgivable. Treacherous—”

“We’ve had this out before,” Maedhros said quietly. The halls of Himring had echoed for hours with their shouting, and none of Maedhros’ people had the nerve to look him in the face for days afterward. Even Maglor had been furious, and Maglor never lost his temper. They hadn’t spoken of it since they’d all returned to life—but there was no need. It had all been said already, and anything they might have forgotten would have come out in Mandos.

“I know. And you were right. We knew you were right. But we just—” Celegorm exhaled sharply, fists clenching white-knuckled in his lap. 

“I know,” Maedhros said. He hesitated a moment, and then asked, “Have you spoken to Finrod?”

“Yes,” Celegorm said, shoulders slumping. “He’s disgustingly forgiving about the whole thing, but I can still see how he gets nervous when we’re in the same room. I don’t know—apologies aren’t enough, but I don’t know what would be, and I don’t think he knows either.”

“Maybe it’s just time that’s needed,” Maedhros said. Celegorm, like all of them, had gone to everyone he’d wronged in one way or another, but it was different with Finrod—their cousin, their friend. But that was not why they were out here in the wilds, and not why Celegorm had gone off alone to whistle half-heartedly at songbirds while Curufin went somewhere else to do whatever it was he did to sulk these days. Maedhros should have known what that was—he’d once known all of his brothers’ habits, happy and unhappy. He needed to do better. “Why do you and Curufin not speak?”

“I brought out all the worst in him,” Celegorm said, voice very quiet and very small. “I don’t know how to not do it again.”

“Oh, Tyelko.” Maedhros slipped off of the root and wrapped both his arms around Celegorm. Celegorm didn’t cry, but he went limp, resting all of himself against Maedhros, hands coming up to grip Maedhros’ arm. There wasn’t really anything to say—nothing that would fix this, or make anyone feel better. So instead he asked, “Is this why you never go to Tirion?”

“You never go to Tirion either,” Celegorm said. 

“Don’t be like me,” Maedhros whispered. “Please don’t be like me.” 

When they returned to their camp Curufin had already come back. Neither he nor Celegorm looked at the other, and when Caranthir glanced his way Maedhros shook his head. He would find a time to talk to Curufin later. “Let’s go,” he said, and they all moved to break camp. They were ready to move on in minutes, and no one protested when Celegorm again took the lead, though Curufin dropped to the back. 

Before long they came to a road, which was a little surprising, since Maedhros had thought they had left behind nearly all villages and towns, and lonesome hamlets were few and far between out in the wilds. They broke into a canter just for the pleasure of speed, but after a time Celegorm held up his hand, and they all slowed. Maedhros did not reach for a weapon but he saw Ambarussa and Curufin make aborted movements toward their belts. “What is it?” Maedhros asked. 

“An old man,” said Celegorm, sounding baffled. 

Caranthir and Maedhros both moved forward, on either side of him. Caranthir snorted. “It is only Mithrandir.”

“Who is Mithrandir?” one of the twins asked. 

“One of the Istari.” Unlike Maedhros, his brothers seemed to have kept themselves informed, and knew what that meant without further explanation. “I don’t know what he’s doing out here, though. I would have thought he would be at Elrond’s house with Midsummer approaching.”

Gandalf, or Mithrandir, or whatever name he had decided to use that day, came strolling down the road, wearing an absurd blue hat with a broad brim; his cloak was grey—befitting the name Caranthir had given him—and he was singing as he walked, in Westron, keeping time with his staff and his footsteps. 

Still round the corner we may meet
A sudden tree or standing stone
That none have seen but we alone…

He broke off his singing and laughed, as he had laughed when Maedhros had first met him. “What have we here, then? Six brothers journeying west? Where are you going, Sons of Nerdanel?” 

“Well met, Mithrandir,” said Caranthir. 

“We are going west, as you see,” added Celegorm, looking as though he did not know whether to be amused or not. “And where are you going?”

“To Imloth Ningloron, of course! Midsummer’s Day is the day after tomorrow!” Gandalf beamed at them. “I have prepared a special set of fireworks to celebrate Elladan and Elrohir’s arrival, and I have heard that Elemmírë will be there as well—a great piece of luck for the rest of us, to have both Maglor and Elemmírë there to perform.” 

“You are a long way from Imloth Ningloron, Mithrandir,” said Caranthir. 

“Not so long,” Gandalf said, laughing again. “I am glad to see the six of you together. It has been too long.” He gazed up at each of them in turn, and Maedhros had the uncomfortable feeling that Gandalf saw much more than his cheerfully careless demeanor suggested. “Is your father back among the living yet?” 

Maedhros stiffened, and his horse shifted under him. Gandalf knew very well that Fëanor was back, he thought, seeing that glint in his dark eyes. It was Caranthir who answered him again. “What business is that of yours, Mithrandir?”

“Oh, none at all! I’m afraid I spent far too many years among hobbits, and they are shameless gossips, every one of them. Perhaps I do have a bit of a personal interest, being rather fond of your brother. Now, if you want my advice—”

“We don’t,” said Caranthir and Celegorm. 

“Well, I shall give it to you anyway.” Gandalf leaned on his staff, and Maedhros noticed for the first time that he wore a ring, gold set with a warm red stone. “Imagine you are in your mother’s kitchen, and there is a bowl on the table, a lovely ceramic bowl, perhaps painted with flowers, or with stars. It is knocked to the floor and breaks into a dozen pieces—what would you do with it?”

Maedhros glanced at Caranthir, who shrugged. The silence went on long enough that it became clear Gandalf expected an answer. “Sweep it up, obviously,” Celegorm said impatiently. 

“And do what with the pieces?”

“Throw them away.”

“Put them away,” Caranthir said. “Our mother might use them for something later.”

“Or,” Gandalf said cheerfully, “you can put them back together.”

“What’s the point of that?” asked Celegorm. “You can’t put a ceramic bowl back together the way it was.”

“There is a method of pottery repair practiced by the Elves of the east—the ones you call Avari, though they have their own names for themselves, of course. It was brought west to Rivendell by one of them after the Last Alliance, and I found it fascinating and quite lovely. They take broken pottery—for clay is not always so abundant that they can simply toss a broken piece away and make another—and glue it back together, and then they highlight the breaks with golden lacquer—or silver, perhaps, or some other color, but Ifreth always used gold. Everything has a history, you know, a story, and the breaking is a part of it, and it is turned into something quite lovely when all is said and done. You’ll see several such pieces in Imloth Ningloron, if you stay there long enough—platters at the supper table, or vases holding Lady Celebrían’s roses and peonies.”

“Sometimes,” Maedhros said quietly, “a thing is too broken to be repaired.” Shattered into a thousand pieces, so all that could be done for it was to sweep it up and dispose of it while trying to avoid stepping on any sharp pieces that might embed themselves in one’s foot.

“Sometimes,” Gandalf agreed, looking at Maedhros with such kind pity in his eyes that he wanted to turn away, though he found that he could not, “but in my experience that is a rare thing indeed.” He smiled and straightened, tapping his staff on the road. “There. You will remember that, I hope, and when it proves useful you can find me in Imloth Ningloron with your thanks. Another bit of advice, if you like, for your travels: Ekkaia is quite lovely at this time of year. Farewell! I must be going or I shall be late, and feasting and singing at the house of Elrond and Celebrían is not a thing to miss if you can help it!” He passed them all by then, his staff tapping on the road again in time with his steps, and as he gained distance he began to sing again, that same cheerful tune from before: 

Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though we pass them by today,
Tomorrow we may come this way
And take the hidden paths that run
Towards the Moon or to the Sun…

“What was that all about?” Amrod asked after Gandalf had disappeared into the distance. “A lesson about the pottery customs of the Avari isn’t advice.”

“I hope he was not so strange in Middle-earth, if he was meant to defeat Sauron,” said Amras. 

“He was and he wasn’t, to hear Bilbo tell it—and anyway whatever he did worked,” Caranthir said absently, frowning as he gazed back down the road after him. “Did you see his ring? It seemed familiar.”

“Telperinquar’s work,” Curufin said quietly. “It was Narya.” He kept his gaze lowered, staring at his horse’s mane rather than looking at any of them.

Maedhros sighed, and looked at Celegorm. “You had mentioned Ekkaia too,” he said. “Should we go there?”

“Might as well,” said Celegorm, straightening and flashing a grin. “Unless there is somewhere else one of you needs to be.”

“Nowhere, and you know it,” Caranthir said. 

“We have never seen Ekkaia,” said Amrod, as Amras nodded. 

“Nor have I,” said Curufin after a moment, seeming to bring himself back to the present with a great effort. 

“Then we must go!” said Celegorm. He urged his horse forward into a canter and then into a gallop, and one by one the rest of them followed. Maedhros brought up the rear. The wind in his face was brisk and the sun was warm. They passed through forests and fields, seeing no other travelers but coming more than once upon a settlement or a hamlet, with elves that paused and waved cheerfully as they flew by. They did not slow until the sun began to set in front of them; they had left the forests behind and ahead were rolling hills covered in grass and wildflowers, with purple heather glowing in the light of the setting sun. 

Celegorm led them off the road and up one of the hills, and Ambarussa disappeared to look for firewood. The rest of them set the horses free to graze, and set up the rest of the camp. Curufin and Celegorm still were not speaking directly to one another. The silence was grating, and Caranthir caught his eye more than once, questioning, but Maedhros did not think any further intervention would solve anything. He knew why Celegorm was keeping his distance. He did not know why Curufin was letting him. 

When the twins returned Caranthir finally spoke. “Are we saving the wine for Midsummer or for Ekkaia, or can we get stupidly drunk tonight?”

Amrod made a face. “Do we all want to get angry and shout at each other tonight? That’s what will happen if we get stupidly drunk.”

“Except Maitimo,” said Amras. “I don’t think he would yell.”

“I won’t be getting drunk,” said Maedhros. 

“You’re the one who probably should,” said Curufin unexpectedly. But he did not move to get out a bottle. “Let’s wait. We can fight one another on the shores of Ekkaia where no one else will hear.” 

“There’s no one else around here for miles,” Caranthir said mildly. 

“That’s what we thought before we encountered Mithrandir.”

“Mithrandir doesn’t count. Any of the Ainur could appear at any moment. We’d never do anything if we decided to worry all the time about whether Manwë might decide to drop out of the sky on a whim.”

Maedhros leaned back on his elbows and watched the stars come out. Gil-Estel shone over the western horizon, and he found himself thinking of Fëanor again, wondering what he thought when he saw that star. Whether he would try to demand the Silmaril’s return. It seemed doubtful. That manic, shadowy haze of madness and rage and grief had been absent from Fëanor under the willow tree. Still… 

A stick hit the side of his face. “Stop brooding,” said Amras. “You’re not supposed to brood on this trip.”

Maedhros tossed the stick back; Amras caught it easily and threw it into the fire. “Distract me, then.”

