A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Twenty One

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Findis left them, shaking her head, and Maglor exhaled. “I’m not like my father,” he whispered.

“No, not in the ways you fear,” Daeron said. “I know we have been speaking of going to Thingol first, but I wonder if it wouldn’t be better just to go to Tirion and get it over with. The knowledge of this future meeting with your father looming over you does no one any good.”

“Maybe.” Maglor closed his eyes and took a breath. “What of your wagers in Taur-en-Gellam?”

“That’s just a silly game. And anyway, the general opinion seems to be that I’ll be away three years at least, so any time we arrive before then will be shocking for them and amusing for me.” Daeron took Maglor’s other hand. “I do think your aunt is right, though. Your father’s spirit burns bright, but not with fury.”

“Did he not get angry with you…?”

“I’m not sure I can call it anger. He was certainly not pleased, and I got angry, and have cordially disliked him ever since, but there was never any great display of temper on his part.”

Maglor sighed, and rested his forehead against Daeron’s. “I hate this,” he said. “I hate…I hate feeling like this. I miss my father. I should not be so hesitant…”

“Your aunt means well, but it is not her place to interfere.”

“I am glad he has someone willing to defend him,” Maglor admitted. “It’s…it means something.” Daeron was right—going to Tirion sooner rather than later would be for the best, for the sake of his songwriting and to see if there really was something there to salvage with his father. Maglor had left Lórien thinking his feelings hadn’t changed, believing he still wanted nothing at all from Fëanor—but either his feelings had changed very quickly or he had just been deceiving himself before. He was inclined to believe the latter. He’d thought, also, that he was no longer afraid.

So few of his fears had come to pass since he had come to Valinor, but that clearly did not mean much, no matter how much he missed his father. He hadn’t forgotten what he’d said when they’d first met—he’d meant every word, but he had also been aiming to wound. He’d thrown Finwë’s name in Fëanor’s face knowing it would hurt more than anything else. He was not blameless in the rift that stood between them. However much Fëanor might love him, or claim to love him, he was not known for being quick to forgive.

He’d thought the rift between himself and Maedhros unbridgeable too, once. Nienna had spoken otherwise. Maglor did not need to seek her out to know that she would say the same of Fëanor. 

“I should find Celegorm,” he said.

“He won’t go far, and I’m sure Huan will have followed by now,” said Daeron. “Give him a little time. Elemmírë wanted to speak to us of something this morning. Shall we go find her and think of happier things for a while?”

Maglor breathed a sigh. “All right…” 

They found Elemmírë in the gazebo out on the water, strumming a lute and singing to herself. She smiled brightly at them when they joined her, and they fell immediately and easily into conversation about nothing particularly important—instruments and music and the water—until Elemmírë set her lute aside and said, “You’ve heard of this great gathering the High King wishes to hold?”

“We have,” said Daeron. “I’ve been hearing little bits of gossip about it for a few years now.”

“Galadriel tells me the idea got started when Círdan came west,” said Maglor.

“Your own return was also a part of it,” Elemmírë said, smiling at him. Maglor looked away, out over the water. The sun sparkled on it, and the water lilies floated white and pink, rippling a little with the water’s movement. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of Ingwë paying him any attention at all, any more than he liked the idea of the Valar sparing him a thought. Elemmírë went on, “But plans are moving forward now, and I have been asked to plan out a series of performances. That is what I wanted to speak to you both about.”

“To span the whole feast?” Daeron asked. 

“I don’t think anyone knows how long this feasting will last once it gets started,” Elemmírë laughed. “But over the course of a number of evenings I would like to have the whole history of the Quendi sung. It will take a great deal of collaboration and consultation among the kindreds, of course—and so I have come to ask for your help. Daeron, you know the Sindar, but you have also have traveled among the Avari, yes?”

“Not here,” said Daeron, “but I know where to find them.”

“That is a very long history,” Maglor remarked. 

“We will have many long evenings,” Elemmírë replied. “And of course not everything can be sung—I’m sure there are so many things that have never been put to verse. But the great song cycles will be included—the Leithian, the Noldolantë…yes, even the Noldolantë, Macalaurë. It is history, and we must acknowledge the ugly alongside the great.”

“Of course,” said Maglor. “I will sing it if you wish me to.”

“It will not be the only sorrowful song. I will sing of the Darkening.”

