High in the Clean Blue Air by StarSpray  

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Forty Nine

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Every conversation with Maedhros felt like taking one step forward, yet two steps back, somehow. Maedhros had said before that he was trying, but he’d never said what it was he was trying to do. Live, Maglor supposed wearily, as he made his way upstairs with the broken mug wrapped in a dishcloth. He transfered it carefully to one of his bags, wrapping it in the stained and still very dirty shirt that he’d been wearing when he fell into the river. He’d mend it at Imloth Ningloron, and use it as an excuse sometime to come visit his mother. 

He didn’t need an excuse, but it might make things easier, especially if they couldn’t resolve yesterday’s argument. Maglor went to the window, pushing it open to lean out and catch a glimpse of Pídhres stalking through the flowers in the garden. She pounced, but whatever poor small creature she’d been hunting got away. Somewhere around the side of the house he heard laughter. 

It had been good to see Galadriel, at least. She hadn’t had time to share much except that Elrond had gotten his letter, and everyone was as eager to have him back as he was to be there. She had been able to tell, of course, that he had been struggling, but Galadriel knew him now better than anyone except Elrond, and her concern didn’t feel like a burden. It wasn’t something that would make her treat him as though he was made of glass—because she knew what it looked like when he was fragile and broken, and she knew he had not been that weak for a long time.

The window looked west, and Maglor couldn’t see the southern road, but he glanced that way anyway. High in the air an eagle was circling, lazily riding the thermals in the cloudless sky, letting the winds chart its course. Closer at hand a flock of geese were winging their way south, pointing like an arrow toward Imloth Ningloron. Maglor felt the pull of it. He was ready to be done with traveling, ready to be home. The valley hadn’t felt like it yet when he’d left, but it was already getting easier to think of it that way. 

The door behind him opened, and Maglor turned. He expected Daeron, but found his mother instead. “Telperinquar is looking for you,” she said.

“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

She came to join him by the window. Daeron had come around to the garden with Caranthir, who seemed to be telling him about some of the flowers that had not grown in Middle-earth. “He makes me happy, Ammë,” Maglor said quietly. 

“I know.” She covered his hand on the sill with hers. “I’m sorry, Macalaurë. It’s only—your father and I made each other happy, once, too.”

Maglor didn’t pull away, but he closed his eyes, gripping the windowsill tight enough that his fingers ached. “I am not my father,” he whispered. 

“No, you aren’t. That isn’t what I am afraid of. I’m afraid you are too like me. Your father and I—we loved one another, truly, and I believe we love one another still, but the same passion that brought us together drove us apart. It didn’t matter how alike we were in all the ways we had once thought mattered. He broke my heart in the cruelest way, and I fear the same happening to you, after everything else that has happened to you.”

Maglor shook his head. “This isn’t like that. Daeron isn’t like that.” Daeron had not held back on the ship when he had spoken of his anger—anger that was fully justified, that would still be justified, if he had not chosen to let it go. Maglor wasn’t foolish—they would fight, he was sure; they would both inevitably say things that hurt the other, no matter how careful they promised to be. But if Daeron could forgive Maglor the worst things that he’d already done, there was nothing else that could drive them apart the way that Nerdanel feared. “We aren’t young or naive. This isn’t…what is between us is something we have both chosen, deliberately, not out of some blind passion.” They were both too old for that, had seen and endured too much. There was plenty of passion, but it was not the only foundation; it was tempered and strengthened by other, more sober things. “I don’t want to be at odds with you, Ammë. Not about this.” 

“Neither do I,” said Nerdanel. “And I do like him. I like him all the more for the way he makes you smile. I’m sorry for the way I spoke yesterday.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said. 

“But I am not sorry for worrying.”

Of course not. “You don’t have to worry. Not about this.”

“I’m your mother, Macalaurë. I have worried about you all your life in one way or another. When you say you found joy again, I believe you, but I can also see that you are not joyful now.”

