Mezza Voce by StarSpray  

The forests of Doriath, long ago, had been as well known to Daeron as his runes and the notes of his favorite songs: the mighty beeches of Neldoreth, the thick holly groves of Region, the pale birches of Brethil. They were long gone, now, drowned with the rest of Beleriand—and abandoned and burned even before that, after Menegroth’s sackings and the War of Wrath. Thingol’s new realm in the midst of Valinor was at first glance very unlike lost Eglador. No new Menegroth had been delved—there was no great hill in which to delve it even were it wanted—and the trees were of all different kinds, both known and unknown to Daeron. Maple and oak he knew, and beech and birch and aspen, and various pines and firs, but there were many trees that grew in Valinor that had not grown in Beleriand or anywhere in Middle-earth that he had roamed. 

He recognized the mellyrn, though, as he and Mablung rode through a towering grove of them, gold and silver above and below with the flowers of springtime high overhead and the winter’s leaves now a lush carpet on the forest floor. He had never visited Galadriel and Celeborn’s realm in Middle-earth—his path west had taken him farther north, through the Greenwood and Beorning country—but he knew the one that grew in the little memorial garden that Elrond and Celebrían had planted in Imloth Ningloron. It was descended from the mallorn trees of Lothlórien, who were themselves descended from seeds brought to Middle-earth out of Númenor, who had in its own turn received them from the Elves of Valinor, long long ago. It was beautiful, but a single tree was not suitable preparation for a whole grove of them, fully mature and taller even than Hírilorn had been long ago, and Daeron stopped in the middle just to stare up at them for a little while, at last understanding many of the songs he had heard Celeborn singing on the ship that had brought them west. 

“Daeron, are you coming?” Mablung called from farther ahead. “You can return to stare at the trees any time. The king awaits you!”

“He has awaited me for years, now, he can spare a few more minutes,” Daeron retorted without lowering his gaze. Snatches of rhyme and poetry flitted through his mind, but he did not try to grasp at any of them. If he wrote a song in praise of these trees it would be after many hours and days spent beneath them, deep in thought, to find something new to say. His hand rose to the round pendant he wore, made of that same silvery wood and rimmed with gold, and he spared a fleeting wish for Maglor’s company. Maglor too had a great love for these trees, though for reasons very particular to him. Daeron knew those reasons and had had a vague fondness for mellyrn for Maglor’s sake, but now found himself filled with a quiet awestruck delight at the sight of them. No wonder so many songs were sung of them in Middle-earth, no wonder Númenor had thought a handful of seeds a gift fit for an Elvenking. 

Mablung rode back to take the reins of Daeron’s horse. His look was fond and indulgent, but tinged with the same impatience he had shown whenever Daeron tarried on the road from Imloth Ningloron here to Taur-en-Gellam. “Come, Daeron. Thingol is not the only one who awaits you. You don’t always have to compose a song the very moment you see a new tree.”

“I am not composing any song yet,” Daeron said, but he followed Mablung down the road, and only twisted around in the saddle to look back once after they left the mallorn grove, passing again into the many shades of spring green found in maple and ash and chestnut. There were wild cherries growing along the road too, and sweet-smelling honey locust and pale dogwood all in bloom. It was not, of course, Daeron’s first time coming to this wood, but when he had come with Thingol’s party from Tol Eressëa two years before they had arrived by a different road that had bypassed the mallorn grove. He recognized the little river, though, the Helethir that flowed cheerful and clear along its stony bed, winding lazily through the forests, with forget-me-nots and daisies growing along its banks. 

The Sindar of Taur-em-Gellam dwelled in flets high in the trees and in fine houses on the ground built around those same trees so that the trunks grew up through them or directly alongside, such as the one where Mablung lived. Beleg dwelled with him these days, and Daeron had a room there also. He’d found it filled with his favorite instruments, and with new clothes in all his favorite colors, upon first coming there. Now he washed and changed swiftly out of his traveling clothes to finery more suitable for a royal court. 

It had been overwhelming when he’d first come there, and he’d been glad to leave for more reasons than just seeking out Maglor again. A summer spent trekking across the whole of Valinor to Ekkaia and back had done little to prepare him to return to such finery and courtly living, but the two years spent in Imloth Ningloron had done rather more. Elrond and Celebrían kept a much less formal household, but Daeron felt that it had been a good enough stepping stone, and he felt less ill at ease as he wove silver threads and pearls through his braids. He picked a ring or two out of the small box that he had carried with him all the way from Rhûn. For a moment he thought about removing the pendant Maglor had given him, for it did not match the rest of what he wore, but he decided to keep it and just tuck it underneath his tunic. It was a comfort to have it close, the wood smooth and warm against his chest. 

He and Maglor had parted—Daeron for Taur-en-Gellam, Maglor for the Gardens of Lórien—only a few weeks before, but it already felt so much longer. Years would pass before Maglor returned, and though Daeron did not at all begrudge him the time he needed under Estë’s care, he really wasn’t sure what he would do with himself in the meantime. Already he felt the ache of loneliness creeping in, though he knew he should not. Mablung was just downstairs with Beleg, and outside he could hear many merry voices, and knew that when he emerged from the house he would see dozens of familiar faces. Thingol and Melian would be glad to see him. He was glad to be back among his own people. It was only that none of them were Maglor. 

When he rejoined Mablung and Beleg downstairs, Daeron found that Mablung had indeed spoken truly when he said it was not only Thingol waiting for him. Mablung’s parents, Daeron’s aunt and uncle, were there also. “Daeron!” Lacheryn cried, crossing the room in the space of a breath to fold him into a crushing embrace. Belthond was only a step behind her, and Daeron couldn’t even inhale between his aunt releasing him and his uncle taking her place. “You’ve returned at last! Mablung tells us you were not here even a week before you took off into the wilds again.”

“That’s not fair!” Daeron cried, torn between laughter and tears. Oh, how he had missed them. “I was here several weeks, at least! But you were not here then. When did you return?” They had come to Valinor by way of Mandos, and once they stepped back and he could get a good look at them, Daeron found it easy to tell. There was something oddly insubstantial about them, as there was about Beleg, still new-come from the Halls himself, as though their spirits were not quite settled into their bodies yet. 

Daeron knew to expect it now, that knife-sharp stab of grief the first time he beheld someone who had died so long ago, for whom he had mourned for thousands of years as he wandered the world. It still was enough to take his breath away and make his eyes burn. His aunt and uncle had perished in the Dagor Bragollach, caught in Dorthonion with Angrod and Aegnor and their folk. That had been the start of everything going so horribly wrong, for on the heels of it had come Beren into Doriath, setting into motion the events that had led to Daeron’s leaving it. 

“We only came from Lórien a few weeks ago,” his uncle said, resting his big hand on the back of Daeron’s head. “But where is it you have been, Daeron? What took you away from here so soon after your coming?”

Daeron did not know how to tell them of Maglor. Neither Lacheryn nor Belthond had much love for the Sons of Fëanor, and Maglor least of all, for they had known how much Daeron had liked him at the Mereth Aderthad, and how deeply he had been hurt by the revelations of Alqualondë afterward.

He would tell them eventually, after he could ask Mablung what kind of gossip had trickled back to Thingol’s realm from Imloth Ningloron. It was no secret, his love for Maglor, and he did not wish to keep it so, but speaking of it now would only mar this long-awaited meeting with misunderstandings and disappointments. “I have walked the breadth of Valinor, from Eldamar to Ekkaia,” he said airily, choosing to leave out that he had done so in the company not only of Maglor, but of all six of his brothers too. “And since I came back from the farthest west I have been in the valley of Master Elrond and Lady Celebrían—did you know that Celeborn and Galadriel had a daughter? I came west with Celeborn himself and his grandsons Elladan and Elrohir.” That was more than sufficient to draw the conversation away from his own activities to Celeborn, and to Lúthien’s grandchildren now living in Aman.

At the feasting that evening Daeron was greeted with warmth and delight from everyone, and particularly the king and queen. Melian took his hand and smiled at him. “I trust your errand went well?” she asked him quietly.

“It did, my lady. Thank you.”

“And your friend, he is well?”

“He is gone to Lórien for a time.”

“Good. And how are you, Daeron?”

He smiled at her. “I’m well, and I am glad to be back here among all of you.”

“I hope you will sing for us this evening.”

Daeron did sing that evening, many songs both old and new, from Eglador all the way to the dusty steppes east of the Sea of Rhûn. He brought out a harp and played it until his fingers ached. There was dancing and laughter and merriment, and overhead the stars shone like points of silver fire. If he closed his eyes Daeron could almost imagine he was back in Eglador of old, the air filled with the sweet scent of niphredil—except that Lúthien’s laughter was nowhere to be heard, and the Helethir did not sing the same song as the Esgalduin. 

The next day, before Daeron could get Mablung alone to ask what sort of rumors had preceded him to Taur-en-Gellam, Lacheryn came to find him in his room. “You did not say yesterday that Maglor son of Fëanor dwells also in Elrond’s valley,” she said. “Why did we learn this only from an offhand remark of Beleg’s this morning?”

“I did not intend to keep it secret,” Daeron said, setting down the pearls he had been contemplating weaving into his hair. Maybe he would forgo ornaments entirely that day. “I just did not want to upset you.” He turned from the mirror to face Lacheryn, who frowned at him. There was no disapproval in her face, only concern. “You needn’t worry about me, Aunt Lacheryn. Our meeting again was no shock.” It had been to Maglor, and Daeron remembered so clearly the way his breath had caught at the sight of Maglor’s sudden surprised smile, like a small glimpse of sunshine breaking through the clouds of his grief at leaving Middle-earth. That had caught him by surprise. He’d long ago let go of the old anger and resentment, and he’d realized that some small echo of his feelings from the Mereth Aderthad remained in his heart when Círdan had told him who else would be aboard that ship—except that he’d been wrong, for it was no mere echo that lived yet in him, but feeling as fresh as though the Mereth Aderthad had happened only the year before and not thousands of years ago. How wrong he had been in his judgment of his own heart—how glad he was to have been wrong. 

“But what is he doing there?” Lacheryn asked. “I know something of what happened after the Dagor Bragollach—what he and his brothers did. Is Elrond not one of Lúthien’s children?”

“He is. But Maglor also raised him, after Sirion—yes, I know what it sounds like,” Daeron said when his aunt’s frown deepened, “but there is great love between them. You would not dare speak ill of Maglor in front of Elrond, for he counts him almost as a father.”

“That’s his business, I suppose, and it doesn’t much matter,” said Lacheryn. “I do not know Elrond, but I know you, Daeron. He broke your heart.”

“And he has since mended it,” Daeron said quietly. He rose to his feet. “I know my heart, Aunt, and I know his. You needn’t worry about me, not about this. Maglor has gone to Lórien for a time. He suffered much in the long years of his exile, and at the hands of the Enemy. When he returns I want you to meet him—and to be happy for me, please. You will like him when you know him.”

“There are many others here who will not be happy, Daeron,” Lacheryn warned. “If Thingol finds out…”

“Thingol has already spoken to Maglor himself, alongside Olwë. He wishes for peace with all of Finwë’s children, including the line of Fëanor. And anyway, Melian certainly knows, for it was on her advice that I left here to seek for him in the first place. As I said, I do not intend to keep it a secret, even if I would rather keep it private.” He’d somehow forgotten how terrible the gossip could be among the Sindar. And like some in Maglor’s family had been surprised to find him so very changed, everyone here seemed to think Daeron should return to them equally unchanged, the same merry minstrel he had been long ago before the Girdle had been breached. He was yet a minstrel, and he was often merry, but he had seen and done so much that so many here could never even imagine. He had come very close to death more than once, and yet survived. He did not care what others might think of him, really—except for a select few—but it would be tiresome to be always catching them off guard, and his love for one of the sons of Fëanor would catch many very much off guard, he knew. He did, though, want his aunt to think well of him, and of Maglor. “He makes me happy, Aunt Lacheryn.

“Very well,” Lacheryn sighed. “You are too old for scoldings, anyway.”

“I’m glad you think so! Will you be so kind as to inform Mablung?”

“Has he been scolding you about Maglor?”

“No, but about plenty of other things.” Daeron kissed her cheek. “I’m so glad you are here. I’ve missed you terribly.”