The twins obliged, launching into a story about one of their recent hunting trips. It was absurd and more than half made up, but it had them all laughing by the end. “We win!” Amrod crowed. 

“Win what?” Maedhros asked. 

“We made you laugh first!” Amras said. 

“Probably for the first time since you came back from Mandos,” said Amrod. 

That was…probably true. Maedhros wasn’t sure what to say without ruining the mood, but Curufin started a much more believable but still funny story about his wife’s family and a lost bracelet, and after he was done Caranthir talked of what their younger cousins were making—lovely things, furniture and lamps and jewelry—and then Celegorm took his turn with another hunting story. Maedhros offered up no tales, for he had none. 

It was late by then. The stars blazed over their heads, and the moon was just rising in the east. “What is Elrond like?” Amras asked. “We only met him once in Tirion. He seemed…” He paused, thinking. “I don’t know what he seemed like.”

“Kind,” Amras murmured. He lay with his head in Amrod’s lap, eyes closed. “He was kind.”

Everyone else looked at Maedhros. “Why do you look at me?” he asked. “Curufin has seen him as recently as I have.”

“You raised him, didn’t you?” asked Celegorm.

“Maglor raised them,” Maedhros said. Maglor’s name dropped heavily from his tongue, into the space between them like a stone tossed into calm waters. They had been dancing around it for days, ever since they had left Nerdanel’s house. 

“Why?” Caranthir asked. Why not you? Why not—when you were once the consummate eldest brother, the one all of us as children looked to after our parents, the protector, the comforter. 

“Would you let me near a child now?” Maedhros asked. “I was worse then.” Caranthir and Celegorm exchanged a glance. Curufin frowned at the stick he was whittling down to a nub. Amras opened his eyes.

“You could still tell us about him, couldn’t you?” Amrod asked quietly. “As a child.” 

Maedhros did not immediately answer. It wasn’t really Elrond that they wanted to know about. If they wanted to know anything about Elrond they could go ask him, or others who had known him. It was that time—those years after Sirion when none of them had been there, when the seven of them had been reduced to two. They knew what happened at the end, but no one knew what came before. Neither Elrond nor Elros had ever set those years down into the history books, but for one or two lines that only hinted at the love they bore Maglor. His brothers waited. Maedhros sat up, and looked into the fire because it was easier than looking at any of them, and…he tried to think of what to say. It had been terrible. Sirion had been terrible, chaos and betrayal compounding betrayal, and Ambarussa had died and they hadn’t even been able to take their bodies for burial. Afterward there had been just a handful of loyal followers around them, for reasons Maedhros still did not understand. Maybe it had been for the sake of Elrond and Elros. He couldn’t ask them now. He didn’t even know if they had survived the war in the north. 

“The world was falling apart around us,” he said finally. “Storms ripped across the land, and the earth shook, and rivers flooded and dried up and flooded again; there were orcs everywhere. But the twins…there were always flowers, wherever they went. There would be none when we set up camp and then the next morning or the day after there would be niphredil everywhere. It still happens to Elrond, I think.” That was what he remembered most clearly about those terrible years—the sweet springtime scent of niphredil cutting through everything else, and the silky softness of the petals when he woke to them blooming by his cheek. That and the music the twins had made with Maglor, as he taught them to sing and to play the harp. Their voices had been sweet as nightingales, and there had been real joy in Maglor then—the joy of sharing the music he loved with others, of teaching someone willing and eager to learn, of being the listener sometimes rather than always the singer—and it hadn’t been just music. He had made the decision to love those boys with all he had left in him and had never looked back, even when it broke his heart. 

“Maglor taught them music,” Maedhros said out loud, to the fire. “He taught them everything he could, and they learned quickly, always asking questions even when no one had answers for them. And then when they reached adulthood—they grew fast, the way Men do—they insisted that we go north to join with Gil-galad and Finarfin. Maglor sent them with the rest of our people. We knew better than to go ourselves.” Maglor had given Elros his harp, so he could not play anymore. He hadn’t sung, either. There was no longer an audience to pretend for, except Maedhros, and that was a different sort of performance. “Maglor loved them, and they loved him. Elrond loves him still.” 

“And you?” someone asked, almost too softly to be heard over the gentle crackling of the campfire. Maedhros wasn’t sure who. 

“They were afraid of me,” he said. “I kept my distance.”

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Fëanor did not try to stop Maglor when he stepped past him to return to the house. Elrohir led a horse from the stables as Maglor approached, and Elladan stepped forward to embrace him. “We heard you all the way here,” he said. “Your voice, not the words.”

“I’m sorry.” Maglor realized only then that since meeting the twins he’d only rarely had any reason to use the power of his voice; he wasn’t even certain they’d heard him shout before. They knew what he had once been capable of, but knowing the stories and hearing it were two very different things. “I won’t do it again.”

“That’s not what I meant. Are you all right?”

He felt worse than he had in many, many years. He did not feel like he had in the aftermath of Dol Guldur, exactly, but rather as he had in the aftermath of Fëanor’s death—or Maedhros’ capture. Then, he had not been able to flee—there had been nowhere to go, and too many others had been reliant upon him; he’d pushed all the terrible guilt and grief down deep and tried to forget about it. For a time, after Maedhros had been returned to them, as they established their own realms and it began to seem as though they might be able to live there in Middle-earth rather than merely surviving, he had even succeeded. Now, though… “I need to be somewhere else,” he said. 

“I still think it isn’t right,” said Elrohir.

“I am not leaving because he is here. I am leaving because I still feel like I need to scream, and I don’t want to shatter all your mother’s windows.” Maglor held out his arm and Elrohir stepped forward, so he was holding onto both twins. “I’ll be back. I don’t know when, but soon. Before the end of autumn, maybe.” 

Elrond and Celebrimbor emerged from the house, and Celebrimbor hurried down the steps to throw his own arms around Maglor the moment the twins made room. “Do you want company?” he asked. 

“No, thank you,” said Maglor. “Please don’t worry about me,” he added, glancing at Elrond. 

“You know that’s impossible,” Elrond said. It was hard to read the troubled look on his face, and Maglor hated that he had put it there. He moved forward to embrace Elrond, and Elrond returned it fiercely, holding on as tightly as he had on the docks of Avallónë. As he had before they’d parted during the War of Wrath. “Do not stay away too long,” he said quietly.

“I won’t. I promised you once I would not disappear.” Maglor kissed his forehead, and whispered, “I love you, Elrond. I just cannot be here now.”

“I understand.”

Maglor pulled back and heaved a dramatic sigh as Huan came out to join them before lightening his tone, adding, “And I suppose you will be following whether I want company or not.” Huan woofed in reply, before sitting down to scratch himself. “No one worry about me, please—you’ll have enough on your hands with both Fëanor and Fingolfin visiting. Look for me when autumn is waning!” He offered Elrond a smile that he feared was not convincing, before he swung up into the saddle.

Before he turned toward the road, Maglor glanced back up the valley. He saw his father, paused beside a patch of flowering yarrow and bluebells, and for a moment their eyes met. Fëanor looked as though he had been weeping—a shocking sight, though Maglor could not have explained why. His father had once been free with both tears and laughter, though that was before everything had gone so terribly wrong, when both laughter and tears had dried up, leaving only fury and fire behind. Maglor’s own eyes stung, and he turned away, urging his horse into a quick trot, lifting a hand and calling a farewell over his shoulder to Elrond and Celebrimbor and the twins, hoping it sounded merrier than he felt. Huan loped along beside him, and then ran ahead to stop by a large rock standing beside the road. Maglor slowed, seeing Gandalf sitting in the grass beside it, blowing smoke rings that circled in the air above his head like lazy lopsided birds. “Off on a journey then, Maglor?” he asked, sending one of the rings to hover around Maglor’s own head for a moment before dispersing in the breeze. 

“I am.”

Gandalf grinned up at him, dark eyes twinkling. “Good!” he said. “Nothing like a bit of travel to clear the head. I hear Ekkaia is lovely at this time of year.” As he spoke he winked at Huan, who nuzzled his face for a moment before trotting on.

Maglor looked at him, but saw nothing but his usual cheerfulness—and anyway, he couldn’t think of any reason beyond perhaps teasing him that Gandalf would suggest any particular destination; Maglor was, after all, rather infamous for his seaside wanderings. “I will keep that in mind,” he said, “farewell for now, Gandalf.”

Someone called his name before he could reach the edge of the valley, and Maglor turned to see Fingon racing to catch up. He reined in beside Maglor, windblown and flushed. “Where are you going?” he asked. “No don’t worry, I don’t want to go with you, I just…we’ve only just met again.”

“I’m sorry,” Maglor said. “Fingon, I’m…”

“If you’re going to apologize for how I died, don’t. Please.” Fingon’s smile was crooked, and did not reach his eyes. “Everyone else already has, and it wasn’t your fault. It was all our faults and no one’s fault—and my own fault. Better to die in battle than to be taken captive.” Maglor stiffened before he could help it and his horse shifted under him, and Fingon’s expression fell. “What? What did I—Maglor, you weren’t—were you…?”

“Elrond can tell you. Or Galadriel. I can’t. I’m sorry, Fingon—for the Nirnaeth and for everything that came before and after, and—and for leaving now. But I will come back. I just—I can’t be here. Not now.”

“I understand,” Fingon said. He looked at Maglor’s face, at the scars there, and then met his gaze. “I’m sure everyone has told you about Maedhros by now.”

“Fingon…”

“I won’t say that he needs you, because you already know. But you need him, too, Maglor.”

He knew that. Of course he knew that. It was such a deep and fundamental truth that it was almost nonsensical to say it aloud, like pointing out that the sky was blue or that fire was hot. But he’d learned how to live with that absence, over thousands of years; sometimes he could even forget how much it hurt, and anyway he was not the one who had forgotten—or ceased to care. “Has anyone said that to him?” 

“I don’t know,” Fingon said. “But I will, if I see him before you do.”

“Please don’t.” Maglor looked away, out toward the road stretching away into the distance. “I don’t want to see him any more than I wanted to see my father.” It tasted like a lie, bitter on his tongue, even though he meant it. He didn’t know anymore whether he was glad that Maedhros had stayed away as he’d been advised, or angry that he hadn’t come looking for him anyway, as Fëanor had.

“Maglor…”

“He made his choice.”

“I’m not so sure—” 

“I was there, Fingon. It burned me too.” All he'd wanted in that moment had been to get it away, to take the thing that was causing him pain and fling it as far as he possibly could. It wasn’t until after it disappeared beneath the waves that he had even realized what he’d done—and then even though his hand had been a mess, bloody and blistering, and the pain hardly lessened, it had been such a relief, and he’d turned to tell Maedhros that he should also throw it away, only Maedhros—

Maglor had turned just in time to see him disappear into the chasm, to die before his eyes but out of his reach—just like all the others, from Caranthir to Ambarussa. He hadn’t been able to save any of them, and watching Maedhros die was worst of all because he hadn’t fallen in the midst of battle—it was something Maglor could have prevented, if he had only seen the signs, if he had not trusted to any promises made when the Oath had overwritten everything else, if he had not turned away even for a moment, if he had realized that of course by then Maedhros would not try to escape the pain, that of course he would turn toward something worse instead.

