A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Twenty Three

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After Elemmírë and Findis departed, others began arriving in anticipation of the Midsummer celebrations. It was always a merry time in Elrond and Celebrían’s house. The summer Maglor had arrived in Valinor, Gandalf had come with fireworks, just as he had the first Midsummer Maglor had spent in Rivendell long ago. It was not very surprising, then, when Maglor stepped outside two days before the holiday to find him unloading his wares in the courtyard. “Hello, Gandalf!” he said. “Would you like some help?”

“Hello, Maglor! I’m nearly done, but I’m very glad to see you back from Lórien. Is your brother here too?”

“Celegorm is,” said Maglor, “but the rest are all in Tirion.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. I had hoped to see all seven of you in one place.”

“You should have come to visit last summer then!” Maglor laughed.

Midsummer Day dawned bright and clear, with a glorious sunrise to which many songs were sung. The day was full of singing and dancing and games; the tables both inside and out were laden with food, and the wine flowed freely. Celebrían's gardens were all in bloom, a beautiful and fragrant riot of color. Maglor wore the robes he’d been given on his first Midsummer there, a gift from Míriel, all grey and blue and silver, the colors of the Sea and the shore. Daeron clad himself in blues and purples, and wore amethysts in his hair and on his fingers, and then insisted on winding sapphires through Maglor’s braids. “If you’ll be spending time in Alqualondë and Tirion—and in Taur-en-Gellam, for that matter—you’ll need to get used to this sort of thing again,” he said as he secured the last braid. 

“I know,” Maglor said. “I don’t mind all the finery, really, especially today. I just don’t have the patience anymore to do it every day.”

That afternoon, Celebrían sat down beside Maglor, pink-cheeked and breathless from dancing with her sons. Maglor was taking a break from making music. “You still plan to go to Alqualondë after Tirion?” she asked.

“Yes, and maybe Tol Eressëa,” Maglor said. It all depended on where he was to find his various and scattered cousins.

“Good. I think Elladan and Elrohir and I will follow a little while after you, but go straight to Avallónë. It’s been some years since we spent any time there, and it’s much easier to visit with Elwing and Eärendil when we’re all just there on the bay.”

“Is Eärendil back on land?”

“Not at this time, I think, but there’s a good chance he’ll return sometime this summer.”

“I don’t really know how long he’s ever gone at a time,” Maglor said after a moment, “but I hope he isn’t keeping away because of my father.”

“Oh, he isn’t! Well, they’ve been keeping away from Tirion, both Eärendil and Elwing, but they rarely visited before anyway—and it’s not because of the Silmaril so much as the sheer awkwardness of it, and Elwing doesn’t have the patience for that sort of thing. By now everyone is well assured that Fëanor is on his best behavior and will continue to be so.”

“Have you seen much of him, my father?”

“Oh, sometimes. He’ll come here on occasion, and we go to Tirion once in a very great while. I think whenever he has come here it’s been a rather thinly veiled attempt to learn anything of you, so I suspect we’ll see him even less in the future.” Celebrían glanced at Maglor. “Unless certain things change. Elrond told me your plans for this trip.”

“I don’t know if anything will change,” Maglor said. 

“Do you want it to? I know you didn’t, once.”

“I think I do,” Maglor admitted, “but thinking about it for too long makes me feel rather like I did before I went to Lórien, and I don’t particularly like it.”

“Even Lórien cannot fully reverse the work of years past,” Celebrían said. “I’m afraid those of us with scars will always wake up some days with the memory of them lying heavily over us, even if those days do grow rarer and rarer with each passing year.” She rose to her feet and held out her hands. “Come dance with me! You’ve been making music for us all morning—take some time now to enjoy it yourself!”

As evening came on, Gandalf brought out his fireworks. Maglor wandered over as he prepared to launch the first ones. He had been waiting all day for this opportunity. As Gandalf leaned down to light the first fuse, Maglor snatched his hat off his head and stuck it on the end of the large rocket mere seconds before it shot up and away. It burst into bright blue sparks that flew across the sky like a flock of birds, as small bits of charred fabric floated gently down to land in the fishpond.

“That,” Maglor told Gandalf as he sputtered and cursed, “is for meddling. I didn’t have the chance to take my revenge before, but now I have, and I am content.” 