He settled into life in Thingol and Melian’s court a little more easily this time. He told many stories of his adventures in the east, and sang many songs, and learned more songs and other tales in return. They had all learned, to their grief, the value of putting such things to paper, and he spent many hours recording both his own stories and those of others. There was no real fear of such things being lost now, in the Blessed Realm with Morgoth thrown away beyond the Doors of Night and Sauron utterly destroyed, but he found the occupation soothing in any case, and if nothing else it was often easier to share written copies than to travel around to speak or sing them. He reunited with many old friends, and met new ones, and slowly got to know the forest and forest-city of Taur-en-Gellam, and the ways of the Helethir and the trees. 

He found, though, that he did not like always singing alone. He’d gotten used to lifting his voice in harmony—singing in Imloth Ningloron was often a communal affair, whether it was competing to see who could sing the silliest rhymes, or lifting their voices all together in praise of the stars or the moon or the rain. Most of all he was used now to singing with Maglor, whose voice joined with his as though they had both been born to make music together, each knowing the other’s mind so well that they could improvise almost flawlessly, in word and note. Daeron found himself fumbling sometimes no, waiting for another voice to join him when there was none. His mistakes were small enough that he did not think many noticed—at least, no one asked him about them—but he noticed, and whenever he did that lonely ache in his heart grew a little more.

Several years after he had returned to Taur-en-Gellam, Daeron went walking through the mallorn grove again in springtime, reveling in the gold and the silver, while also indulging in a bit of melancholy, missing Maglor. After traveling so far together and then spending two more years in almost constant company amid the comforts of Imloth Ningloron, it was still strange to wake up in an empty bed, though they were—again—longer now apart than they had been together. There wasn’t even a cat to trip him up, or a hedgehog to follow him around. 

As he sat beneath one of the largest mallorn trees, idly plucking the strings of his harp, Huan trotted up the road. He came straight to Daeron to politely lick his outstretched hand, and sniff at his hair, tail wagging. “Hello, Huan!” Daeron said. “Whatever brings you here?” Huan woofed and bounded back a little way down the road before looking over his shoulder at Daeron. Having followed him across all of Valinor, Daeron knew what that expectant look meant. “All right, I’m coming—but not too far! I’m wholly unprepared for any sort of journey today.”

Huan led him only a little farther down the road, and there Celegorm was waiting, dressed for travel, leaning back against a tree as he contemplated something in his hands that shone silver and pearlescent in the sunshine. “Celegorm,” Daeron said, quite surprised. “Is something the matter? Is Maglor…?”

“He’s fine, so far as I know,” Celegorm said. He put whatever he was fiddling with away and straightened. “We’ve heard nothing from Lórien.”

“Then what brings you here?”

Celegorm hesitated, looking away for a moment, off into the trees. Daeron waited, and resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder. Celegorm would not find much in the way of welcome in Thingol’s realm, regardless of what Thingol himself said. No one had forgotten Lúthien—or Finrod, for that matter. There was no Girdle, nor marchwardens as there had once been in Doriath, but that did not mean the Sindar were not watchful. For his part, Daeron liked Celegorm. He had never so much as glimpsed him in Beleriand, which helped, but since meeting him here Daeron had seen only someone desperate to have his brothers all getting along again, someone who struggled still with the weight of his past, in spite of so many long years spent in Mandos. Some things only life could heal, Daeron supposed. Death was not a place meant for the Eldar. It was so clear that Celegorm loved all of his brothers more than anything; he had been the one to try to question Daeron regarding his intentions toward Maglor, which was horribly ironic, but also what made Daeron really start to like him.

“Do you remember what you said to me by Ekkaia?” Celegorm said finally, turning his gaze back to Daeron. 

“I’m sure I said many things,” Daeron said. 

“You said that you laid aside all the old anger and hatred long ago.”

“Oh, that.” Daeron tilted his head slightly, curious and a little worried. “I spoke truly when I said that, and when I said I wished for us to be friends.”

“I know. I didn’t mean to question that. I just wanted to ask you how—how did you do it?”

“How?” Daeron repeated. “I…I’m not sure I know how to answer.” Celegorm closed his eyes for a moment and breathed a small sigh. “If you are hoping to follow my example, I’m afraid it’s rather impossible. You can’t very well go looking for Cuiviénen and then stumble upon a pair of wizards leading the resistance against a Dark Lord. For one thing, there are no Dark Lords left.” That startled Celegorm into a snort of laughter, and it bought Daeron a little time to think of a more proper response. He lifted his gaze to the boughs over their heads, a dozen shades of green dancing in the breeze. “I said to Maglor aboard the ship that time dulls many hurts,” he said finally. “Time and distance. I came back only once among the Elves of the west, sometime soon after Ost-in-Edhil was built, for I was curious to see who had survived, if there was anyone that I wished to see again. All I saw and heard only sharpened the grief and the anger that I still nursed in those days, and so I passed back into the east, across the Anduin and past the Sea of Rhûn, away from anything that could remind me of what I had lost. If I had met Maglor then, it would have gone very differently.” 

He had told Maglor that he’d once feared to become a kinslayer himself if they ever met again. Maglor had accepted that truth without surprise, and had even replied with a quiet joke about being tossed into the Sea then and there. Daeron was glad they had not met then, so early in the Second Age, but he still wished he had returned into the western lands of Middle-earth sooner. He had thought about it more and more as time went on, thought of looking for Maglor who in all tales was spoken of as lost, wandering for ever beside the waves, singing in pain and regret. Even Maglor could not say when exactly he had left the coastline and struck a path north, following the Anduin until he came to the Gladden Fields, and there was overtaken by orcs in the service of the Necromancer. He did not know how long he had been held in Dol Guldur until the White Council at last drove Sauron out—too late for it to be a true victory, except for the sake of those imprisoned there. But if Daeron had managed to find him before he’d taken it into his head to follow the river instead of the Sea…?

Such wishes were useless, but he still had them. 

Celegorm watched Huan sniff at the base of a nearby tree. “So your counsel would be to find something to distract myself,” he said. “My mother said the same, and Curvo.”

“I rather doubt they put it quite that way,” said Daeron. “I would wager they told you to seek joy instead.”

Another sigh. “They did.”

“I’m not sure I fully agree. This sort of anger…it is a poison, as I said before. For a long time I could go years without thinking of it, until a dream or a story or something as simple as a scent on the breeze reminded me of it, and then I could feel it there still, eating away at me, bringing discordant notes into my music—into the song of my spirit and not only that of my voice or my hands. Mere distraction was not enough, not for me. I found plenty of things to bring me joy that did nothing to diminish the pain. The years and the miles, though, gave me distance, safety, to sit and weep many bitter tears or to curse at the sky without fearing that the objects of my grief and my anger would appear before me. It was a choice, to forgive. To try to let go of the anger. It was a choice I had to make many times—and for a very long time it was not easy, however simple it might sound to speak of it. It might be the hardest thing I have ever done. The object of your anger, though, I think is much closer at hand. In Tirion, perhaps?” Celegorm lifted one shoulder in a shrug. His stance, to an outsider, might seem casual, even careless, with his silver braids lying half-tangled over his shoulders and his arms crossed over his chest. Daeron had traveled across all of Valinor in his company, though, and could see how tightly coiled he seemed to hold himself. Deep anger burned beneath the surface. It did not frighten Daeron, for he was not its object, and Celegorm—alongside all of his brothers—was very careful in these days where he directed that anger. 

“I have avoided Tirion since I came from Mandos,” Celegorm said. “It changes nothing to keep avoiding it now.”

Daeron did not believe that at all, but he wasn’t going to argue the point. “I meant it to be a joke before, when I said you could not follow my example—but I think it’s more true than I first thought. Seeking joy is not bad advice, but I do not think it will be enough.”

“I don’t either,” Celegorm admitted, “which is why I came to see you.”

“I’m sorry I could not be of more help.”

“You did help.” Celegorm fell silent for a little while, lost in thought, gaze distant. Finally he said, “I think it is distance that I need. I have already had time, and it hasn’t done much—but I can put many miles between us.” He offered a small crooked smile, adding, “Even if I cannot go all the way back to Cuiviénen.”

“To do that,” Daeron said, “you must also put those same miles between yourself and your brothers.”

“I know. I don’t want to, but—but Maglor and Maedhros have gone to Lórien, and if they can seek the help of the Valar, I can do no less.”

“Where will you go, then?”

“Back to Ekkaia. Nienna’s halls are there, if I can find them.”

Daeron smiled. “That is one great blessing of these lands,” he said. “Such places as Lórien and the halls of Nienna are there for any who need them. I once had the advantage of Melian’s guidance, in Doriath, and I sorely missed her after I left. I hope you do not intend to go straight to Nienna from here, though.”

“No, I won’t just disappear. I’ll return to speak to my brothers and my mother before I go. Thank you.” Celegorm stepped forward, holding out his hand. Daeron grasped it. Celegorm’s grip was firm, his hands calloused. “I know it’s only for Maglor’s sake, but thank you for speaking with me.”

“Not only for his sake,” Daeron said. “I hope you find what you need in the west.”

Celegorm departed with Huan at his heels, and Daeron turned to make his way back to the mallorn grove. He found Nimloth there, slender and silver-haired and wearing a frown. “Good afternoon, lady,” he said pleasantly, bowing. “What brings you out here?”

“The advice of Melian,” Nimloth said, and did not smile. “I heard your voice, and I saw who you were speaking to. What did he want?”

Daeron did not sigh, but it was close. “Advice,” he said. 

“A kinslayer, seeking advice from you?” Nimloth’s frown deepened. “I have heard rumors of you taking up with them since your coming to these shores. I did not believe them. Not of Daeron.”

“I have traveled with them,” Daeron said. “Has not Thingol made peace with them? Have not you made peace, Lady Nimloth, even before Thingol’s return?”

“I made peace because we must all live in these lands together, because it was the counsel of Melian. That does not mean I believe they should have ever been released to walk among us again, or that I desire their friendship. The one to whom you just spoke and offered advice killed my husband, Daeron. Dior was Lúthien’s son.”

“I know. I loved Lúthien, too—but I do not believe she would want any of us to cling to such bitterness, not after all this time.” Nimloth looked at him doubtfully, but Daeron had known Lúthien longer than she had, even if he had not been there to see her last years. That heartache would never go away, nor the guilt of it, the knowledge of the part he had played in Doriath’s downfall. Had he gone to Lúthien with his fears instead of straight to Elu Thingol…

Another useless wish. Someday, Daeron thought, he must learn to let go of those too. 

“That does not mean she would wish for any of us to befriend them.”

“I think neither of us can say precisely what Lúthien would wish for, were she here,” Daeron said quietly. He believed only that Lúthien would wish them all peace and joy—and that could not live alongside bitterness and hatred. For everything else he could only follow his own heart, and at least since boarding the ship at Mithlond it had not yet steered him wrong. “But what, Lady Nimloth, will you say to your grandson on this matter? Maglor Fëanorion has dwelled in his household both in Middle-earth and here, honored and beloved by Elrond and all of his family.”

“I will ask him if he knows that it was Maglor Fëanorion who slew my father in the halls of Menegroth,” Nimloth said, and turned away. Daeron kept his expression impassive as he made his way back to Mablung’s house.

He hadn’t known that Maglor had killed Galathil. He wished he still didn’t. 

It so happened that he came upon Galathil himself before he managed to get home. “Well met, Daeron!” Galathil called from down the lane, smiling to see him. He had his wife Rossvíriel on one arm, and her sister Rovaloth on the other. “Have you written any new songs for us?”

“No, not today,” Daeron said, putting on a smile of his own. “I met Lady Nimloth out in the mallorn grove, however.”

“Nimloth has been restless of late,” Rossvíriel remarked as the three of them reached Daeron. “Did she try to start an argument?”

“She seemed unhappy,” Daeron said. 

“It is because of Maglor Fëanorion,” said Rovaloth. “He dwells now with Elrond, her grandson, and Nimloth cannot reconcile herself to it.”

“It’s understandable,” said Galathil before Daeron could think of a tactful way to defend either Elrond or Maglor. “It was Maglor—I think—who slew me in Menegroth, but of course I was trying equally hard to kill him. All of his brothers have come to bend the knee before Thingol, and all of us, and the Oath that drove them then is no more, but apologies and a declaration of peace by our kings is not enough to settle some hearts. I made my peace with it long ago, else I would not have been released from the Halls.”

“Maglor has not come, though,” Rossvíriel said.

“True; I would like to speak to him in person, to truly set the past behind us where it belongs.”