Maglor didn’t remember what happened after that, only coming back to himself some time—hours, days, weeks, it was impossible to guess—and some long way later, the world breaking around him, his throat raw and aching, mouth full of the taste of salt—both seawater and tears. 

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Fingon said after a moment. “I hate to think of you alone, Maglor.”

“I’m not alone.” Maglor nodded toward Huan, who waited a little farther up the road. “And this isn’t—this isn’t like it was. I have a home to return to, and I promised Elrond long ago I wouldn’t just disappear.” He reached out, and Fingon grasped his hand; his was missing the callouses that Maglor remembered, for there was no reason to pick up a sword anymore. “You have enough to worry about, surely, between your father and mine. Don’t add me to the list. I’m—I have been fine, and I will be again. Ask Elrond about it.”

“I don’t think you are,” Fingon said. “Maedhros used to say he was fine, too, when he wasn’t, back in Beleriand—I think he even believed it some of the time.”

“Have you been talking to Finrod?”

Fingon grinned at him as they released their hands. “No, but if he is saying the same thing perhaps you should listen. He is wiser than I.”

“He only got that reputation because Men hadn’t met anyone else yet,” said Maglor, just so Fingon would laugh. “I’ll see you when I come back, Fingon. You can go gossip about me with Finrod and Galadriel in the meantime.”

“It isn’t gossip, Maglor. We love you, and we are worried for you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Maglor said.

As he left the valley at last and the road stretched out before him, and Valinor opened up beyond, he took a deep breath. “All right, Huan, can you keep up?” he asked. Huan barked and surged forward. His horse needed almost no encouragement to pick up speed until they were barreling down the road, and there was nothing but the horse under him and the sky above him and the wind on his face—nothing but freedom and speed and that moment, with neither past nor future to come crowding into his thoughts.

He left the main road after a time, taking another branch that led north and west that he did not remember being there before, and not really caring where he went so long as it was away from Imloth Ningloron and away from people. When he slowed to a walk, he looked at Huan, who took advantage of the slowed pace to pause and sniff at the flowers on the side of the road. No coddling from him, at least. Maglor was about to say something to him when he heard a faint meowing from his saddle beg. “What in the world…? Pídhres, what are you doing there?” He scooped her out and she climbed up onto his shoulder, perching there and rubbing her head against his ear. “You could be napping in a sunbeam back at Imloth Ningloron right now, you silly cat. What do you want to be out on the road with me for?” She purred.

His intention had been to go somewhere empty and desolate, far away from anyone who would be disturbed when he stopped holding back and screamed as loud and as long as he could at the sky. As he rode, though, he kept coming upon villages or farmsteads, kept passing other travelers who greeted him merrily—or with surprise, if they recognized his face or recognized Huan. No one was unkind but there were so many of them. He urged his horse into a gallop more than once just so he could avoid speaking to others. Huan kept up easily, but Pídhres hated going too fast for too long. 

After a few days he left the main roads at last and found himself able to breathe easier after going a full morning without seeing anyone else. He stopped to eat near a stream, finding shade under a stand of slender young trees. Huan splashed around in the water, and Maglor lay back on the grass and found shapes in the clouds while Pídhres stalked field mice and his horse grazed in the clover. It was a beautiful spot, and a beautiful day, and at any other time Maglor would have found something pleasant to sing about, making up ridiculous rhymes just to amuse himself. Instead he found his thoughts circling back, again and again, to his father. 

Why had he come to Imloth Ningloron in the first place? What had he wanted? Surely it had not just been to let Maglor shout at him and then storm away—except that was what he’d done. For what? Some kind of self-punishment, some kind of atonement? It did not feel like atonement. It felt—he couldn’t put a name to what it felt like. 

The clouds blurred before his eyes, and he rolled over to bury his face in his arms to try to muffle his cries. He regretted none of the things he’d said, but now he wished that he hadn’t left so immediately, that he would have been able to listen to whatever his father had come to say. That he could have run into his father’s arms instead of away from them. He missed his father, desperately, the way he missed his brothers and his mother, and the Trees, and their sprawling chaotic house. He missed the father that had kissed his tears away, who had set his fingers on the strings of a harp underneath his own larger ones, guiding him over the scales for the first time, who had been the first one to tell him how proud he was after Maglor had first performed before a crowd in Tirion. 

There was no getting that back, though. The father that he’d loved had died the moment Fëanor had drawn his sword against Fingolfin in Tirion. They just hadn’t realized it until it was far, far too late—and he couldn’t trust that that was who had come back from Mandos. Not after everything else.

The tears slowed eventually, leaving him feeling drained and hollow, though the burning itch under his skin that made him want to scream and scream until he had no voice left had eased a little. When he lifted his head he found that a patch of sweet-smelling chamomile had sprung up and bloomed around him. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of it, and sat up, finding Huan laying nearby, watching solemnly with his dark eyes. As Maglor rubbed his face with the hem of his shirt he heard Pídhres make her usual plaintive sounds—the ones that signaled that she had climbed something and gotten herself stuck. He sighed, and got to his feet. She’d chased something up one of the young and slender trees by the roadside, and scolded him when he came to stand beneath her. “Well come on, then,” he said. His voice was rough and he had to cough to clear his throat, which didn’t much help the sound. Pídhres meowed. “I can’t reach you up there, silly cat!” She’d settled on a branch a hand span beyond his reach, and the tree was too slender for him to try to hoist himself up; the branches would not hold his weight even for the few moments he would need to grab her. 

As he rose onto his toes he heard horses somewhere ahead, but he did not look away, lest Pídhres choose that moment to jump onto his head, or onto Huan, who had followed to lay at Maglor’s feet. At the sound of horses he raised his head, one ear cocked. Then he lumbered to his feet and stepped up onto the road, barking a greeting. Pídhres hissed and jumped farther up the tree. Maglor let his head fall forward against the smooth bark. “Huan!”

Familiar laughter floated down the road, and Maglor closed his eyes, somehow torn between relief and dread. He rubbed his sleeve over his face, though he didn’t imagine it did much good, before turning in time to see a trio of horses stopping so the riders could dismount and greet Huan. Daeron was one of them, of course, and Maglor recognized Mablung too, who bowed to Huan before smiling as Huan butted his head into his chest, eager for scratches. The third rider, silver-haired and slender, was one Maglor did not know; he remained in the saddle, and there was something melancholy and oddly insubstantial about him—something oddly like Fëanor, though they looked nothing alike. 

“Well met, Maglor!” Daeron said, springing from his saddle and crossing the road to join Maglor beneath the tree. “I did not expect to see you until we reached Imloth Ningloron!” His sharp gaze missed nothing, of course, and he lowered his voice as he asked, “What is the matter? What’s amiss?”

“Only my foolish cat, who can climb up anything but never down again,” Maglor said, and was relieved to find that his voice sounded almost normal. Daeron looked up and laughed, momentarily distracted. “But what brings you out here? Were you going to Imloth Ningloron?”

“Yes, of course! Or at least, I was, and my dear cousin doesn’t think I can be left unsupervised,” Daeron raised his voice slightly, “even though I survived thousands of years without him! So he insisted upon coming along, and Beleg is so new-come from Mandos that he’s seen as little of this land as I have, and decided that he would like to meet Elrond and his family at last, and so here we are!”

“It was sheer luck that you survived, and you know it,” Mablung said mildly, with the air of resignation that came with an ongoing argument that would have no resolution. Beleg dropped to the ground to hold out his hands for Huan to sniff, and the three of them crossed the road back to the tree. “Well met, Maglor. It is a long time since the Mereth Aderthad.”

“A long time and a long way,” Maglor agreed. 

“Well met,” Beleg echoed, with a smile. “I am glad to meet you at last. Daeron has spoken much and highly of you.” 

“I have heard much of you also,” Maglor said, somehow managing a smile of his own. Overhead Pídhres made a quiet disgruntled sound. He wished this meeting had happened an hour later, or an hour earlier, when he was in better control of himself. He’d left Elrond’s house to be alone, and here he was, forced to make polite conversation with Mablung and Beleg Strongbow, with Daeron standing close enough to notice if he started shaking. 

“Where are you going?” Daeron asked him. “I hope you aren’t going off wandering without me, as you promised you wouldn’t do.” He was teasing, but Maglor couldn’t bring himself to tease back, or even smile.

“My father is at Imloth Ningloron,” he said, and all three of them, Daeron, Beleg, and Mablung, exchanged a look of surprise. “Fingolfin is there also. It is…tense, and I wished to be elsewhere.” 

“Well,” Beleg said after a moment, “that will certainly be interesting news to bring back to Thingol. Mablung?”

“Would we be intruding, or will Elrond mind if we indulge a little curiosity?” Mablung asked. 

“You would not be intruding. Celeborn is there and I think he would be glad to see you.”

“Do you have your driftwood harp?” Daeron asked. “I told Beleg of it; would you show him?”

Maglor couldn’t think of a good reason to say no. He had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do, no ready excuse to end this encounter and part ways again. So he went to his things and took out his harp. “This is lovely,” Beleg said, running his hands over the frame. “I have never worked with driftwood before.”

“You’ve never gone to the sea before,” Mablung said. 

“I have,” Beleg said, smiling, “but not to look for wood. It was only to stop Daeron from drowning himself diving for pearls off of Balar.” He handed the harp back to Maglor. “I will not ask you to play now; I think you are eager to be on your way. Perhaps some other time.”

“Some other time,” Maglor agreed. Mablung and Beleg bid him farewell and good luck with his cat, but Daeron did not follow when they returned to their horses. “Are you not also going to Imloth Ningloron?” he asked. 

“Of course not. I was only going to see you.” Daeron lifted a hand to wave to Mablung and Beleg as they passed on down the road; Mablung called out to Daeron to be careful, and Daeron stuck his tongue out in reply before turning back to Maglor. “Don’t look so surprised! You told me I could find you there.”

“But—but why?”

Daeron’s smile faded into seriousness. “I have been having troubling dreams,” he said. “Dreams of you—traveling as you are now, alone and unhappy. I spoke to Melian and she agreed that you should not be alone—and so here I am. Shall I fetch Pídhres? I am lighter than you; if you lift me up I can grab her.”

Maglor did not like the idea of Melian giving him any thought at all; it made him want to run and hide somewhere. “I’m not very good company,” he said. “In fact I am terrible company, and—”

“Maglor.” Daeron reached up to touch his face, his thumb sliding over the scar over Maglor’s cheekbone, and when he lifted his hand his fingers were wet; Maglor hadn’t even noticed he’d started to weep again. “Won’t you let me help?”