“You,” Gandalf said quite sternly, the way that he had once spoken to recalcitrant hobbit children, pointing a finger at Maglor’s nose, “are a menace, Maglor Fëanorion!”

“I am not the one sticking his nose into everyone’s business!” Maglor laughed. “Let this be a lesson to you, Mithrandir!”

When he rejoined Elrond and Celebrían and Daeron, Celebrían had fallen back onto the blanket, laughing herself breathless. “I know you said once you were going to set his hat on fire,” Daeron said, “but that was much funnier.”

“I thought so too,” Maglor said, allowing himself a bit of smugness. Elrond had already been laughing too, and now he joined Celebrían on the blanket. “Next time maybe he’ll think twice before giving me unsolicited advice.”

“I did all work out in the end,” Elrond pointed out as he wiped his eyes and caught his breath. He did not sit up. 

“It did, but that doesn’t mean he should be encouraged.”

“Certainly not,” said Celebrían, but it came out sounding rather strangled, and she dissolved into giggles again. “Oh, the look on his face!”

Maglor settled back against Daeron’s chest to watch the rest of the fireworks. He saw Celegorm playing some sort of complicated looking card game with Lindir and the twins nearby, all of them laughing. He was glad to see Celegorm at ease again. His mockingbird had flown off once its wing was healed, but not far—Maglor had heard it singing in the gardens. He turned away, back to watching the fireworks, lighting the valley with blues and greens, reds and golds, in all manner of shapes, some which lingered for a time in the air, and others that faded away more swiftly. Afterward there was only the stars to shine down on them, silvering the water. There was more singing, but it grew quieter as the evening drew on into night. Maglor did not sing any more that evening, preferring to listen instead to the paeans to the starlight and to older songs in ancient tongues chanted by the fires, with drums replacing the flutes and viols and harps. 

When it grew very late, Daeron pulled Maglor inside and up to their room to rid him of his finery with the same determined precision with which he’d dressed him. Maglor returned the favor much more quickly and haphazardly before catching Daeron up in a deep kiss as they fell onto the bed already tangled up in one another. 

Maglor woke late in the morning to warm sunshine on his face, Pídhres purring somewhere at the foot of the bed, and Daeron tracing patterns on his chest. Without opening his eyes he rolled over to wrap himself around Daeron, who huffed a quiet laugh and wrapped his own arms around Maglor’s shoulders. “Everything all right?”

“Perfect,” Maglor said, still not opening his eyes. “Just don’t make me get up.”

“Shall we be lazy and indulgent, then?”

“Mhmm.” 

They did get up eventually, sometime in the afternoon. Everyone in the valley was feeling lazy after all of the activity of the day before, and it was several days before the usual routines and rhythms got started again. Then there was packing to do, and other little preparations for the trip to Tirion. Maglor gathered all his notes and drafts together, organizing them as much as his notes could ever be organized. Daeron was always despairing of his slipshod and scattered scribblings, but it had worked for Maglor for thousands of years and he was not going to try to change now. 

“Are you taking Annem and Aegthil?” Elladan asked Maglor the day before they were set to depart. 

“No,” said Maglor. “They’ll be much happier here than in Tirion. Pídhres is coming, because every time I have tried to leave her behind it didn’t work.” That had been true from the time he’d left her litter mates in Annúminas, to his leaving Imloth Ningloron on the trip that ended up taking him to Ekkaia. Elladan laughed, very familiar with Pídhres’ antics. “If someone can just make sure my bedroom door is left ajar so the hedgehogs can find their basket at night, I would be grateful.”

“Oh yes, of course. Or, if they don’t mind a little disruption, I think there might be something of a scuffle over who gets to take the basket to their room instead.”

Maglor laughed. “I think Aegthil and Annem won’t mind, as long as someone makes sure to show them where to go. They like their basket; I don’t think they care much about the room.”

