A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Seventeen

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Autumn passed and gave way to winter’s chill. Imloth Ningloron got no more than the occasional frost—Celebrían disliked the bitter cold, and had chosen her home well—but the air took on a bite. Maglor also disliked the cold, but he enjoyed wintertime—the cozy fires and the long nights of mulled wine and music. The weeks slipped past both quickly and not, punctuated by the occasional letter from Curufin or Caranthir in Tirion. Curufin had given Fëanor the palantír, but he was reticent concerning what Fëanor had seen or what they had spoken of afterward. Whether that was his own choice or because Fëanor himself wouldn’t speak of it, Maglor couldn’t tell.

Indis returned to Tirion before Midwinter, but Míriel lingered until after the holiday, when she bid them farewell and departed to make her way back to Vairë’s halls. “I will see you in Tirion next year, perhaps,” she said to Maglor, taking both his hands and rising onto her toes to kiss his forehead. “Thank you for writing this song, Macalaurë. It is so important—even if it does not move the Valar as we hope.”

Some days later, Maglor sat in his room, feet up on his desk, chewing on the end of his pencil as he regarded the blank pieces of paper in front of him. The song would do nothing at all if he could not write it, and yet no words would come to him. Rain drummed on the window, and Pídhres curled up on the seat in front of it, tail twitching as she dreamed. A fire burned cheerfully on the hearth, less for the heat than for the sound of it, though Maglor had woken that morning feeling faintly chilled, as he rarely did these days; combined with his struggle to think of a single line it made for a more sour mood than he’d suffered since leaving Lórien. It was the sort of mood that made him want to throw all that he had written into the fire, and to prevent himself from doing so in a fit of pique he’d locked it all away in a drawer, leaving out only the blank sheets to taunt him.

A knock at the door heralded Elrond. “Daeron said you were writing this morning,” he said, setting a tea tray down near the fire. “Care for a break?”

“I haven’t written a single word,” Maglor sighed, lowering his feet to the floor.

“The song for Finwë?” Elrond asked as Maglor joined him by the hearth. 

“Yes.” 

“I thought it was going well.”

“Yes, well…that was before I was told its real purpose.” Maglor accepted a cup of tea, steaming and dark, fragrant with spices. It was his favorite, and had been since his youth. Coming to Valinor and finding it still popular and still tasting just as he remembered had been an unexpected delight. “Míriel and Indis wish for me to sing it before the Valar.”

Elrond looked at him in surprise. “Why?” he asked. Then, “Oh—oh, I understand.”

“I told them it won’t work,” Maglor said. He sat down and crossed his legs in his seat, glad of the heat from the tea and from the fire. “I’m no Lúthien—I’m no one the Valar will listen to, in song or otherwise.”

“I presume this is to be kept secret?”

“More or less—not least because I’ll never finish the song if I know everyone is expecting the impossible of me. Bad enough Míriel and Indis are, but at least I know you won’t. I’ve told Daeron and Maedhros too.”

“What did they say?”

“They tried to be encouraging.” Maglor leaned back in his seat and stared at the fire. “It is by the Valar’s own judgment that Finwë remains in Mandos. Of all people, how can I be the one to change their minds?”

“It is a new Age,” Elrond said. “Anything is possible, as Celebrimbor likes to say. The Valar have relented before.”

“I am no Eärendil, either. Maybe you should sing it. It’s your family that’s done all the impossible things.”

Elrond smiled, but didn’t rise to the joke. “You will be a grandson singing for his grandfather. There is much I think the Valar still do not understand about us Children, but they understand love and sorrow. Nienna will hear you, at least.”

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their tea and listening to the rain and to the crackle of the flames. Maglor found himself thinking of another rainy afternoon, far away and long ago in Rivendell, when he was always cold, before he had gotten his voice back, and long before he had been able to even think of writing songs, let alone singing before such an audience as all the Valar together. Elrond had spoken to him then of Rings and of dangers and uncertainties, seeking to reassure but really just adding to the pile of fears Maglor had been trapped under, feeling like he was slowly suffocating. Those fears had not come to pass, in the end, but it was still a relief to look at Elrond’s hand now and see that Vilya was not there. He was deeply grateful for the Elven Rings, and proud of Celebrimbor for having made them, but they had been as much a burden as a blessing, as well as an ever-growing danger. 