“I don’t think you can,” Maglor said.

“I can at least help you fetch your cat.”

“Daeron—”

“Give me a boost, come on!” 

Maglor sighed and knelt, holding out his hands for Daeron to step into. When he did Maglor rose, lifting him up so he could grab one of the thicker branches and reach for Pídhres, snatching her in one swift motion before dropping lightly back to the ground while she yowled. Maglor caught his arms to steady him, though it was unnecessary. “What a dramatic little thing she is,” Daeron laughed, and held her out. “Here you are! And what is Huan doing here? I had heard he had gone back to Celegorm.”

“And Celegorm sent him to me,” Maglor said. Pídhres climbed up onto his shoulders, and Huan came over to sniff at Daeron. “I don’t know why—or why he won’t leave me alone.” He sighed. “I suppose you’ll be as hard to get rid of as Huan.”

“I shall indeed!”

“Fine.” Maglor turned to whistle for his horse; she came trotting up, eager to be going again.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I did tell you. My father is at Imloth Ningloron.”

Daeron’s whole face softened, and Maglor had to turn his back. He slipped his harp back into its case and reattached it and his bags to the saddle, fumbling with the straps. “I am sorry,” Daeron said, laying a hand on Maglor’s arm. “But believe even more strongly now that I should not leave you alone. Where were you headed?”

At least when he had been wandering the shores of Middle-earth, believing there was no one left in the world who cared what became of him, Maglor thought, he hadn’t had to feel bad about other people worrying about him. There had been sorrow and loneliness but also a strange sort of freedom in it. The knowledge of so many people’s care now felt…heavy. Suffocating, when he would rather indulge in solitary misery. It was an unkind and ungrateful thought, but he couldn’t help thinking it all the same. 

Once they were both back in their saddles he said, surrendering to the inevitable, “Gandalf said Ekkaia is nice at this time of year. I suppose since you are with me I might as well show you the way.” He was rewarded with a bright smile, dazzling as the sun emerging from behind a cloud. Daeron then burst into a merry traveling song, breaking into a trot and leaving Maglor blinking in his wake. 

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

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

“No, of course not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which room?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bilbo Baggins,” Elrond said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Grandchildren?” Fëanor repeated quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you blame us?” Elrond asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope he will.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And what about the poor fish, hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huan is with him.”

“But no one else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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It was very dark, and very cold. Iron bit into his ankles and his wrists, and the heavy chains were a weight on his chest that he was not strong enough to shift. His mouth hurt, and he tasted blood. When he turned his head he glimpsed his brothers and his father, all ghostly, with dark eyes that held no light at all. When he tried to speak he couldn’t open his lips, and his throat would make no sound. 

Panic rose, and he tried to get up, tried to move, but the chains were too heavy. Then heat bloomed, and a pair of yellow eyes wreathed in flame opened in the dark above him, and a hand like hot iron gripped his throat. The brand on his chest erupted in burning pain. The voice, when it came, was like like a raging forest fire, all heat and rage, and also like the scream of metal grinding over stone. Laid over it, speaking at almost the same time, was his father’s voice—not as he had been long ago in the dark of Tirion, loud and strong and fey, but as he was now, quiet and sad and almost soft, jarring against the horrible discord of the voice of the Necromancer.

The great singer of the Noldor—

Canafinwë—

The last and least of the Sons of Fëanor— 

—the crack of a whip sliced over his back, and he screamed—knives cut into his arms, orcs laughing and jeering all around him—

Cáno, I never wanted—

Do you think you have suffered here? You have not—not yet—

His chest burned, and he couldn’t fill his lungs, couldn’t breathe through the heat and the thick smell of blood in the air—

—what was it, Cáno, the worst thing that I did?

Fëanor’s body erupted in flame before their eyes as his spirit fled, and when the fire died away there was nothing, only ashes already scattering in the frigid north wind.

—last and least—

The world was breaking around him, falling apart, falling into the sea, and he was alone. There was no one left, no one to hear him screaming at the red and roiling sky, no one to care if he screamed his spirit out of his body and into the Void. 

—will sing no more.

Maglor jerked awake, tried to sit up, and found something on his chest keeping him from moving or even breathing. He tried to push it off but he couldn’t even make his arms work, and he couldn’t make a sound—his voice was gone—he couldn’t—

“Huan! Get off him, Huan!” Daeron’s voice sliced through the blind panic like a knife, and the weight on Maglor’s chest abruptly lifted. He jerked up, but his lungs still wouldn’t work and he thought he heard the jangling of chains, and it was so cold—

He felt hands on shoulders, on his face, heard Daeron’s voice again, which was wrong and strange, and he couldn’t understand the words. He was still dreaming, surely. Daeron could not be there, not under Dol Guldur—he was made for starlight and green woodlands, not darkness under stones. But the hands pulling him up felt real enough, and then he heard a steady heartbeat as his head was pressed against a chest, and—and—

The air he’d been struggling to inhale left him in a sob, and he sucked in another breath, somehow able to breathe enclosed by arms and someone else’s hair and…

He breathed, and smelled pine and fern. He felt the prick of small claws as his cat climbed onto his lap, burrowing in against his stomach to curl up and purr at him, soft under his hands. 

This wasn’t Dol Guldur. He was with Daeron, in the little glade they’d decided was a good place to camp for the night. They were in Aman, where Sauron’s power could not reach him even if he had not been destroyed. It had only been a dream. 

He was still so cold, though, in spite of the warm summer air. 

“Maglor, can you hear me?” Daeron asked, drawing back so he could lift Maglor’s face up; the darkness receded, replaced by the soft silver light of stars. Maglor nodded, and Daeron caught his gaze and held it, his eyes as keen as Galadriel’s—they would be, Maglor thought distantly, for they were both students of Melian. “I see,” Daeron murmured at last. “Some memories have teeth. I’ll sing the dreams away.” His gaze shifted over Maglor’s shoulder and sharpened. “This is half your fault, you know. You’d better keep away,” he said, and Maglor turned to see Huan lying nearby, head on his paws, looking at him mournfully. 

Oh. The weight on his chest. Maglor shook his head and held out his arm, and Huan came to lie at his side, very careful not to put either head or paws on top of any part of him. Daeron muttered something about dogs as he got up. He was back a moment later with his own blankets, piling them on top of Maglor and settling down on his other side. Maglor looked at him in surprise. “Go back to sleep,” Daeron said, tugging him down; Maglor went, falling into the circle of his arms, unable to stop another sob escaping. The ferns beneath them were soft and springy; high above the stars shone like silver and diamonds, peering through the gaps between the tree branches. “Fear no more shadows.” He began to sing, but Maglor couldn’t make himself close his eyes, afraid of what he would see when he did. He couldn’t stop shivering, even with Pídhres curled up by his shoulder and Huan tucked up against him, even with Daeron’s hand on his back as he sang, very softly, almost drowned by the leaves rustling in the breeze over their heads. Maglor did not know if the song was meant to be a lullaby but it wrapped itself around him like another blanket and before he could even think to resist sleep rose up again to claim him. 

When he woke again the sun was high, and Huan was still pressed against him. For a few moments Maglor lay and let himself drift, not quite ready to wake fully. He heard movement around the glade, and the soft sound of Daeron’s laughter. The memory of the previous night, jumbled and cold and terrible, returned then, and Maglor opened his eyes, staring up at the trees. Huan sensed that he’d woken, and turned his head to lick up the side of Maglor’s face. Maglor cringed away. “Huan,” he croaked, and then pressed a hand over his mouth, eyes stinging, realizing the fear even as it was chased away. His voice was hoarse and weak but it was there. He wanted to sob with the relief of it, but Daeron called to him then. 

He sat up, feeling tired and strangely sore. Daeron had Pídhres in his arms; it was she that he’d been laughing at. “All well?” he asked. 

“Better,” Maglor whispered. “Daeron, I—” 

“You need not speak of it,” Daeron said. “I wasn’t going to ask. Here.” He tossed a package of way bread to Maglor, who fumbled in catching it. “Are you still cold?” Maglor shook his head; he was a little, but Huan beside him was warm, and the sun would be warmer yet once they set out again. He ate the way bread because he knew he should rather than because he had any appetite, and then got up to help pack their things back into the saddle bags. Pídhres immediately abandoned Daeron in favor of Maglor’s shoulder, and Huan remained close too, even when they set off again, trotting beside Maglor’s horse rather than ranging ahead or falling behind. 

They passed out of that wood into open grassland again, but by mid-afternoon had come to another forest, this one very old with trees like towers, the canopies somewhere very high above, so that the birdsong that drifted down from it sounded strange and distant. There was very little undergrowth, and the air had a greenish tinge, but for the bright golden sunbeams that pierced through sometimes into a glade filled with a shocking rainbow of wildflowers, or onto a sudden rocky outcropping jutting up out of the moss. 

“I have been to Fangorn,” Daeron said after a while, voice low, “but even that wood is not so old as this one.”

“The trees are friendlier, here,” Maglor murmured. He himself had not visited Fangorn, but he had heard the tales, and he had seen what the huorns had done at Isengard—and he had been to the Old Forest once, where the trees were even more ill-disposed to those that walked on two legs, not fond even of Elves. 

“If they have opinions of us at all,” Daeron agreed. 

All through the day Maglor felt jittery and strange; it was an effort to keep himself from looking over his shoulder when they were in between the woods; and then when they entered the forest again he felt worse. He kept seeing movement in the shadows, but when he turned his head nothing was there. When Daeron sang he did not join in, or take out his harp. 

Huan eventually did range ahead, and returned to beckon them off the path as the shadows began to deepen with the waning afternoon. After exchanging a glance they followed, and found themselves riding beside a stream the flowed along quite cheerfully in its stony bed. It was fed by cold springs bubbling up out of the moss and by tiny rills flowing down from elsewhere in the wood. As they followed it the ground began to rise, and the stream fell down many series of miniature waterfalls with a sound like laughter, until they came at last to a wide open space beneath a sudden steep hillside looming up before them. The stream that plunged over its edge was much larger than the one they had been following, which was what escaped out of the deep and wide pool at the hill’s base. 

Daeron laughed aloud. “This is wonderful! It is a good thing indeed that Huan is with us.” 

Wildflowers and green grass grew around the pool, and after they released the horses to wander and graze where they would, Daeron skirted around the edge of the water to climb the cliff face. Maglor went looking for firewood, accompanied by Huan. Pídhres had, unsurprisingly, disappeared. He only hoped she did not find a tree to try to climb; there would be no rescuing her from one of the towering giants around them. 

