One in the Deep Waters by Isilme_among_the_stars  

The earth groaned and shrieked as great sheets of rock shifted against each other. Maglor cried out too, though amid the tumults of the earth, he didn’t heard his voice. A great rumbling from below set the ground quaking. If he had not already been on his knees, it would have driven him onto them. It wasn’t safe here. Of course it wasn’t. That was precisely why Maedhros had come, was it not?

He should leave, Maglor knew. He should crawl away from the chasm until the ground beneath him was steady enough to stand upon and then run far, far from this place. He could not bring himself to move, nor draw his gaze away from the point Maedhros disappeared below.  The abruptness of his brother’s leap had bound Maglor to a place between past and present. An impossible place that at once curbed all possibility of catching his brother’s arm and hauling him to safety, and left him unable to think beyond doing so.

They had fought for years. Against Morgoth. For the Silmarils. Until suddenly two were in their grasp, and the hosts of Eonwë would fight them no more. Then Maedhros had run from the victor’s camp, and Maglor had followed, as he always had done. They had run until to the very edge of the precipice, and his brother had kept running.

Had Maedhros meant for Maglor to follow him even into the cracks of the earth?

In the wreckage that was his family, Maglor was now utterly alone. Was it any wonder he could not move? The jewel still burned in his hand, but it was, in that moment, as nothing compared to the splinters that pierced his heart. Fury and sorrow so sharp that it hurt to breathe. Then, just at the point he thought he might break apart, a presence drew close, burning fierce and bright, like a beacon in the darkness.

Maedhros.

Maglor bent his mind toward it, desperate for the warmth it shed. Its shape, oh so familiar, was love, shared sorrow, and steely grey eyes he would never look into again. Maglor swallowed anger that came unbidden and found at the heart of it was sadness. He knew Maedhros should go, that he must council him to journey to Mandos as the Valar intended. Yet when his brother delayed, clinging to Maglor as if their fingers twined together, he was glad. He was not alone. Not yet. With his brother tucked close he could breathe once more. Maglor lifted his chin, and still crouched close to the shuddering earth, took a faltering step forward.

What remained of Beleriand unclaimed by the sea was near unrecognisable. Eonwë had achieved in fifty years what the combined might of the exiles and their allies had been unable to in five hundred, but at a terrible cost. Locked in a devastating struggle, their minds set only on each other, Morgoth and Eonwë had wounded the earth beyond repair. Morgoth had torn great fissures in its skin then sent boiling rock and noxious clouds roiling through the land. Eonwë had started the floods, changing the courses of the rivers to put out the fires. Forest came crashing down amid both. The lands had become treacherous to traverse and were dangerous still. Though for most part, they had at least stilled, no longer as changeful as the sea. Trees had begun to grow again.

Maglor drifted through the ruined landscape, heedless, not knowing where he should go, only that if he stopped walking fury and sorrow would overwhelm him once more. Amid the young forest, where saplings pushed up between the trunks of fallen giants, it was as quiet as the chasm had been loud. Eärendil looked down as he journeyed, the brightest of the stars that shone through the thin canopy. Mocking him perhaps, Maglor thought, as pain, magnified by silence, lanced up his arm and took up residence in his shoulder.

How much longer can I hold it?

He dared not put the jewel down, so he kept walking. Solace came only from the steady beat of his feet against the ground, tramping down pain, and the anger that still threated to well up and spill over. If only Maglor could keep the beat, focus on it to the exclusion of all other things, perhaps he could hold it forever. 

The beat went on, and time went on, day, night, sun, moon and sun again. Time and distance blurred into one endless, monotonous song, punctuated by the beats of his feet. Maglor did not know how long or far he walked. Only with the sounds of waves came the realisation that he had turned West. Their melody, a lullaby of tumbled rocks cascading in the shallows with every outbreath of the sea, drowned out all else. The beat was not needed anymore.

Maglor stopped.

Such was his relief that as he sat on the rocky shore easing his aching feet, a laugh burst forth. Gazing toward the bright horizon, Maglor untangled Maedhros’s awareness from his own and gently sent him forth. Sorrow flooded him once more. He joined his voice with that of the sea. The more the pain grew, the louder he sang. When he could sing no longer, he paced the shore, and when he could walk no longer, he sang again.

“Maglor!”

The familiar voice echoed across his awareness; another ghost come to haunt him. Was it Elrond, or Elros? He couldn’t be sure. Both had joined with the hosts that marched on Morgoth and should be with them still. Neither could be here, could they? Maglor let the sound fade away without acknowledging it.

“Lindelíso!”

That was a name he hadn’t heard for some time.

Elros had chosen it. “Beware of that one,” he had whispered to Elrond as Maglor lead them, singing as he did so, up the Sirion river, “his song is like honey, but I see his sting.”

Elrond had first called him by it in desperation, disrupting a verse to ask for food. Maglor remembered two important things at that point, that small boys could only go so far without sustenance, and that he had neglected to properly introduce himself. Though he had quickly remedied the mistake, Lindelíso had stuck, and both had called him by it for many years hence.

“Elerondo?”

When Maglor looked up, the young man was kneeling before him, concern written on his face.

“Where is Maedhros?”

Maglor shook his head. He didn’t want to say it.

“I heard you talking. I know you wanted to submit. Why didn’t you? Why don’t you now?”

“It’s too late for that.”

“What will you do?”

Maglor didn’t know.

“I think you must give it up.”

“I can’t, Elerondo.”

“If you cannot, I think it will kill you.”

That may be true enough. The other had tormented his brother to the point of death, and Maglor was in too much pain to sleep, to think, or to eat. How had Morgoth borne it all those years?

“Lindelíso?”

“It may be that you are right.”

Elrond placed his hand over Maglor’s. He pressed his fingers, calloused and much stronger than they had been before he began wielding a sword, over Maglor’s long, thin ones, closing them neatly over the jewel. Elrond’s hand remained perfect and whole. Maglor looked up sharply, stared straight into the young man’s eyes and saw a flame like a candle kindled there.

“Do what you will, but I would rather you lived.”

Maglor nodded.

“Let go,” he said quietly, and Elrond did.

Maglor drew his arm back and threw. Both watched the arc of light the Silmaril drew in the air before it disappeared beneath the waves. Maglor shivered.

“How did you find me?”

Elrond began to tear strips of cloth from the hem of his tunic as he answered, “I know no one else who can turn keening sobs into hauntingly beautiful melodies. And not without cause did your father call you Kánafinwë. Your voice is carrying for miles up the coast. I would be surprised if any of our host failed to heed it. Indeed, some prevailed upon me to see if I could not quiet it.”

Maglor laughed weakly as Elrond took his hand and rinsed it with clean water. He winced as his foster-son wiped blood and grime from the raw skin with a steady hand.

“What of Elros? Did he come with you?”

Elrond swallowed hard but his hands did not falter.

“He is busy helping to build the ships. We were given a choice.”

“What kind of choice?”

“Whether to be counted among the Eldar or the Edain. Elros is to become king of the Edain who were faithful during the war. The Valar are raising an island for them out of the sea in the West.”

“And you chose to be counted among the Eldar,” Maglor said quietly.

Elrond nodded.

Maglor drew him in, letting Elrond press his face into his shoulder.

“Will you go with Eonwë across the sea?”

Elrond shook his head, “I already know that you will not.”

“Do not stay on account of me.”

“I stay because Gil-Galad stays. Many do not wish to leave. There is a part of Ossiriand that is still fair where we will settle. Will you come?”

Maglor became very still.

“Then the answer is no,” Elrond guessed, pulling back so that he could continue to wrap Maglor’s hand.

“I will remain here, at least for a time.”

“Then I will come when I am free to do so.”

“If Gil-Galad allows,” Maglor admonished.

“Let him try to stop me,” Elrond’s eyes flashed.

“There is a little of Turgon in you, I think. He was more stubborn than Maedhros, if that is possible.”

“I will not see him again, will I?”

Elrond suddenly seemed much smaller. The child who had lost too many loved ones ached piteously at the prospect of losing another, complex as their relationship may have been. Maglor’s heart pinched.

“No, Elincë, not unless by chance we have cheated the oath and he is not yet consigned to the everlasting dark. Still then, not perhaps until ages have passed.”

Maglor lifted Elrond’s chin, even as his own tears loosed. “You must hold your head high, son of Eärendil. There are greater things ahead for you. Leave us fools in the past.”

Elrond glared at him, “well that was Fëanorian sentiment, if ever I heard it. Always so black and white! I do not have to leave you behind to go boldly into the glorious future, you know.”

“But you will have to leave, and probably soon. No doubt you’re missed by now.”

“Gil-Galad bade me return in the morning.”

Maglor’s gaze turned ever seaward as the two gathered driftwood, unable to pull his attention away from the Silmaril that now resided in the depths, torn as he was with guilt for setting it there. In a cave above the tideline, made as comfortable as could be achieved with the little Elrond had brought, they spent the night, close beside each other for warmth. Eärendil’s star left a dancing reflection on the waves as they watched, each lost in their own thoughts.

Morning came all too quickly, bright and beautiful in the golden light of the sun. Elrond departed with warmth in his eyes and a promise to return ere long on his lips. Then Maglor was once again, alone. Beneath the ever-present tide of grief and pain, he felt hollow. 

Chapter End Notes

The eagle-eyed may have noticed that Maglor and Elrond are using Quenya here, though the common language for everyday use at this time in Beleriand would likely have been Sindarin. The monikers they have given each other have the following meanings: Lindelíso = "song of honey", Elincë = "little star". Kánanfinwë, Maglor's father name means strong-voiced Finwë.

Quenya was in use as a language of lore and spoken between the high Lords of the Noldor, amongst themselves, including in Turgon's household. It was therefore, the childhood language of Eärendil, and cultural expression often being stronger amongst ex-pats, I reason he, along with Idril and Tuor, would have continued to use it this way, teaching it to Elrond and Elros. So when Maglor is singing away in Quenya as they walk, Elrond quite naturally interrupts him in the same language. 

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Through the long nights in wave-washed caves, Maglor walked through memories in his dreams. This night they rest by the banks of the Sirion, early in the journey toward Amon Ereb. 

Maedhros snorts, “they heard you sing, and their first thought was honey? Honey?”

His laughter has sharp edges. It is a hard thing, as they have become hard. Elrond’s head bobs up quickly when he hears it, fear on his face as if the laughter might be a sudden danger. Seeing no immediate threat, the child’s expression softens back to its habitual wariness, and he lowers his head to rest on the mossy ground where he and Elros lay. Maedhros catches his expression and lowers his voice, a flicker of guilt written into his own.

