High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray  

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Twenty Nine

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When Caranthir had been born, Maglor had been the first one to get to hold him after their parents. He’d been tiny and wrinkled, red-faced and squalling and already with a thick head of dark hair. Celegorm had fled the room with his hands over his ears, but Maglor had already written a lullaby just for the new baby, and as he hummed it Caranthir had calmed, slowly, to stare up at him with big dark eyes. 

Maglor had been new to songwriting then, and later wrote other and better lullabies, but Caranthir had always asked for that one when he’d woken in the night or when he couldn’t get to sleep. The same way Maglor and Celegorm went to Maedhros with their troubles if their parents were unavailable, Caranthir had come to Maglor. He rarely wanted to talk about whatever it was that had upset him, so Maglor would just sing to him, or play whatever instrument he had to hand, until Caranthir, curled up beside him, worked through his thoughts on his own, and was able to smile and laugh again. 

He’d sung that first lullaby often after the Nirnaeth, when Caranthir had been slow to recover from his wounds, worse than any of the rest of them had suffered. Caranthir had never smiled, let alone laughed, after that—none of them had, no matter how Maglor had tried to remind them how—but the singing had helped. And after Doriath Maglor had sung no lullabies at all—not until Elrond and Elros had needed them, and he’d written new ones then. 

It should not have been so surprising, then, that Caranthir had written to him, or that it was he who came running first down the beach, colliding with Maglor just a moment after Daeron had snatched Leicheg out of her pouch lest she be crushed. Maglor staggered and slipped on the wet stones, and when Celegorm slammed into the two of them all three went down, just as an incoming wave washed up over them, leaving Maglor spluttering and his brothers laughing, though they were weeping too, saying his names—Maglor, Cáno, Macalaurë—over and over again like they couldn’t believe he was really there. Curufin and the twins fell to their knees on either side of him, uncaring of the water, the six of them all in a tangle of limbs and hands and wet hair, everyone talking over one another. 

“Cáno, what are you doing here?”

“Why didn't you come home before?”

“Did you know we would be here?”

“Didn’t you get my letter?”

This last question, from Caranthir, brought everyone up short. “You wrote to him too?” Curufin asked.

“Were we all meant to write to him?” Amrod demanded.

“Did you write to him?” Amras asked Celegorm.

“I sent Huan,” Celegorm said.

“Did Maedhros write—where is Maedhros?”

Maglor couldn’t stop himself stiffening, and of course they all noticed. Celegorm turned to look down the beach, and Maglor caught a glimpse of Maedhros, his hair falling over his face as Huan tried to pull him forward. To stop them talking about Maedhros more—or worse, calling him over, or dragging Maglor down to him—Maglor said, “I got the letters. And your awful dog.” His voice shook, and he was aware that he was crying, but he couldn’t make himself stop. They were all there, all of them smiling and whole and bright, as they had been before the Darkening, and he couldn’t even be happy to see them because still all he could think about was what they had looked like dead. 

Celegorm grabbed Curufin and Caranthir, hauling them up off of Maglor. “Come on, the water’s too cold for this,” he said. Ambarussa grabbed Maglor’s arms and pulled him up out of the surf; he was shaking, but he didn’t know if it was from the cold or everything else. Caranthir threw his arms around Maglor again as soon as they were both standing. “Did you read the letters?” he asked, voice muffled by his arms and Maglor’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Maglor said. “Huan wouldn’t leave me alone until I did.”

“Huan,” Celegorm said, “is a very good dog.”

“Huan is a menace.” 

“We’ve missed you, Cáno,” Curufin said quietly. 

“Come back to our camp and let’s all dry off,” said Celegorm. 

That meant taking off his wet clothes. It meant seeing Maedhros. Maglor felt panic lurch in his stomach, like he was going to be sick. Something must have shown on his face, because Celegorm suddenly looked tired and sad. It was an awful look to see on his face and Maglor hated that he had put it there. “All our things are behind that hill,” he said.

“We’ll get them for you!” said Amrod, but Celegorm caught him when he and Amras started to step away.

“Will you come join us after, then?” Celegorm asked. 

“Please don’t run away,” Caranthir whispered in Maglor’s ear. “Not from us. Please.”

“It’s not you,” Maglor said. “It’s…” He looked past Celegorm again, but Maedhros had disappeared behind the dunes. 