“Maglor spoke to Thingol and Olwë both in Avallónë,” Daeron said, relieved to hear Galathil speak so. “And in any case he is not in Imloth Ningloron now; he has gone to Lórien for a time. I’m sure he will speak to you when he returns, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer.”

“Is it true you’ve renewed that friendship then, Daeron?” Rovaloth asked him. “I confess I was surprised to hear it—that you have been much in the company of all Fëanor’s sons since coming here.”

“It is true,” Daeron said. “As Galathil said, the Oath is no more, and they are all much changed from what they were in Beleriand.”

“Even Celegorm and Curufin?” asked Galathil. “That is what surprised me—that you would befriend them, remembering Lúthien.”

Of course it would be surprising. Daeron’s place in the histories of their people was that not primarily of a loremaster or even a singer, but as Lúthien’s jealous would-be lover who betrayed her to her father. He did not think it an entirely fair judgment, but he had then left the story entirely, and lost the right to correct the narrative. Of course he had loved Lúthien. He would have happily married her if she would have had him—but she hadn’t, and he’d been equally content in friendship, playing music for her to dance to in the glades of Neldoreth, laughing with her at her father’s courtiers, sharing secrets and joys and griefs. She had never let him take himself too seriously, and she had comforted him after his aunt and uncle had been slain in the Bragollach, when Mablung had been away on the northeastern marches and Daeron had been stricken almost dumb with the fear of losing him too. It was the same sort of fear that had driven him to Thingol when he’d seen Beren in the woods of Neldoreth, and heard that shift in the Music like a sudden change in key that foretold great change, great doom—when he had seen Lúthien go to take his hands in hers, and saw her ensnared, as he’d thought, in whatever it was that Beren had brought with him. 

“I have not forgotten Lúthien,” he said aloud. “How could I? But she is not here, and I cannot believe she would wish for us all to remain enemies.” She had forgiven him, after all, when he’d brought her the loom that she had asked for. He hadn’t asked what she intended to do with it—and she would not have told him anyway, not after he had betrayed her twice over—though he’d known her well enough to understand she intended to leave Doriath by any means necessary, whatever anyone said, whatever her father tried to do to stop her. She’d still smiled and kissed his cheek, thanking him. He’d tried to apologize, but she’d just placed a finger over his lips to silence him. 

“Farewell, Daeron,” she had said, half-whispering. “Do not fear for for me, and do not despair! Someday you too will know the joy that I have known, though I may not be there to share it with you, and you will understand why I do the things I do now to regain it.”

He had left Hírilorn and not gone back again. She had told him not to fear, but that was far easier said than done, and he’d tried to follow when he heard that she’d left—but it was not his fate to play any other part in her tale. The Girdle had turned him around and he’d stumbled out of Region in the east, and it had felt like Doriath itself was rejecting him, and so he had just started walking, and hadn’t looked back. Lúthien had told him not to despair, but that was also far easier said than done. He shouldn’t have done such a thing to Mablung, leaving like that, but his cousin had forgiven him for it since, even if he had been less forgiving of the various scars Daeron had acquired in the centuries of his wandering afterward, evidence of what Mablung considered unnecessary and foolish risk-taking, especially the ones he’d gotten during his time with the Blue Wizards and the rebels of Rhûn.

Lúthien had been right, though: he had found joy such as hers, long after she had departed from the Circles of the World, never to return, never to laugh or tease or sing with him again. He often thought that she and Maglor would have liked one another, would have been great friends, if things had been different.

Galathil was looking at him thoughtfully. “I seem to recall Mablung teasing you after the Mereth Aderthad in much the same way I once teased Celeborn,” he said. “And he has been very quiet about what you were doing when you left us.”

“You mean he hasn’t been gossiping about me?” Daeron bestowed his brightest smile upon them, and laughed. “I shall have to thank him! I had forgotten in my lonely wanderings what it is to be whispered about, and I find now that I do not particularly like it.” He bid them farewell and let his smile drop away only after the door of Mablung’s house closed behind him. It was empty, his aunt and uncle and cousin being away at some meeting or gathering or other. Beleg too was gone, but his comings and goings had always been irregular. 

It was a relief to find himself alone again, except that he did not really want to be alone. He wanted to be with Maglor. Maglor had needed to go to Lórien and he had needed to go either alone or with his brother, if Maedhros would agree, and Daeron did not begrudge him that. How could he? When Maglor returned his smiles would come more easily and the shadows would be gone from his eyes so they shone again as they had beside the pools of Ivrin, when Daeron had looked into them and understood with sudden heart-stopping clarity how it was that Thingol had been so entranced by Melian in starlit Nan Elmoth. When he returned his spirit would be healed and he would not be wracked with the pain of old wounds. That would be well worth however long this parting lasted, but in the meantime Daeron’s heart still ached. He woke up in the mornings reaching across the bed before remembering that it was empty. He kept turning around to share a thought or a joke before recalling that Maglor was not there to hear it.

He had fallen in love with Maglor at the Mereth Aderthad the same way he had once fallen in love with music. It was the same sort of thrill that came from jumping off a waterfall into a deep and clear mountain pool, the feeling of those few seconds in the air when it felt not like falling but flying. Even then he had been certain that Maglor felt the same, or at least felt something—but he’d pulled back every time Daeron thought one of them might say something, might do something, and so Daeron had restrained himself. There would be time, he had thought. There would surely be letters and visits, and maybe someday even an end to the war the Noldor had come to help them fight, and when peace finally returned to Beleriand…

He had been so terribly wrong. Messages had come from Círdan concerning distressing rumors of how exactly the Noldor had departed from the West, and then Angrod had spilled the truth of it before all of Menegroth’s court. Daeron had been standing near the thrones, beside Lúthien, and every word Angrod had spoken had hurt, as though they had taken physical form to plunge themselves like blades into his heart. Blood upon the quays of Olwë’s city, their own people slain, their ships stolen and then burned—and Maglor had been there through it all, sword and torch in hand. All of Daeron’s daydreams had gone up in smoke like the Swanships. He’d felt so stupid, so foolish, and blind, and then furious at Angrod, who had introduced the two of them, laughing and declaring that they must both perform before all the Eldar gathered at the feast so it could be settled once and for all who was the mightier singer; and Maglor had laughed, and Daeron realized he cared as little for the distinction as Daeron himself, and their eyes had met, and Daeron had been lost—and with the truth of it all his heart had broken.

That was a long time ago, now. When they’d met again upon the ship Daeron had been apprehensive, as he had not been at the feast. He knew that his old feelings remained, not faded away as he had once thought they had, but he’d been so uncertain of Maglor. He’d found him scarred and weary, but both willing and able to look him in the eye, to smile upon seeing him, to sing together even though Maglor himself no longer liked to perform in front of any but the most intimate of audiences. There were shadows in his eyes that had not been there before, and strands of white threaded through his raven-dark hair. But his smile held the same warmth, and his voice—it had changed, of course, as Daeron’s own had, but it remained powerful and rich and among the most beautiful voices Daeron had ever heard—and when he sang that first night, a wordless harmony to Daeron’s own song, Daeron had felt himself falling all over again.

Celeborn had been on that ship, too. He had come aboard with Maglor, in fact, and though he had said nothing Daeron knew that he’d guessed where Daeron’s thoughts and his heart lay. They had not spoken of Maglor, instead talking of the past and of those they hoped to see again in Valinor; it had not even occurred to Daeron to ask Celeborn for the tale of Maglor’s scars. He’d asked Maglor himself only one question, when Maglor said he did not wish to speak of it. He’d had to leave the crow’s nest immediately after hearing that it had been Sauron who marked him so, and he’d retreated to the small cabin he’d claimed for his own below decks to weep, pressing his face into a pillow so no one might overhear. 

And the scars he’d seen then were not even the worst of them, and the worst wounds of all were not visible in the body, only showing themselves in the way that Maglor so often felt cold when no one else did, even at the height of summer; how he frowned in his sleep as though in pain even when the next morning he would say his dreams had been quiet; how he had held back, even after it was so clear to both of them that their hearts still turned toward one another like flowers toward the sun; how he had been so afraid, not only of Daeron but of his brothers and even his mother; how, without thinking, he so often dug his thumbnail into the scars on his palm left by the Silmaril. Daeron did not like to think of how that habit had gotten started. 

Daeron wandered through the house, lost in his own thoughts, humming idly one of the songs he and Maglor had written together. A knock at the door brought him out of his reverie, and when he opened it he found a child on the doorstep, hopping from foot to foot in anxious excitement, wearing the badge of one of the swift-footed children that sometimes carried messages through the wood, those whose parents were often away on other errands and who needed occupation in between play or schooling or whatever else they did; Daeron was under the impression they treated it as a game, like an advanced kind of hide-and-seek. “Master Daeron?” she asked, as unruly golden curls fell forward over her eyes.

“Yes?”

“The king requests your presence, please. He is in the fountain garden.”

“Oh. Very well, I shall come shortly.” Daeron made to close the door, but the child hesitated before darting away. “What is it?” He offered her a smile. “I don’t bite, child.”

“Do you ever teach anyone music?” she burst out, and then clapped her hands over her mouth. 

“Sometimes,” Daeron said. He’d taught many children in Eglador long ago, and had taught more in the eastern steppes, when he had a chance, when it was safe. “Would you like to learn?” She nodded, blushing furiously. He couldn’t help but laugh. “Then how can I refuse? There is nothing a teacher likes better than an eager student. What is your name, little one?”

“Pirineth.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Pirineth. I must attend to Thingol now, but sometime soon we’ll make lovely music together.” Daeron watched her skip away back toward the sprawling house that was not quite a palace yet and which was constantly being added to and changed, where Thingol and Melian dwelt. He retreated then to change into something more suitable for an audience with the king. 

Thingol sat by one of the many fountains in the garden named for them. Flowers bloomed all around, and instead of grass the ground was carpeted with clover and niphredil. Melian came outside to join them as Daeron bowed, and Thingol gestured for him to sit. An awning of gauzy fabric had been erected to shade them from the harshest of the sun’s rays; it billowed gently in the soft breeze. “It has come to our attention that you had a visitor this afternoon, Daeron,” Thingol said. “What is it that Celegorm Fëanorion wanted of you?”

Daeron had expected the question. Of course both Thingol and Melian were aware of all that went on in their realm, Girdle or no. “It was a personal matter, my lord,” he said, and watched Thingol’s eyebrows go up. “It was deeply personal; he came to ask my advice. I do not wish to share more than that.”

“I am very curious on what sort of personal matter a son of Fëanor would come all this way consult you,” Thingol said, “but I will not ask you to betray any confidence. Is that all he wanted?”

“Yes, aside from Huan’s own greetings.” Huan was well known in Taur-en-Gellam, coming at times on his own to visit old friends, though less often than he had before Celegorm had returned from the Halls of Mandos; no one could question the good judgment of Huan. “You must have heard by now that I have been much in the company of all seven of Fëanor’s sons—everyone else has, it seems. I count them all among my friends—yes, even Celegorm and Curufin,” he said when Thingol’s eyebrows rose again. Melian’s expression remained serene. “They are much changed from what they were in Beleriand, and I have not forgotten Lúthien, as several people today have suggested.”

“Of course not,” Melian said. She reached out to cover Daeron’s hand with hers, and he realized only then he’d balled it into a fist on his knee. With effort, he loosened his fingers. “None of us will ever forget Lúthien, but she would not wish for us to cling to old anger and old hatred, not for her sake.” Daeron bowed his head; it was only what he had said, what he thought himself, but it was a great reassurance to hear those words in Melian’s voice. 

“It was not my intention to chide you, Daeron,” Thingol said. He spoke not as Daeron’s king now but as an almost-uncle, one of many who had raised Daeron from infancy after his parents’ disappearances, the one who had carried him over the Ered Luin upon his shoulders so that Daeron had been among the first of their people to look out over the lands of Beleriand, starlit and beautiful. “Was it Nimloth who accused you of forgetting? Her grief for Dior and her sons is still very near; do not take her words to heart.”

“I think even now her spirits are lifting,” Melian said, with one of her secret smiles. “Pay no attention to anyone who might speak against your friendships with the Sons of Fëanor, Daeron. It is no bad thing to be the bridge between our peoples.”

“There is already a living bridge between the Noldor and the Sindar, and that is Elrond,” Daeron said, lifting his head. “I did not come west to become tangled up in such matters.”

“Why did you come?” Thingol asked. 