By the time he returned with enough dead wood to last the afternoon and evening, Daeron had reached the top of the cliff, and sat near the fall with his legs dangling over. Maglor busied himself with the fire pit and then the fire, glad of something to occupy his attention and his hands, though it took several tries to start the tinder burning. Huan lay beside him, ever watchful. “I’m fine, Huan,” he murmured, pausing to scratch him behind the ears. “I’m not angry with you, either. I know you didn’t mean any harm.” Huan whined softly, and licked Maglor’s hand—very gently, not the exuberant and sloppy sort of licking he normally indulged in. 

After the fire was finally lit and crackling merrily, Maglor lay with his head pillowed on Huan’s side and closed his eyes, letting himself doze, listening to the sound of the water and the crackling of the fire, and of Daeron singing some bright and cheerful song from atop the fall. The sun was warm and the air was fragrant with grass and flowers and pine. The chill that lingered was only Maglor’s imagination, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to shake it. 

He woke when Huan shifted, and as he sat up Huan got up and trotted off, having heard or smelled something in the wood that was more interesting than being Maglor’s pillow. Maglor lay back down onto the grass and stared up at the sky, pure summer blue. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He is gone, and I am here,” he whispered to the sky. 

“Who is gone?” Daeron’s voice was sudden and startling in its closeness. Maglor sat up to find that Daeron had returned from the cliff top, and was in the middle of pulling off his shoes. 

“…Sauron,” Maglor said after a moment, hating to bring that name into this place, but unable to think of a way to brush the question off. He was still too rattled, and even before the nightmare he hadn’t been up to pretending he was in better spirits than he really was. “I did warn you I would be terrible company,” he added. 

“You aren’t,” Daeron said. “Would you tell me if I asked what you dreamed of—would it help, do you think?”

Maglor looked away. “I don’t know. I haven’t…I have not dreamed like that in a long time.”

“I’m glad of it.” Daeron picked up a stick and tossed it onto the fire. “And I am glad that I was there—I dislike thinking of you waking up like that alone. Huan,” he added when Maglor opened his mouth, “doesn’t count—especially since it seems he caused the trouble in the first place.”

Maglor tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “The singing helped,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

“You have been very quiet today,” Daeron said. “I don’t mean to press you, but—when we first met you sang as often as you breathed. To hear you go a full day without making music is strange, as strange as it was aboard the ship.”

“Estel said something like that once,” Maglor murmured. He picked a few flowers to start weaving together, needing something to do with his hands. “It was after he asked me if it was true that you were the mightier singer, as all the histories and songs say.”

“The histories and songs care much more about that than I ever did,” Daeron said. “I hope you told him that.”

“I told him they were true,” Maglor said, “and that I never cared about it.” It had been such a relief, he remembered, to meet Daeron beside the Pools of Ivrin and find him a friend rather than a rival, who thought all the speculation and gossip about it as amusing as he did. They had understood one another almost without having to speak, and he had never found such joy in performing with another before or since—not even with Elemmírë. “I had not made music for a very long time, when Estel and I spoke of you. It had been…” He still did not know exactly how long he had been locked away. “More than sixty years, at least.”

“That is a long time indeed,” Daeron murmured, “to go without breathing.”

“Elves sing as easy as breathing, Estel told me, and pointed out that I was still breathing.”

“Estel sounds wise,” Daeron said. 

“He was eleven years old, and we met when I fished him out of the river after he fell off of the bridge. Do not give him too much credit.” That got Daeron to laugh, at least, and Maglor breathed a little easier. “It was…it was difficult to come back to it after Dol Guldur, though.”

“Dol Guldur?” Daeron repeated, aghast. “How came you there?”

Maglor looked up. “You didn’t know? I thought you would have asked…”

“Asked who? Celeborn? No, of course I didn’t.”

“Oh.” Maglor had been certain that Daeron would have asked others for the tale after he’d refused to speak of it on the ship. “You could have,” he said. “It isn’t secret. You could have asked anyone, really.”

“It is your tale to tell,” Daeron said. “And you do not have to tell me now.”

“There isn’t much of a tale,” said Maglor. And then, because it would be easier if Daeron knew—especially if Maglor was going to be having nightmares—he went on, “I was…I was caught near the Anduin and taken to Dol Guldur. I did not know until I got there who the Necromancer truly was, but he knew me immediately. He…his Nazgûl were there.”

“How did you get out?” 

“I didn’t. The White Council drove the Necromancer out, and Elladan and Elrohir found me when they entered the tower afterward. They took me to Lórien, and then the next spring to Imladris. Where I met Estel when he fell into the river.”

“When did you start to play music again?” Daeron asked quietly. He moved around the fire to sit beside Maglor, pressing their shoulders together. “Why did it trouble you, after you were away from that place?”

The flowers did not hold together, and fell to the ground in a small heap. “He stole my voice,” he whispered. “Before he was driven out he—even when they took the cords out of my lips I couldn’t—and after—after Elrond lifted that curse I couldn’t—I just couldn’t. It was years before I could so much as hum in front of another person again.” 

“You did eventually,” Daeron said. “I am glad of it—more glad than words can say—that you came out of that place, and are here now.” 

Maglor turned to look at him, and found their faces quite close together. Daeron’s eyes were dark, but in the sunlight the blue in them shone, the deep color of sapphires. “I’m glad, too,” he said. “And I am glad that you are here with me.” 

Daeron smiled, and was about to say something else when Huan returned, carrying something small very carefully in his mouth. He came to drop it into Maglor’s waiting hands, and both he and Daeron found themselves peering down at a small young hedgehog, curled up into a prickly ball. “Huan, what in the world…?”

Slowly the hedgehog unrolled, and sniffed at Maglor’s fingers. “Oh, the poor thing,” Daeron said, reaching for it. “Look at its leg; I think it’s broken.”

“Do you know how to fix a hedgehog’s broken leg?” Maglor asked. “I certainly don’t.”

“I know a song for broken bones,” Daeron said. “It can’t be that much different than a bigger creature’s—easier, I would think. Less bone to knit back together. Ouch!” The hedgehog tried to roll up again, spikes poking now at Daeron’s fingers. 

“Here, let me hold it.” Maglor took it, cradling it gently, humming a gentle song until it unrolled again. “There we go.” He looked up at Daeron, who was smiling at him strangely. “What?”

“Nothing.” Daeron turned his attention back to the hedgehog, who did not curl up again when he reached out to stroke it with his fingertips. He began to sing, a short song of healing and strength, and when he finished and Maglor set the hedgehog down it took a few steps with no apparent trouble. Then it made its way back over to Huan, who had flopped down nearby, and nestled in between his great paws and, to all appearances, went to sleep. Daeron laughed. 

“How,” Maglor said, lifting his gaze to the sky, “do I keep acquiring animals?” For he had no illusions about the fate of the hedgehog, or about the songs Lindir would make up about it when he got back to Imloth Ningloron.

“So long as it gets along with Pídhres, I don’t see reason for worry,” Daeron said. “Come on, let the little thing sleep, and let us go swimming!” He drew Maglor to his feet. “That’s what I meant to do when I came back down.”

Maglor hesitated, and Daeron looked back at him, still with a hold of his hand and their arms now stretched between the two of them. “I’ve got—from Dol Guldur, I have—”

“Scars?” Daeron’s smile softened. “I’ve seen others who have been marked by the Enemy, Maglor. It isn’t the scars that will horrify me, but the knowledge of how they came there—and I already feel that. Showing me will make no difference.”

“They are bad, some of them,” Maglor said. “I don’t…” He didn’t want Daeron’s pity or his horror—but Daeron had already seen him the night before, rendered helpless and stiff with cold and terror. “All right.” He closed the distance between them, and followed Daeron to the water’s edge. 

“The scars only mean that you survived,” Daeron said as he stripped his own shirt off, revealing a handful of scars on his arms, such as one might acquire over many years of wandering and of living on the edges of war. “And at least no one will be angry with you over them! Mablung was furious when he saw this.” He pointed to a scar on his chest, uncomfortably close to his heart. “I was in Rhûn, with those who resisted the Enemy and his warlords, and we were ambushed. I had armor, but it was leather and was already old—but enough to slow the arrow and save my life.” 

Maglor found himself staring in exactly the way that he did not want others to stare at him, and lifted his gaze to Daeron’s face. “It still almost killed you,” he said. He’d seen enough such wounds to be able to tell that at the time it had been very bad. It was suddenly far too easy to imagine Daeron in the immediate aftermath of the ambush, weak and bleeding and inching closer and closer to death—

“It might have, if Alatar had not been there,” said Daeron, strong and bold and so very alive. “But it didn’t, as you see! Now show me yours; let us get it over with so we can go wash the road out of our hair.”

Maglor lifted his his shirt, removing it in the same quick motion that Daeron had used so that he couldn’t stop himself halfway through. Daeron took one sharp breath a the sight of the livid brand on his chest, among the others, and then stepped forward to pull Maglor into a tight embrace. “I would not have survived such an ordeal,” he whispered into Maglor’s ear. “You are far stronger than I.”

“I wasn’t,” Maglor said. “I was just—dying wouldn’t have let me leave that place.”

“No, don’t try to argue! You’re a terrible judge of your own strength.” Daeron drew back, but only far enough to look Maglor in the eye. For a moment Maglor had the wild, delirious thought that Daeron intended to kiss him. It was a thought he’d had before, long ago and far away by the shores of Ivrin, when they had slipped away from the constant demands to perform to laugh and talk together, splashing their feet in the shallow waters and debating whose style of musical notation was better, and also when they had found themselves caught up in the same dance by the bonfires late at night when the stars blazed overhead, and Daeron had been luminous, breathless and pink-cheeked from dancing and with his hair disheveled, the pearls in his braids all out of place. 

Daeron hadn’t kissed him then, and Maglor had known better than to do anything himself—secrets and dooms and oaths had stood between them; he had not needed Maedhros to remind him. “Be careful, Cáno,” he’d said one night, late, in the dark privacy of their tent. “Your promises are not your own.” Maglor had laughed and said something reassuring—something about only seeking friendship, something about music, something about Doriath and Thingol’s good opinion. Maedhros had been satisfied. It had been so much easier to laugh in those days, to pretend that he didn’t know what heartache was, and then to bury it all down deep so he didn’t have to think about it. Of course he had made no promises, not even in the privacy of his own heart. It had still hurt, though, when the truth of Alqualondë came out and Thingol raged, to know that even the chance of friendship with Daeron had ended forever. 

Except here they were, by another clear pool shining in the sunlight, with neither secrets nor oaths nor dooms between them. They were a long way from Ivrin, and both of them were changed—and still this friendship had been so easy to rekindle. 

He still knew better, though the reasons were different, and Daeron, of course, did not kiss him; likely the thought had never crossed his mind, had only ever lived in Maglor’s imagination. Instead he gave him one of those sun-bright grins and pulled the tie out of Maglor’s braid before stepping back to loosen his own hair and finish undressing before diving into the pool. Maglor stood still with his hair unraveling, catching his breath and trying not to stare for reasons entirely unrelated to scars, and then followed him into the water. 