Maglor, Daeron, Celegorm, and Elrond departed the next morning, bright and early after bidding farewell to Celebrían, the twins, Finrod, and Galadriel. Finrod would be going to Eressëa with Celebrían, and Galadriel intended to rejoin Celeborn in Taur-en-Gellam. Pídhres curled up around Maglor’s shoulders, purring gently. It was a bright morning, cloudless and clear, and the sky was very blue. The mountains rose up on their right, and on their left stretched wide plains and meadow lands, green and gold and scattered with bursts of bright wildflowers. Elrond asked about the journeys Maglor and Celegorm had undertaken in their youth; the conversation was easy and pleasant, Celegorm having long since gotten over his uneasiness of Elrond. The journey was not long, and it passed quickly and pleasantly. 

“Are we not stopping to see your mother?” Elrond asked as they approached the road to Nerdanel’s house without slowing.

“No one is there,” Maglor said. “They’re all in Tirion except our mother, who went to Valmar, but she’ll be in Tirion in a day or two.”

“Even Maedhros?” Elrond asked, surprised.

“Yes, he’s staying with our cousin Súriellë since Fingon isn’t there.”

“I was surprised, too,” Celegorm said. “But they’ll have had even bigger parties than Imloth Ningloron. Curvo told me they did fireworks last year, even though Mithrandir wasn’t around.”

“He taught your father how to make them,” Elrond said, “but I doubt even Fëanor’s are as good as Gandalf’s.”

“Why in the world would he teach our father to make fireworks?” Celegorm asked, aghast. “That’s asking for trouble. I’m surprised your orchards emerged unscathed. D’you remember that time he nearly blew up our house, Cáno?”

“I do not remember that, actually. What was he doing? And where was I?”

“Oh, maybe it was when you were studying in Valmar. I don’t know what he was doing, but Ammë was furious and he had to sleep in his workshop for a week and a half.”

“Celebrían was very firm about them taking their endeavors far away from the house. It was a distraction of sorts, I think,” Elrond said. “Or else something to cheer him up, and nothing quite cheers your father like learning something new, I have found.”

“At least with fireworks when something explodes it’s because it’s meant to,” said Maglor. Daeron snorted. “I should visit our grandparents, but I can do that on the way home.”

Just past Nerdanel and Mahtan’s houses, Tirion came into view, its tall white towers gleaming in the sun. Tallest of all was the Mindon Eldaliéva, a spire of silver standing above the palace. Maglor had passed the city by on his way from Eressëa to Imloth Ningloron, years ago, but he had not yet entered into it. His brothers, and Daeron, and his mother had told him all about the ways Tirion was different, and the ways in which it hadn’t changed at all. The palace was the same as it had been, for the most part, and Finwë’s cherry trees remained—or the descendants of his trees, anyway. Many of the neighborhoods and districts were rearranged, though, and many parts of the city still stood empty. 

“If you take that road,” Celegorm said, pointing to a road that had not been there in Maglor’s youth, leading west, “you’ll reach Turgon’s city in a couple of weeks. I suppose you’ll be needing to speak to him, too. Angrod and Orodreth have a smaller realm somewhere in the northeast, closer to the Pelóri.”

“Finrod wrote to them and asked that they make their way to Tirion or Avallónë,” said Maglor, “so I don’t have to ride all over the place. I expect I’ll visit Alastoron eventually, and—what’s the other city called?”

“Ithilheledh,” Elrond said. “It’s not a very large city—town is closer to the mark—and is beside a large lake of the same name.”

“Northeast of Tirion, on a lake?” Maglor glanced at Celegorm. “It’s not the same lake as—”

“No!” Celegorm shook his head sharply. “No, it’s farther east, right up at the feet of the mountains. They didn’t rename the Wilwarinen.”

“Where is the Wilwarinen?” Elrond asked. 

“Beside Formenos.” Maglor had been thinking lately of Formenos, too. Celegorm had asked him at the start of his songwriting if he would return there, and he still wasn’t sure if he needed to. He did not think he wanted to, even though so many long years had passed. For all he knew the house was merely a crumbling pile of rubble. It and the small town of Fëanor’s followers that sprung up around it had been built fairly rapidly after they had gone into exile, but they’d all been familiar with the lake. They had gone there to camp out under the sky with Finwë when he felt the desire to escape Tirion for a while. That was where he had taught them many things his father and grandfather had taught him long, long ago by the shores of Cuiviénen, and told them stories, taught them songs. It was a beautiful place—or it had been then—though none of them had been in the mood to appreciate such things when they had followed Fëanor there.