Maglor, of course, had been what decided him—but not the reason he had passed back over the Anduin and the Misty Mountains in the first place. “It was time,” Daeron said aloud. “The verses of my life sung in Middle-earth had come to an end, and the Music called me west.” That earned him a smile from both Thingol and Melian. “My friendship with the sons of Fëanor will do little in any case, if a bridge between the Noldor and Sindar is what you wish for. Only Curufin dwells in Tirion, and the others will visit even more seldom than they did before now that Fëanor himself is there. None take part in the ruling of their people or even go much among them, eschewing all titles and whatever power might be offered them.”

“Are they truly estranged from their father then?” Thingol asked as Melian sat back in her seat. “Mablung suggested it, from what he learned while in Imloth Ningloron that summer, but I find it hard to believe.”

“They are, except I think for Curufin,” Daeron said. “Celebrimbor welcomed him back with joy, but there is much his sons cannot forgive. There is much they never would have done had they not been bound to his Oath.”

“Their choices remained their own,” Thingol said.

“Yet also restricted by the Oath they swore,” Melian said. “But there is no point in debating it now, for it is over. What is done is done, and they have repented of it and been given a new chance at life, as have all who perished in Beleriand.” Thingol inclined his head. “So has Fëanor—but his deeds set it all in motion, the Doom of the Noldor and the ruin of the Oath, and it does not surprise me that his sons find it difficult to forgive. What says Elrond, Daeron?”

“Elrond, I have found, can forgive nearly anyone anything,” Daeron said. “But whatever his own feelings toward Fëanor, he will stand by Maglor. Fëanor will only find real welcome in Imloth Ningloron while Maglor is not there.”

“Where is Maglor, if not with Elrond?” asked Thingol.

“Lórien, with his brother Maedhros. Maglor…suffered a great deal, in Middle-earth.” The tale was no secret, but Daeron thought even Elrond did not know the whole of it, and Daeron had never asked for more than Maglor was willing to share, and he found himself unable to speak of it himself. His throat felt tight at the thought of trying. “His father’s coming reopened even older wounds; he sorely feels the weight of it all and hopes Estë will help him learn to bear up under it better.”

“She will,” Melian said. “They will both find healing in Lórien. I am glad to hear they have gone—and together. Some things cannot be faced alone.”

“Have you met Fëanor, Daeron?” Thingol asked.

“No. I was with Maglor all that summer, and after he went to Lórien I came here. I have not been to Tirion.”

“Would you like to?”

“Go to Tirion?”

“Yes. This winter—Fingolfin has been so kind as to invite us to spend Midwinter there. Our peoples have not come together in such a way here before. What say you, Daeron?”

Daeron had to confess to a great curiosity to see Fëanor for himself, he of whom so many tales were told, whose very presence in the living world caused his sons so much anguish. He had read the letter that Fëanor had written to Maglor, and seen how troubled it had made him. He had listened to Maedhros try to find the right words to convey how much they had all once loved their father, only to watch him transform into a stranger, a fey and fell thing that wore their father’s face but was so unlike him in all other ways, and now found him apparently restored while they were all forever changed, unable to ever be what they had been before. “We cannot be, any of us,” Maedhros had said, weary and defeated, unable to look Daeron in the face as he spoke. “He set us on our path, but we walked it, all the way to the end.” Curiosity aside, Daeron found he had nearly as little love for Fëanor as any of his sons. But he could not help Maglor, whenever he returned from Lórien and found himself needing to come face to face with Fëanor again, unless he knew more. 

He also thought he would like to visit Tirion at last, that city of which so many songs had been sung, and to see Curufin and any of his brothers who might come there for the Midwinter celebrations. “Yes,” he said, “I think I would like that very much.”

A commotion arose outside of the garden then, bringing all three of them to their feet. Melian, though, was smiling. “Fëanor is not the only one to return to us unlooked for,” she said, as through the gate came Nimloth, with a smile on her face such as Daeron had never seen there before. And with her—for a moment his breath caught in his throat, and behind him he heard Thingol make a small, pained sound. It was not Lúthien, of course, but Dior Eluchíl, Lúthien’s son. Daeron had been struck by how Elrond resembled Lúthien, but he had sailed in the company of Elladan and Elrohir and had known to expect it. Dior’s coming was entirely unexpected, and it was only as he drew closer that Daeron could see the small and subtle differences—the color of his eyes was bluer and his voice, when he spoke, was most like Beren’s. Still, it was a shock.

“Dior,” Melian said, stepping forward with her hands outstretched. Dior bowed before them. “Unlooked for and beyond our hope! Welcome, dear child.”

“Thank you, Grandmother,” Dior said. His smile was Lúthien’s, and Daeron had to avert his gaze, glancing back to everyone who had followed Dior and Nimloth into the garden to witness this meeting. It felt wrong, he thought. Such a meeting should be private—he should not even be there—but it was too late, and neither Thingol, nor Melian, nor Dior seemed to care. 

Daeron stepped away, finding himself beside Galathil. “This is surely a matter of song?” Galathil remarked in a low voice, without taking his gaze from Dior, who nearly disappeared into Thingol’s crushing embrace. 

“That,” Daeron said, “is not up to me. But I had thought Dior’s fate was…”

“So did we all,” Galathil said. 

A loud call drew their gazes up, and Nimloth cried out in delight as a great white bird soared down, alighting in the flowers and at the same time, in the blink of an eye, transforming into a woman. Daeron had met Elwing, who also looked so like Lúthien as to take one’s breath away, before, at Imloth Ningloron, but had never witnessed her transformation. It was quite startling. Feathers drifted to the ground in her wake as she ran forward, heedless of anyone else. Dior caught her up in his arms, and Daeron turned away, slipping through the growing gathering until he escaped it entirely, to make his way back home. There would be plenty of time for introductions and explanations later, and maybe even for songs. He was glad his own reunion with Lacheryn and Belthond had been far more private. 

He found himself thinking of his parents, as he rarely did, as he climbed the stairs to his room. The last time he’d spared them much thought had been when he and Maglor had agreed that if Maglor visited Nerdanel, Daeron would try to seek them out. Maglor had since seen his mother, but Daeron had forgotten all about looking for his parents—and he still did not know where to start. He did not even know if they were in Valinor, if they had died or if they had been taken and…whatever it was that was done to those the Dark Rider and his servants stole. He shied away from such thoughts, choosing to believe that they had died—either they remained in Mandos, or they were somewhere in Valinor, perhaps as unaware of his own presence as he was of theirs. As languages changed so had names, and he did not know if, should they live, they heard the name Daeron of Doriath and knew him for their son. All he knew with certainty was that they were not in Taur-en-Gellam, else they surely would have all met by now—Mablung would have told him if he knew anything; so would Thingol, or Melian. 

Dior’s arrival brought with it many weeks of feasting and celebration, for Thingol’s heir was restored to them. There was sadness, too, for Dior was able to say with certainty that Eluréd and Elurín had passed beyond the Circles of the World, following their grandparents without hesitation. Daeron heard that from Mablung, and afterward glimpsed Elwing with reddened eyes. He thought of Elrond’s daughter, and of Elwing’s son, who had also followed in the footsteps of Men, to the grief of those who loved them—but theirs had been a different sort of choice, their deaths come at the end of long lives well-lived. Eluréd and Elurín had barely gotten the chance to live at all. 

The excitement did begin to not die down until well after Midsummer, and then Daeron was reminded of Pirineth, and then suddenly found himself with a dozen eager students, a welcome addition to days that often felt otherwise idle and empty. He called them his songbirds, and made them laugh by calling the real things down to sing alongside them. They met in the wide gardens of the palace or in the open squares scattered throughout the forest-city, and often had an audience; several times Daeron saw Dior among them, often with Nimloth or Elwing or both of them on his arm. 

Daeron spoke to Dior, of course. They were introduced quickly and Dior proved to be as gracious and kindhearted as Lúthien—as Elrond. If anyone had told him of Daeron’s association with the Sons of Fëanor, he chose not to mention it, at least before other company. Daeron did catch Dior watching him from time to time with a thoughtful look on his face, but whatever passed through Dior’s mind was his to share in his own time. 

Summer passed on toward autumn, which brought bushels of apples from Celebrían’s orchards in Imloth Ningloron, sweet and crisp—the best apples in Eriador, they had been called once, and now Daeron thought them the best he had tasted in Valinor, grown from cuttings of her beloved trees of Rivendell that Celebrían had brought with her long ago when she had crossed the Sea. As the leaves changed color, talk turned to plans for Midwinter. Thingol still intended to go to Tirion, and Dior in the end decided to go with Nimloth and Elwing to Imloth Ningloron, to meet Elrond and his family. 

One sunny afternoon, as Daeron gathered up scattered bits of sheet music after a few hours spent with his songbirds, Dior came to find him. After the usual greetings and pleasantries, Dior asked, “Is there a reason you have been avoiding me, Daeron?”

Daeron straightened, surprised. “I haven’t,” he said. He had kept his distance, but he did not think that counted as avoidance. “I apologize if it seems so—but if I were in your place I would want to hide away somewhere with only my immediate family. So many others have been vying for your attention of late, I did not wish to add to the burden.”

Dior smiled at him like Lúthien, and that familiar-and-new feeling of old grief renewed welled up in Daeron’s heart. “That is kind of you,” Dior said, “but it isn’t necessary. I had hoped to know you better—my mother spoke of you often, you know, and always with fondness.”

Daeron’s throat went tight for a moment. “I think of her often too,” he said, and knelt to pick up the last bits of paper before the breeze blew them away. 

“It hs been suggested that you avoid me because I look so much like her, but Elwing says you stayed in her son’s house for several years with no apparent trouble.”

“You and Elrond both look very much like her, it is true—so does Elwing, for that matter. Elrond’s daughter too, was said to be Lúthien’s likeness come to earth again, though I cannot say one way or the other, as I never saw her.” He’d heard the tales and had not thought himself able to bear it if they were true. He regretted that, now. He’d borne up well enough in meeting Elladan and Elrohir, and being forewarned he had even met Elrond without betraying any kind of shock. “It is not your looks that keep me away. As I said, I only wished to give you the sort of space I would wish for in your place.”

“Elwing and Nimloth both have told me that you have been often in the company of the Sons of Fëanor,” Dior said after a moment. Ah, so there it was—the real reason Dior had sought him out. “Nimloth said it as a warning; Elwing seems a little more reconciled to it, I suppose because one of them dwells with her own son.”

“Maglor raised Elrond,” Daeron said quietly. “There is great love between them, whatever else happened.”

“So I have heard. What kind of love can you have for any of them?” Dior’s tone was one of mere curiosity, but Daeron saw the wariness in his eyes—the same sort of wariness with which Lúthien had regarded him when he had visited her in Hírilorn, when she had asked him for a loom so that she might have something to occupy her hands.

“Do you mean to ask what sort of love I bear for Maglor? I do not know if there are any words or any songs that can truly describe it. We met at the Mereth Aderthad, and afterward we both traveled long and difficult roads, until we found our way back to each other upon the quays of Mithlond.” Perhaps it was fitting after all that it was at Mithlond that they had reunited, in Lindon, the last piece of Beleriand to survive the War of Wrath and the downfall of Númenor. Daeron did, of course, have words for what lay in his heart, but they were for Maglor’s ears alone, to be whispered rather than spoken or sung. He saw that his answer surprised Dior, though he didn’t know why it should. “I count his brothers all among my friends, after we traveled a great deal together the summer after Maglor and I came to these lands. Yes, that includes Celegorm,” he added, seeing Dior’s frown. “You have nothing to fear from him now.”

“I know that,” said Dior. “I am not afraid—but remembering my mother—”

“I do remember her. Every day. But as I said to Nimloth: she is not here, and I do not think any of us can say with certainty what she would wish for us to do. I do not, though, believe she would wish for any of us to hold onto old pain. I tried, for a long time, and found it to be a poison, found it to be the same discord that they speak of when they tell the tale of the Music that made the world. It changed the music of my own spirit and that of my voice and my hands. I had to let it go, for my own peace—and I do not regret it.”

“I would not ask that of you,” Dior said. “I seek only to understand.”

“I do not believe it is a betrayal of either our people or your mother’s memory to seek friendship with Maglor, or Celegorm, or any of their brothers,” Daeron said. “Not in these lands, in this new Age.”

“What does my grandfather think?”

“That it is no bad thing to be such a bridge between our peoples—though I told him that that was never my intention. I love Maglor for himself, and that would not change even if Elu Thingol did disapprove. All it would mean then is that I would leave Taur-en-Gellam, and I would not look back.”