“Honey though?” he says, “I wonder what put them in mind of that.”

Maglor’s smile is painful, “they think I also have a sting. Elros was warning Elrond against my kindness, lest he become complacent and find himself unguarded against it.”

“Ah,” Maedhros’s voice is tinged with appreciation, “already I like this Elros. He is a survivor.”

“They are both survivors in their own ways,” Maglor says, “They should not have to be. Do you remember me at that age? Or any of us?”

“Very well. You were all so…innocent.”

The last word is like a blow, sharp and hard. That one word carries the sting of accusation against what their hands have wrought and the crushing pain of what has long been lost to them. Maglor hides his face in his hands.

“It is not all gone from them, their innocence,” Maedhros comforts him, “Mark how Elrond looks with wonder, at the trees and river, even now, mere days after his world broke apart. And Elros’s guard comes down as soon as you present him with food.”

“I did not know you paid that much attention.”

“How could I not?”

“You’ve been distant.”

Maedhros turns away, his body growing tight, like he is coiling around a wound, protecting it.

“They could use you, you know. You were always a better big brother than me. You have more of Ammë in you.”

Maedhros turns back to him sharply, and the pain is written there so plainly that it hurts to see. He does not say that he has failed five younger brothers now. He does not need to explain how it feels to hold someone when they are born, pink and perfect, only later to hold their cold body when they die before their time. Maglor knows Maedhros will never stop wondering if he could have changed their fate.

He only whispers, “That’s not true, Maglor.”

Maglor shrugs, “it is.”

Maglor makes his voice soft. Not like silk, but like the clay that so often clung to Nerdanel’s hands. Cool and soothing not long from the pottery wheel, then later powdery and warm.

“I know it hurts,” he says, “I grieve them too. But do not close yourself away.”

Maedhros’s smile is very slight. He reaches out and runs a cloth-bound wrist down Maglor’s cheek. But what Maglor feels is not linen, but skin. He jolted awake with a start.

Elrond’s hand felt uncomfortably cool on his forehead. Maglor shivered and flinched. Wrapped in the haze of half-sleep was a fleeting moment of content, a breathing space where Maedhros, Elrond and Elros still existed safe within arms-reach. The next brought cruel remembrance and renewed grief. Maglor rubbed his face to haste the dream away and pushed himself onto his elbows.

“You’re burning,” Elrond rocked back on his heels, hovering uncertainly there with concerned eyes fixed on him. Set carefully against the wall of the cave behind him were two travelling packs. One was Maglor’s, the other Maedhros’s. Maglor felt suddenly sick.

Subdued and quiet, he and Maedhros had packed away their belongings, going through the motions more out of habit than any other impulse. To Eonwë’s encampment they carried only what they thought necessary. Swords mostly. Left behind were the ephemera of their lives, stripped of violence, gathered in two neat bundles. A scrap of the precious little parchment that still remained, addressed to the twins in Maglor’s hand, peeking out from a fold, was the only indication of their intent. It was a paltry legacy to leave, but Maglor hoped Elrond and Elros may find within some small thing for which they’d be grateful, even if it were only permission to grieve. Neither he nor Maedhros expected to survive the night.

The thought of what was to come already curdled Maglor’s stomach. Both were heartsick, truth be told, grieving already for what was to come, and neither had wanted to cause more suffering or disarray than their imminent actions necessitated. Still more considerate of others than himself, even then, Maedhros had patiently bound up all the loose ends, arranging everything just so. Now the tidily squared away summations of their existence had found their way back to Maglor, and all the neat ends unravelled. Maglor felt frayed. He grasped at the one thing that had always kept him together: family.

“Are you hungry, Ellincë?”

Reaching for his own pack was a mistake. It took two hands to open. In the moment before Maglor remembered one of his was indisposed, his palm already seared anew. Sucking in a breath, he pulled the offending appendage to his chest and reached for Maedhros’s instead. That only required one hand. A little stash of emergency rations, nuts and dried fruit usually, was always kept tucked in an easy to reach pocket sewn into the lining near the opening. At need, his brother could reach it quickly, without even slowing if necessary. Maedhros was nothing if not efficient. Maglor had been surprised how many times that simple measure had saved a life. Flagging energy had been renewed without slowing the pace of a hasty retreat. Edain swaying dangerously where they stood revived enough to fight off an ambush. Maglor offered a handful to Elrond now.

“Here, take some.”

Elrond did not refuse. He was not hollow-cheeked, though his clothing fell looser than it aught. These were lean days. The ruined landscape did not provide as easily as it once had. Food had become scarce, especially where many gathered in a great host as Elrond kept company with. Maglor would find it easier to sustain himself when he recovered the will to forage and hunt once more. But pain and grief had effectively bound him to this cave, and he too was hungry. Maglor nibbled at a dried berry, trying to ignore the nausea that rose in his belly.

“May I see your hand?” Elrond asked.

Maglor held it out obediently, wincing as Elrond unwrapped the now filthy strips of cloth. The flesh beneath was livid. Blisters clustered on the heel of the hand and on the insides of his fingers, but in the centre of Maglor’s palm the skin had been almost entirely burned away. There, what remained blazed, swollen and weeping.

“This does not look good. How much does it hurt?”

“I’ve survived worse, as did many after Dagor Bragollach.”

“Mmm, because they actually cared for their wounds and did not let them fester, no doubt,” Elrond chided, “This, however, looks infected. It’s painful enough to steal your appetite, right? Let me see if I can ease the discomfort.”

With a gentle and steady hand, he put to use the small kit of medical supplies that he had brought. When he had finished deftly cleansing and redressing the wound with fresh linen and ample salve, Maglor was surprised to find how significantly the pained eased.

“When did you become so accomplished at this? It was not something you learned from me.”

“The healers among are host are more than happy to teach anyone with even a vague aptitude if they seem inclined to put the skills to good use. I have learned much.”

“Better a healer than a fighter. I am proud of you.”

“Oh no, I am both,” Elrond clarified.

“With the upbringing you had, how could you not be?”

Elrond laughed at that.

“Still, choose healing not wounding when you can. You’re rather good at it.”

Elrond remained with him the better part of a week. Though ostensibly to ensure Maglor’s hand was sufficiently on the mend before he departed, and Maglor able to adequately care for it as well as himself, Maglor thought the company good for them both. Elrond was quiet in his grief, but it told in the shadows Maglor saw in his eyes and the pauses that held time as he carefully excised certain subjects and emotions from his words. Elrond was altogether too quiet, and too grim. They cared for each other, in the ways that each were able. Maglor perceived the gentle but decisive shift in their relationship and wondered when it had come to pass. How strange it was to find the child he still habitually thought Elrond, now become a man, and discover they stood on almost equal footing. Little was spoken, though much passed between them, as they fell easily into rhythms that needed no words, and quiet understandings came readily.

Maglor watched Elrond one morning as they perched on a boulder, he, dangling a baited line into a tide pool to entice crabs, and Elrond with a net at the ready. The lines of his body soft and relaxed, warmth suffusing his face, Elrond was freer of care than Maglor had seen him in years. Joy again carved out small corners in his life that grief was unable to touch, and they grew. Slowly, but steadily they grew. Though in body he was stronger, Maglor’s own heart was fallow field, desolate earth, with no hope of joy to be found, except in tending the vulnerable but persistent seedlings that grew in others. The line went taught, the net flew down swiftly, and a large, black crab clicked at them, furious with its sudden loss of liberty. A triumphant smile playing over his lips, Elrond caught his eye with a look at last free of worry. Maglor knew then he would not stay much longer. With Gil-Galad preparing to remove to Lindon, time would march on far before Maglor would see him again.

Alone again, Maglor carefully emptied the travel packs, neatly laid out all the items within and surveyed the results, wondering what was to be salvaged of their previous life. Wrapped carefully in a blanket, securely nestled between spare clothing, Maglor found his flute and lyre harp. Among his most treasured possessions, they were survivors of half a century of rough living with hardly more than a few scratches. Among Maedhros’s ever practical collection of belongings, he found the switchblade, much older and just as well cared for. It probably said something pertinent about his eldest brother that he treated the thing with the same level of care Maglor lavished on his instruments, but he could not think what. For several minutes he stared at them, feeling the pull of both. He picked up the lyre. It took only a week after Elrond departed before he chose instead the blade.

Maglor balanced it on the tip of a finger, considering it through squinted eyes, thinking of all the things it had wrought. Like the knife, he teetered, tipping dangerously for want of a weight to anchor him, scrabbling for something that would balance despair, returning him to an even keel. The knife was an easy way out, a means to dampen the relentless surge of raw emotion enough to stop it from immobilising him. There were other ways, of course, but none quite so effective and immediate as opening oneself just a little for the small rush of calm that it could bring. Most days Maglor picked it up to make tools, to strip bark from a stick, or to gut a fish, but not always. The longer he was alone, the harder it became to look at the knife and not see the possibility of spilling his own blood.

Late one afternoon as the season was turning and the days becoming longer and warmer, Maglor had an unexpected visitor. Small rocks clinking, dislodged under foot despite careful tread alerted him. He tensed. Someone had crept very near. Holding the line he fished with securely, he turned just enough to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired elf that approached slowly, still some hundred metres behind. It was only Elrond. Maglor relaxed, and pulling in the line, rose to greet him.

“Alla, Elrond.”

He did not receive a reply. On second look something about the young elf’s face was not quite right. The smile was too open, the sparkle in his eyes less like the stars and more like the sun. Maglor blinked.

Not Elrond. Elros.

Running forward, he embraced him, arms flying about the young man’s shoulders.

“Anarinkë! I didn’t think you would come.”

Elros laughed, “you finally learned to tell us apart?”

“I could always tell you apart,” Maglor scoffed.

Elros’s laughter only grew, “most of the time, maybe. But not from behind, on a moonless night.”

Now that had been an interesting experience. Maglor breathed him in as he would the air in the forest, refreshing and full of life. Elros embraced him fiercely. He had never done anything by halves.

“I have missed you,” Maglor admitted.

“You could have sought me out.”

“Would I have been welcome?”

“With me? Always!”

“But?” Maglor prompted gently.

“But perhaps not amongst all that I keep company with. You do have a point. But if they tried to drive you away, I would fight them over it.”