“I’ve not heard that yet,” said Maglor, “the Aldudénië.”

“I sing it very seldom, as I’m sure you only rarely sing the Noldolantë. But it is not only the great songs I wish to be heard. Are there other songs either of you would wish sung? You need not think of everything now of course, there is plenty of time, and of course we will all three of us consult others.”

“Maybe…” Maglor hesitated. “Maybe my song for Finwë, if I can finish it in time.” Daeron squeezed his hand. “When is this great feast to take place?”

“Not for another two years, at least,” said Elemmírë. “I know nothing of any other plans being made, but it is an enormous undertaking. Will that be enough time?”

“I think so.” Again Maglor thought—if he could finish the song and sing it before the Valar before this feast, if through some miracle their hearts were moved, perhaps there would be one more reason to celebrate, and no reason for him to perform it again at all. He tried to push such thoughts away, but the desire for it stuck in the back of his mind, immovable. 

“We cannot forget Men,” said Daeron. “The history of the Eldar cannot be sung without singing of the Edain. You have mentioned the Lay of Leithian, but there is also the tale of Húrin and his children that was written by Dírhavel long ago, and there are tales of Health’s people, and of Tuor, and of the Peredhil and of Númenor afterward—of Gondor and Arnor, and Rohan and Dale, and Rhûn and other eastern lands as well.”

“Hobbits too,” said Maglor. “The Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom should certainly be sung. Neither Círdan nor Elrond nor Galadriel could have come West were it not for Frodo and Sam.”

“Nor you, nor I,” Daeron murmured. 

“Of course,” said Elemmírë. “I do not know these songs, and will leave them to you to be ordered, and to decide who sings them. As I said, there is no great hurry. I’m sure we’ll meet many times over the next few years to put it all in order and write it down. I have not forgotten the Dwarves, either! Perhaps Gimli son of Glóin would be so gracious as to sing to us of his own people.”

“I will ask him,” Maglor said. 

When he and Daeron left Elemmírë they parted, and Maglor went in search of Gimli, finding him in the forges chatting with Dringil about gold smithing. “Can I borrow you for a little while, Gimli?”

“Of course!” Gimli immediately joined Maglor in the sunshine.

“How are you liking Imloth Ningloron?” Maglor asked him as they walked down to the nearby stream to sit on a bench there. 

“I did not expect to find any place so like Rivendell here,” Gimli said as he sat on the bench with a sigh, “though at first glance it is so different. Of course I should have expected nothing else—no house of Elrond’s could be anything less than homely.”

“Lady Celebrían worked very hard to make it so, in anticipation of Elrond’s coming. Have you heard, perhaps, of a great gathering being planned by High King Ingwë?” When Gimli shook his head Maglor told him what little he knew of it, and of Elemmírë’s plans to celebrate the whole history of their people through song. “…and of course we cannot complete the tale without Dwarves or Men—or Hobbits,” Maglor finished. “You will of course be welcome at this feast as an honored guest regardless, but if you would also sing for us a song of Durin, perhaps, or of the Lonely Mountain—or of Aglarond!—I think there are many who would be very glad, and many more who would learn something of Dwarves for the first time, beyond the histories we have recorded ourselves.”

“Put like that, how can I refuse? Only tell me where to go and when, Maglor, and I will sing as many songs as you will allow. I know many of the hobbits’ songs, too. It will not be as merry a feast as it should be without some of Bilbo or Pippin’s drinking songs!”

“Certainly not,” Maglor laughed. “I will remember that. It’s too bad Bilbo isn’t still with us. We would have to drag him out onto the stage, but then he would be so very pleased to recite every poem he ever wrote, and more.” Gimli laughed, and their talk turned to the hobbits for a while, to Bilbo and Frodo and Sam, and others, until Gimli returned to the forge and Maglor went to tell Elemmírë that they could certainly count on him in their planning. 

Celegorm did not reappear that day, or that evening. Nor did Huan, and it seemed that no one else had seen either of them since breakfast. “Did something happen?” Finrod asked when Maglor found him and Fingon the next morning to ask if they’d seen anything of Celegorm. Finrod had lately been making a very great effort to reestablish the friendship he and Celegorm had once shared, though Maglor wasn’t sure how well it was really going. Celegorm these days tended to run away from things that made him uncomfortable—and Finrod at his most determined could be quite intimidating regardless of his aims. 