“You never met Finwë,” Maglor said after a while, after he dragged his thoughts back to the present. “But it feels wrong not to ask you, too: what would you hear, in this song for him?”

Elrond did not answer right away. By the window Pídhres stretched out all her limbs before curling back up into a small grey ball, face disappearing behind her tail. Finally, Elrond said, “His legacy. There is Fëanor of course, and the Silmarils, and Celebrimbor and his Rings and the glories of Eregion, and of course you and all your brothers—don’t make that face, you know what I mean. And had he not wed Indis—still Morgoth would have been released, still he would have sought to sow discord among the Eldar, and who knows what form it might have taken? Still, I think, he would have destroyed the Trees, and brought war to Middle-earth. Yet without the children of Finwë and Indis, how would it have gone? Eärendil would have never been. I would have never been, or Celebrían. So too is he the forefather of the race of Númenor, of Elros and all of his children after him. His strength flows in the veins of the Kings and Queens of Gondor and Arnor even now.” He had lowered his gaze to his cup as he spoke; now he looked up again at Maglor. “I have been inundated with kinsmen and -women since my coming here—I have met by now nearly all of the House of Finwë who walk again under the sun, save Finwë himself, and that is a great grief to me, though it cannot compare to the grief I know you feel.”

“He would love you,” Maglor said. “He would adore you and Celebrían and the twins—and this valley and all that you’ve built here.”

Elrond’s smile was sad, the same smile he wore at times when he spoke of Elros. “I like to think so,” he said, “but I can never know it for certain. Not while the statute holds. It is not the purpose of your song, but if you can sing a little of Númenor, of Lothlórien and Imladris, and of Lindon—those of us who followed his example to the best of our abilities, to not cower or flee before the horror of the dark…”

“I will,” Maglor said. It would grieve Finwë, he knew, to know that such strength had been necessary. He had sought to protect all his people and his children and their children from such a fate by bringing them to Valinor. But he would also, surely, be proud of those who had stood firm, who had fought the long wars and the many battles to emerge victorious, unbowed. Maglor was not one of them, but Elrond was, and Galadriel. Gil-galad had been, and Elendil and Isildur—and Aragorn, later, alongside all the Dúnedain of Gondor and Arnor. He could honor all of them as he honored Finwë. It was true, what Elrond had said: the world would be a much darker place had the children of Indis never been born. The thought of a world without Elrond, without Elros having been, made something in Maglor’s chest hurt sharply, constricting his lungs. “It is the purpose of this song, to tell of our grief—and yours is no less important than mine, to grieve the absence of one you should know but cannot.”

“It is a familiar grief, at least,” Elrond murmured. Maglor set his tea aside and moved to sit beside Elrond rather than across from him, so he could embrace him. “Oh, you don’t have to—I’m all right.”

“I know.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Elrond sighed, leaning his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “When you go traveling again, do you intend to go alone?”

“No. Daeron at the very least will be with me, but this won’t be at all like the last time I went away. Do you want to come to Tirion and Alqualondë with us?”

“I think so.” Elrond lifted his head. “I do not visit Tirion often enough. I traveled little after taking up Vilya because it was too much of a risk, and then it became habit.”

“I would love it if you came with us.”

Tea and conversation with Elrond lifted Maglor’s spirits, but he abandoned his attempts at writing, instead going to find his brothers and Daeron. Ambarussa were nowhere to be found, but Celegorm and Maedhros were with Daeron in one of the cozier parlors. Daeron sprawled across a sofa with his legs draped over Celegorm’s lap as he laughed at something in a letter. Maedhros had a book in a chair by the hearth, and Celegorm also had a few letters he was reading. “How goes the songwriting?” Maedhros asked as Maglor came into the room. Maglor made a face. “That well?”