“That is precisely what worries me.”

Elros drew back and fixed him with a look that managed to be both questioning and defiant.

Maglor laughed.

“You, my dear,” he looked Elros straight in the eye, “are like the sun. Men will bask in your warmth and find themselves inspired to fall in love with life, but when your temper runs hot, you burn them.”

Elros had the grace to look a little ashamed.

Maglor squeezed his shoulders, “Don’t burn the ones you want to keep looking up to you. How goes the ship building?”

Elros erupted with laughter. A wild sound that carried on for longer than it should, his shoulders trembling and shaking when he tried to contain it. Finally, Elros pulled away from a stunned Maglor to wipe away the tears that were leaking from his eyes.

“What amuses you?”

“How casually you can use the words burn and ship in the same breath.”

“That’s really not funny, Elros,” Maglor warned.

He took a step back, wary of how furious he could feel himself becoming.

“No, it’s not,” Elros agreed. To Maglor’s surprise his voice suddenly held no mirth at all. The tears running down his cheeks were just that, only tears. No laughter remained, and Elros looked broken before him. The heat that had been building in the pit of Maglor’s stomach turned to stone.

“This is not like you. What’s wrong?”

“Elrond,” he said simply, and the tears didn’t cease.

Maglor frowned and taking Elros by the shoulders, guided him away from the water. Sitting on the sun-warmed sand in Maglor’s arms the tears became sobs, tearing themselves free of a throat already grown raw.

This is not the first deluge in the onslaught, Maglor thought, surprised that he did not hear it in Elros’s voice before. He had grown inattentive from solitude and pain. This would not do. He let the force of Elros’s grief crash against him, like breakers throwing themselves upon the cliffs during May storms. All wind, and fury and violence, until they thrashed themselves out and the sea was becalmed once more.

“The choices you both made?” Maglor guessed.

Elros nodded. He was quiet now, but still shaky and restless against Maglor’s chest.

“And what do you imagine that means for you both?”

Elros builds up whole worlds in his mind, lives whole lives in the space between breaths. Maglor had stepped into them. His imagination was so vivid, and the emotions it awakened so real, that he did not always remember none of this had yet come to pass.

“That we must be parted. That we will not see each other again.”

“Why should that be so? You are building ships, are you not?”

Elros was suddenly still.

“I am an idiot,” he said.

“You are no such thing. It will still be painful, to be divided by the sea. The distance will feel great when it has been long since you last saw each other, but the reunions will be sweet.”

The approaches to Himring and Thargellion came unbidden to the forefront of Maglor’s mind. With them the memory of what that first breath felt like, the moment after he caught first sight of a long-missed brother. How sweet it felt for that breath to be squeezed out of his chest by their embrace. It was not a feeling he would experience again. A sudden pang caught him in the stomach like a knife. He flinched. Elros curled a little closer.

“Elrond is not the only one I will miss.”

Maglor said nothing, only held him a little closer.

The next time Elros spoke, it was a whisper. A little shred of quivering air, too small, really, to contain the worlds of emotion that hid within it.

“There will never be a reunion for me with Maedhros. Do not say we must also part forever when I sail. Please, Maglor…”

The knife twisted in his gut, and how it made him bleed! Maglor doubled over. He knew there was no steel there, but his hands went to his stomach anyway, as if that could make any difference, in a world that grew dark not because of blood rushing out, but air that would not come in.

“Shit!” he heard Elros curse next to him, the sound of the following string of coarse language quieter than it should have been. Maglor tried to pull in some air, but it stubbornly wouldn’t come. Not until the stinging sensation landed on his cheek, anyway, shocking the air into his lungs.

Had Elros just slapped him?

“You have to breathe!” Elros’s face, eyes wide and serious, was so close to his that their noses almost touched. Maglor blinked.

“You don’t do that to Elrond I hope,” he said, finding breathing in order to talk marginally easier than breathing only to breathe.

“Not often, only when nothing else works.”

“I don’t know if I should be angry or grateful.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but it shouldn’t have. Was that Taliska by the way? What colourful words you are learning.”

Maglor stood up, trying to distance himself from the emotion still bubbling within.

I’m meant to be the one offering comfort.

“You’re not as well as you’d like me to believe, are you?” Elros accused.

“I’ll be fine, Elros,” Maglor replied, but he couldn’t keep the weariness out of his voice.

“No, don’t say that,” Elros was shouting now, “Don’t say that when you can’t even bring yourself to leave this beach. Don’t say that when I still hear your bloody laments on the wind every evening. Maedhros burned and now he’s gone. He abandoned us, Maglor! You’re not supposed to be fine. You’re an idiot if you think you could be even close to fine!”

“I see.”

“So don’t lie to me! And come and visit me once in a while,” Elros’s voice cracked. He stalked off down the beach.

Maglor let him go. He knew Elros. He’d be back. It didn’t take very long, actually. Maglor sat by the entrance of his cave, knees up to his chest and arms tucked around them, watching him approach.

“You’re right, I’m not fine,” he said before Elros could open his mouth. That pulled him up short.

“Neither are you,” Maglor said pointedly.

Elros sat heavily beside him, crumpling against his side.

“I have something for you,” he said, holding out a small, roughly carved wooden whistle he’d found with Maedhros’s things.

“Why would I want that?”

“Look a little more closely, Elros,” Maglor said patiently, pushing it into the young man’s hand.

“It’s one of the ones Maedhros made for us. I never did work out how he managed it.”

Maglor laughed, “he didn’t. Or at least, not without help.”

He’d carried this, or one like it, for much of his childhood. A swift way to call for help if trouble found him in the wild. Elros ran his thumb over the little etching of a sun on its surface, “It’s even mine. Which of you carved this into it?”

“Maedhros did.”

“He did?”

“There was no small amount of cursing, I can tell you.”

Elros laughed, “thank you, but it’s hardly very helpful to me now.”

Maglor gave him a sad smile, “It’s still a promise. I don’t intend to desert you.”

Elros’s jaw was clenched, everything about him bunched and quivered with tension.

“You’re angry with him, aren’t you?” Maglor guessed.

“Yes, furious. But how can I be angry with a dead man?”

“Quite easily, I’m afraid. The trouble is exorcising the anger when they are no longer there to yell at or punch in the face.”

“Quite,” Elros agreed, pushing sand around angrily with his toes.

“I wish I had asked Fingolfin how he managed it after atar got himself killed. Imagine nursing your anger for years. Imagine crossing that Eru-forsaken hellscape, Elros, all the while finding your resentment growing, only to have no nose to break at the end.”

Elros stared at him, “You’re furious too.”

“Yes.”

“What was he thinking? It wasn’t even about the fucking oath. I could understand it if you’d both gone down swinging because of it. I know how much that fucking thing maddened you both. How far you’d go to appease it. I hated it. But you had the bloody jewels. So why? Why did he leave us, atya?”

“The jewels were pure torment. He did not think, only ran.”

Elros was silent for a moment, digesting this.

“If your atar were not already dead I would kill him myself. Why are all the people I want to scream at dead?” He demanded, face stormy.

“You can scream at me,” Maglor offered, “you can even hit me if you want.”

“Would it do any good?” Elros crumpled, the last of the fight going out of him.

“Not likely.”

They stared at the waves for a while, shoulders pressed together, a ballast to hold each other steady in a new world that was still shaking itself into place from the ruins of the old. There was little Maglor could say that would offer any real comfort, so he turned to the familiar mainstays of parenthood. He fed Elros, combed and washed his salt-tangled hair, bedded him down, then lay beside him to rest. By his side, Elros’s breathing was soon flat and even, his face peaceful in sleep, but Maglor lay awake long into the night. 

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As the first rays of sun reached into the cave, stretching their golden fingers to caress Maglor’s face, he woke to the sound of singing. Before long the bounding melody, full of lighthearted jest though not bawdy, was interrupted by a loud clunk. This was followed promptly by a string of colourful language in what sounded to Maglor’s ears mixed Sindarin and Taliska. He could not help but smile. After a minute the singing resumed and was not long after joined by the gentle crackling of a small fire. Maglor yawned and stretched his arms and legs, then padded outside to join Elros, who had set water to boil, and grains to cook for a hot breakfast.

“Alla, Elros,” he greeted, and gesturing to the fire and food added, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Elros grinned sheepishly, “I hope I did not wake you.”

“You did, with your rather foul language.”

Elros looked aghast.

Maglor laughed, “and on this day I would not rather have woken any other way. You are going to teach me all those colourful words, aren’t you? I only recognized about half.”

Elros chuckled a little self-consciously, “I would be delighted to. Mannish languages have such satisfying curse words. How amusing Galadriel’s face would look if she heard them dropping from your honeyed tongue with your oh so perfect pronunciation.”

“You did not know Artanis as a child. I can assure you she was as foul-mouthed as the worst of my brothers.”

“Never!” Elros put on an expression of mock scandal, then ducked his head furtively, “I did not act very considerately toward you yesterday. Certainly not in a way that would befit a king. I am sorry.”

Maglor shrugged, “You’re not a king yet, are you? And in any case I shall never expect that kind of propriety from you. You must have someone that you can be free with, lest you go mad.”

It was perhaps a poor choice of words. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Elros broke it, his expression uncharacteristically serious. ‘An Elrond moment’, Maedhros had called it, when Elros became introspective and took on facial expressions and mannerisms so characteristic of his brother that he looked more like Elrond than Elrond did himself. He was no less deep-thinking or thoughtful than his twin really, only much less likely to let it show unless he was deeply concerned. Elrond, just the opposite, rarely displayed the depths of his joy in the way that Elros so innocently did. They were strange counterpoints, the pair of them, two souls more alike than not, and yet with very different ways of presenting to the world.

“Are you going mad?” he asked bluntly.

“I don’t believe so,” Maglor’s smile was tight and not in any way reassuring.

“Your family does not have a very good track record.”

“It’s your family too, great-great-great grandson of Finwë,” Maglor countered, eyebrow raised.

“Ah, but I have good Sindar and mannish ancestry to balance out crazed Finwëan tendencies.”

Maglor snorted, “Thingol and Beren did not strike me as beacons of sanity, and didn’t your adar embark on an almost certainly suicidal journey for the chance to sail a jewel endlessly back and forth through the night sky?”

Elros frowned, looking a little hurt, “There was a little more to it than that.”

“That was a step too far, I am sorry. I do think Eärendil is likely one of the saner members of our family. I do not fear for you. You need not fear for me. I will not let my grief go the way of Fingolfin or Fëanor’s.”