“He had words with Findis,” Maglor said. 

“Did she knock him into the fishpond?” Finrod asked, arching an eyebrow.

“No. She scolded me, too—apparently she’s run out of patience with us and came all the way out here just to demand to know why we still aren’t speaking to our father.”

“I wonder if Fëanor knows that,” Fingon remarked. “No, we haven’t seen Celegorm, Maglor. If I do run into him I’ll be sure to tell him you’re looking.”

Maglor sighed. “Thank you.”

“Do you want help looking?” Finrod asked. 

“No, I think I might have an idea—” Maglor turned and nearly ran into Gilheneth, who came racing up as though something were giving chase. “Gilheneth, what’s the matter?”

“Excuse me, Maglor,” she said, out of breath and looking almost frantic, but for the light in her eyes. “Fingon! We need to leave—right now.”

“What happened?” Fingon asked, sitting up in alarm.

“I’ve just received a message from Lórien! Come on, get up! Meet me at the stables in ten minutes! Never mind packing!”

“Lórien?” Fingon repeated, but Gilheneth had already darted away. “What could we possibly—” He broke off abruptly, eyes going wide. “Oh. Oh.”

“Oh?” Finrod echoed, looking at him with concern, and then reaching out to grasp his shoulder. “Do you need to go to Lórien, Fingon? You look like you’re going to faint.”

“I think someone else is ready to leave it,” Maglor said.

“But who—oh!” Finrod leaped up and pulled Fingon to his feet. “What are you waiting for then? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t—” Fingon looked as though Gilheneth had hit him over the head rather than given him a piece of news long desired. “I don’t know if I’m happy or—I haven’t—I haven’t seen him since—”

“Breathe, Fingon,” said Maglor. He stepped forward to embrace him. “This is joyous news!”

“I don’t know if he will even remember me,” Fingon whispered. “It’s been so long, and he was only a child. I’m not—maybe I shouldn’t even go—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Finrod. “Gilheneth says you should go, and would she not know best?”

“Yes, but—oh, you’re right. I’m being an idiot.”

“I don’t think you are,” said Maglor. “I came here thinking no one would be happy to see me. After such a long separation it’s natural to be nervous—even if you know you needn’t be.”

Fingon laughed a little as he stepped back, wiping his eyes. “You didn’t—did you really?”

“Well, I was reasonably sure Elrond would be pleased to see me, but everyone else? All of you?” Maglor shook his head. 

“You are an idiot,” Fingon said, but he spoke fondly. 

“And Maglor has been wrong every single time,” Finrod added. “Of course Gil-galad will be happy to see you, but if you don’t hurry Gilheneth will leave without you and then neither of them will be happy.”

“I don’t know when we’ll be back,” Fingon said. “Or if we’ll come back here at all, though I can’t imagine Gil-galad won’t want to see Elrond—”

“I know Elrond will be very eager to see him,” Maglor said, “but don’t try to make plans now. Go!”

“Yes, right.” Fingon laughed suddenly and threw himself at them, wrapping his arms around both Maglor and Finrod. There were tears on his cheeks, but he was beaming. “My son is back! Can you believe it? My son!”

Finrod bumped his shoulder against Maglor’s as Fingon ran away down the hall. “Nearly everyone is back now,” he said, voice wistful. 

“Only Aegnor and Aredhel linger,” Maglor said. “And Maeglin.” 

“I feel terrible for Maeglin,” Finrod said. “To hear how all the stories tell it, he never stood a chance.”

“Do you think Aredhel lingers for his sake?”

“I don’t know. I hope her lingering isn’t to do with Eöl.”

“Has he come from Mandos?”

“Not that I have heard—and I would have, for Turgon has been keeping a very keen eye and ear open for such news. If I were Eöl, though, I would seek to avoid any word of my return from ever reaching Tirion.”

“Mm.” Maglor had never met Eöl, of course, but Curufin had. Maglor could not remember when he had learned what befell Aredhel in the end, or her son; he had no idea if any of his brothers had learned of it before their deaths. Curufin and Celegorm had both been very close in friendship with Aredhel before the discord had driven them apart, and it was not only Turgon that Eöl would have cause to fear, should he ever return among the Eldar. 

“I have feared for a long time that my brother would never return,” Finrod said after a moment. “He was determined not to, when I spoke to him in the Halls—I remember very little of that time now, except for that. But it was said also that Fëanor would never return, was it not? That gives me hope.”