“Maglor,” said Daeron behind him. Caranthir let go at last, and Maglor escaped his brothers to join Daeron a few paces away. “Give me the pouch, please. She keeps poking me,” Daeron said briskly, and then, as Maglor fumbled with the straps of Leicheg’s pouch, he lowered his voice to almost a whisper, “You should speak to him.”

“I can’t,” Maglor said. He held out the pouch. “She won’t like this, it’s wet.”

“I just needed an excuse.” Daeron had Leicheg in the crook of his arm, where she was purring contentedly, not poking anything at all. Pídhres had vanished in all the chaos. Daeron took the pouch and caught Maglor’s hand, weaving their fingers together. “Maglor, you need to see him.”

“No, I—”

“If it does not go well, we can leave. I’ll sing up a fog so thick even Huan won’t be able to track us through it.” Daeron leaned forward until their foreheads rested together. “Whatever happens, at least it will be better than a sea monster.”

Maglor tried to smile, but couldn’t. “I’d rather face the monster,” he whispered.

“That’s not true. I met Maedhros too at the Mereth Aderthad—I remember well how you two love one another. You need to speak to him again, even just once.”

“We are a long way from Ivrin, Daeron,” Maglor said. 

“I know. Remember, I told you I would be there when you met your brothers again. I am still here, and I am not going anywhere. You can choose to walk away, and I will be at your side.”

That was a comfort, though he didn’t quite share Daeron’s confidence in their ability to evade all six of his brothers if they gave chase. Maglor closed his eyes and took a few shuddering breaths. “All right,” he whispered, and straightened. He didn’t turn fully, not wanting to see his brothers’ faces. “We’ll join you at your camp in a little while.”

Amrod said, “You can just bring your things to—ow, Tyelko!”

“There’s no hurry,” Celegorm said. Then, “Maglor, wait a moment.” Maglor paused in following Daeron back toward the hill. Celegorm sent their brothers back to their camp with a look, though Caranthir went only slowly. When they were alone, Celegorm strode forward and pulled Maglor into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry, Cáno,” he said.

“For what?” Maglor asked. “It’s not—you haven’t—”

“I said terrible things to you after the Nirnaeth. Before Doriath. I meant them at the time, but I was—I was wrong about so many things, and I’m so, so sorry. I love you so much.” Celegorm’s arms tightened around him, and Maglor realized that he was weeping too, trembling with the effort of not letting the others see. 

Maglor returned his embrace and let his face fall forward into Celegorm’s shoulder. “We both said awful things,” he said. “We were both wrong.”

“You were right. You didn’t want to go.”

“I didn't want any of it. I love you too, Tyelko. I forgave you a long time ago.”

“But not Maedhros?” Celegorm asked softly. 

Maglor drew back. “Don’t ask me about that, please.”

“Can I ask what you’re trying to hide?”

Maglor shook his head. “You’ve already guessed.”

“We’ve all seen scars before, Cáno. We all know what happened, no thanks to Maedhros.” Celegorm reached out to rub his thumb over one of the scars on Maglor’s lip. “Why did he do this?” he asked.

Because he did not want to cut out my tongue. Because he still thought he could make me his. “Punishment,” Maglor said. “Don’t ask me more, Celegorm. I won’t speak of it.” He took a step backward. “See you at your camp.”

“Don’t run away, Cáno. Please.”

“I won’t.”

Behind the hill Daeron had already gotten out dry clothes. Once Maglor had changed, he sat him down and pulled out a comb to fix his still-dripping hair. Maglor sat and watched Leicheg snuffle around in the grass. Pídhres had reappeared, and was sitting atop one the bag holding their tent. “This isn’t how I thought it would go,” Maglor said at last.

“Meeting your brothers?”

“No—well, yes, but that’s not what I meant. I meant visiting here. I thought it would be…quieter.”

Daeron leaned forward to kiss the back of his neck. “Still better than sea monsters. Do you think Gandalf knew they would be here?”

Maglor thought of the wink Gandalf had given Huan, and Huan’s insistence that they reach Ekkaia sooner than later. “Yes,” he said. “I think he did. I’m going to steal his hat and set it on fire. I’d wager he even told them that ‘Ekkaia is lovely this time of year.’ I should’ve guessed…”

“I’ve never met Gandalf,” said Daeron, “but I have known other wizards, and I cannot believe he meant harm by it.”

“Of course he didn’t.” Maglor sighed. “I just—I don’t like having been tricked.” 