“I know I’m not. It’s—it’s just hard. To be here. With them.” He glanced out of the window at Caranthir, watching him crouch down to scratch Pídhres behind her ears. “I can’t stop grieving yet.”

“It is hard,” Nerdanel agreed. She would know, of course. She had been mourning them as long as Maglor had. Maybe even longer. “It gets easier with time. Time, and being with them.”

“I know.”

“You still intend to leave?”

“I want to be at home, Ammë. I’m sorry that it’s not here.”

“Your home is where you make it, Macalaurë. It was never going to be under my roof forever. There will be time for longer visits. I am glad that you came, and that you came with your brothers. I’ve longed to have you all under my roof again for so long. Someday, you will all come together and it will be painless and joyous—for all of you.”

He wanted to believe it. He did, but that kind of hope for the future still lay beyond his reach. “Will you come visit me?” he asked. “I want—I don’t even know if you’ve met Elrond—”

“I have, several times, but I don’t know him well. I know Celebrían a little better, for she has commissioned several sculptures from me over the years. I think there might have been talk of more recently, but no one has written so that may only be idle gossip from Anairë.”

Maglor grimaced. “Someone might have been thinking of Arwen,” he said. “But that’s—your sculptures are marvelous, Ammë, but I don’t think either Elrond or Celebrían could bear to mistake a statue for their living daughter.”

“No, of course not. I didn’t realize that could be what Anairë was thinking of.” Nerdanel squeezed his hand. “Why did you not come west with Elrond? Galadriel brought me your letter, but it only held a promise that you would come one day, not a reason for your delay.”

“I stayed for Arwen. And her brothers—but mostly for Arwen’s sake, and Estel’s. She knew what she was choosing, but some gifts are bitter to receive. Elrond feared that she would be alone at the end, because he could not stay.”

“Oh, Macalaurë.”

“I wanted to be there, Ammë. I loved them too. And I love Elrond, and I promised him that I would come, and so I did, with Elladan and Elrohir.”

“It seems to me such a dangerous thing to love the Secondborn so. It only leads to heartbreak.”

“No,” said Maglor. “No, it’s—there is grief, yes, of course, but the world would be so much less without them. My life would be so much emptier. You must know something of that. You sent the palantíri to Andúnië, didn’t you?”

“I did,” said Nerdanel, “because Finrod asked it of me. All they were doing was gathering dust in Tirion, and the Faithful of Númenor could put them to far better use. He had told me something of Elros, too, and said that he had always spoken of you with love.” Maglor squeezed his eyes shut against sudden tears. Nerdanel put her arms around him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you.”

“It’s—it’s all right. I think of him often. I just—I wish I had seen him before he left.” He’d been far away by then, consumed by the pain from the Silmaril and grief for Maedhros and for himself, lost and despairing. He hadn’t heard anything of the choice given to Elrond and Elros until long, long afterward; had heard nothing of Númenor until centuries after Elros had died. The sailors who had told him the tale, jumbled and distorted as it was passed through so many years and mouths, had been startled and alarmed at how he had wept to hear it. Tar-Minyatar, Eärendil’s son, had been only a distant figure of legend to them. Maglor was sure they had thought him mad, and maybe he had been, at least a little. It had been years more until he learned the tale in full—and learned which of Eärendil’s sons Tar-Minyatar was—from some Elvish mariners out of Lindon that he’d approached against his better judgment, too desperate to know to really care if they might recognize him. They hadn’t, and had taken pity on him without knowing who he was, giving him food and warm clothes with the tales of both Elrond and Elros, alongside gentle invitations to return with them to Forlond, to return among his own people; he had refused, and they had kindly not tried to convince him, had only given him a map and promised welcome, should he change his mind. He had known then—or thought he had known—that he could never seek out Elrond, though just knowing he still lived had been a balm on his heart, even as it broke all over again to think of what had Elrond suffered at such a sundering from Elros.