“So well that I need a distraction. What news from your songbirds, Daeron?” Maglor sat on the floor by the hearth and by Maedhros’ chair, so he could lean against his knee. Maedhros’ hand dropped briefly on top of Maglor’s head. 

“Plenty of gossip that will mean absolutely nothing to anyone here,” Daeron said cheerfully. “I also have a letter from Dior who asks me to give his greetings to Celegorm.”

Celegorm looked up from his letters. “No he didn’t,” he said.

“He certainly did! Look!” Daeron handed over the paper, and Celegorm frowned down at it. “I’m sure the only reason he has not included Maglor or Maedhros is because he has not yet met them.”

“If you say so,” said Celegorm as he handed the letter back. “I don’t understand him at all.”

“I think,” Daeron said, “he would not be opposed to friendship.”

“He said that when we spoke, but I thought he was joking,” Celegorm said. “He can’t mean it. I killed him, remember?”

“And he killed you,” Daeron said. Maglor couldn’t stop himself flinching, the sudden memory of blood spilling over the dais of Menegroth’s throne room coming into his mind, and Celegorm’s white face, the sound of him gasping his last breaths— 

He blinked, and Maedhros’ hand was on his shoulder. Celegorm was too busy glaring at Daeron to have noticed. “Both of those truths should make friendship impossible,” he was saying. 

“Since when have impossibilities stopped you, Tyelko?” Maedhros asked, his tone far lighter than the grip he kept on Maglor’s shoulder. “Many impossible things have happened in recent years, haven’t they?”

“It feels that way,” Maglor murmured. “There you are, silly cat.” Pídhres had wandered in. She trotted over to climb onto his lap, accepting the scratches and pets that were her due. 

“There’s impossible and then there’s impossible,” Celegorm said. 

“That,” Daeron said, “makes no sense.”

“Of course it makes sense—”

“Have they been doing that all day?” Maglor asked Maedhros as Celegorm and Daeron began debating various definitions of the word impossible. 

“Yes,” Maedhros said. “You have no room to complain—you used to do exactly the same thing and were much more annoying about it.”

“Well, I’m not going to join in today. Words have failed me utterly and I have forgotten all their meanings.” Maglor leaned against his legs again. “What are you reading?”

“An account of the wars with Angmar.”

“Whatever for?”

“Was I supposed to spend all winter listening to tales of the War of the Ring and the Witch-king’s defeat and not be curious?”

“Why not just ask Cáno?” Celegorm said.

Maglor rolled his eyes. “About Angmar? I never even heard that name until I came to Rivendell. I think I must have been very far south when all that was going on—in Harad, maybe.” He couldn’t really be sure. Maglor had ceased counting years very early on in his wandering—but he did think he would have at least heard rumors of trouble in the north if he had been in Eriador at the time. The birds that flew south down the rivers had always had snatches of news, and the rivers themselves sometimes carried hints of what was going on elsewhere in their courses, though none of it ever gave a complete picture. “In fact, I am the worst person to ask about anything that happened between the War of Wrath and the War of the Ring. All the news and rumors I ever heard were years out of date and terribly jumbled.”

He spoke lightly, and meant it lightly, but Celegorm frowned at him. “That sounds horribly lonely, Cáno,” he said.

“It was. But it wasn’t all misery. For most of that time I wasn’t really unhappy.” He hadn’t been happy either, but there had been a certain contentment, a certain freedom in the isolation. “Stop looking at me like I just kicked Huan, Celegorm. I’m fine now.”

Celegorm shoved Daeron’s legs off his lap and got up, sitting down on Maglor’s lap instead and dislodging Pídhres, who jumped up onto Maedhros’ lap with an annoyed yowl. He was bigger than Maglor, so it was like Huan had come to sit on him. “Oof—Tyelkormo—”

“Why are we all sitting on Maglor?” Amrod asked as he and Amras came into the room. 

“Please don’t,” Maglor said, as Celegorm hooked an arm around him and leaned his head on his shoulder. “Honestly, Tyelko, wouldn’t it have been worse if I knew first-hand all that went on in Angmar and such places?”

“Depends on how you knew,” said Celegorm. “If you’d gone to Elrond—”

“Well I didn’t, so—”

“And that was stupid of you, wasn’t it?”