They came to Tirion, finding it still bustling and full in the aftermath of Midsummer. Elrond and Celebrían did not keep a house in the city, as they did in Avallónë, but Finrod had insisted they stay in his, which was near to the palace and next door to Fingon’s, which stood empty. “That way poor Curufin isn’t overwhelmed by guests, and you’re quite close to everywhere you need to go!” he’d said. “I already wrote to my housekeeper about it too, so you can’t refuse without being terribly rude.”

Predictably, all of the rest of Maglor's brothers turned up for dinner, alongside Celebrimbor and the girls. Rundamírë and Lisgalen were not with them, because they had begun a collaboration that neither of them were willing to step away from. “You know how it is,” Caranthir said as he and Curufin both shrugged, twin expressions of fondness on their faces.

After dinner by unspoken agreement Elrond and Daeron took charge of Náriel and Calissë while the rest of them retreated to a more private space to talk of more serious things than the summer holidays and the girls’ complaints about their schoolwork. Celebrimbor claimed the seat beside Maglor once they were shut away in a small and cozy room filled with soft chairs and little tables, and with walls lined with overflowing bookshelves. Maglor was amused to see several chairs clearly made to fit a hobbit’s stature. “It’s good to see you, Tyelpë,” he said as the rest of his brothers got settled. “What happened here?” He reached for Celebrimbor’s hand, which sported a new scar across the palm. It looked fairly fresh.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Celebrimbor said. “I grabbed a piece of broken glass—trying to stop it falling and shattering. It fell anyway, and Atya had to stitch me up not ten minutes after he got home from Imloth Ningloron.”

“My standard of how bad a cut is is probably somewhat skewed since the River Incident,” Curufin said as he sat down on Celebrimbor’s other side, “but it really wasn’t that bad, except for making a bit of a mess.”

“The River Incident was the result of several unlikely events all happening at once,” Maedhros said, “and really shouldn’t set any standard for anything.”

“Do you want to know exactly how many stitches I had to give you?” Curufin retorted. 

“Let’s not argue about that, please,” Maglor said. It wasn’t the same visceral reaction he’d had at the time, but his stomach still wanted to tie itself in knots at the thought of anyone being stitched up. “You all know why I’m in Tirion; who’s all here that I can talk to?”

“Fingolfin, of course,” said Curufin, “and Lalwen—and Findis, but you probably already spoke to her. Argon is here, and Turgon and Elenwë turned up for Midsummer and haven’t yet left, and Finrod’s brothers also came. They’re all living or staying at the palace. You’ll still have to go to Alqualondë to see Finarfin.”

“And, of course, Atya is here,” said Amras. He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Caranthir, who was separating his hair for braiding. Amrod sprawled out on some pillows on the carpet, seemingly half-asleep. “We’ve been helping him clear out the gardens at the old house, once we finished getting everything out of the store rooms.”

“I have piles of boxes I would very much like all of you to look at,” Curufin added, “so I can have my workshop back.”

“You can send them home with me, you know,” Maedhros said. “There’s plenty of room there.”

“Not in my workshop there’s not,” Caranthir said. “And if they go in the cellar they’ll just stay there for another six thousand years.”

“We can pile them up in mine, then,” Maedhros said. “I don’t need that much room just to paint.”

“I’m going to take you up on that,” Curufin said. 

“But,” Amras said, “we were talking of Atya. We told him about your song, Cáno. I hope you didn’t want to keep it too terribly secret. I think everyone knows what you’re doing.”

“Of course it isn’t a secret,” said Maglor. “What did he say when you told him?”

“Nothing much,” said Amrod without opening his eyes. “He’s very quiet. It’s odd.”

“He seems like his old self when he’s at court, or in larger company,” said Celebrimbor, “but in private he is much quieter than he used to be. More thoughtful.”

“He’s not angry,” Curufin added, very quiet himself. “He really isn’t.” Maglor glanced at Maedhros, who kept his gaze on the window, outside of which was a small courtyard with a fountain, where a small flock of colorful birds were splashing about.