“Like my mother.”

Daeron sighed. “I never meant for any of that to happen. When I told Thingol of your parents…I did not understand what was happening, and I was afraid for her. That’s all. I did not know he would demand a Silmaril, let alone that Beren would actually try to get it. I suppose if Lúthien spoke of me fondly that means she forgave me in the end, though I would not have blamed her if she didn’t. I am sorry, whatever little it may mean now.”

“You needn’t be,” said Dior with another one of Lúthien’s smiles. “She understood.”

Winter brought frost and snow squalls, and final preparations for the journey to Tirion. Taur-en-Gellam lay north and west of Imloth Ningloron; Dior and Nimloth went with them as far as that road, and then turned south. Dior was eager to meet his grandson and great-grandsons. Daeron felt faintly envious; holidays and festivals in Elrond and Celebrían’s valley were always merry and bright, warm and welcoming. Tirion, he had no doubt, would be much more formal and likely uncomfortable, at least to some degree. Fëanor’s sons had all come to bow before Thingol and offer what apologies they could. Fëanor himself had not yet done so. Daeron had not heard whether he had even gone to Olwë, though he supposed he must have if Fingolfin felt able to invite Thingol to Tirion—and Olwë would not have demanded any public speeches or declarations from him, no more than he had of Maglor. 

They passed by Lady Nerdanel’s house, though the windows were shuttered against the cold and Daeron saw no movement. There was smoke curling from the chimney, and those of Mahtan’s house and the workshops surrounding it. The gardens were mostly dormant for the winter, though a few stubborn patches of green remained here and there—holly, and pine. Beyond, the plum orchard was bare and empty, and the little river that Daeron had once crossed in the company of all Nerdanel’s sons was a quiet and dark ribbon winding through the faded and brown fields beneath a steel-grey sky. It would snow in the next day or so, Daeron thought. He would be glad to be in Tirion when it did and not on the road. 

He had seen Tirion before, from a distance, with its shining towers. Now Thingol entered it to great fanfare and welcome from the Noldor and others who lived there or who had come for the winter festivities. Daeron brought out his flute to join with the music already being played by others as they passed through the bustling streets. The palace was enormous, a great sprawling and towering building under the Mindon Eldaliéva stretching high above, gleaming silver. Fingolfin emerged from the doors with all three of his sons, Fingon and Turgon and Argon who Daeron had not met, followed by Finarfin’s children—save Galadriel, who was most likely in Imloth Ningloron—and exchanged warm greetings with Elu Thingol and Melian. Daeron dropped to the ground, looking around curiously as he tried to match the things Maglor had told him of this place to what lay before him. 

There were of course many differences. The last time Maglor had been in Tirion had been at the Darkening, when the Oath had been sworn and the Noldor had departed for the east. He had not yet returned to the city since his coming back to Valinor. But there was much that remained unchanged, too. Daeron looked too for Fëanor, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but did not manage it before he was led away to the rooms prepared for him. They connected to those given to Mablung, and were across the hall from his aunt and uncle’s. They were large and well appointed, comfortable and elegant without being gaudy. The wood of the furniture was a deep and dark brown, and the bedsheets were smooth satin, pale green and smelling of lavender and lemon grass. A fire burned cheerfully on the hearth. Daeron retreated to the adjoining bathing chamber to wash the road off his skin and out of his hair with fragrant soaps, and then he returned to dress for the evening’s reception and feast. There would likely be music and dancing after the meal, and he wondered if he should plan on being asked to perform. Probably, he thought wryly as he picked up his hairbrush, and he would be hearing all sorts of comparisons to Maglor. Neither he nor Maglor cared which of them was the mightier, and Daeron thought in terms of skill and talent they were as evenly matched as it was possible to be, but there was nothing an audience liked better than a rivalry, it seemed, even if that rivalry existed only in their imaginations.

Mablung came into the room, already dressed, as Daeron was debating between amethyst and sapphire for his rings. “Wear the purple,” Mablung said, “and that necklace to match. Are you going to keep that wooden pendant on?”

Daeron tucked Maglor’s pendant under his robes, where he could feel it but it would remain invisible. As Daeron slipped on his rings his aunt swept in, resplendent in a deep red gown, her dark hair caught up in a net of fine gold and tiny rubies that glimmered in the firelight. “You both look splendid,” she said, even as she plucked the hair clips from Daeron’s head. “This won’t do, Daeron. It’s far too formal an evening for such plain styles. Do you not want to make a good impression?”

“I have found that most people don’t really care what I look like,” Daeron said, “only what I sound like.”

“You won’t be doing much singing tonight, Daeron,” Mablung laughed. “We’re guests, and you are not here to perform.”

“I’ve heard that before, and it has never proven true,” Daeron said primly. His aunt swiftly wove several delicate braids into his hair in a pattern far more elaborate than he would have done for himself, securing them with delicate silver and amethyst beads, and then settled a slender circlet over his brow. 

“Much better,” Lacheryn declared. She kissed the top of his head. “Now you are ready to meet your Maglor’s family—though it is too bad Maglor himself is not here, for it would be proper for him to do the introductions.”

“Maglor already introduced me to his mother and his brothers,” said Daeron, “and I met nearly all the rest of his family at the Mereth Aderthad.”

“Not his father, though.”

Daeron only shrugged. He’d come to Tirion curious at least to see Fëanor, but he wasn’t sure that he wished to be introduced to him the way that his aunt suggested he ought to be. Daeron knew he was known and liked by Fingolfin and others among the Noldorin nobility, and he knew that Lady Nerdanel liked him—and that was enough. He did not need or care for Fëanor’s approval. He followed Lacheryn and Mablung out to where Belthond awaited them, and then to join with Thingol and Melian and others, everyone resplendent in their winter finery. In the large hall where Fingolfin sat upon his throne the Noldor were dressed in equal splendor, though with many more jewels than the Sindar tended toward. Fingolfin greeted Thingol again, and until the feast was set to begin all there was to do was mingle, to be introduced and make introductions. A handful of musicians in a corner played quiet music, cheerful without being intrusive. 

He spotted Curufin after a short while, standing with a taller figure so alike in face that Daeron knew him immediately for Fëanor. He was clad in red and gold robes of fine and shimmering fabric, and his hair was loose and long, raven-dark, held out of his face by an ornate circlet set with diamonds. His eyes were bright and keen as he watched the room, his gaze lingering with curiosity on Thingol. Curufin, dressed in grey and silver rather than red, and with his hair cropped much shorter than his father’s, was looking around too, and his gaze landed on Daeron, who offered him a smile. Curufin excused himself from his father, and came over to greet Daeron properly. “Well met, Daeron,” he said as they clasped hands. “How are you finding Tirion?”

“Worthy of all the songs sung in its praise,” Daeron replied. “But I am glad to see a familiar face. How are you—and your brothers, and Lady Nerdanel?”

“All very well, thank you, though Celegorm has gone off into the west again, alone this time. Caranthir and the twins are not here.” Curufin tilted his head a little, back toward his father, and Daeron nodded. “Tyelpë is though—or he is supposed to be.” 

“I look forward to seeing him,” Daeron said. As they spoke Fëanor was called forward to be introduced to Thingol and Melian, and Daeron and Curufin both fell silent as they watched the meeting, full of bows and fine words on both sides. Fëanor had a nice smile, Daeron thought. It was not unlike Maglor’s, though Maglor had softer features. 

“I have not spoken of you to my father,” Curufin said in a low voice, after the introductions were done and Thingol engaged Fëanor in real conversation. “I do not know if Maglor would want me to.”

“I care not, either way,” Daeron said, “but I understand—and I think Maglor would appreciate discretion. I have been curious to see him for myself. There are so many things said of your father, and all seem contradictory.”

“Most are true,” Curufin said, and sighed. “He is contradictory, in many ways. But he is not what he was at the end, not anymore.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“It will not all be feasts and balls and revelry every evening, while you’re here,” Curufin said. “Or at least, you will surely not need to attend them all. Would you care to visit my home sometime? My wife would like to meet you.”

“I would like that very much,” Daeron said.

“We can show you more of the city, too, and maybe Caranthir will come visit when I tell him that you are here.”

“I’d like that even more.” 

The feast was splendid, the tables laden with soups and roasted meats and vegetables and fruits of all kinds, and breads and rolls and sweets; the wine and mead flowed freely, and the talk was merry and often quite loud. Daeron sat by Mablung at one of the tables near the head of the hall, where on a dais the kings sat with their closest kin and attendants. “Don’t look now,” Mablung murmured to Daeron, “but I think Fëanor is watching you.”

“My reputation usually precedes me,” Daeron murmured back. 

“I’m not sure it’s your reputation that will have brought you to his attention.”

“Curufin has said nothing of it.”

“Someone else may have.”

That was true. Daeron glanced around, admiring the bright-colored banners hanging from the walls and the ceiling, before letting his gaze drift toward the dais, where he saw Fëanor speaking to Curufin, and then both of them glanced in his direction. Curufin looked sheepish for a moment, and Fëanor curious. Daeron smiled brightly at them before turning away. 

The end of the feasting brought the start of dancing, of vibrant music that Daeron did not know, and that he immediately wished to learn. He made his way toward the musicians, hoping to strike up conversation with one of them in between songs, but heard his name before he could get so much as halfway across the room. He turned and bowed as Fingolfin approached. “My lord Fingolfin,” he said as he straightened. “I am very glad to see you again.” 

“Likewise, Daeron,” Fingolfin said with a smile. “I hope you will grace us with a performance before your visit is over.”

“Certainly!”

“I do regret, though, that Maglor is not here.”

“As do I, my lord,” Daeron said, though not quite truthfully, as Fëanor approached a few steps behind Fingolfin. If Maglor had been there he would have been half-frozen, torn between wanting to flee and not wanting to draw attention to himself by doing so. 

“Daeron, here is my brother Fëanáro, son of Finwë, Prince of the Noldor,” Fingolfin said, turning to place his hand on Fëanor’s shoulder—a gesture of friendship, Daeron was interested to see. He’d heard the tales of their reconciliation and the peace it had brought to the Noldor at last, but had not been able to tell from them whether it extended to real affection. “Fëanáro, this is Daeron, once of Doriath—accounted the mightiest singer of the Eldar.” Daeron bowed. 

“I had thought,” Fëanor said with a smile that did not reach his eyes, “that my son Macalaurë held that distinction.”

“You’ll have to take that up with the historians and record keepers,” Daeron said with a brighter smile of his own. “They all like to put my name first, though I’m not sure most of them have heard either one of us, let alone enough of both to be able to compare.” 

Fingolfin was called away, but Fëanor lingered. “I have seen your face before,” he said after a moment, “but we have not met.”

“No, we haven’t,” Daeron agreed, not trying to hide his surprise, “and I cannot imagine where you might have seen my likeness. It is not usually my face for which I am remembered.”

“Ah,” Fëanor said softly, as his gaze searched Daeron’s face. “I know it now. It was the tapestry.”

“Tapestry?” 

“In Mandos. You know, of course, that all the tale of the world is shown woven upon the walls there?”

“I do know,” Daeron said, and allowed his smile to sharpen just a little, for it never hurt to remind the proud Noldor that the Sindar were not lacking in wisdom of their own. “I have been the student of Melian, who taught all of us much that was also shared here with you by the Valar. She herself wove some of those same events into the tapestries that lined the walls of Menegroth.”

Abruptly, Fëanor shifted the subject back to other histories. “Are they true, the tales and songs? Are you the mightier singer?”

Daeron shrugged. “Perhaps. I do not know whether Maglor or I would be the best ones to judge our own power. Besides, what does it matter?”

“Does it not matter to reach mastery in your chosen craft?”

“I have found, at least when it comes to music, that there is no such thing as full mastery. There is always something new to learn, there is always change. I have traveled widely, and grown in both knowledge and skill all throughout my life, and I expect I will continue to do so. There are always new styles, new instruments, new languages and ways of thinking about music. Maglor and I have spoken of this a great deal, and he is in agreement. If you want to be successful as a musician, though, talent and technical skill matter far less than love for the art. I would rather listen to a beginner fumble every other note but who brings the joy of all their spirit into the song than to someone who plays flawlessly but without passion. I know that I have both in abundance—skill and passion—and so what do I care for competition? I did not go to the Mereth Aderthad to measure myself against Maglor. I went hoping to find rather a kindred spirit.”