“Do you want me to braid your hair, or do you wish to keep it loose?”

“Loose.” 

“All right.” Daeron set the comb aside, and Maglor turned to face him. He wasn’t ready to get up, to leave the little space amid the heather where they sat. He heard raised voices somewhere down the beach, but he could not tell if they were angry or not. “Six brothers is quite a lot,” Daeron said. 

“Especially my brothers.”

“Come here.” Daeron kissed him and held him, and Maglor let himself relax for a little while, soothed by the quiet sounds of Ekkaia’s waves beyond the hill, and by Daeron’s steady heartbeat under his ear. “You do it on purpose, don’t you? Let your hair fall into your face.”

“I can’t run away,” Maglor sighed, “but I can hide.”

“I’m glad you’ve stopped hiding from me.”

“You wouldn’t let me hide.” Maglor took a deep breath, and lifted his head. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“Everything.” Maglor kissed him, but did not allow himself to linger. If they tarried too long someone would come looking. 

They gathered up their things and tracked down Leicheg, who Maglor carried in the crook of his arm since her pouch was still damp. Pídhres climbed her way up onto Daeron’s shoulder. It was not that far to Maglor’s brothers’ camp, which was the oddest coincidence Maglor could imagine. They had the whole coastline, and both their parties had chanced to come to this particular spot. If chance you call it, he thought, and bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from frowning. 

“You know,” Daeron said as they walked, “we’ve never written a song together before.”

They had talked about it a few times at the Mereth Aderthad, but there had been no time for more than that. “We should finish it,” he said.

“Yes. And write others.” Daeron grinned at him. “Not about sea monsters.”

Maglor laughed a little in spite of himself. “No?” he said. “Then I shall have to finish the lay by myself. Perhaps by next Midsummer it will be done and I can perform it before Thingol—”

“You will not!” Daeron cried, but he was laughing too. “I’ll steal your harp—”

“I’ll sing without one—”

“It’s a terrible song, I’ll never speak to you again—”

The twins appeared out of the grass before them, looking so astonished at the sound of their laughter that Maglor forgot what silly threat he had been about to make. “Is that a hedgehog?” Amras asked, pointing at Leicheg. “Whatever do you have a hedgehog for, Cáno?”

“Mysterious reasons of her own,” Maglor said. 

“And Huan,” Daeron added.

“Yes, and Huan.”

Ambarussa laughed, and then insisted on helping to carry the saddle bags. They came around the side of a hill to a cozy hollow that opened toward the sea on one side and the fields of heather on the other, bracketed by two grassy dunes. Maglor knelt to set Leicheg down, but she turned right around and climbed back into his hands. “All right, then,” he murmured, scooping her up. Pídhres, for her part, jumped off of Daeron’s shoulder and sauntered into the camp to investigate everyone. Maglor glanced around, but Maedhros was not there. Neither was Celegorm. 

“Come sit,” said Amras, pulling Maglor over to the fire. “You too, Daeron. Do you know which of us is which, or must we make introductions?”

“You might as well make introductions,” Daeron said, smiling easily as he sat down next to Maglor, bumping their shoulders together. “I think I can guess who is who, but I would not like to make an embarrassing mistake. And you can tell me how you know who I am.”

“Maedhros recognized your voice,” said Curufin. He leaned against his pack beside Maglor and was carving something. He didn’t look up as he spoke, but Maglor knew that he was watching everything going on around him. “He said it isn’t something one forgets.”

Ambarussa chatted with Daeron, and on Curufin’s other side Caranthir sat with his knees bent, arms resting over them, watching and listening, quieter than he used to be. They were waiting for him to say something, Maglor thought, turning his gaze to the cheerful fire in front of him. Pídhres came over to join Leicheg on his lap. Before he had been the one to fill the silences, to make up silly rhymes or make a joke or tease someone. Toward the end he’d been so desperate to keep them all there with him, as the Oath ate away at them little by little and then more and more until there was nothing left; he’d grasped at anything he could think of, even arguments and stupid fights, to distract them, to remind them and himself that they were more than what they had bound themselves to. And now—

It wasn’t a full reversal of roles. He was still himself—he was only diminished, as they had all been renewed. If they expected or needed him to be the one to hold them together, they would all be disappointed. He could hardly hold himself together. 