“It is not going out in a sudden fit of despair or fey temper that I fear though, atya. It is a slower creeping hopelessness. I can see it in you, underneath everything all the time. Even your laughter is not untouched by it.”

Elros’s earnest eyes sought out his. Maglor turned to stare into the flames.

“I have lived with it a long time, Anarinkë. I have not yet let it conquer me.”

“But you were never alone before.”

“I am not alone now,” Maglor pointed out, deliberately obstinate.

“Don’t be so obfuscating,” Elros shot back quickly, anger creeping into his tightly controlled tone, “When I go you will be, and who knows how long you will go before you talk to another soul. It is not a healthy way to live, and especially dangerous, I think, when you grieve so deeply.”

“It is precisely because I grieve so deeply that I wish to be alone,” Maglor raised his voice in frustration, almost ready to storm off in a temper as Elros had done the previous day.

“Yes, which raises alarm bells. Don’t you see?”

Elros was so earnest that Maglor’s temper refused to sustain itself. Despite himself the ghost of a smile began to curl at the corner of his mouth.

“You can be infuriating. Do you know that?”

“Look who’s talking, oh Makalaurë Lindelisso, who never failed to pull any of the three of us out of a funk even if you had to drag us by the scruff of our necks, kicking and screaming.”

Both laughed, and it felt strangely free despite the tension of the previous few minutes. Maglor let himself float in the absurd joy of that mental image and remembered several amusing examples without grief once touching them.

“Oh, I was insufferable, wasn’t I?” he remarked, not the least bit repentant.

“Yes, you were,” Elros agreed, “and we wouldn’t have had you any other way. I think we very much needed that.”

Maglor sighed, “What will we do now, Anarinkë? The future looks very different for each of us. We must tread our separate paths.”

“We’ll meet it bravely, same as always, atya.”

“That we will,” Maglor agreed with resignation, thoroughly tired of bravery. “How long is it until you sail?”

“Not for some time, I imagine,” Elros admitted ruefully, “It seems we began our preparations in haste.”

The sudden petulance in his expression reminded Maglor how young Elros still really was, for all the maturity he had tried to wrap about himself. Maglor fixed him with an expectant look.

“I had thought to depart alongside Finarfin’s host, once they’ve gathered such of the exiles as will come, but Eonwë has other ideas.”

Though he clearly made considerable efforts to master it, Elros’s impatience showed in jerky, too forceful movements as he suddenly and unnecessarily began to stir the gruel.

“That is perhaps not such a terrible thing. Time can be a wonderful gift.”

“We must also submit to his tutelage while a place is prepared for us.”

Now Maglor better understood. Elros would chafe under such constraint, even if the exertion of it was subtle.

No son of Fëanor could neglect the education of a child in their care. Maedhros had begun to plan for it before they even made it back to Amon Ereb. Maglor knew this because he developed an irritating habit of absent-mindedly interrupting him with half-formed questions.

“You’ve got a good grounding in the origins and history of the Edain, so you can take that on, can’t you?”

“Take what on? I’m not actually a mind-reader, as much as you may think it,” Maglor had retorted.

“Instructing Elrond and Elros,” Maedhros clarified with a frown, as if it should have been obvious, “You’re also a better rider than I, so you’ll be willing to instruct them in this too, yes?”

“Don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself?” was what he’d said, when really he was relieved. This kind of investment was not the travail of one who intended to remain distant.

Elros had caused Maglor all sorts of headaches at first. Elrond would lap up any and every piece of knowledge offered to him, but Elros? That boy marched to the beat of his own drum. He deigned to learn only when the benefit of doing so was made abundantly clear to him. It seemed so easy when Maedhros taught them, holding both boys’ attention in the palm of his hand, whether the lesson was how to properly grip a dagger or how to form tengwar properly. Oh, how Maglor ached to have that time back again. Those were good days, when the twins were so absorbed they forgot their troubles and were just boys for a time, and Maedhros became again the Nelyo of old. His enchanting brother, as eager to impart knowledge as the children to take it, held them under his spell. Maglor when faced with Elros, however, frequently wanted to howl in frustration. He’d never let the impulse ruffle his cultivated calm exterior, but Maedhros knew him too well.

“Think of him like Celegorm. Remember how he blatantly refused to have anything to do with clay until Ammë took him into the woods and showed him how to fire a crude pot in a campfire? I long ago lost count of the hot meals he’s since fed us from cookware made in this way. You must give Elros a good reason to, or he won’t want to learn.”

It did not sound like Eönwe had given Elros a particularly good reason to listen to his instruction. That was a gap Maglor had long since learned how to fill.

“Eonwë is wise. He knows much about the winds and their ways. Should nothing else he can share prove particularly useful, that at least will be quite a boon for a would-be mariner. Though I would hazard you will find much else to your benefit in his instruction.”

“Most likely.”

The fire fizzled and spat as a particularly vigorous movement from Elros spilled a glob of wet grain among the flames. Maglor laid his hand gently over the young man’s, stilling it.

“Then make it your choice. Take from him what you wish and encourage the direction of his instruction toward your own ends. You have good instincts. Eonwë will doubtlessly be delighted to have such an engaged student.”

“I would rather remain your student.”

There was an aching in his voice that told much more than the words themselves. Maglor knew it was not really instruction that he craved, but the closeness the four of them had managed to carve from the mountain of their collective grief and dysfunction. He reached out, fëa to fëa, to offer an embrace alongside his words.

“We have time and need not yet be parted. Go to Eonwë, learn all he can teach you. What you find lacking, you may seek from me, and I shall endeavour to provide it.”

The reciprocating touch of Elros’s mind was the warmth of little rays of sun, questing out from behind the clouds in storm darkened skies. He was hopeful, then. That boded well.

Days stretched into a week, which soon became two, and still Maglor’s foster son stayed. Elros did not want to leave, that much was abundantly clear. He grew sullen at the very suggestion. Though admittedly, he was growing gloomier anyway. Maglor had not heard him sing for days. The trouble came in approaching the subject matter of why, which was obscured, tangled and cried out when touched.

“It will be time for you to leave soon, Anarinkë,” Maglor prompted gently as they gathered leafy greens growing along a pebbly stretch of beach, nicely protected at the base of a tall cliff.

“Soon,” Elros promised, “but first I want to weave you a gathering basket. Using one’s tunic is fine for leaves, but the berries of that buckthorn will stain terribly come Summer.”

“Do you mean to build me a cottage too? And perhaps a henhouse while you’re at it? Elros, if I hear one more excuse from you, I will tie your tongue in a knot so I do not have to suffer them anymore. What is really keeping you?”

The young man was stubbornly silent, glaring at the shrub his deft fingers gleaned from like it had done him a personal injury.

“Anarinkë?”

Elros turned his glare upon Maglor, “What will keep you from slowly drowning in melancholy once I leave?”

Maglor held his ground, with a gaze just as flinty, “We’ve been through this.”

“And you have deflected every time.”

“I have promised you I will be here, is that not enough?”

“No! Can you hold a promise in your hand when you’re tempted to reach for a knife? Don’t look at me like that, I’ve known about that for years. Can a promise tell you a joke so filthy you can’t help but smile even though grief has made you heavy as a stone? I didn’t think so.”

Well, two can play at that game, Maglor thought. Elros always had a way of getting his back up, even as a small child. Once, when Elros was only eight, he’d drawn Maglor into a pointless argument over allowing a stray cat he’d found to sleep on his bed, just for the sake of it. They’d whipped each other into a storm before Maglor could catch himself, trading volley after volley of shouted rebuttals and finally screams. Even though Maglor really had no objection to the cat sleeping wherever Elros liked, so long as he cleaned up after it. Eventually Maedhros had marched in, dragged Elros out by the arm and told him in no uncertain terms where the cat would be going if he didn’t stop yelling at Maglor. Maedhros would have cut through the nonsense now too, but Maglor was feeling too annoyed. So, he ploughed on, like a bird propelled by a strong wind toward a cliff, unable to pull itself out of the stream before it hit.

“Can a promise hold you when you wake in the night screaming for the twin that’s not by your side, convinced he’s in danger? Can it stop you from picking fights because you’d rather feel angry than desperate?”

Maglor was sure Elros would have another clever answer ready, but the young man surprised him. He turned his gaze toward the sea, its reflection changing his grey eyes almost to blue. When he spoke, his words sounded like they came from far away, echoing down the years from a past long since lost. And Maglor knew Elros could not leave him any more now than he could have then. He needed Maglor still. Oh, he looked grown, but he was still young really.

“No, but you can.”

The waves breaking on the shore were the only sound. So still were they both that not even the merest grating of stone underfoot was to be heard, until Maglor started forward abruptly, pinching off a last few leaves in quick succession, and thrusting them into the pocket he’d made of his tunic with finality.

“Right then, best pack your things tonight because we’re leaving tomorrow and the start will be early.”

“We?” Elros blinked in confusion.

“Yes, we,” declared Maglor, then turned and strode off in the direction of their, currently shared, cave. Elros hurried to catch up, lightly cursing at the waves as he stumbled on a slippery patch of stones.

“You’re coming?”

“I’m walking back with you, not promising to stay.”

“Why?”

“Because it is what we both need.”

How could Maglor tell him that when he looked at Elros these days he saw only stormy skies, not warm afternoons in the May sun? How could he explain the depth of concern that grew day by day as Elros failed to unfold from the tight coil he’d worked himself into. Elros was not his brother, softened and soothed by the rhythm of slow days until grief gave way little by little to wonder. No, to cheer himself he needed movement, a wide sky over his head, the earth moving beneath his feet and above all, the company of friends. To convince him of the earnestness of one’s intent he needed demonstrable action, not sincere words. Maglor couldn’t give him those things sitting around a fire outside a cave by the seaside. So, he would take him where he needed to be, whether it was what Maglor wanted or not.

“You’re sure about this?” Elros checked that evening as he set to packing not just his own chattels, but Maglor’s too. A dark-haired, bright-eyed whirlwind of motion, more animated than Maglor had seen him in days. “I thought you wanted to be alone.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Maglor repeated emphatically for what was probably the tenth time since he’d declared his intent, “Look how much happier you are already, you’ve even started singing again.”

Elros stopped suddenly, one hand deep inside his pack, “so have you. Something other than bloody morose laments, I mean.”