“And did you?” Fëanor asked. He regarded Daeron with something like curiosity, and something else Daeron couldn’t quite identify. He didn’t particularly like it. He had grown used to being able to read the faces of Maglor and all of his brothers, who were so often open even when they tried not to be. Fëanor was much less so, though his presence was impossible to ignore, the fire of his spirit burning brightly enough to turn every eye in the room even when he might not be trying. Daeron could understand how his people had followed him into darkness and danger, how that light in his eyes could brighten into something brilliant and irresistible—if you did not know any better. Daeron could see echoes of Maglor in Fëanor’s face, but Maglor’s warmth was of a different kind, his features softer and less bold—partly because that was just how he was, and partly because of wearing upon him of the long years of his exile and later captivity. Daeron found he much preferred the gentle candle flame of Maglor’s spirit to the forge fire of Fëanor’s, which felt like a warning, something to avoid instead of approach.

“I did,” Daeron said. “Our friendship was short-lived, then, but we have found it very easy to pick up where we left off.” He did not intend to say more, not to Fëanor. He had spoken to Curufin of discretion, but he truly didn’t think Maglor would want his father to know anything of this part of his life; and in any case Daeron did not trust Fëanor not to try to interfere somehow, regardless of the promises he had made. “But I am very curious, my lord—in what tapestry did you see my face, in Mandos? I would not have thought the history of Doriath to be of much interest to you.” At least, not until the Silmaril came there—and Daeron had been long gone by then. 

“It was not of Doriath. It was of the last ship to depart from the havens. You stood beside my son; he was watching the coastline. You were watching him.”

Vairë, Daeron thought as he made sure his face betrayed nothing but curiosity, saw and wove more than she should. “We both watched the shores recede, until they were lost to us,” he said quietly. “I do not regret coming west, but it meant leaving the lands of my birth, and it will always be a grief to me. Maglor, too, mourns the loss of them. He lived much longer in Middle-earth than he did here.” Fëanor looked away, which Daeron had not expected. He hadn’t meant to wound, only to state a fact. Maglor’s long exile had begun in despair, but in spite of the loneliness and the grief he had found contentment, even happiness, among the sands and the stones of Middle-earth’s shores—in the Sea, too, and its ever-changing music. They had talked of almost everything in their lives over the weeks they had traveled together and the many months they’d spent afterward in Imloth Ningloron, and whenever Maglor spoke of those coasts it was with wistfulness. He missed them, and would miss them forever—the same way that Daeron would forever miss the beeches of Neldoreth and the shaded pathways of Region, and the enchanted music of the Esgalduin where he had first learned to really hear and understand the Music of the world, and what it might tell him of what had been, what was, and what might be.

Aloud he said, “It had been a very long time since Maglor and I had last met. I was glad to find a friend aboard the ship.”

“Was he?”

“Glad to see me?” Daeron smiled, glad for the chance to change the mood of the conversation, and perhaps to find a way out of it. “I think so—or else he has been very polite about it ever since!” He glanced toward where he had last seen Mablung, and spotted him speaking with Fingon and Turgon. “Ah, my cousin beckons. It was a pleasure to meet you at last, Lord Fëanor.” He bowed just deeply enough to be perfectly correct and polite, and slipped away before Fëanor could say anything to stop him, and joined himself to Mablung’s conversation, glad to at least be among familiar faces. They were talking of horse racing, of which Daeron had no opinions and less interest. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Fëanor retreat across the room until he was swallowed by the crowds. 

As Turgon was called away by his wife to join the dancing, Fingon turned to Daeron. “I saw you speaking to my uncle,” he said. “What do you make of him?”

“I really don’t know,” Daeron said, too caught off guard by the sudden question to think of anything more polite. Mablung laughed, but Fingon only looked sympathetic. “I’ve heard so many different things, and yet he seems in person different again.”

“I think he was trying to take your measure, too, and from the look on his face you seem to have frustrated him greatly.”

“Have I? Good.” Daeron laughed as Mablung snorted into his wine glass. “I would hate to be so easy to decipher.”

“It’s known that you lived for a few years in Imloth Ningloron,” Fingon added, a little more seriously, “but Elrond and his people have been very closed-mouthed about anything to do with Maglor, you know. Hardly any rumors have come to Tirion; I myself only get news from Galadriel, if I’m lucky.”

“Well, Maglor hasn’t been there for several years now,” Daeron said.

“Yes, I know—but I mean even before he and Maedhros left for Lórien. So, I think my uncle is horribly curious about what you were doing there at the same time as Maglor, but he can’t come out and say so because he’s also horribly determined not to ask any questions.”

Admirable of him, in a way. “Well, my friendship with Maglor is our own business, not his. I suppose he must get used to not being able to spy on everyone through the tapestries of Mandos, as the dead are apparently wont to do.” That made Fingon laugh. “Honestly, it seems terribly unfair that the living to not get to see them as the dead do.”

“Mandos is the only place they will all fit,” Fingon said. “That’s what I think, anyway. Some of the more important scenes are depicted upon Taniquetil.”

“And if one’s interest lies in the unimportant scenes, I suppose one is just out of luck.”

“There are vanishingly few with such an interest, I think,” Fingon said, “or at least you are the first to express it to me. You might like to speak to Lady Míriel. I think she is around here somewhere.”

“She was speaking to Thingol a few minutes ago,” said Mablung. “Daeron, you remember her, do you not? She used to come sometimes with Finwë when he visited our camps.”

“I might if I saw her again,” said Daeron. He’d paid very little attention to the strangers that came and went between the camps when he was young; usually there was something far more interesting, like a small animal or a stream to explore, that had held his attention. 

“Camps?” Fingon repeated, startled. 

“On the Great Journey,” Mablung said. 

“I did not know either of you were old enough to have taken part,” Fingon said. “My grandfather used to tell us stories—you must have many of your own.”

“I was still very young when we came into Beleriand,” Daeron said. “All of my stories are of Mablung throwing me over his shoulder so I didn’t wander off into trouble, and my aunt or uncle scolding me afterward.” Fingon laughed and Mablung smiled, and after a few minutes more Daeron excused himself, at last managing to go speak to the musicians. That was a much more pleasant and uncomplicated conversation, and by the time he made his way to bed Daeron felt a little steadier. Meeting Fëanor had thrown him off balance in unexpected ways. He could not decide what he thought, beyond a somewhat more decided dislike, and he understood a little better why Maglor too had had so much trouble putting his own feelings in order. It was some small consolation to know that he had apparently a similar effect upon Fëanor, too. But he really did not like that Fëanor had seen something of him in that tapestry, that Vairë, or whoever had made it, had seen fit to show some hint of what he had thought was known only to himself in that moment, in the most private depths of his heart.

Sleep was slow in coming. The bed felt too big and empty. Daeron lay and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, humming quiet songs to himself, wondering what Maglor was doing at that moment. Sleeping, most likely, for it was late—and sleep was what Daeron always imagined people did when they went to Lórien. It couldn’t be all they did, but when one spoke of Estë or of Irmo, one spoke of rest and dreams. He sighed and closed his eyes, wishing such things would come more swiftly to him. 

They did, eventually, but his dreams that night were not quiet. He found himself back on the steppes east of Rhûn, fleeing an ambush by the armies of Mordor—not orcs, but Men, under the direction of the warlords that served Sauron as lieutenants and captains in the east, while he focused his gaze upon the west. In reality, Daeron had often been able to sing songs of madness and confusion to disperse the enemy so he and his own companions could escape into the vast hills and tall grasses, but always in dreams he was struck dumb, unable even to open his mouth, and often he found himself separated from the others, left alone to flee with no real direction and only blind panic to drive him. In this dream arrows fell around him like rain—

And then abruptly the dream changed, and he was lost in the shadowy trees of Nan Elmoth as a youth, one of many searching for Elu Thingol. Only when he opened his mouth to call out it was Maglor’s name on his lips, for it was Maglor that was lost. The panic returned as Daeron wandered in circles, tripping over roots, low-hanging branches tangling in his hair. In the distance he heard a voice, faint and so full of grief that it broke his own heart, but he could never get any closer, could never find him. 

He woke with a gasp, twisted in the blankets, and reached out before he remembered where he was, and that of course the bed was empty. Maglor was not there. 

There had been several occasions on which Maglor had woken Daeron with his own dreams, thrashing in his sleep or, on one memorable night in Nerdanel’s house, kicking him as he flailed his way out of the bed. Daeron had found a nasty bruise on his shin later—it had looked much worse than it felt—and had been careful to hide it, since Maglor had been so distressed. Daeron had told him then that one day it would be his turn to wake them both up in the dark watches of the night from some nightmare or other. It had been to make Maglor feel better, to make sure he knew that he was not alone in being at times haunted by the past and its horrors, but the thought of waking up with someone right there to offer comfort had been equally reassuring to Daeron himself. Such nights were very rare for him, but the effects of them always lingered long into the next day. 

He really had thought that he’d next wake up from such a nightmare to Maglor’s voice whispering his name, to Maglor’s hands on his face or in his hair, to the warmth of him, and his eyes shining so softly in the moonlight or the starlight that came through the window, lit from within by ancient Treelight. But of course that was not the case. He was alone and in a room strange to him, the furniture in all the wrong places and the shadows all the wrong shapes. It was too quiet; the window was fastened tight against the winter cold, and the fire had burned low, down to coals. Daeron caught his breath and sat up. When he wiped a hand over his cheeks it came away damp. It took some fumbling to find the lamp by the bed, but at a touch it flared to life, soft yellow, chasing away the shadows. Daeron pulled on a robe and went to the hearth to put more wood on the fire. Once it was burning more cheerfully he went to the window to part the curtains and peer outside. In Taur-en-Gellam his window looked out over an open space in the wood, filled with sunlight or with moonlight, and in summer filled with flowers and laughter. In Imloth Ningloron Maglor’s windows opened over gardens, for the whole house was surrounded by them, full of roses and lilacs and too many others to count. This window looked out over the city, high enough that even if there were a garden below, Daeron was too high to appreciate it. He leaned against the frigid glass and contemplated the lights scattered throughout Tirion, which lay mostly in darkness. There was no moon, and as he watched it began to snow, flakes whirling down past the window. He left it and returned to the hearth, curling up on the soft rug and watching the flames dance. 

Mablung found him there in the morning. “Daeron? What’s the matter?”

Daeron sighed. “Nothing. Just—dreams.”

“What happened?” Mablung sat down beside him. “Did someone say something last night…?”

“No. There is never any rhyme or reason for them.” Daeron tried to summon a smile, but couldn’t do it. “I’m afraid I will not be fit for company today.”

“I don’t think you will be needed. What do you say to exploring the city?”

Daeron would have liked to return to bed, but he knew from long experience that Mablung’s idea was the better one—and anyway, it was not an empty bed that he really wanted to return to. “All right. Just—do not expect me to be very merry.”

“What sort of dreams were these, Daeron? I do not like this mood.”

He shook his head. “Just…memories mixed with old fears. They always linger afterward, but by this evening I will return to myself.” He got to his feet. “You don’t need to worry, Mablung.”

“Too late for that.” Mablung embraced him, holding tightly. Daeron sighed, leaning against him, missing Maglor keenly and feeling guilty for it. He had his cousin and dearest friend right there, and Maglor was exactly where he needed to be. It wasn’t fair to anyone to dwell on his absence so. “You’re sure this will pass, Daeron?”

“It always does.” Every time it felt as though it wouldn’t, but Daeron knew better than to trust such feelings. He dressed, choosing his warmest clothes, and tucked Maglor’s pendant again under his shirt against his chest. As he brushed and plaited his hair he hummed a few snatches of their song they’d written for Ekkaia, but it did not bring much comfort.

Outside they found it still snowing. Little had accumulated yet, but the streets were full of children running about in delight, scooping up handfuls to fling at one another. Mablung kept an arm around Daeron’s shoulders as they walked, offering warmth as well as comfort; he had been to Tirion before, and knew its ways a little. They explored the streets of shops and bakeries, the air fragrant with baking bread and sugar and spices. They bought two sweet pastries for breakfast, flaky and buttery, delicate enough to melt on Daeron’s tongue, and ate them as they walked, Mablung pointing out landmarks he remembered from previous visits. The food and the brisk air revived Daeron a little, enough to ask questions and make remarks that Mablung could laugh at. He was not quite himself by the time a messenger caught up to them from Thingol, requesting Mablung’s return to the palace, but he felt well enough to wave Mablung away. “I’m going to keep wandering a bit,” he said. 