“I believe you,” Maglor said, looking back at Curufin. “And since it’s been looming over me for months now, I think I should speak to him as soon as possible. Where can I find him?”

“He walks most mornings through the cherry grove,” Curufin said. “That will be the most private place for you to speak to him.”

“What’s he been looking for in the palantír?” Celegorm asked. 

“Everything, I think,” Curufin said, “but I have to bully him into looking for anything good. It’s working, though. When you speak to him it won’t be as much like speaking to a stranger—at least on his side.”

“I think he is very unhappy,” Amras said, “but he’s cheered up since we’ve been in Tirion. Amrod and I are going to take him home with us come fall. A winter away from the city will probably do him good.”

“Does he know that?” Celebrimbor asked.

“Not yet,” said Amras cheerfully, “but there’s no chance of him refusing. Not if we ask him.”

"We mentioned it once, but only in passing," Amrod added.

“He’ll go mad trapped up a mountain in the snow,” Celegorm said. 

“No, he won’t,” said Amrod. Still without opening his eyes, he knocked a foot against Celegorm’s ankle. “You didn’t.”

“I like the woods.”

“And do you know why?” Amras asked, and he went on without waiting for an answer. “There’s nothing in the woods that cares who you are or who your father is, or what you did or didn’t do. The trees certainly don’t. You can go days without ever even thinking about your own name because it doesn’t matter.”

“Those things do matter, though,” Maedhros said. “We are Elves, Ambarussa, not trees or squirrels.”

“Well, yes, obviously,” said Amras, “and so we never forget them entirely, we always come back out of the woods to pick them up again. But they are things we can set aside for a little while, sometimes. We can go out into the quiet and find again who we are without them, to find again who we are, just ourselves, nameless and alone. When has Atya ever had the opportunity to do that?”

“Mandos,” said Caranthir. 

“You know that’s different.”

“I know what you mean, Amras,” Maglor said. “The Sea doesn’t care, either.” Amras nodded at him; Celegorm looked pained for a moment, but said nothing. Celebrimbor leaned his head on Maglor’s shoulder. 

The next morning Maglor rose early, and Daeron insisted on braiding his hair more elaborately than usual, fastened with beads and woven with silver threads not unlike the styles Fingon favored with gold. “You’ll be going to the palace, so you must look the part of the prince you are,” he said as he sat behind Maglor on the bed with the comb. 

“I know,” Maglor sighed. “As I’ve told you, the jewels I don’t mind—the titles I do. I left that all behind long ago.”

“And then you came back.” Daeron finished the last braid and wrapped his arms around Maglor from behind as he leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “There. Wear a ring or two as well. Maybe a necklace.”

“Yes, yes.” Maglor obliged, and then dressed. He did not choose robes or anything in the styles of Tirion or elsewhere in Valinor, instead donning sensible trousers and boots, and over them a shirt and a long black sleeveless tunic that fell almost to his knees, which was embroidered with silver stars and musical notes—a gift from Arwen, which he had worn many times to the court of Minas Tirith. The style was more than fifty years out of date there by now, and very little like what was worn anywhere in Valinor. Gondor had not yet entirely abandoned its wartime practicalities when Maglor had left it; heavy and more cumbersome clothes had still been rare. Maglor liked the freedom of movement, and liked even better that Arwen had made it. He had kept it packed away ever since he’d come to Valinor, having had no occasion yet to take it out, and still preferring much plainer clothes for everyday wear. 

“That’s nice,” said Daeron, who hadn’t yet seen these particular clothes. “You’ll certainly stand out, you know.”

“I would stand out anyway, I think.” Maglor fingered the hem of his tunic for a moment, running his thumb over a silver embroidered star. “I’d rather stand out because of my clothes than the other reasons. All right, I should go, lest I miss him in the cherry grove.”

“Celegorm and I will be nearby when you’re finished,” Daeron said. 

“I still don’t think it will be necessary.” Maglor leaned down to kiss him. “But thank you.”

Downstairs he found Elrond with a cup of tea in his hands. “I haven’t seen that tunic before,” he remarked.

“I don’t often have to wear courtly things,” said Maglor. 

“Is that courtly?”

“Well, it was some years ago in Minas Tirith.”