“Fingon said the same,” Maglor said. “And Míriel once said she would never wish to return to life. Her mind changed in time, as her spirit recovered.”

“So she did. It is also so terribly lonely in the Halls, even when you are surrounded by all the other spirits there. I hate to think of my brother still there, mourning and unable to be comforted except by the Maiar, who cannot really understand. Nienna does, perhaps, but she cannot be in all places at once.” Finrod sighed, and nudged Maglor with his elbow. “Speaking of brothers—you should go back to looking for yours. How worried should I be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me know if you’d like me to do…well, anything.”

“I will.” 

Maglor went outside, hoping he’d catch a glimpse of Huan, and that Huan would then lead him to wherever Celegorm had disappeared to. Maglor did not believe he would go far—he’d left all his things behind, though his bed had not been slept in the night before. He walked again through the gardens, and found no sign, and so he then left them entirely and headed for the wooded hills beyond. The breeze swept across the valley from the orchards, carrying the sweet scent of apple blossoms. As he walked Maglor picked a handful of flowers, irises of course but also sweet chamomile and pale yellow primroses. There was no particular reason, except that they were lovely, and he wanted something bright in his hands. 

Huan appeared as Maglor stepped into the cool shade of the pine trees. “There you are,” Maglor said. “Where’s Tyelko?” Huan turned and trotted off. Maglor followed, passing through the glade where Finrod had taken him and Celebrimbor once to get unwisely drunk and to cry about the past. Some distance beyond it, Maglor found Celegorm seated cross-legged on the thick carpet of pine needles that covered the ground, with a bird in his hands. He was murmuring to it quietly, his speech interspersed with whistles and chirping sounds. 

“All right, Tyelko?” Maglor asked, pausing a few paces away.

Celegorm looked up. His eyes were red, but he did not look upset. “I’m fine,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse, like he’d been shouting. “This little one’s got a broken wing; I’ve been trying to convince him to let me help.”

Maglor sat down beside him. The little one in question was a mockingbird, who eyed him with a sharp black eye. “Do you want me to sing something calming?” he asked. 

“No, I think I’ve got him now.” Celegorm loosened his grip, and the mockingbird did not attempt to get away. “I hope your cat won’t try to eat him.”

“I’m sure she’ll learn very quickly to leave him alone.” Maglor looked from the bird back to Celegorm. “What else was Findis saying to you yesterday?”

“Probably whatever she said to you—demanding to know why we still won’t come to Tirion and all that.”

“You know she means well.”

“She should mind her own business.”

“You are the last person who should say that about someone’s sibling interfering.” Maglor put his arm around Celegorm’s shoulders and kissed his temple. “You don’t have to speak to her, but please come back to the house.”

“I don’t really want to see anyone. Except you. And maybe Daeron.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll make sure no one bothers you—or your mockingbird. Come on.” Maglor got to his feet, and Celegorm followed suit, still holding the mockingbird in careful hands. When they’d been young Celegorm had always been resourcing animals, birds with broken wings and squirrels with crooked tails, or stray puppies or kittens from the streets of Tirion. Most of those birds and squirrels had not wanted to leave him afterward, to the delight of Ambarussa as small children, and the annoyance of the rest of them who kept finding stray feathers and hoarded nuts in their beds and closets. As much as Maglor got teased now about his hedgehogs and his cat, Celegorm had always been the one to whom small animals flocked. Even Pídhres liked him, in spite of her continuing aversion to Huan. 

“Have you told Findis yet that you’re planning to talk to Atar anyway?” Celegorm asked as they left the trees, blinking in the sudden bright sunshine. 

“Yes. I haven’t yet told her why—I’ll do that later today, I suppose.”

“Do you think Atar knows why she came here?”

“I doubt it. I can’t imagine him wanting anyone else to fight his battles, can you?”

“I suppose not. Do you think that will make it worse when you do speak to him?”

“Findis certainly doesn’t seem to think so.” Maglor put his arm around Celegorm again. “So what are you going to name your bird?”

“I’m not. When his wing is healed he’ll go off on his own.”

Maglor laughed. “If you say so.”