“Don’t get lost!” Mablung said as he turned away.

There was little fear of that. All he had to do was point himself back toward the Mindon Eldaliéva if he found himself turned around. It rose up as a great silver spire, unmistakable and impossible to miss. Daeron pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and set off again, wandering through streets of shops of various kinds, through parks bare now with the winter and seeming to be drained of all color by the snow and the pale clouds overhead, but for the butterfly-bright cloaks and coats of the Noldor going to and fro about their business. It was bustling and lively and he found his mood continuing to lift, bit by bit, as he passed through. Tirion on a bright snowy day was so different from the dark woods of Nan Elmoth or the empty plains of the east.

He stopped in one such park by a small pond that had frozen over, to watch children slip and slide over it, giggling and shrieking as they flailed. After a little while he glimpsed someone approaching him, and looked up to see both Curufin and Celebrimbor. “Good morning, Daeron!” Celebrimbor said with a smile. “How are you finding Tirion?”

“It’s quite lovely under the fresh fallen snow,” Daeron said.

“I hope my father did not ask too many pointed questions last evening,” Curufin said. “He told me that he had seen you before, and wouldn’t believe me when I insisted that was impossible.”

“He said that it was in a tapestry in Mandos,” Daeron said. “It’s quite startling to learn one’s face adorns those walls, I must confess.” 

“It’s even more startling to see your own face there,” Celebrimbor remarked wryly. “Whatever did he see you doing?”

“Sailing away from Middle-earth in Maglor’s company,” Daeron said. “I think your father feels rather insulted on his behalf, to have all the histories proclaim me the mightier singer.” Curufin rolled his eyes. “I never have understood why everyone thinks it so important.”

“Pride, I think,” Celebrimbor said. 

“I’m sorry,” Curufin added. “He is trying to be better.”

“Oh, it’s all right.” Daeron managed to summon a proper smile. “I think I puzzled him greatly, and it seemed to me that he doesn’t quite like being puzzled. Therefore I count the evening a success—and I have satisfied my own curiosity about him, at least a little.” 

“He likes a puzzle,” Celebrimbor said with a grin, “but only the kind he can solve. You may be beyond him, Daeron.”

“I hope so!”

A pair of children went sliding by, shrieking and laughing as they either tried to keep one another standing on the ice or tried to push the other over—it was, in typical childhood fashion, not clear. Once their piercing voices had faded a little Curufin asked, “Have you had any word from Lórien?”

“No, none. I don’t really expect to, but I of course don’t really know what to expect. Have you?”

“No,” Curufin said, shaking his head.

“I think it is easy to lose track of time in Lórien,” Celebrimbor said. “It isn’t that no one ever sends messages, but they are not often timely.”

“No news if often good news, from Lórien,” Curufin added. “Are you well, Daeron? You do not seem quite yourself this morning.”

Daeron wanted to say yes, of course, or at least only tired, for it was a long evening, but what came out was, “I miss him.” His eyes stung suddenly, and he had to blink several times to keep his vision clear. 

“So do we,” Curufin said softly. Then, in a more normal tone, “It’s very cold—should you be returning to the palace, or can you spend the day with us? I sent a message to Caranthir this morning; I don’t know if he will come, but he may surprise us.”

“I would like that,” Daeron said, “though I have no idea if I will be needed later today.”

“I doubt you will be needed,” Celebrimbor said. “It is a time of festival, whatever the great and powerful do with their mornings. Trade talks or something, I think. You have no part in that, and no can force you to attend all the feasts and dances and things, except maybe on Midwinter night itself.”

“Trade talks or something,” Curufin repeated, teasing, as the three of them turned away from the pond toward a part of the city Daeron had not yet visited, “as though you’ve never taken part in such things yourself, Tyelpë.”

“Not for a very long time!” Celebrimbor laughed. “And I hated it even then! Why do you think I asked Galadriel to come to Eregion with me? She could run the city while I made pretty baubles with my friends, and everyone was very happy with the arrangement.” 

Curufin and Celebrimbor lived in a neighborhood full of workshops interspersed between the houses; Daeron could smell the forges, and he saw several woodworkers busy with their tools, and potters and sculptors too, through windows lit from within by soft lamplight and warm firelight. Nearly everyone they passed greeted Curufin and Celebrimbor cheerfully, or with a question about some project or other. A great deal of collaboration went on in the neighborhood, it seemed. All the houses were painted bright colors, and many of the windows were of stained glass. In the summertime the trees that lined the street would provide plenty of shade, and the gardens and window boxes would be bright with flowers and fruits. Daeron thought he would still prefer to dwell in a forest-city after the manner of his own people, or in a smaller community like the one Elrond and Celebrían had established in their valley—but he quite liked this neighborhood. It was a warm and cheerful place even with the snow still coming down. 

Rundamírë, Curufin’s wife, as a slender woman with sharp features and very bright green eyes. She had ink stains on her fingers and on her sleeves, but did not seem bothered to be called away from her work in mixing inks and pigments and paints. Curufin boasted that she was the best in Tirion, and she smacked him lightly on the shoulder, though she smiled and did not protest. And while Curufin told Fëanor very little about Daeron or about his brothers, it was soon very clear that whatever Curufin knew, Rundamírë knew also, and she asked a few teasingly pointed questions about Daeron’s relationship to Maglor. He was able to smile and answer them with enough cheerfulness to, he hoped, dispel any suspicions of a continuing low mood. He would have expected that talking of Maglor would make the heartache worse, but somehow it didn’t—it eased it instead, knowing that he was with others who missed him just as keenly.

The day passed pleasantly, and in the middle of the afternoon Caranthir arrived, pink-cheeked from the cold and with snow in his hair. “Hello, Daeron!” he said as he joined them in the cozy parlor, where a fire roared on the hearth. Rundamírë had made mulled wine, and rose to fetch a goblet for Caranthir, who accepted the warm drink gratefully. “What brings you to Tirion this winter?”

“Your king invited mine,” Daeron said with a smile, “and I could not pass up the opportunity to finally visit.”

“I did tell you Elu Thingol was coming,” Curufin said as Caranthir sat down beside him. 

“I don’t remember. Any other bits of news I’ve missed or ignored?” Caranthir asked. 

“Daeron met Atya last night.”

“Oh?” Caranthir peered at Daeron over the rim of his goblet. “How did that go?”

“I think we both rather puzzled each other,” Daeron said. 

“Oh, he won’t like that.”

“Good,” Rundamírë said briskly. “A puzzle he cannot solve will do him good.”

“And it will amuse me very much, at least,” Daeron added. Caranthir laughed. It was certainly an improvement from when Daeron had last seen him—none of Fëanor’s sons had been able to laugh about him, then. “Have you seen him, Caranthir?”

“Me? No.” Caranthir shook his head. “I’m quite happy for us to avoid each other as we have been, but I am equally happy to hear about him being put off balance. What did he say to you?”

“Apparently he tried to insinuate that Daeron does not deserve the distinction of mightiest singer,” Celebrimbor said. 

“I think what baffled him most was when I said I didn’t care,” Daeron said. 

Caranthir made a face that was equal parts wry and pained. “Does he know about you and Maglor?” he asked.

“He might suspect something. I think Vairë weaves more into her tapestries than is strictly necessary.” That made Celebrimbor snort into his wine and then curse when some went up his nose. “I’m certainly not going to give him the satisfaction of either confirmation or denial. It’s far more amusing to watch him wonder.”

“I hope you know I’ll pay the price for it,” Curufin said mildly. “He’ll be asking me a thousand questions after you leave.”

“You can tell him whatever you like. It’s no secret, even if Maglor would likely prefer he not know much.”

“Oh, I don’t mind the questions; they’ll all be ones he’s asked before, anyway, except about you instead of Cáno. I don’t think he’ll try to interfere.”

“Are you sure?” Caranthir asked.

“Well, not entirely, but what’s he going to do? Maglor is away and Daeron will be returning to Taur-en-Gellam in a few weeks—not to mention he’s a member of Thingol’s court. Even Atya understands the need for manners.” 

“That only means Daeron will dance circles around him,” Celebrimbor said, having caught his breath and wiped his face, “being of the two more in practice in courtly manners.”

“He must be out of practice indeed, then,” said Daeron. “I spent years among the nomadic rebels of Rhûn, remember—there was no call for anything courtly there. I can get away with ignoring such things now, usually, being one of Thingol’s favorites—and being myself, I suppose, since people often expect me to be rather eccentric anyway.”

The conversation drifted away from Fëanor after that. Daeron would not have expected to feel as at home among Maglor’s brothers as he did without Maglor himself there, but he was glad to find it so, and as it grew late it was with great reluctance that he realized he should return to the palace before Mablung gathered together a search party for him. 

“I’ll walk back with you,” said Celebrimbor. “It’s sometimes easy to get turned around.”

“Come back again if you find the time,” Rundamírë told him as he settled his cloak about his shoulders. 

“I will, thank you.” Daeron smiled at her and bowed over her hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Rundamírë.”

“Oh, I’m no lady these days—and we are practically family, aren’t we? There’s no need to bother with bows and titles.” She kissed his cheek. “Farewell for now, Daeron.”

The snow had stopped, but the clouds remained, hiding the stars and moon. All of Tirion was lit with lamps of many colors and sizes, and even in the evening it was bustling. “It isn’t usually so busy,” Celebrimbor said as they dodged out of the way of an impromptu procession full of drums and singing and dancing. “There are many Noldor who have not come back to dwell here.”

“I’ve heard,” Daeron said. 

“Are you really all right?” Celebrimbor asked. “You did seem unlike yourself this morning.”

“It was only a difficult night. A very rare occurrence for me, thankfully, but rather ill-timed.” Daeron drew his hood up against a sudden gust of frigid wind. “It does not help to wake in a strange bed after uncomfortable dreams.”

“No,” Celebrimbor agreed. “Is there anything we can do?”

“You’ve already done it.”

The rest of the visit went smoothly. Daeron did not speak to Fëanor alone again, but he made friends with other musicians, teaching them a handful of his songs in exchange for several of theirs. On Midwinter night he was called upon to perform before the court, which he had expected and prepared for. He chose a handful of his own songs, and a few others that Maglor had written—that he had written in Rivendell and since coming West, that had not been heard in Tirion before; Daeron wasn’t even sure they would be recognized as Maglor’s, but it eased his own heart a little to sing them under the same roof where Maglor himself had once delighted his grandfather’s court. 

In between he visited Curufin’s house twice more, and was shown all around the city by both Curufin and Caranthir, who lingered to spend the holiday with his brother and nephew. Nerdanel also came to Tirion for the holiday and greeted Daeron with just as much warmth as she greeted her sons, and he was able to introduce her to his aunt and uncle, and to Mablung. He was both pleased and relieved to see Lacheryn and Nerdanel take to one another immediately, a friendship quickly taking root. He also saw Nerdanel and Fëanor dance together on another evening, though there was something cool in the way they interacted even though they smiled to see each other.

On the last full day of the visit, Daeron ventured into the library in the palace, an enormous room with shelves reaching to the vaulted ceiling, which was painted with many strange and wondrous scenes. He sat for a while looking up at it, wondering how one went about painting a ceiling like that. So focused on one scene—a hunt, it seemed to be, rendered in such detail that he thought it would take far more than a few hours to appreciate them all—was he that he failed to notice that he was no longer alone. “Do you not like the paintings?” Daeron started and turned to see Fëanor regarding him with something like faint amusement. He had a book in his hands, and leaned against one of the freestanding shelves. It was impossible to say how long he had been there. “You have been scowling at the ceiling for some time.”

“Scowling? Surely not,” Daeron said, smiling as he got to his feet. “I have been admiring them, though I confess I have also been wondering how one goes about painting such a high ceiling.”

“Much scaffolding, and a great deal of paint dripping onto one’s face in the process,” Fëanor said, smiling a little. “We practiced on the undersides of tables for months before tackling the real thing.”

“Oh, is that your work? It’s beautiful.”

“Mine among many others. Thank you.”

“All of Tirion is beautiful,” Daeron ventured after a pause that swiftly grew uncomfortable. “I heard many songs sung of it in Middle-earth, and I am glad to have gotten the chance at last to see it up close.”

“It is very different now,” said Fëanor. “Its glory crested under the Trees.”

“Mm, the Noontide of Valinor, yes?”

“So it is called,” Fëanor said, and Daeron thought of Maglor’s own words: The Noontide of Valinor, they call it now, though when we were living it, it was just…the present, with no end in sight until the end suddenly came. 