Curufin shifted a little so he could rest his head against Maglor’s arm. Maglor leaned back. “Thank you for the earrings,” he said softly. “I wore them at Midsummer.”

“I know they’re not what you usually…”

“They’re exactly what I would’ve chosen.”

Curufin looked up at him, both surprised and wary, as though he wasn’t sure whether Maglor was just trying to be kind rather than being truthful. Maglor didn’t know anymore how to reassure him, but whatever Curufin saw in his face seemed to do it. He relaxed again. 

“Cáno?” Celegorm had reappeared, and when Maglor looked up he gestured for him to follow. He hesitated, but Daeron nudged him with his elbow. 

“Fine,” Maglor muttered, and set Leicheg on the ground. “Oh stop it, silly thing.” He picked her off his lap when she clambered back on again. “Stay with Daeron.” He got to his feet as Daeron scooped up Leicheg, who squeaked indignantly and made Ambarussa laugh. Maglor felt Caranthir and Curufin watching him as he walked over to Celegorm. Pídhres followed at his heels; there was no telling her to stay behind. 

“Please talk to him,” Celegorm said when Maglor reached him. “He’s convinced you hate him, and—”

“How do you know he’s wrong?” Maglor asked quietly. Celegorm recoiled, like Maglor had just slapped him. “I only ever asked one thing of him, Celegorm, and he—”

“I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Not of you.”

“A person can change a lot in six thousand years.” 

“Not that much. Can’t you just—look, you can shout at him and say whatever you want and then you can both—then we’ll figure it out. Just say something. It’s the waiting that’s hurting him. Please. For the rest of us, if not for him. For Ammë. Even if you hate him I can’t believe you’ve grown cruel, Cáno.”

“I wasn’t going to say no,” Maglor sighed. “I don’t think I hate him, either. I just—I need you to know that it’s not going to go how you hope it will.”

“I’ll hope anyway.” Celegorm took his hand and pulled him away, around the hill and down the beach. “It took me this long just to find him. Come on.” 

The sun sank toward the horizon as they walked, feet crunching over the stones. Ekkaia did not sound at all like Belegaer. It was as though a different part of the Music had been caught in it, one that Maglor did not immediately recognized. He listened to it as they went, trying to understand whatever it had to tell him—but he would need hours or days for that, and all he had managed to determine by the time he saw Huan sitting at the base of a dune up ahead was that the theme of Ekkaia’s music sounded mournful. He did not remember it being thus, but perhaps he had just known too little of sorrow when he had walked this shore before, young and foolish and unable even to imagine that the Trees might wither and darkness and dread come upon Valinor—let alone all that had happened after. 

Maedhros sat halfway up the slope of the dune, half-hidden by the coarse grasses. Celegorm released Maglor’s hand and clambered up to sit beside him, throwing an arm over his shoulders. “You’re an idiot,” Celegorm said, not unkindly. 

“Historically or currently?” Maedhros asked. It sounded like an echo of another conversation, one that Maedhros was reenacting only reluctantly, wearily. Maglor looked away, back toward the water, feeling like an intruder, no longer privy to the quiet jokes and threads of weeks- or years-long conversations that existed now between his brothers. Huan got up and butted his head into Maglor’s chest, and Maglor absently petted him, blinking back tears. The sound of Maedhros’ voice after so long felt like a knife through his ribs.

“Both,” Celegorm said, and then added something in a low voice that Maglor didn’t catch. He turned when Celegorm came back down the slope. “The rule is whoever does the stabbing has to explain it to Ammë later,” Celegorm told him. 

“What have you all been doing to each other?” Maglor asked. Celegorm flashed him a grin, bright and brittle, and didn’t answer, instead leaving to return to the camp. Huan licked up the side of Maglor’s face and followed without needing to be called. 

As Maglor scrubbed his face on his sleeve he heard Maedhros sigh, a sound so bone-achingly weary that he winced. Then there was the soft rustle of grass as Maedhros stood and made his way down to the bottom of the dune, and there, on the farthest edge of Arda, for the first time since the breaking of Beleriand, Maglor looked up into his brother’s face. 