It was an old grief now, easier to carry in its familiarity. It had just never occurred to him that Elros would have spoken of him—but of course he would have, to Finrod and anyone else who had known Maglor before, who might have had questions of their own in response to those Elros asked them, because of course he would have asked a thousand questions. Maybe when he saw him next, Maglor thought, he would ask Finrod about it. 

When he went back downstairs he found Celebrimbor in the kitchen with Curufin. They were speaking quietly and seriously, and Maglor turned to slip away, but Celebrimbor called to him to wait. When he turned back it was Curufin who was leaving, a letter and a small wooden box in his hands and a thoughtful expression on his face. Celebrimbor crossed the room to embrace Maglor. “You look better than when I saw you last,” he said. 

“Almost drowning notwithstanding, I am,” Maglor said, managing to summon a smile for him. “How are you? Finrod didn’t try to get you drunk again, did he?”

“Oh, no. He’s been too busy laughing at Elrond, who kept threatening to kick us all out so he could have some peace. He was only joking, though,” Celebrimbor added quickly when Maglor frowned. “It was shockingly peaceful all summer, really. Then Findis and Lalwen arrived and Findis punched Grandfather—”

“I heard about that,” said Maglor, “but didn’t quite believe it. Findis?”

“Yes, Findis! I didn’t see it happen, but I saw them both directly afterward. Grandfather’s black eye has faded now, but it’s still a bit yellowish if you look closely.” Celebrimbor paused, hesitating. “I don’t mean to speak of him if you—”

“I do want to know what he’s been doing,” Maglor said, “if only so I know what to expect when I go back.”

“He’s been trying very hard to find common ground with Fingolfin, mostly,” said Celebrimbor, “and—really, they aren’t so different. I don’t think we can call them friends yet, but it’s only a matter of time. He’s also spoken a great deal with Elrond, and he and I worked together often in the forges.”

“I'm glad,” Maglor said, and received a skeptical look in return. “Truly, Tyelpë. I told your father, too—all of us do not have to be united in this. He isn’t the enemy. My feelings are mine to wrestle with, and I will never begrudge any of you your own.”

“That’s what Maedhros said, too. Why aren’t you two speaking? You seem to be in agreement about everything.”

Including not speaking, Maglor thought bitterly. “That’s between us, Tyelpë. I don’t want to speak of it at all.” Celebrimbor frowned at him. “You can ask your father.”

“I did. He also said it’s between the two of you, and that if Celegorm hasn’t had any success in bringing you together then it’s unlikely I will.”

“He’s right. It’s—I’m not angry at him, but I can’t…I can’t forget what happened. This isn’t yours to fix. It’s not Celegorm’s, either.”

“It could be if you let me,” Celegorm muttered as he passed by them into the kitchen.

“Tyelko, I love you, but speaking of your interference, if you try to be protective again—”

“Protective?” Celebrimbor said. “About what?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Celegorm said quickly, bright red spots appearing on his cheeks; his blushes stood out even more than Caranthir’s, such a stark contrast to his silver hair. “I know Cáno, it won’t happen again, I promise.”

“What did you do?” Celebrimbor demanded. “What else happened out there?”

“Nothing!”

“I’m not mad,” Maglor said, amused in spite of himself, “but it wasn’t necessary.”

“What wasn’t necessary?” Celebrimbor looked back and forth between the two of them, frustration growing alongside amusement. “I wish you wouldn’t all talk around what you mean. I can’t tell if you’re doing it on purpose just to annoy me or not.”

Daeron came inside at that moment, Pídhres on his shoulder. She jumped down and twined herself around Celebrimbor’s legs, meowing a greeting. As he knelt to greet her, Daeron came to Maglor. “All right?” he asked, sliding his arms around Maglor’s waist.

“Yes. Have you met my nephew? Celebrimbor, this is Daeron, once of Doriath. Daeron this is Celebrimbor, once of Eregion.”