“Behave, children,” Maedhros said. He leaned over to yank on one of Celegorm’s braids. “It was a long time ago now, Tyelko.”

“And I’m fine,” Maglor repeated. “Or I would be if I didn’t have a great big—oh for—Ambarussa!” Both twins joined Celegorm in piling on top of him. “Nelyo, make them get off!”

“Nelyo’s always saying he doesn’t want to order us around anymore,” Amras said smugly. Then, “Are you upset today, Cáno?”

“He’s just grumpy,” Daeron said unhelpfully from where he’d taken over the entire sofa after Celegorm’s departure. “I daresay he’s cold, too.”

“Someone will be cold later tonight,” Maglor said, “and it won’t be me.” Daeron laughed as Huan wandered into the room. He saw the pile around Maglor and Maedhros and, of course, joined it. “All of you except Pídhres are terrible and I hate you.” 

“Oh, Cáno,” said Amrod after they were done laughing at him, “that reminds me—Amras and I have been thinking about your song for Finwë.”

“Yes?”

“He was warm,” said Amras. “Not like Atya was hot, but not not like that. Do you know what we mean?”

“Yes,” said Celegorm and Maglor together. 

“I don’t know how you can put that into a song, though,” said Amrod. 

“You let me worry about that,” said Maglor. “You’re not all going to get your own verse or something, but everything you tell me helps to…give it all shape. It tells me something of him, and the more I know and understand, the better I can put it all into words.” Assuming he could find the words at all. It had been days since he’d put anything down on paper, and even then he’d scratched most of it out almost immediately. He was looking forward to the coming of spring, which would bring Elemmírë from Valmar. Even just talking of music in general with her had always helped him before when he’d gotten stuck, better than anything else.

“Will you tell me more of Finwë?” Daeron asked. He rolled over onto his stomach, resting his head on his arms as he looked at them.

“Didn’t you ever meet him?” Celegorm asked.

“A few times, but I was very young and never took much interest in the visitors from the Tatyar that came among us. I remember someone with a kind smile and ready laughter—actually, you sound rather like him when you laugh, Celegorm—but very little else.”

“He’s right,” Maedhros said. “You do sound like him, Tyelko.”

Maglor stayed quiet as his brothers spoke more of Finwë, telling stories of their youth—the funny stories, the ones that didn’t hurt to remember. Their father inevitably came up in those same stories, but it was easier to talk and hear about him, too, when he was not the focus. Ambarussa shifted around, slowly, so that they were not sitting on top of Maglor anymore, though Amrod still leaned against him, while Amras sprawled out on the rug with Huan. 

Eventually someone called Daeron away, and Maglor’s brothers fell silent. Maedhros returned to his book, and Celegorm leaned his head on Maglor’s shoulder again. Maglor reached up to tug on his braids. “Stop worrying,” he said. 

“I’m not.”

“Then stop thinking about whatever it is that’s upsetting you.”

“Don’t you think about it—about all that time you spent…?”

Maglor sighed. “Not the way you do. I meant it when I said I wasn’t unhappy. For most of that time I wasn’t, even if I was lonely.”

“Isn’t being lonely unhappy in itself?” Amrod asked. 

“I got used to it, after a while,” said Maglor. “And—and I miss it, sometimes.” It wasn’t something he’d really intended to admit out loud, not to his brothers, but the words escaped almost of their own accord. “I miss those shores. The seabirds, and the dunes, and the stones. The Sea.” They were wild and empty of Men or Elves, and if they were desolate they were also so beautiful. He’d made many songs for them, though he’d written none down and had never sung them except to himself and to the waves and the stars. Maybe he should sing them sometime, he thought, looking between his brothers’ faces. “Please don’t look like that. I’m trying to reassure you.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of it,” said Amrod. “We all saw you when you came here, remember?”