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Midsummer Day was unremarkable but for a spectacular sunrise and an even more spectacular sunset. They spent it continuing west—racing much of the day, both for its own sake and, Maedhros thought, so they did not have to talk to each other. The lands flattened and opened up, a sea of grass and flowers rippling in the wind, all gold and green and pink and pale purple. In the distance they glimpsed herds of grazing animals, and as they slowed to look for a place to camp Celegorm warned them to be on their guard. “We should take care to light a fire tonight,” he added, “and perhaps set a watch.” 

“Why?” Caranthir asked, frowning. “There are no enemies here.”

“No, but there are animals—big cats, wild dogs, and other things. They won’t care who we are, if they think they can get an easy meal, and we don’t have Huan here to scare them off.”

They came upon a river with some stands of trees growing along it, and made their camp there, careful to keep the horses close rather than letting them roam. Ambarussa scampered up the tree they’d chosen to camp under, vanishing into the upper boughs with the swift ease of squirrels. Beneath, Caranthir started a fire and Celegorm disappeared to do some hunting of his own. Maedhros sat back against the tree to watch the sun go down in a brilliant show of color, all oranges and reds and golds that only slowly deepened to purple and then the softer blues of twilight. 

He could paint that, he found himself thinking, found himself committing the sight of it to memory so he could recreate it on canvas after he returned home. The thought startled him; he had taken up sketching at Nerdanel’s insistence, and until that moment it had only been something to do to occupy his mind and his hand, not something to do for its own sake—something to plan for, rather than something that just happened when he picked up a pencil or a piece of charcoal. 

Curufin came to sit beside him, leaning against his side when Maedhros lifted his arm. “What are you thinking about?” Curufin asked as Maedhros settled his arm around his waist. 

“Paints,” Maedhros said, earning himself a look of surprise. “What? I’m not supposed to be brooding, remember?”

“We didn’t think you’d actually listen,” Curufin said. “What are you going to paint?” Maedhros nodded toward the sunset. “Do you even have paints? Or brushes?”

“Are they difficult to get?” Maedhros asked, amused. “Ammë doesn’t do much with paints, but I thought Grandfather Mahtan might have some.”

“Or you could ask my wife,” Curufin said, rolling his eyes. Rundamírë had once been among the best ink, paint, and pigment-makers among the Noldor. Maedhros supposed she was still, though he had never asked—he had never seen her without stains of some color or other on her fingers, either before the Darkening or after he had returned from Mandos. 

“Or I could ask your wife,” he agreed.

As the stars began to come out, Ambarussa burst into song somewhere in the tree above their heads. It was a song Maglor had often sung when they were all young, when they had traveled beyond the reaches of the Trees and could see the stars properly. Maedhros tried to think if he had ever sung it in Middle-earth. He did not think so. Curufin hummed along, but broke off abruptly when Celegorm returned triumphant from his hunt, with a large hare that between him and Caranthir was quickly skinned and cleaned and set on a spit to roast. Ambarussa dropped down from the tree to join Caranthir and Celegorm by the fire. Celegorm was in a better mood after his success, and if Caranthir was quiet, he wasn’t scowling. Out of all of them, Ambarussa were the most cheerful—but in a determined, set sort of way that rang a little false, as though they felt they could drag everyone along with them to a good mood if they were insistent enough about it. It was the same tactic Maglor had often used, though it had lost much of its effectiveness after the Nirnaeth, when more often than not it made the rest of them angry, triggering arguments over stupid things. And still he’d kept trying. 

Ambarussa were not as good at it as Maglor had been—but it did seem to be working a little. Celegorm laughed at something Amrod said. The firelight danced over their faces and made their shadows on the grass behind them flicker and waver. Amras said something then that had Celegorm’s smile fading as he shook his head and Maedhros heard him say, “No, don’t ask Curvo, I can do it—” Curufin heard it too; Maedhros felt him go stiff.

But Amras had already turned to call over his shoulder, “Hey Curvo, can you make fishing spears?”

“Yes, of course I can,” Curufin said, voice gone flinty—hard and sharp but brittle. Maedhros tightened his arm around him just slightly. “In the morning, when I can find stones for it.”

“Thank you!” said Amrod, he and Amras both obviously choosing to ignore Curufin’s tone and the way that Celegorm was shrinking back from the fire, as though he had half a mind to disappear into the growing darkness beyond. Caranthir rolled his eyes; Maedhros tried to catch Celegorm’s gaze, but Celegorm was very studiously not looking in his direction.

There was little more laughter that evening. Celegorm took the first watch—and then all the rest of them, and ignored Maedhros’ glare the next morning.

Maedhros did not dream that night, but he still woke in the dark watches of the night to Caranthir stirring beside him, gasping softly before jerking awake, hands going to his neck—to where Uldor had cut him down during the Nirnaeth. When Maedhros reached for him he didn’t pull away, as he would have once, but rolled over to bury his face in Maedhros’ chest, not weeping but shivering. Maedhros kissed the top of his head, and said nothing, just stroked his hair until the tremors stopped and he fell back asleep.

In the morning after breakfast Maedhros followed the river to a place where it widened and grew shallow, and where many flat stones could be found that were ideal for shaping into spear- and arrowheads. It was an ancient practice that Finwë had once taught them; he in his turn had learned from his father and grandfather beside the shores of Cuiviénen. It had been a history lesson as much as a practical one, and Finwë had laughed when Fëanor had pointed out how much better a spear made in a proper forge would be, and asked if he intended to carry a forge with him whenever he went traveling, or what he would do if his forge-made spears all broke or were lost. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, Fëanáro. It just has to be sharp enough to spear a fish for your supper. Even a sharpened stick will do, unless one of your sons is wielding it—then you need a stone that won’t break after the second try!”

Curufin was there, already in the midst of shaping a third stone into a sharp point; he had always made the spears, on their youthful travels, whenever they came to a river or a lake and decided they wanted fish for supper. He was quickest and best at finding the perfect stones for the tips, and sharpening them just so. Maedhros crouched beside him and glanced toward the water, watching it sparkle and gleam in the sunshine while he gathered his thoughts. “I’ve heard Celegorm’s side,” he said finally. “Care to tell me yours?”

“No,” Curufin said without looking up.

“I’m just trying to understand.”

Curufin hit the rock with more force than necessary, chipping off another piece that went skittering over the other stones on the bank. “It’s not that hard,” he bit out. “He won’t speak to me and he won’t come to Tirion when I’m there unless Ammë forces him like she did at Midwinter, and the only reason he’s suffering my presence now is because Ambarussa insisted that if some of us come on this trip then all of us should come.”

“Do you want him to speak to you?” Maedhros asked. 

“It would be nice if he at least told me why.” Curufin raised the spearhead to examine it, and then set it aside with the others, before picking up one of the tree limbs to be made into the shafts. “If I can’t—if there’s nothing I can do to fix it, fine, I suppose we’ll all just have to live with it, but I’d like to know why.”

Maedhros sighed. “Celegorm is an idiot,” he said. 

“I knew that already.”

“You might be an idiot, too. Have you asked him?”

“Of course I have! But he wouldn’t answer and—and what am I supposed to do when he won’t ever stay long enough for me to try again? It’s not like I could follow him out into the wild.” Curufin put the stones down, blinking rapidly. “I just—I don’t know what I did. I know what I did in Beleriand, but not what I did after coming back.” He swiped his sleeve over his face and picked up his knife again. “I don’t understand how you can bear not hearing anything at all from Maglor.”

“I can’t,” Maedhros said quietly; they all knew that it was burning him up inside, but Curufin had only said it to try to wound, and Maedhros didn’t mind a little sting if he could get Curufin and Celegorm to have even one real conversation, “but I can also think of half a dozen good reasons for his silence without trying. Curvo, what if I told you that he isn’t staying away because he’s angry with you?”

“That just makes it worse,” Curufin said. “Because then I can’t understand it at all. How can I fix it if I don’t understand it?”

“You can stop snarling at him whenever you do speak, to start,” said Maedhros. He rose to his feet. “Thanks for making the spears. I’ll tell Ambarussa to stop meddling.”

“Are you going to stop meddling?”

“Probably not, but that’s one of the privileges of being the eldest.” Maedhros offered a smile as Curufin rolled his eyes, and headed back to the campsite. Ambarussa had gone off somewhere, and Caranthir was bathing in the river. 

Celegorm sprawled out under the tree, one arm thrown over his face, his silver hair fanned out on the grass around his head like a halo, shining in the dappled sunlight that danced over him when the tree branches swayed in the breeze. To anyone else he would have appeared sound asleep, making up for the rest he hadn’t gotten the night before, but Maedhros could see tension in his limbs. He nudged him in the ribs with his toes. “You’re an idiot,” he said. 

Celegorm didn’t move. “Historically or currently?”

“Both.”

Celegorm lowered his arm and sighed without opening his eyes. “Considering I don’t know what I did, I suppose you’re right. Enlighten me, then.”

“You can’t guess? Talk to him, Tyelko. Explaining yourself is the least you can do.”

“Talk to who—ow.” Celegorm curled around the spot Maedhros had kicked. “Fine.”

“Don’t do it angry. The point of all this was to fix us, you all keep telling me—so start fixing.” 

Celegorm sat up, grass sticking to his hair, and peered past Maedhros to where Curufin was returning with the spears. “Can I wait until he’s unarmed?”

“Coward.” Maedhros walked away, leaving Celegorm to sort himself out. He passed Curufin and said, “Please don’t stab him. If you do, you’re the one who gets to explain why to Ammë.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Curufin set the spears down, and Maedhros left him and Celegorm to have it out by the fire. 

He retreated to the river to join Caranthir, who had paused halfway through combing the travel dirt out of his hair to watch. “How worried should we be?” he asked as Maedhros stripped off his clothes and joined him in the water. 

“Hopefully not at all,” Maedhros said, before ducking under the surface to soak his own hair. Celegorm was an idiot, but in a very particular kind of elder-brother way—a way that Maedhros could sympathize with. At least Celegorm had not and would not do what Maedhros had, at the end in Beleriand. He’d told Curufin that he could think of at least six reasons Maglor was avoiding him, but really there was only one—Maglor could and had forgiven him everything except this one thing. 

“Do not ask me again, please, Maedhros. I will not leave you. I cannot leave you, and I could not bear it if you left me.”

Caranthir splashed him. “Stop brooding,” he said. “Or at least share what you’re brooding about. Is it Maglor?”

What else? “He used to love Midsummer.”

“I’m sure he still does. He probably spent all day yesterday singing like a lark and basking like a cat in the sunshine. With his cat, probably—Tyelpë said he has one that followed him all the way from Middle-earth.”

“Finrod mentioned a cat too,” Maedhros murmured; Maglor had written of her, too, to Nerdanel. He ducked his head to the water again, scrubbing his fingers through it before surfacing, thinking of the silly verses Maglor should have been writing about the cat but probably wasn’t. “I hope it gets on well with dogs.” 