At the house Celegorm left him to go find whatever it was he needed to splint a mockingbird’s broken wing, and Maglor went to find Finrod, to tell him that he’d found Celegorm, and then to Elrond, to make sure he knew where Fingon and Gilheneth had gone. “Yes, I heard,” Elrond said, smiling when Maglor asked. He was in a workroom just off of the library, copying a manuscript. Pídhres was curled up on the windowsill in front of his desk, basking in the sunshine. “But I don’t expect them to return here. Gilheneth has long planned to take Gil-galad home first—to their home north of Tirion. It’s quiet there, and she had it built after the manner of such houses in Lindon, so it will at least seem more familiar than other places.”

“A good plan,” Maglor said. “Will you visit him there?”

“I don’t know. I have very little experience with those so new-returned from Mandos, you know. The least I can do is wait for an invitation. It is enough, for now, to know that he lives again.” 

Maglor sat down in the chair beside the desk, and reached over to pet Pídhres. He had not known Gil-galad well, even when he was very young. Maedhros had visited Hithlum far more often than he had. He remembered a bright-eyed child with dark hair, whose greatest joy was being carried around on Fingolfin’s shoulders. He’d heard many tales since of Gil-galad the king, of his wisdom and his power and his courage. He’d ruled far longer than any of his predecessors, and more successfully. He’d been renowned and revered even when he’d been young, in the years before the War of Wrath, and Maglor had never regretted sending Elrond and Elros to him. If anyone could protect them and teach them all that he couldn’t, it was Gil-galad. 

“Fingon was both terrified and overjoyed,” Maglor remarked. 

“He need not fear,” Elrond said. “Gil-galad spoke of him often—he missed him terribly, even to the end of his own life. The day before he died, we spoke of Fingon.” He sighed. “Like Fëanor, there was nothing of him to bury afterward. His spirit burned bright, but it was the heat of Sauron that burned his body away. Elendil burned, too.”

“Did he not have a tomb, though—I feel certain that I saw it in Rath Dínen?”

“He did; Gil-galad bore the greatest brunt of Sauron’s fury in that last fight. There was enough of Elendil’s body to take and bury, though it was nearly unrecognizable.” Elrond sighed again. “It was a terrible end, though we won the day…”

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to bring back the memory.”

“You didn’t. I have been thinking of it lately anyway—and it is such an old grief that it does not feel either sharp or heavy anymore, even without the news of Gil-galad’s return. We are a very long way from Mordor.”

“Yes, we are,” Maglor agreed. 

Celegorm did not reappear that afternoon or evening. Dinner was as cheerful and bustling as it ever was. Word had gotten out that Gil-galad was returned, and everyone who had once dwelt in Middle-earth under his rule was aglow with delight. Maglor found himself seated by Findis, who seemed bemused by it all. “I don’t remember any such excitement when my brother Nolofinwë returned,” she remarked to him, “or even Findekáno.”

“Gil-galad was greatly loved—and he ruled far longer than either Nolofinwë or Findekáno,” said Maglor. “There was great love between him and Elrond; is it any wonder that Elrond’s household loves him too?”

“I suppose. Did you know him well?”

“No. I met him a few times as a child, but he was sent south after the Bragollach, and I never came after that to the Falas.”

“But after…?”

Maglor smiled at her. “Surely you have heard the tales, Aunt Findis? I was he who harped upon far forgotten beaches and dark shores, wandering ever in pain and regret beside the waves.”

“Oh, Macalaurë. I had thought that only poetry.”

“Perhaps it was exaggerated, but it was also said I came never back among Elven kind, and until near the end of the Third Age that was true enough. I haven’t sung of pain or regret in a very long time. It means, though, that I can tell you nothing of Gil-galad or his realm but what the songs say.” Maglor dropped his gaze to his plate. Down the table Elemmírë and Daeron were talking with Gimli of the differences between Dwarvish and Elvish music. Maglor would have liked to join them, but it was more important, he thought, to speak to Findis. “Aunt Findis—”

“I’m sorry for upsetting you yesterday,” she said before he could go on. “You and Tyelkormo, only I have not been able to find him to apologize.”

“Tyelko has gotten into the habit of withdrawing when he is upset,” Maglor said, “but he’ll reappear eventually.” 

Dinner soon wound down, and as the household began to disperse for the evening’s enjoyments—doubtless many songs would be sung that night of Gil-galad and of Middle-earth—Maglor turned again to Findis. “The stars are bright this evening. Will you walk outside with me?”