Elrond looked again, and his eyes went soft and sad as he recognized the embroidery. “It’s lovely,” he said.

“Yes, it is.” Maglor dropped a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m going to the palace; I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“I’ll see you there later, more than likely. Once my grandfather finds out I’m in Tirion I’ll be dragged into all sorts of things.” 

“You wanted to come,” Maglor reminded him. 

“So I did,” Elrond said agreeably. 

Maglor walked the short distance to the palace, finding at least the streets still the same, even if the buildings weren’t always. He avoided the busier thoroughfares and ducked through alleys and narrower side-streets, following shortcuts he’d once known as well as he knew the strings of his harp. It was very strange to walk them now, so much older, with no laughing brothers or cousins with him, with a far more sober errand than making it back home in time for dinner, or before a parent realized they had snuck out when they weren’t supposed to. It was still very early; the sky was pale and the sun would not rise above the Pelóri for some hours. It shone through the Calacirya in the east, though, and caught and gleamed on the Mindon Eldaliéva. 

It was quiet at the palace too, at least out in the gardens and grounds. Maglor managed to make his way to the cherry grove behind the main building and past the most popular gardens without meeting anyone. Under the trees it was green and cool and damp with dew. Cherries were thick in the boughs, ripe for picking now, and Maglor found stacks of baskets waiting for those who would come to harvest them later. He paused to brush his fingers over a few of the ripened fruits, but did not pick any. No cherry he had ever eaten in Middle-earth had tasted like Finwë’s, just as no apples could compare to Celebrían’s. Like the plums that grew by his grandparents’ house, these cherries would taste of his childhood, of the bliss of Valinor’s Noontide, and he did not want to have been crying when he saw his father. 

No one else was out walking through the cherry trees, though. It was almost silent but for the songbirds and the breeze whispering through the leaves. Finally, Maglor came to the far end, and halted. There was his grandfather’s workshop, exactly as it stood in his memories. It was not very large, for it was only ever Finwë himself and one or two children or grandchildren, or perhaps a friend, who had worked there at one time. Maglor swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat, and went to the door. He hesitated before lifting the latch, wanting and yet not wanting to see what was inside. He didn’t know which would be worse: to find it untouched since Finwë’s death, or to find it empty and cleaned out. He steeled himself, pulled open the door, and stepped inside. 

It was empty, but for the cupboards and shelves attached to the walls. Gone were the neat stacks of wood, the tables, the chests of tools, the small completed or partly-completed projects that had cluttered the shelves. Maglor stepped into the center of the room, which smelled only of stale air, rather than sawdust and the fragrant finishing oils that his grandfather had favored. 

He had been thinking so much of Finwë lately, and the grief had felt heavy, but not painful. It was familiar in its shape, the edges of it worn soft by time, like jagged stones slowly rounding into pebbles by the winds and rains of many years. Standing in that room, though—shadowy and so terribly empty—it felt fresh and new again. He pressed a hand to his mouth as tears stung his eyes. He squeezed them shut, still not wanting to cry, but not sure he would be able to help it. 

Then he started, the scars on his palm suddenly burning, at the sound of a voice behind him, saying sharply, “Who is here? This is not a place to—” Maglor turned to find his father in the doorway, a scowl melting away into a look of surprise. “Cáno,” he said, in a very different tone. “I am sorry, I thought…”

“It’s all right,” Maglor said, when he caught his breath. He would have reacted the same way, probably, to finding the door ajar, assuming someone had entered this place out of mere curiosity. He clasped his hands behind his back, pressing his thumb into his scarred palm, letting the pain of it chase away the tears for Finwë, though it did nothing to stop the sudden racing of his heart. He and Fëanor regarded one another for what felt like a very long time. Fëanor was dressed very plainly, in sturdy and stained clothes, and his hair was bound back in a single tight braid. There were shadows under his eyes, as though he had not been sleeping well. His gaze swept over Maglor, taking in his much finer dress, until it settled on his face. Maglor had tried to rehearse what he would say, but he hadn’t anticipated having this conversation in Finwë’s workshop; he hadn’t expected fear to rear its head quite like this—hadn’t expected to be taken by surprise. Finally, he took a breath and said, in a voice that shook only slightly, “I was looking for you.”