“Well met,” Daeron said, turning to Celebrimbor with a smile as he straightened with Pídhres in his arms. “I visited Ost-in-Edhil once, not long after it was built. It was lovely.”

“Thank you!” said Celebrimbor, startled. “No one ever told me we hosted Daeron of Doriath.”

“Oh, no one knew! I had come back west only briefly, with no desire to make myself known. Watching the Gwaith-i-Mírdain at work was a marvel. I think you must have been away at the time, as I don’t remember seeing your face.”

“Well, I am very glad to meet you now.” Celebrimbor saw then Daeron’s arm around Maglor, and understanding dawned. “Oh, that’s what Celegorm was—”

“Telperinquar, dearest and most beloved nephew,” Celegorm said from behind him, “shut up.” 

Daeron grinned and kissed Maglor, rather more theatrically than usual. Maglor ruined it by laughing, and Celegorm, having retrieved the fruit he had come looking for, rolled his eyes at them as he left, only just managing to dodge out of the way of the swing Maglor took at the back of his head.

Nothing else interesting happened that day, except that one by one Maglor noticed his brothers disappearing and returning with thoughtful or pinched expressions. None of them gave a reason, and he didn’t ask—of all people, he knew what it was like to have to field questions when he wasn’t in the mood. Instead he and Daeron retreated to the garden with Celebrimbor. Maglor sat against the hawthorn tree, and Daeron lay back against his chest; Celebrimbor sat cross-legged in the grass beside them, idly playing with Pídhres as he and Daeron chatted about the friends they turned out to have shared among the dwarves of Belegost and Nogrod long ago. It was not a conversation Maglor could contribute to, but he was more than happy to sit quietly and listen.

By dinnertime everyone was in a better mood, except Maedhros, who was even more withdrawn than he had been that morning. Maglor ended up sitting beside him through some shuffling and jostling around that he was almost certain his mother had coordinated, perhaps with Celegorm. When he looked at the two of them, they were both entirely engrossed in cutting the meat and pouring the wine, apparently oblivious. Daeron, it so happened, was seated beside Nerdanel. He caught Maglor’s eye down the table and grinned at him. 

It might be easier to see a way forward if everyone stopped pushing, Maglor thought a little sourly as he stabbed his fork into a roasted carrot, watching out of the corner of his eye as Maedhros pushed his own food around his plate, seeming to eat without actually putting much in his mouth. That was a trick he’d learned in Beleriand, when for a long time he had struggled with his appetite, his body too used to starvation to handle food again—and then later, when his mind struggled to catch up to his body’s readjustment. Maglor had struggled too after Dol Guldur, but he had been much more closely watched and had never bothered even trying to fool anyone—and Maedhros should not be having such trouble now. He nudged Maedhros with his knee under the table, and raised his eyebrows when Maedhros glanced at him, startled. Maedhros then followed his gaze back to his plate and grimaced, but he did start eating. When Maglor looked up he caught Curufin’s eye. Curufin smiled briefly before turning back to Celebrimbor. 

That night Maglor retreated upstairs feeling oddly drained. Daeron followed some time afterward. Maglor was curled up in bed, already drowsing. “All right?” he murmured as Daeron slid under the blankets beside him.

“Mhmm. Your mother wanted to speak to me this evening.”

That woke Maglor up; he rolled onto his back. “Oh no.”

“She was very kind about it.”

“I told her—”

“It’s all right.” Daeron raised himself up on an elbow to smile down at him, tracing his fingers lightly over Maglor’s face. The moonlight caught and shone in his hair and glinted in his eyes, turning him to a figure of ebony and silver, enchanting and luminous, so beautiful that the sight of him took Maglor’s breath away. “I was expecting it, and happy to reassure her, and she was more tactful than your brother.”

“That standard is not particularly high.”