“That wasn’t—that was—if Dol Guldur had never happened, I would have been very different. I’m speaking of the years before it.” If Dol Guldur had never happened, though, he might never have come west. He would never have sought out Galadriel or even Elrond on his own. Maybe Daeron would have found him before taking ship himself, but maybe not. It was easy to imagine a world in which he never returned among his own people, in which he remained in Middle-earth forever, watching it all change around him. That was not a world he wished for now, but it was one in which he could imagine himself having been content, maybe even really happy given enough time. But of course that wasn’t something he could ever say aloud, not to anyone. 

“Whatever happened, or didn’t happen,” Maedhros said, dropping his hand to rest on top of Maglor’s head again, “Cáno is here now.”

“And I’m very happy, except for how I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

“You were unhappy earlier,” Celegorm said.

“Not all my bad moods are a sign of something dire, Tyelko. Lórien didn’t turn me into someone of constant and irrepressible cheerfulness, and thank goodness for that because I’d want to strangle myself if it was so. I wasn’t thinking of the past at all until Maedhros spoke of Angmar. And I really can’t feel my legs, so can you please get off me?”

He did get off, but only so he could lie down with his head in Maglor’s lap instead. Maglor stretched out his legs with a dramatic sigh of relief, to make Ambarussa laugh. Amrod asked, “Why are you in a bad mood today, Cáno?”

“Writing is impossible.”

“Oh, it’s that kind of bad mood,” said Amras. “It can’t be so impossible, if you’re only mildly grumpy about it. You used to treat it like the worst disaster in the world. The only thing worse that ever happened to you was when Curvo spilled that glue all over your hair.”

“That was one of the worst things to ever happen to me,” said Maglor. “It also ruined my favorite shirt—”

“And then you refused to go out in public for weeks,” said Amrod, “because you had to cut your hair short. You know it’s very strange now, how little you care for what you look like.”

“You spend centuries wandering around the wilds where no one can see you, and then see how much you care for ribbons,” said Maglor.

“We did!” Amras laughed. “You’ll have to get back into the habit, though, if you’re going to visit Tirion and Alqualondë and all those places.”

“Ugh,” said Maglor, just so they would laugh again. He didn’t mind, it just felt strange. Jewelry was heavier than he remembered, and doing more than just pinning his hair back or braiding it into a simple plait was usually more than he cared to take the time for—half the time he didn’t even bother with that.

Eventually, Ambarussa dragged Celegorm away outside, as the rain started to ease, and Maglor left Maedhros to his history books. He found Galadriel in the weaving room. It was not empty, but there were only a few others there, across the room, so he joined Galadriel at her loom to watch her work. “How goes your songwriting?” she asked, and laughed when he made a face again. “You’ll get there, Macalaurë.”

“I hope so.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, not yet—I haven’t written enough to be worth showing to anyone.”

“Daeron tells me you intend to go to Taur-en-Gellam this summer. To speak to Thingol?”

“Yes. He and Finwë were close in friendship, and it seems wrong not to speak to him.”

“I agree,” Galadriel said. “Daeron also says you must be careful about the timing of your visit. I thought he was joking before, when he said he intended to time his return to be the most amusing.”

“And profitable,” Maglor said. Galadriel laughed. “Whenever we go, it will be after Elemmírë’s visit here. She’s eager to meet Daeron.”

“Eager also, I think, to consult with you both about this festival that Ingwë is planning.”

“Do you know anything about that? All I’ve heard are the vaguest rumors.”

“I think it is something that has been on his mind since you returned,” Galadriel said. “Or perhaps I should say since Círdan came. There are many who have not yet come to these shores, either through Mandos or by ship, but so many have, and it is an opportunity now to gather together more of the Eldar than has been possible since the start of the Great Journey.”

“Oh,” said Maglor. “That is something to celebrate, I suppose.” It also felt, alarmingly, like a deadline. If he could finish his song and if it could sway the Valar before this festival… 

Better not to think of it, not if he wanted to ever write another word again. 

“It has been spoken of off and on for years,” Galadriel said as she passed her shuttle through the threads of her loom, swiftly and steadily, “and it is only lately that anything like real planning has started to take place. Your return from Lórien, I think, will speed things along even further. No one wished to hold such an event without all three of you—Elemmírë, Macalaurë, and Daeron.”