Fëanor did not look surprised at that. “To speak of the song you are writing?” he asked. He was guarded, his stance that of one poised for flight, as though he expected a repeat of their last encounter. Maglor couldn’t really blame him. He pressed his thumb harder into his palm, wishing that it didn’t hurt, wishing that he could meet his father with the same kind of ease that Ambarussa could, or the warmth of Curufin and Celebrimbor. He missed his father so much that it hurt, like a blade lodged somewhere under his ribs, between his lungs. He’d felt the same way when they’d met before, but the feeling had then been drowned out by how angry he had still been. Now the anger was gone—but the fear wasn’t, so it just ached.

“Yes,” he said, hoping none of that showed on his face or in his voice. “If you will speak with me.”

“Of course I will.” Whether he meant that of course he would speak of Finwë, or of course he would speak with Maglor, was impossible to tell. “Let us come out into the sunlight.” 

Maglor readily agreed, and shut the door firmly behind him. He let his hand rest against the wood for a moment, before turning away and following Fëanor back toward the cherry trees. They stopped under the closest one, and the silence swiftly grew tense. Finally, Fëanor said, “I don’t know if I will be able to speak much of him. It is…very hard.”

“I understand,” Maglor said. “Grandmother Míriel said that he was the same way. Unable to speak of such close griefs.”

“He was,” Fëanor said. 

“The question I have been asking,” Maglor said after another few moments of silence, “is what others would wish to hear sung of him. Not all of it will be sung—I cannot give everyone a verse—but all of it helps me to shape the song, to find the words that will capture him best. It cannot be a complete portrait, because to put anything into words is to lose something…but it will be as near to it as I can make it.”

“Then it will be very near indeed,” Fëanor murmured. He leaned back against the tree, arms crossed, and looked away into the grove, rather than at Maglor. The praise made Maglor’s throat go tight again, and he ducked his head—except the braids kept his hair from falling forward as he wished it to. Finally, Fëanor said, “I have been thinking of how I might answer that question since Ambarussa told me of it, but I don’t know. Anyone can tell you how great he was—how strong, how brave, how loving. You know all of those things yourself.”

“There is much I do not know,” said Maglor. “And no one knew him like you did.”

Fëanor took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I don’t think I knew him as well as I once thought. Regardless, I would not have him turned into—into a myth, into some figure of legend, to be reduced to his greatest deeds. He was as flawed as any one of us. Do not mistake me—I miss my father, and every day without him is—there are no words for it. I love my father, but I am not blind to his faults. His inability to speak of those most closely held griefs was one. If he had been able to tell me—willing to try to speak of—of his own family left behind or lost, perhaps things might have gone differently. I might have understood better his desire for a large family, knowing that he had once had one.”

“I have been told that his mother remarried after his father was lost,” Maglor said, “and that he loved his younger sisters dearly, though they would not make the Journey.” Fëanor closed his eyes for a moment, as though pained. “It is not my intention to flatten him into a mere legend or story. With this song I am trying to do the opposite. That is why I wish to hear from everyone who loves him—and you most of all.”

“He had a temper,” Fëanor said after a moment. “It showed rarely. He was furious at Formenos, but far more careful than I was to keep it hidden from all of you. He was—stubborn. Strong-willed, if you want to turn it to praise instead. And yet often he was too lenient. I don’t know why he did not intervene sooner in the conflict between myself and Nolofinwë. Intervene publicly, I mean, or more forcefully than only speaking sometimes to us each alone.”

“Would it not have only made things worse?” Maglor asked.

“I don’t know. No one can know, for he never did.” Fëanor sighed, and let his head fall back against the trunk. “Findis is of the belief he will return to us one day. At least she hopes for it, but I cannot. Such estel is beyond me.”

“And me,” Maglor said softly, thinking again of Indis and Míriel’s real intentions for this song, of the incredible hope that they harbored for it, the faith they were putting on him and his skills. Fëanor had no idea of it, and Maglor was glad. He did not want to see Fëanor start to grasp at hope only to have it ripped away. Maglor knew what that felt like, and would wish it upon no one. 

“Has this helped?” Fëanor asked. 