“Don’t you want to know what I told her?” Daeron leaned down to kiss his forehead. “I told her,” he said in a soft whisper that made a shiver trickle down Maglor’s spine, “that I am deeply, helplessly in love with you.” Daeron pressed another kiss to one cheek, and then the other. “I told her that I hold your heart as the most precious gift ever entrusted to me, and I will never, ever treat it with anything other than the utmost care.” 

“Daeron—”

“I speak only the truth. I told her that I have given my heart to you in turn, and that there is no one else in the world I would trust with it more. That I have chosen this, chosen you, beloved, with my eyes open, in full knowledge of the past and all that it holds, for both of us, and that I choose now to leave the past where it belongs, and to look forward instead.”

Maglor rolled them over so he lay atop Daeron instead, and pressed kisses all over his face, from his eyelids to his chin. “I do not have words,” he said, lifting his face just enough to look into Daeron’s eyes, “to tell you how I love you. It is beyond any song I have ever heard or any I could write. Even when we first met by the sun-spangled waters of Ivrin under a cloudless summer sky I could find no words to describe you, for you were the fairest creature I had ever seen beneath the sun or the Trees or the stars. Never before or since have I met someone who has made me feel so free, or whose music harmonizes with mine so effortlessly, so perfectly as yours does.”

“Maglor—”

“Daeron the dark,” Maglor whispered, bending down again to trace kisses over Daeron’s cheekbone and then his jaw, sliding his fingers into Daeron’s hair, black as ink spilled across the pillows and soft as silk, “they say you play, with bewildering wizard’s art, music for the breaking of the heart. That is not so.”

“Is it not?” Daeron asked, quiet and breathless. It sent a thrill through Maglor to know he was the cause. 

“How can it be, when it has healed mine instead?”

Daeron kissed him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers tangled in his hair. “Those are fine words,” he murmured against Maglor’s lips.

“But not enough,” Maglor breathed. “Never enough.”

“They don’t have to be. I know.”

When he did fall asleep that night, Maglor’s dreams were all of starlight, and when he woke late in the morning, still tangled up with Daeron with the warm summer sunshine casting a golden glow upon them both, he felt more rested than he had in weeks.

They lingered a few days more at Nerdanel’s house, but Maglor was ready to be at home. His mother was not surprised when he went to her at lunchtime—bringing food, at Caranthir’s request—to say he intended to leave come the next morning. “I knew you would not stay much longer,” she said. “All of you will be going off again to wherever it is you all go, save Carnistir and Maitimo. Macalaurë, will you speak to him once more before you leave?”

“Yes,” said Maglor, even though he did not know what he would say. 

The rest of his brothers weren’t surprised either. “We’re all going to come visit you,” Caranthir informed him from where he knelt among the thistles and snapdragons, trying to bring some order back to the garden, “and some of us might even write beforehand to warn you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” asked Amrod. He and Amras were helping; Curufin and Celegorm were not, and Celegorm had been making himself a nuisance all afternoon.

“I’ll warn Elrond,” said Maglor. 

“He’s already expecting it,” Celebrimbor said from where he sat nearby with a book. “Though if you could all let them all have a quiet winter, he would be much obliged.”

“Did he ask you to tell us that?” Celegorm asked. 

“No, but I do think he meant it every time he spoke of his hopes for it, even if threatening to toss everyone out was a joke. It was mostly when Fingon and Finrod were refusing to be serious—they couldn’t really tease Fëanor or Fingolfin, but considered Elrond fair game, especially after he made the mistake of reminding everyone that he’s the youngest one in the family. Well, aside from Celebrían, but she apparently isn’t as fun to tease.”

Maglor left them to it, and went to look for Maedhros. He had been disappearing, sleeping a great deal and then vanishing whenever he did get up. He had heard the others talking about it in low voices, worry creeping in. Their journey west had been to escape Fëanor, but there had also been the hope of breaking such habits—in all of them. It had worked for the most part, except that now Maedhros was slipping back. 