Fëanor went on, “And while we lived in the light of the Trees, you dwelt under the stars beyond the Sea.”

“Yes. I learned my craft underneath their silver fires by the banks of the Esgalduin. Your city is greatly changed, perhaps, but Doriath lies now far beneath the waves of Belegaer.”

“I am sorry.”

“So am I.” Daeron glanced up again, toward the paintings, wondering how the Treelight had slanted through the large windows, how it had illuminated the paints, and whether the sunlight could compare. “The stars still shine, though,” he said, “and since the rising of Anor and Ithil we have the delight of moonbeams, and the glory of sunrises and sunsets—and we have a remnant of Treelight still, thanks to your work.” He looked back to Fëanor and smiled at the look of surprise on his face. “Even in the lands so far east that your name is unknown, the light of your Silmaril shines and brings great joy and great hope to all who see it. Many songs are sung of it.”

“You have traveled very far, it seems,” Fëanor said, and there was something almost wistful in the way he said it. It was not, maybe, all pride and rage and vengeance that had once called him eastward. 

“I have. I never found my way back to Cuiviénen, but I have known many peoples of the Avari, who have cities and realms of their own, and who have fought their own wars and battles against the Shadow. Men, too, I have known and lived among, and fought with against that same Shadow.”

“What brought you west again?”

“It was time.”

“So was it chance that brought you aboard the same ship as my son?”

Ah, there it was. “It was,” Daeron said. 

“Happy chance,” Fëanor said. His eyes were suddenly sharp and keen. Daeron met them, curious. “That is a lovely token of his affection that you wear, Daeron of Doriath.”

Daeron’s hand went to his pendant, the wood smooth and warm under his fingers. He’d forgotten that he’d chosen to wear it openly that day. “It is lovely,” he agreed.

“It seems remarkable to me that you, of all people, should seek out my sons for friendship, and yet you’ve spent more time in Curufinwë and Morifinwë’s company on this visit than you have here, though you came as part of Elu Thingol’s party.”

“I’ve done my duty to my king,” Daeron said, “but I came along because I wanted to see Tirion, not because I was under any obligation—and, yes, I did come also to visit with any of your sons that happened to be here. I enjoy their company, and Maglor’s most of all. I do not feel, however, that I owe you any explanations or justifications.” It had been fun while it lasted, watching Fëanor watch him and try to puzzle him out, but Daeron would be leaving in the morning and he found himself abruptly tired of games. “It can be no concern of yours, with whom Maglor chooses to spend his time.”

Fëanor’s jaw tightened, and he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and deliberately. “Maglor is my son,” he said, quietly and evenly. “His wellbeing will always be my concern.”

“That will certainly be news to him,” Daeron said, and watched Fëanor’s grip on his book tighten, knuckles going white. “For myself, I have no wish for enmity between us—”

“Do you not?” 

“—but that matters little, for in this rift between yourself and Maglor, I stand at his side.”

“You told me yourself your friendship was short-lived, and yet now you presume to come, almost a stranger, laying claim to things you have no right—”

“I am far less a stranger to him now than you are. Do you think I wear this token of his without having given anything in return? You have no idea what has passed between Maglor and me,” Daeron snapped. 

“And you,” Fëanor snapped back, “can have no idea what has passed between Maglor and me.”

“I know very well what it did to him, coming here to find you waiting for him beyond all expectation—I found him on the road only days after he left you in Imloth Ningloron. I know what it looks like when he wakes up from dark dreams unable to remember where he is, rendered nearly speechless with fear, and I have wiped away the countless, bitter tears he has shed, and seen how the light in his eyes has dimmed, heard how his voice has faltered when he tries to sing, or how his fingers have grown at times clumsy over the strings of his harp, his heart broken and aching because of you. These are the fruits of the seeds you planted in poisoned soil long ago. It says something of you, I suppose, that you have begun to learn how to care for your children again—but it is much too little far too late, and you certainly have no right now to question my intentions.”

Daeron left the library then, before he said something else he could not take back, before Fëanor could say anything in reply. He would be leaving Tirion, but it was Curufin and Celebrimbor who would have to suffer the consequences of his words. 

No one stopped him as he made his way back to his rooms to fetch his cloak, or when he left the palace—it had been his plan to spend the afternoon and evening at Curufin’s house anyway, foregoing the last feast in favor of a cozier and more friendly dinner. He arrived early, but found Curufin and Rundamírë at home, and Caranthir and Celebrimbor arrived just on his heels. “What happened?” Caranthir asked immediately, frowning at Daeron as they all shrugged out of their cloaks and coats. 

“I had words with your father,” Daeron said with a sigh. 

“I told you,” Curufin said to Celebrimbor, who made a face. To Daeron he added, “It was only a matter of time, really. I know I said he would try not to interfere, but I think I underestimated just how the puzzle of you would bother him. Atya wasn’t going to let you leave Tirion without at least trying to discover what your connection to Maglor really is—and he wasn’t going to ask us, because we’ve both made it clear we won’t speak of him.”

“Well, he knows now,” Daeron said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Caranthir said. 

“Whatever you said,” Rundamírë added, as they all sat down by the fire, “I’m sure he deserved.” 

“Oh, I’m not sorry for him,” Daeron said, “but you, Curufin, will have to deal with his poor mood after I am gone.” 

“Whatever you said, I’m sure it’s also nothing I have not said myself,” Curufin said with a shrug. “I love my father, but we’ve had our share of arguments since we both came back to Tirion. Some have been ugly.”

“You’ve never mentioned that,” Caranthir said, startled.

“I thought it was a given. Nothing about this is easy—coming back, moving forward. The difference is I will argue with him now—and most of the time he will even listen to what I say. But it frustrates him that there are things I won’t share; he is worried about the rest of you—Nelyo and Cáno most of all. He’d be worried about Tyelko too if he knew he’d gone off into the western wilds again.”

“Did he not tell you where he was going?” Daeron asked. 

“Not me,” Caranthir said. “He just said he needed distance to try to sort himself out.”

“Do you know?” Celebrimbor asked. 

“He came to me this spring, before he left for the west,” Daeron said. “I think I gave him the idea. He’s gone to Nienna.”

“Tyelko, to Nienna?” Curufin’s eyebrows rose. “You must have said something remarkable, Daeron.” Daeron shrugged. “Well, I hope he has found her, and that he comes back less angry.”

“Let us speak of something more cheerful than Nienna’s halls or Fëanáro’s foolishness,” Rundamírë said. “I remember when we were first courting, Curufinwë, your brothers told me all sorts of silly and embarrassing stories of you. Has anyone given that same gift to Daeron?” That made both Curufin and Caranthir laugh, and Daeron was treated to many tales of their youth over the course of the afternoon and through dinner. He was in a much fairer mood by the time he departed for the palace again. 

“You don’t have to wait for festivals or royal visits to come back, you know,” Celebrimbor said.

“I’ll remember. I would extend an invitation in return, but…” Thingol would welcome them, but there were many in Taur-en-Gellam who wouldn’t, at least not yet. 

“Maybe someday. Here.” Caranthir pressed a small paper packet into Daeron’s hand. “Plant these, come spring.”

“What are they?”

“Flowers—and where is the fun in telling you more than that?” 

It snowed again the next morning, adding another soft layer to the drifts already coating the city. Daeron’s breath made clouds before him as he sat in his saddle waiting for the great and powerful to finish saying their farewells. He glanced around the courtyard, and spotted Curufin and Celebrimbor, who both smiled at him. He happened to meet Fëanor’s gaze as well a few minutes later. Daeron was not going to look away first. Fëanor seemed equally determined, but someone spoke to him and and he had to turn his head. 

“What was that about?” Mablung murmured to Daeron as they at last departed. “I thought you wished to make a good impression on Maglor’s family.”

“I have made a good impression on his family,” Daeron said. Mablung gave him a deeply skeptical look. “On all of his family members for whom it is important, anyway.”

“You think Fëanor not important? He is still Finwë’s eldest son, brother of the High King, whatever titles of his own he has given up.”

“I care not for any of that.”

“You must care, at least a little. Do not make enemies where you do not have to, Daeron.”

“If he thinks me an enemy that is his own affair,” Daeron said. “It will do him no favors in attempting to mend the rift between himself and his sons. I met suspicion with indignation, as I think anyone might in my place.” It still rankled, the accusation of being a stranger to Maglor, when Fëanor himself knew so little. He missed Maglor so keenly in that moment that it was suddenly hard to breathe, and he fell silent, gritting his teeth. Mablung shook his head, but did not try to engage him again. 

Aside from that unfortunate encounter with Fëanor, Daeron thought he could count the visit a success. Certainly Thingol did—and it seemed that Fëanor had also kept quiet about their meeting in the library, since no one but Mablung asked Daeron any pointed questions. Once they were home Daeron threw himself back into his music, his songwriting and his teaching, and into recording all the stories and histories that anyone had told him. He began a chronicle of all he had learned in the east, as well—of the great cities of the Avari that he had seen and of their deeds and songs, dreams and hopes, and of their languages and how they had shifted and changed over the years, just as Sindarin and Quenya and other dialects had in the west. He wrote of Men, too, of the Easterlings that had defied the Dark Lord and fought as hard as any in Gondor and Rohan and Eriador for their freedom. Of himself he wrote very little, for he had done little enough worth writing about, except to listen and witness and bring those tales into the West. 

Spring came, and Daeron gathered planter boxes and flowerpots to set around his balcony, where he planted the seeds that Caranthir had given him, alongside a others—strawberries and daisies, blue violets and forget-me-nots, ivy to twine about the railing, and a small rose bush with vibrant red blossoms that perfumed the air sweetly. It turned his balcony into a small and lush oasis where he could sit among the flowers with his writing or one of his instruments. He watched the seeds grow with increasing curiosity. 

They bloomed into asters, soft purple with warm yellow centers.

Daeron had picked a hair clip for Maglor, silver with purple enamel flowers—asters—out of a market stall in Avallónë, thinking then only that it was pretty, and that Maglor needed to stop letting his hair fall into his face. Of course, Maglor did it on purpose—but he’d still worn the clip afterward, when he stopped hiding himself from Daeron. It was not something made by Daeron’s own hands, but it had been the first tentative step either of them had taken. Later, Maglor had inlaid a purple aster into the mallorn-wood pendant he’d made for Daeron in return. Daeron picked a handful of the asters and pressed them carefully, tucked into pieces of folded paper on which he wrote runes for freshness and color and preservation. He sent one with a note of thanks to Caranthir, who replied promptly with a longer letter talking of his brothers and his garden—and thus they began a regular correspondence, something else Daeron could look forward to.

Spring wound on, and Daeron began preparing his young songbirds for the Midsummer festivities. In the middle of a rehearsal on a bright and sunny afternoon Pirineth suddenly laughed and pointed over Daeron’s shoulder. “Master Daeron, look! I think that bird has something for you.” 

Daeron turned to find a meadowlark perched on a branch just at his eye level, a folded slip of paper in its beak, its yellow breast bright as a daffodil in the late spring sunshine. “So he does!” Daeron said, laughing himself as he held out his hand. The meadowlark hopped onto his fingers, and released the paper when he reached for it. “Do not fly away yet,” he murmured, “for I may want to send a reply…” He unfolded it and his breath caught at the sight of a familiar and beloved hand. 

Daeron,

It is impossible to count even the seasons here—this may be a horribly tardy message, and if so I am very sorry. You’ve been much in my thoughts, especially these last few days, and so I just wanted to assure you I am well, and to tell you that I love you, and I miss you desperately. I hope all is well with you, my love.

Maglor

“Master Daeron, is everything all right?” one of the children asked.

“Oh, yes!” he said, turning to smile at them. “Why don’t we take a short break? Don’t go too far—I’ll call you back in a few minutes!” The children scattered, giggling, and he went to find a spare piece of paper to write a reply. He had nothing to say except an echo of what Maglor himself had written, but he added a short stanza and music for a song he had begun writing about the mallorn trees. The meadowlark waited patiently until Daeron folded his note, kissed it, and held it out. “Take this back to Maglor, please? Thank you very much, master lark.” The bird nipped at his fingers gently before taking the paper and flying away again. Daeron watched until it vanished beyond the trees into the blue summer sky, Maglor’s note pressed against his chest over his heart. 

Chapter End Notes

All OC names and the name of the river Helethir come from Chestnut's List!

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