Maglor set down the cane he’d been bending into a new frame for his own gear, tracing his movements back through the day. Elros was right, no less than five different melodies, none of which were the least bit melancholy had passed his lips, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“Then it is clear the right decision has been made.”

Maglor had meant to leave Elros before they reached his people, make his farewells and turn back, but Elros had other ideas. Once the first wooden lean to of the little settlement that had sprung up in the woods at the top of the cliffs came into sight, smoke rising from a cheery campfire beside it, Elros would not be gainsaid. The shadows grew long and the air had begun to grow chill under the cloudless sky.

“They won’t thank you for bringing me here,” Maglor argued.

Elros shrugged, “what are they going to do?”

Maglor could think of quite a few unpleasant things but held his tongue. Sure enough, as they wended their way through a scattering of wooden cabins and lean-tos populated by a mixture of Hadorian and Haladin folk, Maglor drew not a few black looks. Tall, golden-haired men crossed their arms and glared, and many of the smaller, darker forest folk simply drew back into their roughshod dwellings. On the far side of the settlement however, there was a warmer welcome for them.

“Elros! Come join us,” a ruddy-faced middle-aged man called, arms wide in greeting, “and if it isn’t Maglor. Finally convinced you to drop by, did he?”

“Pulled me along by the ear, more like,” Maglor corrected, recognizing the man vaguely as one who had taken Elros under his wing as the War of Wrath wound to a close. Though he’d technically been serving under Gil-Galad, Elros always had found the company of Edain more entertaining, attaching himself to a small group from Brethil in particular.

“Cold reception?” he asked, nodding toward the rest of the camp.

“You could say that,” Elros agreed darkly.

“Don’t mind them,” the man said jovially, “you’re welcome by our fire. There was a time we fought side by side. Always did feel that bit safer with your and Maedhros’s men close by. Not all of us have forgotten that.”

He pressed a bowl of something hot into Maglor’s hands, the savoury smells that rose from it inviting. Elros, who had been treated likewise, looked over at him, eyes full of mischievous twinkle. Maglor soon found himself sitting on a small stump, listening to Elros and his companion’s banter, and smiling to himself as he did. When one of them requested a song from him, thrusting a lyre into his hand, Maglor found he did not mind at all.     

Chapter End Notes

Of the Elvish (mostly Quenya) words used in this chapter: Alla = welcome/hail, atya= my father, adar = father (in Sindarin), fëa = soul, Ammë = mum, tengwar = letters
Maglor & Elros's pet names for each other, Lindelisso & Anarinkë mean 'song of honey' and 'little sun' respectively. 
Taliska is an early language spoken by the Edain of Middle Earth from with the language of the Númenorians was eventually derived.

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The years passed quickly in Middle Earth for elves who had once lived in Aman, as their long lives pooled, viscous like honey in a white-water rapid world. For Maglor, living a slow and largely solitary life amid a small cove East of Harlond served only to exacerbate the predatorily fast passage of time. Elros had been a strong tie to the outside world at first, dwelling in the havens a mere two-day journey West along the coast and loathe to let a month pass without visiting. But Elros came less frequently as the years passed and Maglor had taken to wandering between Mannish villages that dotted the new coastline, sharing his songcraft with those that would tolerate him, when he felt the need for company. Such a life did little to anchor him with any great sense to the endlessly marching calendar beyond the turning of seasons.

            So it was that thirty-five years seemed little more than the blinking of an eye. Before him now stood Elros, announcing that the time of leave-taking drew near. No longer a stormy adolescent seeking to find meaning in the strange twists of fate, he had become a man determined to make them his own. Elros would take the reigns of fate, turn them toward good and bring everyone he could along for the journey. In short, he was the kind of man Maglor would be proud to serve, were they counted among the same kindred. Maglor marveled at the transformation, of the boy, now full grown, who ran through life seizing every opportunity it presented. Maglor, by contrast, only felt that he marked time. The world was moving on, finding renewal after devastation, but Maglor could not move on with it. What was there left to him in this new age?

             So Maglor smiled, even as his heart grew shadowed, recalling the too-short years of lingering by this stretch of coast, keeping a promise to the foster son who needed him no longer. A promise he wished dearly would not soon reach its fulfilment. If Elros saw the shadows he made no mention of them. And as he walked for the last time up the rocky path that wended away from the cove, he did not turn back. Maglor hugged his arms to his chest, wondering how even after so much loss, the threat of another could still leave him feeling winded.

It was unanticipated, though not wholly unexpected, that Elrond arrived a fortnight before his brother was due to sail. More surprising, shocking even, was that he came accompanied by Gil-Galad. The High King had taken it upon himself to send off this first party of his allies in honour as they sought the new Island promised by the Valar. In token of and hope for lasting friendship, a final communing was to take place. If Gil-Galad happened to pause as his delegation passed Maglor’s coastal haunt on their way, that was his prerogative. Maglor did not recognize him at first, splendid under the morning sun, dressed in finery uncommon during the War of Wrath. Even the Valinorian contingent had become progressively more ragged as the battle dragged on. What the High King wore now restored finery to pre-Bragollach levels. Gil-galad looked uncomfortable in such raiment, as though he thought himself a swine dressed up in pearls. For a man who wore leadership and authority like a second skin, the trappings of office appeared amusingly out of place. Elrond, serving as advanced party lest Maglor try to flee, agreed with a wry chuckle as they watched the king pick his way with carefully cultivated grace down the steep stony path. Maglor, finding that he cared just as little for the courtesies of courtly politesse, hailed Gil-Galad with blunt frankness.

            “You’re not committing political suicide on my behalf coming here, are you?”

             “Hardly,” Gil-Galad scoffed, “I plan on a long career as High King yet.”

             “The office is not known for its longevity.”

             “With Morgoth gone I have hopes that will change. Is it so unexpected for the High King of the Noldor to pay visit to a prince of the same?”

              Maglor raised an eyebrow, “One who is in disgrace, living like a vagrant, as I am? Yes. For what purpose have you come?”

               “To extend an invitation,” Gil-Galad answered with a flicker of a glance at Elrond, whose face had gone worryingly blank, “stand with us as the first Edain leave these shores.”

                Maglor’s jaw began to work. When he spoke it was with forced politeness, “You no doubt believe this offer a kindness. Perhaps you do not fully understand the position in which it places all involved?”

              Beside him Elrond shifted slightly in discomfort, and Maglor began to pay attention, remembering how small tells were always a sign of something bigger below the surface with this twin.

               “I am not ignorant. Come, walk with me,” Gil-Galad bade him, already setting off at a brisk pace and not to be refused.

              Maglor turned to the younger elf, noting with concern the deeply lost in thought expression scribed into his face, and drew him into an embrace.

              “I don’t need to be coddled,” Elrond protested without much conviction.

              “This isn’t coddling, it’s caring,” Maglor insisted, pressing their foreheads together gently, “Incidentally, there is a passable bottle of mead stashed in my pack should you wish to take the edge off. You hide it well, but I can tell you’re a wreck.”

             “Just what do you think you are doing?” Maglor questioned snappishly when he caught Gil-Galad and was sure they were out of Elrond’s hearing, “No one will thank you for this, least of all me. I’ve spent the better part of three decades wandering this coast. I know the general opinion held of me, and it is not good.”

             Gil-Galad sighed, “it is a kindness. For Elrond, not you.”

              “I wasn’t under the delusion you thought it was.”

              “I’m well aware of what I’m asking you to face up to, Maglor. You’ll survive. And popular opinion can be damned! I will not have my herald face this day without the closest thing to family that remains to him. Surely you of all people understand how difficult Elros's departure will be.”

            The thinly pressed line of Maglor’s lips was all the confirmation Gil-Galad needed.

             “Whether I like it or not, it’s you he calls father. I would prefer if you agreed under your own volition, but I will order you if necessary. I am still your High King, vagrant ways or no.”

             Maglor stopped in his tracks, “you care for him.”

             “Of course I do,” Gil-Galad argued, seeming ready to box Maglor’s ears if he dared say anything quite so obvious or stupid next, “what kind of ruler would I be otherwise? Elrond is a trusted and valued member of my court. He is also, incidentally, rightful heir to the crown as things stand.”

             “No, no. This is beyond perfunctory safeguarding of your subjects’ welfare. You’ve genuine, personal affection for him, don’t you?”

              Gil-Galad met Maglor’s eye with an expression equal parts vulnerable and fierce, “He is like a younger brother to me.”

              “Well, I’ll be damned,” Maglor said softly.

              They’d bonded, and it wasn’t terribly hard to guess why. The man who stood before him had easily as complicated relationship to the concept of family as Elrond did. Gil-Galad had himself been bounced between kingdoms and father figures as a boy. Death or circumstance had forced him to part with all save Círdan, who it so happened was now preparing to personally escort the departing Edain to their new home. And this at a time when Gil-Galad’s amalgamated kingdom, still fledgling by Elven reckoning, was establishing itself. In the privacy of the secluded cove, Gil-Galad seemed to wilt slightly, recalling the boy Maglor remembered from the days of the long peace many years ago. Círdan’s fostering aside, Maglor was also among the closest family Gil-Galad had remaining to him in Middle Earth.

             “Is it only for Elrond, Erenion? Do you also wish me by your side?” Maglor asked softly.

             Set in a face that seemed to plead for understanding, Gil-Galad’s eyes sharpened, “To admit something like that would be political suicide.”

             “And yet you choose to dance with your words, and do not deny it.”

The younger elf sighed heavily then, a sound punctuated by the shadows beneath his eyes, “Did the crown ever feel heavy on your head during the brief years that you wore it?”

             Compassion flared anew in Maglor’s heart, “Constantly. Today, perhaps, you may have leave to set it down. Here you do not have to be a king, only a cousin paying visit to a cousin.”

            “That would be an immense relief,” Gil-Galad admitted.

             Maglor nodded and set off back along the beach, grinning at indignant surprise in Gil-Galad’s voice when he called after him, the younger elf’s boots clattering against the rocks as he now ran to catch up.

             “Where are you going?”

             “To find you spare tunic and hose, so you can take off that finery,” Maglor answered without slowing.

              “For what purpose?”

              “You look incredibly uncomfortable. Those robes are unsuitable for what I have in mind, besides.”

               “You are a wonder,” Gil-Galad fumed, “Forty years it has been since I saw you last, with not a single word. Now, as though over a century had just come unraveled, you resume fussing over me like a mother hen.”

                “Have I grown feathers?” Maglor inquired mildly with mock surprise, seeming to grow ever more patient as the younger elf rapidly lost his.