He looked in the orchard and by the river, but did not find him. By that time the sun was dipping west, its light deepening to that particular late summer shade of gold that made the whole world glow; that, too, was something they had not had when the Trees shown. Laurelin had been beautiful, but not quite like this. Maglor lingered a little while by the river, listening to its familiar song and watching the waters sparkle and shine as they flowed by. When he returned to the garden he was just in time to see Caranthir fling a large handful of wet dirt at Celegorm’s face; Celegorm, in the midst of speaking and not paying attention, did not dodge out of the way. He spluttered and cursed, gagging and spitting mud while trying to scrape it all off but only succeeding in worsening the mess while Curufin fell over onto the grass in laughter. Celebrimbor watched with a shocked and delighted look on his face, as though he’d never heard his father laugh like that before. 

He found Maedhros where he perhaps should have looked first. As he approached the small studio behind Nerdanel’s larger one, a crumpled piece of paper flew out of the window to join a handful of others on the grass outside, accompanied by a quiet growl of frustration. It bounced once, and hit Maglor’s foot. He bent to pick it up, and as he smoothed it out he found a half-begun, rough drawing of Himring, as seen at a distance. It was done in charcoal, which had smudged and creased with the crumpling of the paper, so that Maglor couldn’t tell what it was that had gone wrong with it in the first place; he was barely able to tell that it was meant to be Himring at all. He went to the window, finding Maedhros with his head in his arms, his sketchbook shoved away across the table. His fingers were smeared with charcoal; his sleeves were rolled up, showing his scars, still pink and new. 

Maglor went to the door and let himself in. Maedhros raised his head at the sound of it. “Something amiss?” he asked. He sounded exhausted, voice rough with it. He moved as though some great weight sat on his shoulders.

“It seems so,” Maglor said quietly, leaning back against the door, his hands on the knob behind him. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

“I’m—” Maedhros stopped, and sighed. He picked up a cloth to wipe his hand clean. “I have.”

“Not well.”

“No, not well. I just—” He stopped again, unsure and unhappy. “Atar sent something to me with Tyelpë, and I can’t…I can’t stop thinking about what it’s supposed to mean.”

“What is it?”

Maedhros rose and went to the shelves of paints and pigments. He picked up a jar that looked as though it was filled with silver and starlight. “Ithildin, Celebrimbor called it. Not exactly what he made once in Eregion, but—something like it, I suppose.”

“I’ve seen it before.” There had been a few places decorated with it in Imladris, lovely silver-bright designs on otherwise bare stone, only visible at night, like a marvelous secret put there to cheer those unable to sleep. “Why?”

“I don’t know. There’s a letter too, but I haven’t…I can’t…” Maedhros set the jar down and flexed his fingers—a motion familiar because Maglor did it too. Without thinking Maglor stepped forward to take Maedhros’ hand in both of his, turning it over as so many others had turned his own hand to look at the scars. Maedhros’ were not livid, but they were visible, the same pale pink as his other, real scars underneath the faint lingering smears of charcoal, in the exact same pattern as the ones on Maglor’s hand. “It hurts,” Maedhros whispered. “More than usual. But don’t—please don’t tell—”

“I won’t.” Maglor didn’t look up at his face. “I came to tell you that I’m going back to Imloth Ningloron. Daeron and I are leaving tomorrow. Ammë wanted me to speak to you before I left.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Maedhros, I…” Maglor let go of his hand and took a step back. “I want there to be a way forward. But you can’t just—” He gestured at Maedhros’ face, at the shadows under his eyes and the pallor of his skin. “You’re doing it again. When I look at you I see only Beleriand breaking apart, and you with it. Are you even eating?”

“Yes.”

“Are you eating enough?”

Maedhros sighed. “I don’t know. It was easier out in the wilds, away from—from everything. Now I don’t—I know what’s happening but I don’t know how to stop. I feel like he’s going to appear at any moment, like I have to be always on my guard, and…I don’t know what to do.” He spoke in a whisper. He sounded now not only exhausted, but defeated. That was how he had spoken in Beleriand, even when making plans for the last Silmarils, even when arguing against surrender. He had already known then what was coming, even if Maglor had been determined not to. 