She looked surprised at the request, but readily agreed. They left the sounds of laughter and talk behind them, and walked out toward the open and grassy paths that bordered the largest pond. The gazebo stood empty in the middle of it. “Is there something you wish to say to me, Macalaurë?” Findis asked after a little while. 

Maglor did not answer immediately. He had been thinking of what to say all evening, but found he still needed a moment to find the words. “When I came to these shores,” he said finally, keeping his gaze on the path before them and his arms folded over his chest, “I did not expect much of a welcome, except from Elrond. More than that, it was a terrible shock to learn that my brothers were all returned from Mandos. The last thing, too, I expected to hear was that my father had also come back. I was not nearly so pleased then as everyone here is now to learn of Gil-galad’s return.”

“I have heard that, that you did not take it as good news,” Findis said, “and that greatly surprised me—that you would wish to avoid even Maitimo.”

“It surprised nearly everyone but Maitimo himself,” Maglor said. He stopped walking and looked out at the starlight on the water. A fish surfaced briefly, sending ripples spreading out over the pond’s surface, making the water lilies bob. The air smelled sweet and fresh with their fragrance. “I love my brothers,” he said finally, without looking back at Findis. “And I love my parents. I thought for a time that I did hate my father, that I could never forgive him what he did to us, the choices he made after the Darkening. I thought for a long time that I couldn't forgive Maedhros either, but at least I knew why he did what he did at the end. I never truly doubted that my brother loved me.”

“Your father loves you,” said Findis. 

“I don’t think he did at the end. Not after he swore the Oath. Certainly not after Alqualondë or Losgar. I told you before that I fear my father. We all do, even though we all love him. You cannot scold fear away, Aunt Findis.”

She sighed. “I know. But Tyelkormo did not seem afraid.”

“Of course not. Do you think he would allow you to see it?”

“But why the palantír?”

Maglor paused again, trying to find the right words and sharply aware of the irony. “To speak of something,” he said at last, “is to reduce it, to…to leave things out. Such is the nature of language—even between languages, there are words for a thing in one that cannot be directly translated in another. Something is always lost. Usually that doesn’t matter—words can capture enough. Usually. We can all speak to him until we run out of words and out of breath, but there are also our own memories to consider, the things we saw and did not see, the things we missed at the time or maybe are still missing, even about ourselves. He once knew us better than anyone in the world. Without seeing what we became, what we did, what was done to and around us—our father cannot know us like that again, not as we are now. 

“I suppose it’s also…there is some reassurance, at least for me, in knowing that he is willing to look, to learn, to try, even if it hurts. I do not hope for reconciliation, because I find it very hard still to hope for anything, especially the things I want the most.”

“But you do intend to speak with him? What about, if not this?”

“About Finwë.” Maglor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Indis and Míriel have asked me to write a song for him. I can’t do it without asking what others who love him wish to hear sung, or learning what they can tell me. I would speak to you of him too, if you’re willing.” He did look at Findis then. “I read the song you wrote,” he said. “Arafinwë took it to Middle-earth, and shared it with Elrond.”

“I know, he told me. I’m not sure what I can tell you that I did not write in that song.”

“I did not seem to me a song meant to be widely shared.”

“It wasn’t.” Findis crossed her own arms, and it was her turn to look away over the pond. In the starlight her hair looked more silver than gold. “I miss my father desperately,” she said after a few moments, “but I do believe he will return to us someday. What was destroyed does not remain forever defiled. The walls of Formenos are crumbling now, but trees grow around them and moss and wild roses cover the broken stones. Flowers bloom upon Finwë’s grave, and the sunlight shines golden upon the mists that hover over the lake. Nolofinwë and Fëanáro have come together as real brothers, finding love where there was once bitter hatred. All of these things give me hope. I would hear a song for him that ends thus, and not only in grief and darkness.”

“I can’t hope for it,” Maglor said softly, “but I can sing of it.”

He remained by the water after Findis left to return to the house, thinking about grief and hope, and the way they seemed always so deeply connected. The beginnings of a melody stirred in his mind. He hummed a few notes, and then sang a few words, and felt something fall into place. He sang a few lines that he had written, very softly, and they felt right on his tongue, sounded right in his ears. Love and grief and hope, all intertwined—that was what lay at the heart of this song, and that was something he could build on. 

Something even the Valar might listen to.