“That’s what my brothers said,” Maglor said. “I hope I won’t be a disappointment.”

Galadriel glanced at him. “Your view of yourself remains crooked, I see,” she said. 

“I am different,” Maglor said. “No one can deny that.”

“Different does not mean lesser.”

“No, but it might mean disappointment to those who expect what I was before.”

Galadriel sighed and rolled her eyes just in time for Finrod to see as he wandered into the room. “Oh dear,” he said, grinning. “What have you done now, Maglor?”

“Perhaps you can say that his voice being different is no disappointment, as he fears, and be believed,” Galadriel said.

“Why would it be? It’s not that different, anyway.” Finrod joined Maglor on the windowsill, bumping their shoulders together. “When I first heard you sing, after you arrived in Avallónë, I was delighted—or, no, not quite delighted. I was relieved. You were so melancholy I feared you would not have the heart for music at all.”

Maglor shook his head. “That hasn’t been true in a long time,” he said.

Finrod frowned. “It was once true, though?”

“Macalaurë was entirely silent, upon his coming from Dol Guldur,” Galadriel murmured. 

“I hadn’t heard that,” said Finrod. “What happened?”

“It took less than a year for Elrond to lift that last curse,” said Maglor. “But there was…there was a time when I almost did not want him to. It seemed safer—the silence. It seemed safer to keep my music beyond my reach, even though I missed it desperately.” He thought now that it would have meant his fading, to refuse to find his voice again, or if he had not been able to make his way back to music afterward; it was too much a part of him to go without for so long, however much he had feared it.

“Why?” Finrod asked. “How could that have kept you safe?”

“It was what he wanted of me. If I couldn’t do it I couldn’t give it to him. I don’t think I could have explained it like that at the time, it just…it was just all a tangle of fear and hurt. But I did get my voice back, and I did start to make music again—even if it is different now than it once was.” 

“Not so different,” Finrod said again. 

“Maybe it just feels different for me, then. I’m not afraid anymore, though.”

“Good,” said Finrod. “You were horribly afraid when you first came here, though I couldn’t tell of what.”

“Lots of things,” said Maglor, managing a small smile. “And almost all of them were pointless in the end. But it’s still true that my music is not what it once was, and just because you were happy to hear me again doesn’t mean others won’t be disappointed.”

“Anyone who is, isn’t worth worrying about,” said Finrod. 

“I know. I’m not afraid anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous. If I perform at this festival of Ingwë’s, it will be my largest audience since…” He tried to think. “It might be the largest audience I have ever sung for.” It would be the easiest thing in the world, though, compared to singing before all the Valar. Maglor tried to quash that thought. It still wasn’t helpful. He did not want to tell Finrod or Galadriel the purpose of his song for Finwë—not yet, at least. Maybe when he had it written they could help him turn it into something the Valar might listen to. 

“What is troubling you, Macalaurë?” Galadriel asked. “You do not have to perform at this festival if you do not wish to. No one will insist on it.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m just—thinking too much, I suppose.”

Finrod poked him in the temple. “Well, stop it. Whatever you choose to do, you know, we’re all very glad to have you back. All of you, in fact. Before you returned hardly anyone ever saw Celegorm or the twins, and Caranthir never came to Tirion, and Maedhros only came when Fingon dragged him. Curufin was a little better, but only because of Celebrimbor.”

“It wasn’t really me that brought them all back together,” Maglor said. 

“Yes, I know. It was your father. But he only came back out of Mandos because of you, you know.” Maglor looked away. “Maedhros said your hand hurt too, when you saw him again.”

“It did, but not for long.”

“Any time at all is too long,” said Finrod. He took Maglor’s hand in his, turning it over to reveal the scars. “Maedhros only has the memory of these,” he said. “Do yours ever hurt otherwise? In the usual way of old injuries, I mean?”

“It used to get stiff in the cold,” said Maglor, “but I met Nienna by Ekkaia, and it hasn’t ached like that since.” Her tears had fallen on it, chasing away the stiffness and the chill. He almost had not noticed afterward how it had never come back. 