“I don’t either,” Maglor said. He couldn’t shake the thought that this—this weariness, this heartache and sleeplessness—was because of him. His inability to trust, his unwillingness to reach out, was driving Maedhros to the same edge that had killed him long ago. It wasn’t even about forgiveness anymore, he realized. Not really. It was just fear. Everything always came back to fear.

He stepped forward again and wrapped his arms around Maedhros, burying his face in his shoulder, desperate suddenly for the comfort only his older brother could give him. Maedhros’ arms came around him immediately, unthinkingly, settling around him as though Maedhros were afraid to squeeze too tightly. His hand rested on Maglor’s hair, over the back of his neck. “I love you,” Maglor whispered. “But I cannot watch you destroy yourself again.”

“I’m not going to—I’m trying not to,” Maedhros said. His arms tightened around Maglor, just a little. He sounded close to tears. “I just—I should never have been let out—”

“But you were. I know what it’s like—what it’s like to punish yourself because no one else will, to believe you don’t deserve kindness or love or joy because of all you’ve done. I know.”

“No, Maglor. You just—you just followed me. I led us all into—”

“Stop it.” Maglor drew back. “Just because I did not lead the charge does not mean my guilt is lessened, and it doesn’t mean you get to take it all on yourself and believe the rest of us blind innocents. I knew what I was doing. We all did. So—”

“Maglor—”

“So I know what it feels like to believe all of that, that grace is so far beyond your reach that it isn’t even worth reaching for, but it’s not, Maedhros. If I could find it across the Sea, you can find it here. I love you. I do. I just can’t—I can’t watch you do this again. I can’t trust you, and that’s worse, because I know you aren’t doing this on purpose. I know you’re trying, and I can’t ask any more of you.”

Maedhros folded his arms over his middle, and for a moment they were not in the sunny workshop but back on the shores of Ekkaia at gloaming, and it was as though the weeks in between hadn’t happened, as though nothing at all had changed. “It was my task,” Maedhros said after a moment, “from the moment you were born, to protect you. All of you. You’re—you’re all my baby brothers and I failed you so horribly. That’s what I can’t—even more than Doriath, or Sirion, or the encampment at the end, that’s—”

“No. It was our father’s task to protect us, and he didn’t fail—he turned his back. All we ever needed from you was your love, and you never failed to give us that. All I ever needed from you was you, Maedhros, and I—” He stopped and took a breath. They’d done this before, to no avail. There wasn’t anything he could do or say that could change the course Maedhros had put himself on, just as there had been nothing he could do long ago. “I can’t stay.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I will come back, though. This isn’t—Nienna believes there’s a way forward. For you. For me. For us. I can’t see it yet, but I want to.”

“I’ll be here,” Maedhros said quietly, “whenever you come back.”

“Will you write to me?”

“I won’t have much to say.”

“Draw something instead.”

A small smile tugged at Maedhros’ lips, there and gone in the blink of an eye. “I’ll try.”

Maglor turned back to the door, but paused as he opened it. “Put the ithildin away somewhere,” he said over his shoulder, “and forget about it. You don’t need anything from him. He doesn’t get to decide our future. Not this time.”

Daeron was waiting under the hawthorn tree. Maglor walked into his arms and tried not to cry. “What did he say?” Daeron asked softly.

“It’s not that. It’s just—I love him, and it hurts.”

They left the next morning, early, when only Nerdanel was awake. She kissed them both and bid them give her greetings to Elrond and Celebrían. “I’ll come to visit you soon, Macalaurë,” she said. “And in the meantime I hope you’ll write.”

“I will, Ammë. I love you.”