In the nightmares that had haunted him in and after Dol Guldur, and even lately when he tried to picture Maedhros’ face, it was the blank and grim mask of the Lord of Himring that he saw, implacable as the stones of his fortress, a mask from behind which no glimmer of emotion good or bad could escape. It was the mask he had worn when making terrible decisions, when passing terrible judgments, but which he had never put on when it was just them, the two of them or the seven of them. Maglor had dreaded seeing it now, a confirmation of the irreparable rift between them—but those fears, as so many others had been, were unfounded. It was not the Lord of Himring looking back at him but only his brother. There were tears on his face, and he stood with his arms crossed, hugging over his middle—in exactly the same way, Maglor realized, that he was. They stood, mirrors of each other, silent and uncertain, with six thousand years stretching between them like the chasm into which Maedhros had thrown himself. Like the Sea. 

He didn’t know what to say. He’d thought he’d feel that same white-hot anger that he’d felt when Fëanor had come to Imloth Ningloron, but now—now there was just an empty ache in his heart, and nothing to say, which was worse. Maedhros was waiting for him to speak, he knew. He’d always been the one to speak first—the one with the quick tongue, clever mind, always the one to reach out first whenever they quarreled.

A memory of the day they’d sent the twins away came to him, sudden and vivid, of taking shelter from a downpour, leaning against Maedhros who he had thought of, then, as a pillar of strength. Of a protector, someone he could lean on, even when everything else was falling apart and falling into darkness. He remembered Maedhros resting his hand on the back of his head and feeling comforted through the grief of saying farewell to Elrond and Elros. 

There was no going back to that. He didn’t know how. 

“Was there anything I could have done?” he asked finally.

Maedhros did not have to ask what he meant. He closed his eyes. “No.”

“I followed you,” Maglor said. “I did—everything I did, I did it for you. I followed you to the bitterest end and you just—”

“I know,” Maedhros whispered. “Maglor, I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Will you tell me why?”

“I don’t…I just wanted it to stop.”

“You could have thrown it away.”

“I don’t mean that. I wanted—I wanted it all to stop. I was already burning, Maglor. I’d been burning since Atar died and I knew—I knew that I would die the same way and I just…”

“You couldn’t have known that.” Maedhros had never been burdened with foresight. Maglor didn’t believe it. There was nothing inevitable about what had happened. “You could have thrown it away. We could have—”

“With one working hand between us?”

“Whatever happened, at least we could have faced it together!” His voice broke, and Maglor pressed a hand over his mouth, feeling tears falling down over his fingers before he let go again. “I was alone for six thousand years, Maedhros. You were all I had, and you—you chose—”

“It wasn’t your fault, Cáno,” Maedhros said. 

“That doesn’t make it better! That makes it worse! I just didn’t matter enough to—”

“You mattered more than anything! I tried to send you to safety! I tried to send you to Gil-galad but you wouldn’t listen—”

“Gil-galad wouldn’t have taken me!”

“He would have if Elrond and Elros had spoken for you. All I wanted for you was for you to be safe.”

“There was nowhere that was safe. Not for us. Not after all we did. You knew that. I thought—Maedhros, I loved you. I loved you and you made me watch you cast yourself into the fire.” At Maglor’s feet Pídhres meowed, but he didn’t pick her up. He didn’t think he could make his hands work. 

“There wasn’t anything left of me to love, Maglor,” Maedhros said after a long, agonizing silence. “I’m still not…” He looked away, toward the sea. Strands of hair stuck to his wet cheeks. He looked so young. The marks of war and torment had been smoothed away in his remaking. His right hand was still missing, but the rest of him had been restored to Maitimo of Tirion of old, youthful and fair, Maglor’s beloved big brother, but for the inward-burning fire behind his eyes. That had been there at the end, too, and Mandos had not quenched it, and seeing it now, after so long—fear clenched in Maglor’s stomach like an icy fist. “I’m still so lost even the Fëanturi have despaired of me. I don’t know who I am without the Oath. Without a war to fight. You loved a person that died in Angband, Maglor. I was a walking corpse for five hundred years and just didn’t realize it.”

“No,” Maglor said. “That isn’t true, and I loved you as you were both before and after Angband—after everything. Don’t tell me I didn’t,” he added sharply when Maedhros opened his mouth. “I’m many things but I am not a fool. I was never blind. I knew exactly what we were all becoming.”

“Not you,” Maedhros said quietly. “You were always the best of us.”

“No,” Maglor said. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You never let it consume you.”