“Did you see the cup he sent Ammë with his letter?”

“No.”

“That method of repair that Mithrandir was talking about—highlighting all the cracks with gold—that’s what someone did with the cup. I suppose Maglor might have done it himself. It’s…it is lovely, in its own way. Definitely more interesting to look at than if it hadn’t been broken at all.”

“Do you think Mithrandir was talking about Maglor?”

“I don’t know what he was talking about.”

Raised voices had them both turning in alarm, just in time to see Curufin storming off into the grass. Celegorm remained behind, shoulders hunched and arms crossed. He glanced toward Maedhros and Caranthir, and then went back to sit under the trees, resting his head in his arms. “So much for fixing things,” Caranthir muttered. 

“At least they talked,” Maedhros said. 

“For two whole minutes.”

Maedhros splashed him. “That isn’t helpful, Moryo.”

Once he felt as clean as a river would get him, Maedhros returned to the campsite to dry off and get dressed. As he wrung out his hair Curufin returned, passing Maedhros by to sit by Celegorm under the tree. Maedhros dug through his pack for his comb as he watched them out of the corner of his eye. Curufin said something, too quiet to be overheard, and then leaned into Celegorm’s arms when he opened them. Maedhros sighed in relief, and turned away. 

Ambarussa reappeared, and Amras dropped down behind Maedhros to pluck the comb out of his hand. “Let me do that. Your braids always end up crooked.”

“I’d like to see you braid anything at all with only one hand,” Maedhros said mildly, as Amras tugged the comb through his hair, hard enough that his head was tugged backward. “Ow, Amras.”

“Sorry!” Amras did not sound sorry at all, but he did not pull so hard again, though he worked quickly to tease out the last few tangles.

“Spears!” Amrod crowed, stooping to pick one up. “Thanks, Curvo!” He didn’t wait to see whether Curufin would reply. “Ambarussa, come on; there’s fish upstream.”

“In a minute!” Amras said, fingers moving swiftly as he plaited Maedhros’ hair. “There.”

“Thank you,” said Maedhros. Amras pushed himself up using Maedhros’ shoulders, and dropped a quick kiss to the top of his head before following Amrod. Celegorm and Curufin disappeared into the grass, leaving Maedhros and Caranthir alone in the camp. Caranthir emerged from the river to lay on the bank and doze in the sun—basking like a cat, or just like Maglor. Maedhros restarted the fire in anticipation of having to cook fish later, and brought out his sketchbook. He drew the view of the river, and the grass on the banks, and their horses grazing nearby, all broad strokes and little detail. From upstream he heard Ambarussa splashing and laughing; closer at hand a susurration of wind passed through the grass. High overhead an eagle circled; nearer a hawk was hunting. Maedhros paused in his sketching to watch as it suddenly dove, vanishing into the grass across the river, and emerging a minute later with something clutched in its talons. 

These grasslands reminded him of Ard Galen. Of Maglor’s Gap long ago. It was easy to imagine a host of their horsemen galloping across the plain, banners waving and all of them singing, with Maglor at their head, his dark hair blowing in the wind as he laughed; no trumpets were needed when his voice would do. It wasn’t an imagining so much as a memory, for it was how Maglor had come to Himring on many occasions, both looked and unlooked for. Imagining him appearing in the distance on these plains, though, was only wishful thinking. Maglor was back at Imloth Ningloron and was unlikely to leave for some time. He had only just arrived; he was happy in Elrond’s house, and Maedhros knew that he should have been content with that, as he was content most of the time to know that Celegorm and Ambarussa were happy, away in the wilds hunting and riding and finding themselves again among Oromë’s folk, and that Caranthir was rebuilding his friendships with their mother’s family, and Curufin was making lovely things in Tirion with his wife and his son. Maedhros couldn’t do any of those things, couldn’t muster the willpower to even have more than a short conversation with his cousins or his grandparents, hating the way they looked at him with poorly-hidden concern, but his brothers could and he could keep out of their way.

Of course, it was different. The rest of them had passed through Mandos, and almost all of them had emerged rested and restored. Maglor’s road had been much longer, and much lonelier. And if he never wanted to see Maedhros again—well, Maedhros had no one but himself to blame. 

He had started drawing again while his mind wandered, and when he looked down he discovered Maglor on the page, walking way but looking over his shoulder, cloak tattered, a harp-case slung over his back, his hair in a loose braid coming unraveled because he could never be bothered to secure it properly. Maedhros stared down into his face and the unhappy, solemn expression it wore, drawn from memory, and wondered how much it resembled the Maglor that had come back to Valinor, aside from the scars that Maedhros hadn’t seen yet. He wondered if he would even be able to draw Maglor with a smile—he found himself unable to quite recall what it looked like.

Curufin dropped down on one side of him, suddenly, and Celegorm sat on the other. “What are you drawing?” Celegorm leaned over to peer at the page. “Oh.”

Maedhros flipped the sketchbook shut. “Are you two on speaking terms again?”

“Yes.” Curufin rested his head on Maedhros’ shoulder. “You were right. He’s an idiot.”

“I’m an idiot,” Celegorm agreed. 

“You’re both idiots,” Maedhros said. He wrapped an arm around each of them, relieved that this rift, at least, had been mended—or was in the process of mending. Quietly, he added, “I love you both.”

“We love you too, Nelyo,” said Curufin. 

“You should draw more portraits,” added Celegorm. “You’re good at them.”

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They lingered by the pool and its waterfall for some days, swimming and climbing the cliff, and playing music together—old songs, newer songs, and brand new ones, most often about Pídhres, Huan, and the hedgehog, who had indeed added herself to their little party with no apparent intention of leaving. She rode around on Huan’s back, and curled up with Pídhres at night by Maglor. He discovered by way of waking with her on his chest that hedgehogs purred, and this one purred often, especially whenever she was settled on someone’s lap or in the crook of someone’s arm for any length of time. 

“If this little one is going to follow you, you should give her a name,” Daeron said one rainy afternoon. They had retreated from the pool to the shelter of an enormous tree with thick branches so high up that there was no fear of being rained on. Maglor lay in the leaves with Pídhres curled up in the crook of his neck, and Daeron perched on one of the great roots that had risen above the ground. Huan had vanished into the wood; the hedgehog too had disappeared, though Maglor could hear her rooting around in the roots, searching for whatever it was hedgehogs ate. Insects or grubs, Maglor supposed. He couldn’t think of what else was down there. 

“Who says she’s following me?” Maglor asked. “She could follow you home.”

“I doubt it. It’s your cat she’s made friends with. Well?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Leicheg, perhaps.” 

“A good name for her! Perhaps I should sing down some birds to join our party, too,” Daeron said. 

“Please don’t. Pídhres would definitely try to eat them.”

“But it would be very funny to see half a dozen songbirds perched on your shoulders, and atop your head, all singing a merry chorus—” Daeron laughed, ducking away from the handful of leaves Maglor tossed at him, and whistling a handful of bird calls that, fortunately, did not attract more than passing attention from the birds themselves. 

Maglor did not dream of Dol Guldur again, or of his father or his brothers—he barely even thought of them. Instead he dreamed often of the sea—of the shores of Middle-earth, windblown and wild—and woke more than once with the taste of saltwater on his lips, never quite sure if it was a lingering part of the dream or if it was tears. The chill the nightmare had left him with faded in the face of bright sunshine and pleasant company, and he no longer felt as though he needed to scream himself hoarse.

“Why did you leave Middle-earth?” he asked Daeron. They had climbed the cliff again and were seated by the waterfall, legs dangling over the edge. Clouds covered the sky, though they were too light to promise rain. 

“I heard that the last ship from Mithlond was setting sail, and thought I should be aboard when it did,” Daeron said. 

“There would still have been other ships, from other havens.”

“Yes, but I had also heard that you would be on that one.” Daeron smiled when Maglor only stared at him. “Why are you so surprised?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? We had not seen each other since the—and you said—”

“Can you really not guess? I know I was not imagining it at the Mereth Aderthad, but you kept pulling back and I did not want to push. I understand why now, of course. But you are still pulling back and there can be no reason for it, unless you have more secrets.”

Oh. For a moment Maglor couldn’t breathe. “I have no more secrets,” he said finally. “But—you should know, Daeron, at the Mereth Aderthad…even if there had been no secrets, there was still the Oath. I was not—not free.” If Alqualondë had never happened, if they had found another way to cross the Sea—well, there would have been no need for the Mereth Aderthad in the first place, replaced instead by many far merrier and more open meetings between the Noldor and Thingol’s people. But still Doriath might have happened, still Sirion. The Oath had come before everything, even when he’d tried to pretend it didn’t. 

“Are you not free now?” Daeron asked. 

“I am, but I’m not—you know I’m not—”

“You are not who you were then, of course. I am not who I was. But we are neither of of us so changed that we cannot sing together as we did then, that we cannot laugh together—that we cannot find joy in one another’s company. Or do I misjudge how your mood has improved since I joined your journeying?”

Maglor looked away, at the water spilling over the edge of the stones. “You haven’t misjudged.” 

Daeron reached out to turn Maglor’s face back toward him, his hand lingering on Maglor’s cheek. “Why do you keep pulling back, then?” he asked, voice very soft, the question gentler than it had any reason to be. “What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know,” Maglor whispered.

Daeron drew back. “I’m patient,” he said. “I’ll be here, whenever you are ready.” Then he rose to his feet and took a running start to leap off of the waterfall, landing with a great splash in the pool below. Maglor remained where he was, watching Huan charge into the water, barking excitedly, to join Daeron as he surfaced, his clothes drenched and clinging to him as he waded into the shallows. He glanced up toward Maglor, who made himself move—he did not take the short way down, choosing instead to remain dry. He’d hoped it would give him time to think, to come up with some sort of answer for Daeron more satisfactory than an ill-defined fear, but his head was full of overlapping memories of the Mereth Aderthad and all the awful things that had come later. 

Huan had started getting impatient over the last day or so, often sitting by their discarded saddles and looking reproachfully at Maglor; he did so then as Maglor came back to their little camp after he’d shaken himself dry and soaked Daeron all over again. “I suppose we should continue on if we wish to see Ekkaia before the summer is out,” Daeron said, amused, as he wrung out his hair. 

“Huan certainly thinks so,” said Maglor, relieved that Daeron did not seem inclined to continue the cliff top conversation. “All right, Huan. In the morning, we’ll go.” Huan’s tongue lolled out in a dog’s grin, and he trotted over to lick up Maglor’s face. “Ugh.”

“Are we taking Leicheg?” Daeron asked. 

“I’m not sure we have a choice; she’ll hide in one of my saddle bags with Pídhres if we try,” Maglor said. He sat by their fire as he spoke, and Leicheg came over to climb over his legs, playing some kind of chasing game with Pídhres. 

“How far to Ekkaia?” 