Back on the road, with Tirion and his mother’s house behind him, Maglor felt as though some weight had lifted. He loved his family, but he had been without them for too long, and it would be even longer, he thought, before he could spend so much time in their company without needing to escape it again. For a little while he and Daeron rode in silence. Leicheg had a new little basket that Nerdanel had woven for her to hang off of the saddle, made cozy by a few scraps of soft cotton cloth tucked into the bottom; she peered out of it, nose twitching. Pídhres sat before Maglor, also alert and curious—and very happy to no longer be sharing him with Huan. 

The day brightened, the sun’s light only slowly peeking over and through the peaks of the Pelóri. There were no other travelers on the road, and after a while Daeron took out his flute. Maglor brought out his harp, and they played snatches of songs, ones they both knew, ones they had learned over the course of their wanderings, ones they made up on the spot. 

They came to Imloth Ningloron at last; it felt like a lifetime since Maglor had left it. They arrived very late in the evening, having not wished to stop and sleep on the road another night, not when the weather was fine and their destination so close. Gil-Estel shone in the west behind them as they rode slowly down the road. “Beautiful,” Daeron said. The ponds and streams all glimmered in the twilight, and the air was filled with the scent of flowers. Someone was singing somewhere out of sight, a lovely song of praise to Elbereth and the stars. If Maglor closed his eyes he might imagine himself returning to Rivendell, except that the air lacked the scent of pine, and the road down into the valley was straight and easy, rather than a series of steep switchbacks. The lights were all on in the house, and he could see figures moving both inside and out. “Lady Celebrían chose her home well.”

“Yes, she did,” Maglor agreed. 

“Is it much like Rivendell?”

“In feeling, if not in appearance, though the house was built by many of the same hands.” 

As they drew closer a pair of figures emerged from the house at a run, hair flying behind them as they sped out of the large courtyard and up the road. Maglor dropped out of his saddle. “Elladan, Elrohir!”

“You’re back!” Elrohir reached him first, and Elladan crashed into him a second later. Maglor staggered under their weight, laughing. Elladan released Maglor to greet Daeron as he too dismounted, but Elrohir just tightened his grip on Maglor. “We were worried about you,” he said in a low voice.

“I told you I’d return before autumn’s waning—and here we are hardly at its beginning!” Maglor smiled at him. “I’m all right, Elrohir. Really.”

Elrohir looked doubtful. “If you say so,” he said.

“Naneth will want us to ask also,” Elladan said brightly, “whether Daeron will be wanting his own room.”

“I will be quite content in Maglor’s, I think,” Daeron said, “which you must have expected me to say since you are asking at all.”

“I knew it,” Elladan said. “Elrohir, you owe me—”

“Were you making bets about us?” Maglor demanded. “Who else is gambling over what I was doing while away?”

“Oh, no,” said Elrohir as Elladan laughed and they began to walk the rest of the way to the house. “We made this bet in the middle of Belegaer.”

“What?” 

Daeron burst out laughing. “I thought I was hiding it so well!” 

“You hid it from me,” Maglor said.

“I think we could have hidden an oliphaunt on that ship without you noticing,” Elladan said.

“Was everyone taking bets?” Maglor suddenly imagined Círdan getting involved, and thought he might never be able to look the mariner in the face again if it was so. 

“No, it was only between us,” said Elrohir. He slung his arm over Maglor’s shoulders. “Naneth only started speculating after Mablung and Beleg came to tell us you were off traveling together. I think Mablung may have dropped a few hints.”

“Mablung needs to mind his business,” said Daeron. “Is he still here?”

“No, he and Beleg left just before everyone else did, to go tell Elu Thingol all the summer’s gossip,” said Elladan.

As they entered the courtyard before the main entrance the doors opened and Elrond emerged—not quite at a run, but not slowly either. Elrohir released Maglor, and he did run, and met Elrond at the base of the steps. “Maglor, welcome home,” Elrond said, relief clear in his voice as they embraced. “I’ve missed you.”

Maglor held on just as tightly as Elrond did, so glad to be back that he wanted to both laugh and cry at once. “I missed you, too.”