It had, though. He’d felt the weight of the Oath constantly, heavier than the chains of the Necromancer had ever been. It had eaten away at him like the sea ate away at the shore, grinding him down a little more with each passing year no matter what he did to try to stop it. Elrond and Elros had given him something else to pour his heart into for a little while, something bright and hopeful—he’d long before lost hope for himself, but there had been hope for them, Elwing’s children with starlit eyes and Lúthien’s flowers following wherever they went. He’d sent them to Gil-galad because they’d believed there would be a victory, and if that was so they deserved to be there to see it happen, and because whatever happened they would be safer under Gil-galad’s protection than his own. But the Oath had still been there. It couldn’t be ignored forever. It hadn’t even slept, between Sirion and the end of the War. He’d felt it pulling on him every time he saw Eärendil’s star on the horizon, every time some tidbit of news came from the north, a reminder that two Silmarils remained in the Iron Crown. When Maedhros had refused to surrender instead of trying to take them, at the end, Maglor could have argued harder. He could have gone alone, could have asked Eönwë to help him restrain both Maedhros and himself, whatever it took—but he hadn’t. He hadn't really believed they’d managed to take them—he’d thought they would die in the attempt like all their brothers had before them, and that at least they would be together when they did.

“You were all I had,” he said again. “You were all I had left in the world, and you left me behind. Or did you expect me to follow you even into death?”

Maedhros closed his eyes again and tightened his arms around himself, as though he was in pain. “I was not thinking of anything except the fire,” he said. “I didn’t expect anything. I wasn’t thinking about you at all.”

“I don’t know how to forgive that.” His voice shook. Pídhres meowed again, and Maglor finally knelt to scoop her up. She rubbed her head against his chin, as though trying to offer comfort. “I don’t think I can.”

“I don’t know, either,” Maedhros said, still with his eyes closed. “I told Atar that giving myself to the fire was one of the only things I did that I don’t regret and—and I meant it. But I do regret leaving you behind. Leaving you alone. I know it’s not enough, but I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He was shaking with the effort of trying to hold in whatever storm of tears was building. He looked like he might break into a thousand pieces if Maglor dared to touch him. He hated to see Maedhros like this, breaking apart before his eyes and knowing that he was the cause—because if he couldn’t forgive him he still loved him, his big brother, his dearest friend, the one who had once known him and loved him better than anyone else in the world. 

“I wish you hadn’t looked into the palantír,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “I wish you had not seen me in it.”

“I couldn’t save you from it,” Maedhros said. “The least I could do was bear witness.” He bowed his head, letting his hair fall forward to hide his face, and lifted one arm to try to wipe away the tears. Maglor buried his own face in Pídhres’ fur. The arm’s length between them might as well have been one of Himring’s impenetrable walls. He couldn’t make himself reach out. 

He should have fled when he had the chance. Then he could pretend that this meeting might go differently, that there might be some chance of joyous reunion in their future instead of—whatever this was. Grief and bitterness and wounds that had been bleeding since the end of the War of Wrath. He had warned Celegorm this would not go well. It had gone better than his meeting with Fëanor only in that he hadn’t lost his temper, in that they had both been able to speak, rather than Maglor just cracking the stones around them with the force of his pain.

The sunset over Ekkaia was glorious, Anor sinking behind billowing clouds, illuminating them with the colors of fire, brilliant reds and oranges and vibrant pinks that softened slowly into purples and blues as in the east the first stars glimmered in the darkening sky. The waves never ceased their even, steady rhythm. Maglor did not even know if Ekkaia had tides as Belegaer did. The sound of footsteps down the beach made him turn, and he saw Caranthir and Daeron approaching. 

There wasn’t anything else to say. Maglor left Maedhros, and made his way back down the beach; Pídhres jumped down to dart ahead, disappearing into the evening shadows. “Cáno?” Caranthir said softly when they met, reaching for Maglor’s hand.

“I can’t, Moryo. I’m sorry.” Maglor didn’t turn to watch when Caranthir went to Maedhros. He walked on to where Daeron waited. 

Daeron took one look at him and pulled him away from the dunes down to the water, where they could sit on the stony shore together. Maglor let Daeron wrap his cloak around both of them. Neither of them spoke, but after a few minutes Daeron began to hum a quiet, soothing melody, weaving it through the quite wash of the waves over the stones at their feet. Maglor closed his eyes and listened to the music and to the water. He didn’t notice until Daeron grasped his hand that he’d been digging his thumbnail into his scar again. He gripped Daeron’s hand instead, and tried to remember how to breathe. Tried to imagine how to move forward from there. 

He couldn’t.