“It all helps,” Maglor said. He took a deep breath and said, “Atya—” at the same time Fëanor began, “Cáno—” They both broke off.

Fëanor broke the ensuing silence first. “Was it really so bad—at Formenos—when you did not let me see—”

“It was,” Maglor said. “We did not let anyone see, Maedhros and I, and he tried to keep me back too when we approached the doors, only I wouldn’t listen.” He paused for a moment, unsure whether to go on. Then he thought that if he didn’t say something, Fëanor would look into the palantír again, and of all the things Maglor wanted him to see and understand, to know, this was not one of them. “Only Fingon suffered a worse fate, later,” he said, “at the Nirnaeth. Finwë was—you would not have known him. It would have destroyed you.”

“It destroyed me anyway,” Fëanor said, very quietly.

“You do not need that memory of him in your mind,” Maglor said. “We did not let you see because we loved you, and we knew that you would follow him to Mandos then and there.”

“Maybe that would have been better than what came afterward.”

“Such thoughts as that never lead anywhere good,” Maglor said. “The Oath was a mistake—the Oath was what led to our ruin. Going east? That wasn’t. Beleriand would have been overrun ere the moon ever rose, and the rest of the world would have followed so swiftly even the Valar, had they chosen to act, would not have been able to stop it. Not all our deeds were in vain, however doomed we were.” He looked down at his hands. Speaking of the oath had brought back the pain in his scars, a steady throbbing—like the burns had felt as they finally started to heal, rather than the fresher, sharper pain. A reminder of how, after finally getting the Silmarils back, he had turned and thrown his away. He pressed his thumb into his palm again. “When last we met I said some very cruel things,” he said without looking up. 

“Nothing that you said was untrue.”

“That does not mean I should have said it. I’m—”

Fëanor reached out, taking Maglor’s hand in his and stopping him from rubbing his thumb into the scars. Maglor flinched, but Fëanor’s touch neither lessened nor worsened the pain in his hand—and he was careful not to touch the scars themselves. “You were angry,” he said, very softly, “and afraid, and in pain, and I lay at the root of it all. Do not apologize to me, Canafinwë.” His hand was warm, strong and rough with callouses. There were traces of soot under his fingernails, and he wore no rings.

“But I am sorry.” Maglor couldn’t raise his head, though. He was no longer angry, but it still hurt, and he was still so afraid. Sauron’s words in his father’s voice still echoed in the back of his mind, the lingering certainty that he was yet a failure and a disappointment—last and least—in his father’s eyes still clinging like a poison, and he still did not know what would banish them for good.

“You need not be.” Fëanor rested his other hand on Maglor’s shoulder. “I am your father; you should always be able to lose your temper, to lash out, without fear of reprisal, especially when I am the one who has hurt you. I know that has not always been true, and I am so, so sorry—and for this most of all.” He tightened his grip just slightly on Maglor’s scarred hand. “You were not wrong. I put my works above all of those I loved most in the world, and you have suffered the most for it. I’m so sorry. I know it’s not enough, I just do not yet know what will be.” Fëanor pressed a kiss to Maglor’s forehead, and stepped back. “I love you, Cáno. I look forward to hearing this song when it is done.” He did not wait for Maglor to reply before he left, walking back through the cherry trees. Once upon a time, Maglor thought, he would have picked a handful of the fruit as he went, to eat on his way to his workshop or wherever he was going. He did not do that now; instead he put his hands into his pockets. 

A few minutes after Fëanor disappeared beyond the grove, Celegorm and Daeron came from a different direction. “How did it go?” Celegorm asked.

“Much better than I thought,” Maglor said. “Neither of us started crying or shouting, so…”

“Love, you’re crying now,” Daeron said softly.

“Am I?” Maglor put his hand to his face, and his fingers came away wet. Daeron brought out a handkerchief to wipe them away.

“What did he say?” Celegorm asked. “Does your hand hurt?”

“He didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not upset. We were speaking of Finwë—it was always going to be hard.” That wasn’t what the tears were for, but Maglor didn’t want to share what else had been said. Not yet.

“If you say so,” Celegorm said, but he sounded doubtful. He glanced up at the cherries hanging over their heads, and picked a few. Maglor took one when it was offered. It tasted exactly like he thought it would.