“I am glad she found you there,” Galadriel said. “I think you sorely needed her, then.”

“I suppose I did, though at the time I came away feeling rather…flayed open.”

“She has that effect, I’m afraid,” Finrod said. “Did she help you sort out whatever it was that lay between you and Maedhros? I still don’t quite understand what that was.”

“She seemed so certain there was a way forward. I suppose that did help—it was something I kept coming back to. But Maedhros…it was hard, seeing him then, because he seemed so unchanged, as though Mandos had done nothing for him. To look at him was to see Beleriand breaking apart again, at…at the very end, when he was lost to me.” 

“Seeing your father hurt him deeply,” said Finrod. “Before that he was…he was far from happy, but he had roused himself enough to come here to speak to Elrond.”

“I know. And it doesn’t matter now—we both went to Lórien, and we both found what we needed. Except whatever it is that will resolve what lies between us and our father still.” He looked down at his scars, his hand still resting in Finrod’s. Galadriel continued her weaving, the rhythm of the loom steady and unceasing. Thinking of his father made him think again of his song. “I had heard that your father does not like visitors. Would one of you write to him for me?”

“Oh, he’s much more lax about it now,” said Finrod, “but I’ll go to speak with him for you, unless you intend to go to Alqualondë before Midsummer.”

“I don’t know what my plans are. I may go to Taur-en-Gellam first, or I may go to Tirion—and from Tirion I might as well go to Alqualondë. I very much doubt, though, that I will leave here before Midsummer.”

“Well, just let me know what your plans are when you know them. Either way, my father will be glad to see you.” Finrod paused, and then said, “I told Maedhros he might benefit from speaking to my father. Perhaps you will, too. Not only of Finwë, but also of Fëanor.”

“I think Fëanáro was quite surprised to find his youngest brother so stubborn or slow to forgive,” Galadriel murmured. “He kept himself apart from the feuding, long ago, but after so many long years carrying the burden of the crown he no longer fears to speak his mind.”

“I think Fëanáro has been surprised by almost all of us,” said Finrod. “Even Findis.”

“I think Findis rather surprised everyone,” said Maglor. Both Galadriel and Finrod laughed. “At least no one ended up in the fishpond this summer.”

“Oh, no one was complaining when your father ended up in it,” Finrod laughed. “My only regret is that I did not witness it myself.”

“It was an important lesson for Fëanáro, I think,” Galadriel said serenely, “in what it means to have siblings. Sometimes you end up with a well-deserved black eye, and algae in your hair. I think it speaks very well of him that he was able to laugh about it afterward.”

“I suppose,” said Maglor. He could not picture his father laughing. Not outside hazy long-ago memories. It was impossible to picture him at any stage of life soaking wet with pond weeds sticking to him and mud up to his knees.

He and Finrod left Galadriel to her weaving. Finrod threw his arm around Maglor’s shoulders. “How did you manage to return to your music?” he asked. 

It had been a rainy winter night, Maglor remembered. He had woken from a terrible nightmare and opened his window in spite of the horrible cold, just to feel the rain on his skin. Afterward it had ended and the clouds had parted, and the silver moonlight had shone through the window onto the harp his brothers had made, that had survived the downfall of Beleriand and all the long centuries afterward. “I think it was the rain,” he said. “I could hear the Music in it, one night in the dead of winter in Imladris, in the rain and in the river. I’d lost that in the dark, and it…it felt as though I had been struck deaf as well as mute. I suppose that is what gave me the courage to put my fingers to the harp strings again, though it was still years before I could do it outside of my own room with the door firmly locked.”

“I’m sorry,” Finrod said quietly, all smiles gone. “I wish that had not happened to you, Maglor. You did not deserve it.”

“I wish it hadn’t happened either. But it’s what brought me to Lothlórien, in the end, and then to Imladris. I don’t know that I would have ever sought out Elrond or Galadriel on my own.”

Finrod smiled, though it was tinged with melancholy. “So it ever goes in the Third Theme,” he said. “Out of great sorrow and suffering comes hope and victory at the last.”

“Yes,” Maglor said. “I have thought of that often ever since.”