                 Gil-Galad ignored the quip, “I am not the small boy you once indulged in Hithlum many years ago and drew away from the talk of battle his grandfather, and your brother, could not confine to the council room, even in peacetime.”

                 Maglor snorted, “Maedhros was a terror for that, I remember, before he himself knew what it was to raise children in wartime.”

                 “Fingolfin was worse,” Gil-Galad reflected, “But my point stands. I am no longer a child to be shielded and led.”

                  “No, that you are not,” Maglor agreed, “however, you do appear to require assistance to set aside your burdens. I note that once again it is you who follows after me, without a thought for the fact you could simply have ordered me to stop. Subjects are generally bound to bend to their King’s will, after all, but you just cast aside the crown.”

                   Gil-Galad’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “Are you schooling me?”

                   “Perhaps”

                   “Everything changes and yet nothing does it seems.”

Shortly after, Maglor stood facing the slate-grey ocean, watching the gulls wheeling past cliffs on the other side of the gulf, cresting airy rills that blew ahead of a distant storm. Elrond, beside him, was too quiet, too tense.

            “How long can you stay?”

            “Only to midafternoon,” Elrond repliced, with a hint of ruefulness in his voice.

            “There’s no possibility of extending that beyond sundown?”

            “For myself, perhaps. For Gil-Galad certainly not.”

             “I thought not,” Maglor sighed, “I should have liked for him to see the stars over the water; the way their light seems to shimmer to the backdrop of those cliffs. It is a new moon this night, the perfect sky for it. Do stay, if you can, and we might enjoy it together. Tell me, does Ereinion still sing?”

             “Little, these days, though his voice is fair.”

             Maglor turned to Elrond with a sharp, searching gaze, “And you?”

             “Even less than he,” he admitted, breaking eye-contact.

             Maglor’s heart twisted, “That is a pity. Well, let’s get this sorry craft into the water, shall we?”

             Elrond looked upon the disheveled thing with some suspicion, “Are you planning to drown us, or do you really think this thing will keep afloat with three grown men aboard? Where did you get it anyway?”

             Maglor grinned, “Minstrelsy has its perks. It was payment, from a township around 10 miles East of here. Some old wretch died with none to inherit his dubious legacy, I take it. This they planned to burn, can you believe?”

             Elrond gave him a hard stare, having surveyed the skiff bow to stern, peeling paint and all, and found it wanting, “serving as firewood seems too good for it, honestly.”

             “She’s sound enough where it counts, I patched her up,” he reassured, “though I freely admit she appears none too grand at present.”

             “Fine,” Elrond acquiesced, lifting the stern so boards did not scrape over the rocks as Maglor slid it prow first into the lapping waves. 

             “So far, so good,” Elrond assessed tentatively as Gil-Galad came up behind them.

             “Transport awaits, Your Majesty” Maglor announced with a mock bow as Gil-Galad, his kingly bearing only accentuated by the change to plainer clothes, eyed the bobbing boat with as much suspicion as Elrond had. Still, he made no remark, stepping tentatively over the gunwale and settling himself in the rear. 

             “After you,” Maglor waved Elrond aboard, and soon his own powerful strokes took them out beyond the breakers, where, in the sheltered gulf, the water was calm. From this vantage the little cove was a sight to behold, an almost perfect concave of cliffs on all three sides nestled them in its centre. The boat, amid such geologic grandeur, seemed very small indeed.

             “What are we doing out here?” Gil-Galad asked, the earlier frustration gone from his voice, leaving only curiosity in its wake. 

             “Something very Maglor-ish, I suspect,” Elrond groused.

             “This,” Maglor declared, raising and rounding his voice in a deep base note that reverberated among the cliffs.

             “Oh,” Elrond looked up in awe, “No wonder you favour this place. I had wondered why you’d settled here, when it seemed too far from Harlond for practicality.”

             “Yes, well, this and the fact Elros needed more space than he wanted at first. This seemed a better compromise than disappearing into the Blue Mountains,” Maglor jested, “Go on, try it.”

             Gil-Galad lifted his tenor, so like Fingon’s that it almost brought a tear to Maglor’s eye, in an ancient ode to Ulmo, Vala of the sea. Elrond added his own clear strains tentatively and Maglor underscored their harmonies with a driving obstinato until a rich tapestry of sound echoed through the bay. 

             “You cannot tell me that does not feel good,” Maglor insisted somewhat smugly as the last of the echoes faded and all became quiet once more. In answer Elrond only smiled faintly, all sung out, and carefully laid himself back in a patch of sun breaking through the clouds. As he dozed in the prow, lulled by the rocking of the waves, Gil-Galad struck up a quiet conversation.

             “What do you plan to do with yourself once Elros is gone? I know you linger here in pledge to him.”

             “Why should it matter, so long as I make no trouble? Do you wish me to solemnly swear that my war-making days are over?” 

             “Hardly,” Gil-Galad snorted, “I doubt many seriously fear the strange old hermit, who occasionally makes appearances in seaside villages to belt out shanties and laments for crumbs, will raise an army against them. Do you realise the small, yet vocal, crowd that objected to this visitation, did so not in remembrance of Silmaril fueled violence, but because they’re genuinely terrified you’re unbalanced enough to cause some unwitting tragedy.” 

             Maglor turned to gaze fixedly out to sea, “I can’t say I blame them.”

             “And that’s what worries me,” Gil-Galad spoke honestly, placing a hand gently on his arm, “I need you to convince me they’re wrong.”

              “Which of the twins put you up to this? One of them is due a tongue-lashing.”

              “Both. They both solicited me. Separately,” Gil-Galad laughed, “such kindhearted men you have raised! One might be forgiven for believing there was goodness yet in your heart.”

              Maglor pulled a face. 

             “Now I can’t very well welcome you with open arms into the court at Mithlond-” Gil-Galad went on.

“-nor would I ask you to,” Maglor cut in.

             “But,” Gil-Galad continued patiently, ignoring the interruption, “it would not hurt for you to visit Elrond from time to time. You need not be a complete stranger.”

             “What? And damage both of your standings? I don’t think so.”

             “Association with you is not quite the poison you think it is, you know. There are enough that remember with gratefulness times your company had their back during the war. Many too have heard how close you were to submitting not to your brother’s will, but Eonwë’s at the end. There is even an eager young historian who’d do just about anything short of murder to have your first-hand account.”

“And there are enough who won’t forgive, Ereinion,” Maglor countered, his voice bitter and clipped, “Eldar have long memories, and the Noldor a tendency toward grudges.”

             “At the very least I shall expect correspondence between you and my herald. If you do not take the task upon yourself I shall have him ply you with pen, parchment and ink until such time as you either write us or are drowning in the things.”

             “You’re as stubborn as your father, you know that?”

             “Which one,” Gil-Galad asked with a wry smile and a twinkle in his eye.

             “The one who was daft enough to think they could dance in and out of Angband unharmed. Fortunately for us all, he turned out to be right.”

That evening, with Gil-Galad long since returned to his own encampment, Elrond sat on a battered stool under the verandah of Maglor’s lean-to. The two paid witness to Gil-Estel’s rise, nursing steaming mugs of tea in hand.

           “Do you think of her often?” Elrond asked, watching wind-whipped waves toss jewel-bright light along their crests.

            “Who?” Maglor replied, baffled.

            “Your mother. And the others you left behind across the wide sea too, I guess.”

            “Not a week goes by that I don’t stare at that distant horizon, wonder what her life became, and whether she misses her sons. She was strong, though, my mother. I am sure she found her way.”

            “Doesn’t it bother you? The constant reminder?”

Maglor smiled wistfully into his cup, “No, quite the opposite. She was one of the few uncomplicated things in my life, one that it is easiest to look back on with fondness.”

             “I don’t know how I will stand it,” Elrond confessed, eyes shining with unshed tears, “looking out over the ocean each day knowing Elros is somewhere leagues away where I cannot reach him.”

             “Elincë,” Maglor reminded gently, “you’ve been parted for years. Mithlond and Harlond are hardly close.”

             “But I can clamber onto a horse and be at his side in little more than a week if I ride hard enough. A horse cannot carry me over the ocean.”

             “A ship could.”

             “I do not believe that will happen more than a few times,” Elrond said with the certainty of foresight.

             “The path of thought is still open to you, distance is no limitation.”

             Elrond turned to him then, eyes bright and piercing, “I know, but tell me atya, does it bring you much comfort, compared to a living, breathing, warm body beside you?”

             “No,” Maglor agreed with a note of longing.

             “And the sea will mock me every day, reminding me of what I cannot have.”

It was under a clear sky that Elros left the shores of Middle Earth. Manwë blessed the day with fair winds, and Ulmo the seas with calm waters. On the docks at Harlond, dwarfed by the carrack he was shortly to board Elros stood with arms wrapped tightly about Maglor and Elrond.

             “It is time,” Círdan interrupted, his voice steady and calm, as always, “we must be underway before the tide turns.”

             “A moment,” Elros begged.

             The grey-bearded elf replied kindly, “a few minutes will do no harm.”

             Elros buried his face In Elrond’s hair and breathed in deep, “you have no idea how I will miss you.”

             “I think I have some idea,” Elrond scoffed, “be safe, brother.”

             “Likewise,” Elros told him, “And be bold! The world will not dissolve beneath you if you do.”

             Elrond chuckled weakly, his fingers desperately grasping fistfuls of his brother’s hair, as if by this simple expedient, he might keep him from leaving. They broke apart at last, Elros pressing one firm hand to Elrond’s chest as the other gently brushed his cheek.

             Maglor pressed one last parting gift into Elrond’s hand: One palm-sized book, it’s leather embossed with vines and leaves, and rather lumpy little parcel.

             “What’s this?” Elros asked, weighing them in his hand, and then sniffing the parcel with a suspicious look, “dirt?”

             “It’s a small piece of home, to take with you. I could not give you soil from the place that we once shared a home truly, for that part of Ossiriand lays beneath the waves, but this is as close as I could come.”

             “Atya, when did you…”

             Maglor laughed, “I travel a lot these days.”

             “And the book?” Elros asked, flicking it open to a random page and finding notes of the growing of mulberries.

             “A catalogue of sorts,” Maglor explained, “On board you will find a small chest stocked with seeds. Plant them when you reach your island and see what grows. Each is from a plant that once grew in the forest where we once lived. Most of them edible.”