“I don’t know. A few weeks, maybe. Maybe less—distances are sometimes odd in Valinor.” 

Daeron looked amused. “Do you even know where we are?”

“Not really!” Maglor grinned in spite of himself. “But Ekkaia is very easy to find, fortunately. You just have to keep going west.”

“And finding our way home afterward?”

“Go east! If we do get lost Huan will lead us home. Won’t you?” Maglor looked over at Huan, who woofed his agreement. “Of course, his ideas of where we should go, and where we want to go might differ. I’ll be heading back to Imloth Ningloron, whatever Huan has to say about it.” Huan woofed again, this time reproachfully. “I told Elrond I would be back before the end of autumn.”

“What about your mother?” Daeron asked, shaking out his still-wet hair. 

“Come here, I’ll comb it for you,” Maglor said. “What about my mother?” Daeron settled in between his legs after shooing Leicheg and Pídhres away and handed back his comb. Maglor tugged it gently through the wet tangles, easing the strands into order again. 

“You haven’t seen her since you’ve come back to Valinor, have you?”

“No.”

“Why? I know you’ve seen your father, and I understand you’ve no wish to see your brothers, but you have not spoken before of her.”

Maglor didn’t answer immediately, instead focusing his attention on Daeron’s hair. Daeron sat quietly, as patient in this matter as he was in all others, though when the silence stretched long enough he asked, “Are you angry at her, as you are at your father?”

“Angry—? No! Why would I be angry at my mother?”

“For not going with you? For—oh, I don’t know. All sorts of reasons.”

“I’ve always been glad that she did not go with us,” Maglor said, “that she did not get herself tangled up in our doom. No, I’m not angry with her. I just—all of my brothers have returned to her by way of Mandos. They have new bodies, no scars, no…I imagine they look like they did before the Darkening, like they did when she last saw us.”

“There’s a certain grief in that, though,” Daeron said. “To be given a new body that has none of the markings from your life before—although I have heard that Maedhros returned one-handed.”

Maglor paused in his combing. He hadn’t even thought of that; he didn’t know what to think of it now. “Well,” he said finally, pulling the comb through the ends of Daeron’s hair, “I’m…you know what I look like. And my mother knows something of it already, but it’s different when it’s…I don’t know if I can bear it. Not yet.”

“Did your father see?” Daeron asked.

“Yes.”

“Was it that bad?”

“I did not give him much chance to say anything one way or the other,” Maglor said. He hadn’t even been thinking of his face when he’d met with Fëanor; he’d been more concerned with other, older scars. “I was—I perhaps should not have said some of the things that I did. But I don’t regret it, really, especially if it means he’ll not try to come find me again.”

“You have me very curious about what you said,” Daeron said, “but you don’t have to tell me.”

“Maybe when I can think of him without wanting to scream,” Maglor murmured. He finished combing the snarls out of Daeron’s hair and parted it for braiding. “I should go see Ammë, I know. Now would even be the best time because my brothers have all gone off wandering somewhere. I just…” He was a coward, was the real reason. He was afraid—afraid that she’d see him and change her mind about him and turn him away. Afraid that she wouldn’t turn him away. Afraid of making her cry, of her seeing him cry. He felt like the whole of the past, from the Darkening to Dol Guldur, had condensed into something sharp and heavy that was scraping him raw inside. He could ignore it when Daeron engaged him in singing silly songs about hedgehogs and cats, but it was always there waiting for him when his mind was left to its own meanderings. 

“If it helps,” Daeron said, “I don’t know what I would say to my own mother either if I saw her again.”

“Your mother?” Maglor said, forgetting all about his own troubles in his surprise.

Daeron glanced over his shoulder with a crooked smile. “I’m not one of the Unbegotten—of course I have parents.”

“I suppose I just assumed you were one of those strange and marvelous beings that sprang fully formed out of the Music, like old Bombadil,” said Maglor. Daeron laughed hard enough that he fell backward against Maglor’s chest, letting his braids fall loose and unraveled as he burst into a bright round of hey dol merry dol and other such nonsense, and only sat up again when he’d caught his breath. “What happened to your mother?” Maglor asked when the laughter faded enough to return to more somber subjects.

“I was born during the Great Journey—somewhere in Eriador, I think. I don’t know what happened, exactly, for I was a babe in arms and it is only luck that I was not with them, but…Thingol was not the only one to disappear. He was just the only one we ever found again. What I was told was that my father disappeared, going either to seek one of the other camps, or to forage for food, and when he did not return my mother left me in the care of my father’s sister and her husband and went to seek for him. She never returned either. Other larger search parties went out to look, and even Thingol and Olwë joined them, but no sign was ever found.”

“I’m sorry,” Maglor said. 

“I have no memory of them, except I think a very faint recollection of my mother’s voice singing, but that might be my own imagination. My aunt and uncle raised me—they are Mablung’s parents, and that is why Mablung is so protective—why he’s so annoyed with me about almost getting killed.”

“Yes, I’m sure annoyed is the word he would use,” Maglor said. “And you have heard nothing of them since you came here?”

“I haven’t asked,” Daeron admitted with a shrug. “They have not come seeking me either. I used to imagine they had gotten lost and made their way back east to join with Lenwë’s people, but no word came with Denethor later, and when I went back that way I did not find any sign of them. Morgoth was imprisoned at the time, but not all of his servants had been caught, so it seems likely…most likely the worst happened.” The worst thing to happen had never changed, before or after the Journey: to be taken, rather than killed. “It isn’t—it isn’t the same thing as your own tale at all, but at least I know what it is to feel hesitant.”

“Do you want to find them?” Maglor asked. “If they are here?”

“I think so. But I’m not sure—I am not sure what they would think of me, or I of them. They are my parents, but they are also strangers. I have asked after my aunt and uncle—they died in the Dagor Bragollach—but they are not returned from Mandos.”

“I’ll go visit my mother if you look for yours,” Maglor offered after a moment, as he tied off the end of the braid. 

“All right.” He turned around to face Maglor. “But we must go see your mother first, since I don’t even know where to start. After you show me Ekkaia.”

“After Ekkaia,” Maglor agreed. 

They packed up and departed from the pool the next morning. Leicheg rode in the hood of Maglor’s cloak, and Pídhres perched on his saddle. Huan took the lead, guiding them back to the road that led through the forest, and once they reached it they set a quick but leisurely pace. Daeron sang a traveling song, and when they emerged from the wood Maglor joined him; grasslands opened up before them like a sea, waves rippling over the hills with the breeze, and he sang a song he’d written in praise of the fields of Ard Galen glowing green and gold beneath the new-risen sun. 

As they went, Huan did not let them linger anywhere particularly long, seeming intent upon reaching their destination sooner rather than later. Maglor didn’t know what to make of it, except that Huan had been listening to their conversation about Nerdanel and wanted to hurry Maglor along so he could go back and see her. But then, he had been impatient even before that.

One night they camped at the base of an enormous outcropping of rock jutting out of the rolling hills. In the early morning before dawn Daeron insisted on climbing it to see what they could see, and in spite of Huan’s continued impatience, Maglor agreed. He was a slower climber than Daeron, who scampered up the rocks with the same ease as Pídhres, who followed at his heels. When Maglor caught up he found Daeron standing atop the stones looking eastward. Pídhres was at his feet, grooming herself lazily. Maglor stood beside Daeron, who reached out to take his hand as the sun crested the eastern horizon. It was a clear morning, and dawn came swiftly, the sky turning from deep blue-black to pale blue in a matter of minutes. Gil-Estel gleamed near the horizon until its light was drowned by Anor. 

“What was it like before sunrises here?” Daeron asked. 

“A shift from gold to silver, with the loveliest light at Mingling,” Maglor said. “That is what is caught in the Silmarils—the Trees at Mingling.” 

“Did their light reach all throughout Valinor? Was it not blocked by hills or mountains?”

“We are far enough away now that it would be growing faint,” Maglor said, “and Ekkaia was never lit by the trees. Nor was Alqualondë—the Pelóri blocked the light, save what flowed through the Calacirya.”

“Do you miss them?”

Maglor looked back toward the rising sun, toward the hill where, too far away to be seen, the Trees still stood, dead and withered, a memorial and a monument to the glories of the past. “I miss that time,” he said after a few moments. “The Noontide of Valinor, they call it now, though when we were living it was just…the present, with no end in sight until the end suddenly came. I miss the time before the discord, before my father’s dislike of his brothers deepened into hatred, and my friendships with all my cousins were soured. But we did not have sunrises or sunsets. Elemmírë said, when we were together at Midsummer, that they are her favorite gift of Anor. I agree.” There was no sight like a sunset over the sea—it was the first thing he’d found joy in, after everything, when he had been wandering alone. The first song he’d sung that was not some desperate and poor attempt to put his misery into words had been in praise of it. It had not been a very good song, and it was not one he would ever share with anyone else, even Daeron, but it was still a memory he treasured, something just for himself.

“And that light is given to all the world, and not only this land,” said Daeron.

“Yes. Yes—and Gil-Estel, too, is seen by all. I have been glad of that from the moment I saw it.” Maglor glanced at Daeron. “That reminds me, I need to take you to Valmar sometime, to introduce you to Elemmírë.”

“Should I be nervous?”

“No!” It did occur then to Maglor that, with all three of them in Valmar, it was likely that Ingwë would call upon them to perform together—the greatest singers of all three kindreds—and that if he did so it was equally likely that the Valar would also take an interest. He pushed the thought away, along with the knot of anxiety that formed with it. It would not be so bad, he thought, if he was not performing alone. He looked again at Daeron, who had turned to look north and east over the plains. The sun lit his face, bringing out the blue in his eyes, and making his hair shine. 

Maglor really didn’t know what it was that he was afraid of. Maybe it really was just all the things he’d been afraid of before, the things that were over or didn’t matter anymore. Daeron was right. There were no secrets or oaths hanging between them, promising doom if they dared to take a step. “Daeron,” he whispered, and when Daeron turned back to him he leaned in. Daeron didn’t hesitate, didn’t even seem surprised; he just released Maglor’s hand to slid both of his into Maglor’s hair, pulling him in even closer as Maglor settled his arms around his waist. Daeron kissed like he sang, with all of the passion and feeling of his whole being pouring out of him into it. It was exhilarating to be the focus of it—it was overwhelming; Maglor felt giddy and half drunk by the time they parted, both of them breathless. 

Daeron released Maglor’s hair to loop his arms around his neck instead. “What was that?” he asked. “I thought I’d be waiting another century at least.”

“I don’t know. I’ve…” Maglor closed his eyes as Daeron rested their foreheads together. “I’ve been afraid of so many things for such a long time,” he whispered, “and I don’t want to be.”

Daeron pressed a soft kiss to the side of Maglor’s mouth, and another to his cheek directly over the scar on his cheek. “You don’t have to be.”

“When you say it, I can believe it.”

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