             “Trust you to remember Elros thinks first with his stomach,” Elrond laughed wetly, wiping away a tear.

             “When I have had time to explore the land the Valar have made for us, and the green things that grow there, I will send you a package also. Then you will know that I’ve arrived safely, to a rich land full of promise,” Elros vowed.

             “I will miss you Anarinkë,” Maglor said, leaning in for one last embrace and whispering into Elros’s ear, “don’t ever change!” 

             “Farewell for now, atya,” Elros replied, “but not forever. I expect you to visit.”

             Maglor nodded, already sure that he would like to journey there some years into the future, to explore the new lands and see what his foster son had made of them.

             “I don’t want you to go,” Elrond was saying as he stepped forward and clasped Elros tightly by the shoulders, “but since you must, promise me something.”

             “What?” Elros asked, baffled.

              “Write to me. Tell me what it’s like to sail on the seas as adar did. Tell me about the land. There is a section of the royal library in Mithlond newly set aside for the history of your people. Let me do this for you, brother. If I cannot keep you, then let me build you and your people a legacy in the great songs and stories. A memory for your children, and their children for many generations to come.”

             Elros, who had been until that point the sunniest of disposition and the only dry-eyed among the little party struggled visibly to hold back tears. He nodded, “I will, Elrond. I will write. As often as I may.”

             At last Gil-Galad stepped forward and clasped Elros firmly by the hand, who promptly drew him into a firm embrace.

             “Go well, my friend,” the King said, “may your paths be straight and your days blessed with peace.”

             “Thank you,” he said simply. And bestowing a parting kiss upon each of their foreheads, Elros turned and stepped lightly over the gangway. With all of his passengers now safely aboard, Círdan called orders to his folk, stowed the gangplank, and set the ship in motion. Ropes creaked, sailors cried out and sang, and sails filled. Soon the great carrack was underway and Elros waved to them over the railing, his face a picture of joyous exaltation. 

             They stayed until the ship was a mere dot on the horizon, and then not to be seen at all. Gil-Galad placed a warm hand on Elrond shoulder and led him away through the dispersing crowd, finding his way to a private place with Maglor bringing up the rear. Elrond, a passable facsimile of stoicism right up until the very moment they passed the threshold, began to tremble. Maglor gathered him in his arms.

              “Oh Ellincë,” he crooned, “cry if you need.”

               Then Maglor held his remaing son safely together as his heart tore itself in two.  

Chapter End Notes

Adar = father in Sindarin. Elrond uses this to refer to Earendil.

Ellincë = little star & Anarinkë. These are Maglor’s affectionate names for Elrond & Elros respectively.

Harlond is a haven on the Southern side of the Gulf of Lune. This is where I image Elros and the Edain to have used as a base in preparation for sailing to Númenor in the early second age. As far as I know this was not specified. Mithlond is the harbour city at the heart of Gil-Galad’s new kingdom in Lindon.

This story uses the parentage of Gil-Galad from the published Silmarillion, in which he is Fingon’s son. 

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With the returning of Círdan's fleet from their first crossing to the new island home of the Edain, came a letter for Maglor. Well supplied with parchment and ink, Gil-Galad being true to his word, Maglor wasted little time penning a reply. Thus began a slow correspondence across the wide sea.

Viressë (April), S.A. 32

Atya,

You must excuse this curtailed scribbling, for I have little enough time to write before Círdan and his folk depart, having already dedicated the greater share of my free moments on a lengthier recount for Elrond. You will, I hope, learn much from him that I have not the time to repeat. Yet there are some things I wished you to have of me first-hand, not second.

I believe you and your kin have rubbed off on my companions, for like consummate Noldor they take to naming each new concept and wonder we encounter. There are already several names among us for the land that we now call our own, ranging from the poetic 'the land of the Gift' to the plain and practical 'Western land'. Still my favourite by far, bittersweet as it is, is Elenna-nóre, 'the Starwards land'. This name is not given for its shape as you might logically surmise, since it rises to a great height in the centre, a peak that we have named Meneltarma, and spreads outward in five points, as a star. No, our island gained this name long before we arrived here, for Gil-Estel was the beacon by which we found our way.

It was a strange feeling, to be guided remotely by the father who begot me while I trod a deck not so different, perhaps, from the one he stands upon in the heavens. I have not felt close to him since I was a very small child, and still he remains achingly distant, forever out of my reach. Perhaps this is the most fatherly gesture I am likely to have of Eärendil, and I wonder, up there among the cold stars, if he ever cries for Elrond and I. Am I a hole in his heart as he is one in mine? He is bright and jovial in my memory: possessed of laughter that boomed like wind in the sails, strong arms and salt-crusted, sun-bleached hair. The vision is so real I feel he could step out of it fully formed; swing down out of my thoughts like he used to from his ship, shinning the mooring lines to meet us on the dock. I half expected him to climb down from the crows nest more than once. Perhaps it is sailing that brings these memories to the fore. My father ever spent more time on his blessed Vingilot than he did with us.

I thought of you much on the journey too, when the glamour broke and the blonde head belonged not to Eärendil, but a Hadorian veteran, or a silver-haired Sinda caught in Anar's dazzling light just so. I should thank you for being there for Elrond and I when we needed guidance and care. You were, almost without fail. Is it wrong that I am grateful for the gift of a father who was more present by far than my own would have been had the havens never fallen? Perhaps it is immoral of me to be glad of a circumstance begotten of wrongfulness and tragedy. But is a blood-soaked blessing any less a blessing? I know not. And I begin to miss you greatly. What a fine tangle our lives are.

But I digress. The real reason Elenna-nóre has captured my heart so is that it recalls to me each and every time I hear it the brother whose name is ever on the tip of my tongue. We are still bound up with each other, he and I, even parted thus. His presence is a phantom at my shoulder, ever disappearing the moment I turn to exclaim over some new wonder I have forgotten he cannot share. In such moments I feel no longer a man full grown, but a boy lost. And if I miss him this much, I can only begin to guess how much he must miss me. Please tell me how he fares, for I know even if Elrond feels bound to hide the worst of his anguish, you at least will be truthful with me. You know what it is to be parted by more than just the sea.

But let me turn now from sorrow to tell you of something joyous. I stood on the very pinnacle of Meneltarma not two days ago and sung thanks to Eru for this land while great Eagles wheeled above. The view from that place you would not believe and though I have tried to sketch it for you, it is but a poor rendering of what is in reality the most majestic sight I have ever laid eyes upon. I felt I could have stepped from that mountaintop into the heavens and danced along the clouds. On the Westerly horizon is visible, though only just, the lonely isle and its city Avallóne. Though the few that climbed that peak with me saw it only as a glint, I could make out the outlines of the tallest buildings. It seemed to reach out for me, a sister city to the one I will build.

There is something elvish about me still and ever will be, which tells in times such as this. I am a bridge between two worlds, never quite able to set foot fully in either, ever of two kindreds and yet neither. Even after choosing I remain a thing apart. Never have I felt both the loneliness and the wonder of this quite so keenly as I do now, positioned thusly between the two halves of myself, and without the only other who would understand what it is to do so. The next wonder I beheld from that height were tall ships, strung out like a line of pearls, between that city and our own Western shores. Many who fought beside us during the War of Wrath dwell there now. They come bearing gifts, Ossë says, and I have reason to hope their forthcoming visit will not be the only one. I shall give them word of you, in the hope they pass it on to those you loved that remained in the Blessed Realm.

There has not been time to explore every nook in this wide land, but already I have found much to love. Enclosed are a few tokens I hope you will appreciate: pressed flowers of a kind I have never before seen, sand from the Southern shores so white that as you approach in full sun it is near blinding, and some few sketches I have made of the landscape. Now, Atya, you also have a piece of my home to keep with you and we are connected not only by the past but the future, you and I.

Please tell me that you have found more to fill your days than crooning dubious shanties for tipsy Hadorians in backwater villages. Though you may find their company passingly pleasant for a time, I think it doubtful to bring you much fulfilment in the end.

Until we meet again (and I expect you to visit sooner rather than later) you have my love still,

Elros

Nárië (June), S.A. 32

Dearest Anarinkë,

Come onya, have we not spoken many times of Sirion and its fall? After what was taken from you, by my hand no less, how you still imagine any fault in yourself for that which came after is beyond me. To whom does the guilt rightfully belong? Let us not pretend our relationship, blood and tragedy birthed both, is work of any higher power. To have received care is no blessing in truth, only rightfully your due. That it came from those who robbed you of your rightful parents is cruel still in its way, no matter how much love may have grown between us over the years. It twists the heart into confusing shapes, does it not, when care and malice coincide thus? What I would give to lift that burden from you! But true atonement was and remains beyond reach, so Maedhros and I gave what we could and deserve no gratitude in truth. Take readily of what good has come of it and let no shadow remain over your heart. You know all this do you not, onya? Yet still it does not sink fully into your soul. Let me see if I may help put it to rest.

Did Maedhros ever tell you of Rána and Anar's first risings? I suspect not, since he spoke little of our earlier years in Endóre, not only with you children, but with most. For good reason too, as much of that time he spent in captivity. It may be a strange thought to one who has ever lived under their light, to think that there was a first sunrise and set, and first night bathed silvern under moonglow. The closest reference you can liken it to is most probably a sighting of Gil-Estel on a moonless night. Think on how dark the night is before the rising. Even that smaller light on the horizon illuminates much. Then, remember how much brighter Rána is.

I greeted both moon and sun in Hithlum and stood awestruck as new colours danced in the waters of lake Mithrim. Maedhros, by dint of Morgoth's dubious hospitality was afforded a more spectacular view, yet it came tethered to great cost. There is little comfort to be had, as you can well imagine, strung by one's wrist from a fuming mountain, and yet this was one: the sky lit up in all its moods under the new lights, high in the mountain passes. Even the foul air and filth spewing from Thangorodrim could not entirely sully the sky's beauty. So, in great pain, Maedhros marvelled at the bronzed lesser peaks before him when Anar set, was awed by the gentle rose-hues that settled in the passes at its rising, and was glad of the banishing of blackest dark from the night. He thought it surpassingly strange that the world produce such beauty amid his anguish. Still would he rather have died than remained hanging there in torment, even for the chance to gaze on it another day. No small shame did I witness when first he spoke of it in whispers, his proud grey eyes hid behind a veil of roughly cropped copper hair. He reasoned no good should come of captivity, you see? Those of us who loved him were merely relieved some small thing had given some little comfort, and saved a few threads of sanity. Do you understand? Taking what solace you can, being whole-heartedly glad of it even, does not cheapen the atrocity you faced, though it may indeed render it very slightly more bearable. It is not a betrayal, of yourself, nor of Eärendil and Elwing, though it may be little comprehensible to them. Set your heart at rest.

Worry not for Elrond. You yourself know it is no small anguish to be parted from a bosom-brother, and just as it is with you, so it is with he. All will be well in time. He laughs and cries by turns. But most importantly, he sings, and that should tell you something, if you remember his vocal habits well enough, which I am sure that you do. Not a week ago we sat side by side, shelling cockles for bait, he humming some Sindar lay and I restraining the impulse to complain that he did so carelessly out of tune. When the shucking knife slipped and pricked his thumb he cursed soundly, no doubt a profanity that he learned from you. Then, if you will believe, he gazed West over the waves, laughing around the thumb stuck in his mouth to soothe the sting and asked me: "think you Elros has learned kingly decorum yet, or that he still curses as colourfully as a Halethian irregular?" He resumed humming, still out of tune, and I admirably held my restraint. I am curious, Anarinkë, have you yet learned to wipe the filth from your tongue?

And worry not for me either. Your brother and Gil-Galad none too subtly find a myriad of ways to keep me from shrinking into quiet obscurity. All is well with us, truly, and little changes that is worthy of report. Though I beg you tell of the life you build, both the trials and the wonders, when next you are able to write.

Should there be any Eldar you encounter who truly do not hold malice and want for word of me, though of that I highly doubt, you may say that I am well enough and find joy yet on these shores. They shall be more delighted to have word of Gil-Galad and his realm I suspect.

You also still have my love, and always will,

Makalaurë

Súlimë (March), S.A. 33

Atya,

You are wrong, of course. There are those that care for you much and were glad to hear you have found some happiness. It would be wrong of me to sugar-coat, so I will not. Though their brows crease in conflict, and I see a kind of pain in not few eyes at the mention of you, so also is the relief and warmth genuine when I speak of the quaint life you have made for yourself, or a fond moment we had shared before I sailed.

Nearly a year has it been since our coming to Elenna-Nóre, and I have now seen her in all her seasons and most of her moods, though I am not so conceited as to think I know my land fully yet. There is still much to discover. Practicality has won out. Our Western country is now most commonly named Númenórë, which is rendered Anadûnê in the language coalescing as the common tongue here (inventively called Adûnaic). I too have accrued another name. Tar-Minyatur they call me now, ‘first ruler’. How very original! And how strange it is to my ears to be called thus.

My days are consumed with planning and establishing. I work ceaselessly to craft the bones of a nation while men swarm as busy ants raising shelter and homes for themselves and those yet to arrive both. There is so much to be done, and very little pause to be had. I should tire, but instead I spill over with life. Our toil is filled with hope. Throughout my people runs an endless, frothing energy, generous in gifting thew to our arms and uplift to our hearts. The future we are building is a bright one. How can we tire when buoyed by such verdant hope? And we are not alone in our endeavours. Much help have we had from the Eldar of Tol Eressea. What we should have done without them I know not, since it is from them we have been gifted many plants and animals on which our agricultural and horticultural communities now rely. Indeed, great has become the friendship between our two peoples.

Fear not, atya, I keep my tongue well in check these days and speak only fair before your brethren. That is not always an easy feat, when characters from stories and songs you crooned to Elrond and I as children take my hand, saying "suilad Elros" as if we are somehow equals. Felagund came. Finrod Felagund! I had to restrain myself most carefully from trying to catch glimpse of his incisors, wondering if they are visibly more lethal than the average elf’s, so colourful did you make that particular rendition. We spoke of farming, of all things. I suppose it is not so strange, for he well knew the practicalities involved in supporting his own kingdom. Though next he comes I resolve to turn the topic to something more worthy of his agile mind. For you a flicker of sadness crossed his fair face, followed by a generous helping of relief to hear you well.

There is one visitor I trembled to meet when at last they came. Even as I write I feel my chest begin to cramp, filled to brimming with all that went unsaid between the three of us. For she was always there in the shadows of our stitched together family. So very loud in her absence was Elwing. I saw her in the hollows of your eyes. Your every doubt as to how best to raise us bore her shape. Now when she looks at me, there is a ghost of you in her gaze. She dances around the shape of you in stiff, too-remote embraces, her mouth set firm at each offhand comment made about my childhood. Should not it have been unfettered joy to be re-united? Why instead, do I feel weakened by sorrow's sting? I love her, truly I do, or at least I am endeavouring to. And yet, I cannot deny the part of myself that belongs to you, though I see it pains my mother. There was no ease between us. It was a relief when she took wing for home (that was how she was saved: riding the sea breezes as a bird until she came to my father) and still I yearn for her return. What a wretched thing is my heart: two-faced and selfish!

How I wish I could reach you with my arms and not merely my pen. For ease we had in good measure, and comfort besides. But until such time as I can look upon you once more, I shall have to merely hope that this letter finds you well.

Elros

Úrimë (August) S.A. 33

Dearest Anarinkë,

If there is one person in this world who has the right to bitter anger toward me, it is Elwing. I doubt any other has lost so much at my brothers' and my hands, and without redress. Should your mother find it in her heart to forgive me before the breaking of the world, still would I account that astonishingly soon, and not at all do I expect it. Still, I am sorry for the conflicted position in which this leaves you. Remember, there was little ease between us either at first. That it grew with reasonable speed was only through necessity and because you were yet a small child. Fret not. Though it may take longer than either of you would like, I do not doubt something comfortable and warm will grow between you and Elwing in time. As for sorrow: why would it not rear its head at such moments? Re-unions are often suffused with the pain of separation as much as they are the joy of togetherness.

Elrond, when I relayed to him your words, looked up from the history he was transcribing and said, "did he really think it would be easy?" I don't suppose you did, truly, but I begrudge you not the wish that it could be. Your brother thrives. I am sure Elrond is far too modest when he himself writes, so it falls to me to sing his praises. Elrond may well already be among the most skilled healers in Mithlond and swiftly gains respect as a lore master in his own right, young though he is still accounted among our people. How proud of the two of you I am!

Tar-Minyatur and Númenórë! Your people are practical folk, aren’t they? And yet I detect no small amount of wonder, both in what you write, and the records from Mithlond. I am profoundly glad to hear of the boundless joy there is to be had in your growing nation. Elros, what an honour to be gifted such a thing: a people who love you, who thrive together, and the peace to enjoy your time without travail of war and bloodshed. I am under no illusion that such a thing is without challenge, yet how elated my heart is that you have this chance!

Thank you for word of my cousin. Finrod truly was one of the best of us, and I am glad to hear him returned among us. May yours be a friendship that serves you both well.

You have my love, as ever,

Makalaurë

Lótessë (May), S.A. 37

Atya,

The years speed past and though I know in truth it has been yet few, at least in compare to the longer span spent together in Middle Earth, these short years bring swift change. There is much to tell and once again you shall find much in the accounts I have sent Elrond for the keeping of the library at Mithlond. Though those, I fear, you will find dry and impersonal. There is more I would tell you that cannot be said with ink and quill alone. I do hope we will stand face to face with one another again before long. Then, perhaps beside a cheery fire and over a shared brew, both of our tales shall run long in the telling.

But for now, what shall I tell you? How this land becomes even more fair? Our foremost city, Armenelos, oh, she is such a beauty! And we have not one now, but many settlements the island over. There are communities, towns, craft and trade. We are settlers no longer, and have swift become a nation in truth. Each of the regions is distinct and beautiful, from the windswept North where the great eagles roost, to the warm and clement south, where vineyards are being established. I love the entire island, truthfully, yet my favour rests in the land near the elven haven Eldalondë. For there, in the place we have begun to call Nísimaldar, the first trees brought by our elven friends grow well and blossom profusely with sweet flowers. Though the trees are yet young and far from their full height I see the nascent beauty of the great forest they will become in time.

To my great joy it is Nísimaldar that I pass through often to welcome our visitors from Tol Eressea when they come. Though they have more than once offered to meet me in Armenolos, riding through that fragrant place is not a pleasure I shall easily give up. It is in truth, not only because of the trees. For in that place, by the shores of a lake wreathed in the most delicately scented shrubs, I shared first a kiss with the woman who will, I hope, soon become my queen. Astoreth, she is named. Fair as the morning, with hair the colour of honey, and a heart as dauntless as my own. Elwing warmed to her quickly after the obligatory initial suspicion, and I do think that you will like her too.

You were right about mother. It began fragile and tentative at first, but something warm and wonderful has grown between us. Though there are still topics to which I dare not venture with her even now, of which you are one. This I count a shame, for had circumstances been different I think you would have liked her, and she you. In another world...

If you come not soon I shall be forced to ask Círdan to harass you until you finally choose to sail. And believe you me, I have learned of a whole battery of Telerin pranks that would put to shame those Maedhros used to tell us of Celegorm's. He can and shall make your life unpleasant should I ask nicely enough. I jest, but please do come. I would so like for you to meet my dear Astoreth.

With love as always,

Elros

There came a day, warm and golden, as Summer wound to a close, when Maglor found himself treading an unfamiliar path. His feet took him East to a haven where a grey-bearded elf presided over a great fleet of tall ships.

"Could you spare me passage on your next voyage to Númenórë?"

The old shipwright considered Maglor with a knowing expression, his lips forming a little uptick on one side.

"I was beginning to think you would never ask."

Chapter End Notes

Surprise! I changed things up a little to bring you an epistolary chapter. Please let me know what you thought.

Tolkien in fact never specified a name for Elros’s wife, although we do have quite the detailed genealogy including his children and descendants following the ruling line down quite some generations. I’ve given her a name. I feel she deserves one.

There's quite a lot of elvish in this one, I know. While I've tried to explain most within the text where I can here is a little glossary to help:

Anar = the sun

Anarinkë = little sun (Maglor’s affectionate name for Elros)

Atya = dad

Gil-Estel = Star of hope (Eärendil’s star)

Meneltarma = Pillar of Heaven

Nísimaldar = fragrant trees

Númenórë & Anadûnê = Western land or Westernesse in Quenya and Adunaic respectively

Onya = my child

Rána = the moon (also known as Ithil/Isil)

Suilad = greetings (in Sindarin)

Months of the year in Quenya used in the letters each have their English equivalent besides, and can be found here: 

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