A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Twenty Seven

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Angrod and Orodreth came to Maglor in the morning, after breakfast and just as he was starting to consider what he should wear to the palace, and wishing he could just crawl back into bed. It was with relief that he met them at the door, and led them both outside into the garden instead. “Is Findaráto not coming to Tirion?” Angrod asked as they sat by a fountain, bubbling cheerfully. He and Orodreth were both dressed in finery, each in a different shade of blue, with strings of blue topaz and tourmaline wound through their pale yellow hair. Orodreth’s spilled loosely down his back; Angrod wore his in tighter braids, not unlike what he had worn in Middle-earth—sensible rather than fashionable, if you took away the gems.

“I think he intends to go straight to Eressëa with Celebrían and the twins,” said Maglor. Pídhres trotted out of a clump of cowslip to sniff at Orodreth’s fingers. “They might already be on their way. I suppose I don’t have to explain why I wanted to speak to you?”

“This song for Finwë,” said Orodreth, as he stroked Pídhres, who purred and arched her back into it. “I’m not sure I can answer you. We did not see him as often as the rest of you did, living mostly in Alqualondë.”

“Whenever we did see him,” Angrod added, “it was all the more joyous. But it also made it all the worse when he was slain. We had thought there would be time—or, no, that isn’t right is it? We didn’t think we’d have time, because it was never something we had to think about at all.”

“Not until it ran out,” Orodreth agreed. He fell silent for a few moments, and then said slowly, “I never wanted any crown. When my brother gave his to me I…hoped that it was temporary, a mere regency.”

“I know the feeling,” Maglor murmured.

Orodreth grimaced in sympathy. “At least yours was a regency in truth. Even at the beginning I knew such a hope was foolish. Findaráto knew he wasn’t coming back. I had no idea what I was doing—I didn’t want it, and I wasn’t suited for it, and everyone knew it, and…well. We all know what happened. But I managed to muddle along for a while, and it was mostly doing what I thought Finwë might do if he were there. I was wrong more than half the time, I know—I don’t think Finwë would have ruled any hidden kingdom to begin with. He was too bold. But day-to-day I think his example helped.”

Pídhres jumped onto Maglor’s lap and he buried his fingers in her fur. He wasn’t sure how to respond, and so said nothing. To speak of Nargothrond was to speak of his brothers’ part in all that happened there, and he did not think it his place. That lay between them and Orodreth, them and Finrod. 

“Why did you never write such a song as this before?” Angrod asked him. “There was time—in Beleriand, I mean. Before the flames.”

“I tried. It is only now that I find I am succeeding, and I think it is because I’m no longer relying on my words alone.”

“What will you do when it’s done?” asked Orodreth. 

“I hope to have it written by the time this festival of Ingwë’s comes around,” said Maglor, “and I will sing it then, as part of Elemmírë’s cycle of songs that span the whole of our history.”

“That is ambitious, even for Elemmírë,” said Angrod, but he sounded impressed. 

“This whole gathering is ambitious,” said Maglor.

“Would that Finwë could be there himself, and your song rendered meaningless,” Angrod said. “No offense, Cousin.”

“None taken. I would very happily abandon this song if it meant he would walk into Tirion this afternoon.”

“And not only Finwë,” Orodreth said quietly. “You will be missing at least two voices in your song, you know.”

“I know. I wish it were not so. Everyone keeps pointing out to me that many things have happened lately that were once thought impossible, though. Aikanáro may yet return.”

“That is true,” said Angrod. “Almost I wish Mandos would release him whether he would or no, as they did Russandol.”

“I think it was a question of whether Mandos was doing him more harm than good by then,” said Orodreth. “That is what Findaráto told me, anyway, though I don’t understand it myself.”

When they looked at him Maglor shrugged. “Don’t ask me. For good or ill, I’ve never been to Mandos, and Maedhros has never spoken to me of his time there.”

“I daresay you came close,” Angrod said. 

“Not that close.”

“What did happen?” Orodreth asked.

“I was careless, and I paid for it.” Maglor looked away from them to watch a few sparrows flutter from one tree to another nearby. “I didn’t want to see you to talk about me. I hear you have a new city of your own somewhere north of Tirion.”

“Not much of a city,” said Orodreth, “and it’s Angaráto’s, not mine. I just live there.”

“Nominally it’s mine,” said Angrod. “There’s a council that makes all the decisions, and I just sign the paperwork.”

“It was your idea,” Orodreth said.

“And that’s why I get the title and have to come to Tirion sometimes for politics,” Angrod said, making a face at the word politics like he’d just stepped in something unpleasant. Maglor snorted. “It’s very nice, though—to have built something we know will last, and not having to worry about what’s just beyond the mountains. I’m surprised none of your brothers have done the same.”

“None of us particularly want to be in charge of anything,” said Maglor. “I certainly don’t. I get all the benefits of living in Elrond and Celebrían’s household, and none of the responsibilities, and I am quite content.”

“Speaking of responsibilities,” said Angrod, “our uncle wished for us to ask if you would perform for the court tonight—you and Daeron. I think Imloth Ningloron is the only place that has had that honor since you have both been in the same place at the same time.”

It had been Angrod, Maglor remembered, who had introduced them at the Mereth Aderthad. “I am willing,” he said, “and I think I can speak for Daeron too.”

“So it’s true then, the reason Aunt Lalwen is so smug today?” asked Orodreth, raising an eyebrow. “You and Daeron?”

Maglor raised an eyebrow back at him. “I don’t know why Lalwen would be smug about it,” he said. “It’s not as though she played matchmaker.”

“No, that was me,” Angrod laughed, and the mood lifted as suddenly as the sun emerging from behind a cloud. “Though all I thought at the time was that you were likely to be friends—or I hoped so, at least.”

“You were right,” Maglor said, “though at the time the friendship was short-lived. But since we both came west it’s been—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Orodreth said, laughing, “we can see it written across your face.” He rose from his seat. “I’ll tell our uncle you’ll be attending dinner this evening. Everyone will be thrilled.”

“This happiness suits you better than the grief,” Angrod added as he also got to his feet. When Maglor stood, Angrod embraced him. “We’ll have to go out riding one of these days—it’s been too long since we raced through the fields outside Tirion.”

“I would like that,” Maglor said. “When I’m done traveling around to work on this song, maybe.”

“We should all come together sometime,” said Orodreth. “All of us cousins, even if Aikanáro and Irissë cannot yet join us—our own miniature Mereth Aderthad.”

“That,” Angrod said, “is an excellent idea. I’ll write to Findaráto about it.”

“Then it will certainly happen soon,” Maglor said, and both of them laughed. “I am very glad to see you both. I’m sorry it was to speak of sorrowful things.”

“There will be time for happier talks,” said Orodreth. “Just be sure to sing something cheerful tonight!”

After they left, Maglor told Daeron and Elrond of Fingolfin’s request. “I’m always ready to perform,” said Daeron. “What should we sing?”

“I thought perhaps the song we wrote of Ekkaia?”

“I’ve heard of that song,” said Elrond, “but never the song itself.”

“I don’t know why we haven’t sung it in full before,” Daeron said. “But tonight is as good a night as any—it is a good song to celebrate your return, Maglor.”

Daeron had some errand in the city that afternoon that he insisted upon making alone, while refusing to say what it was. Maglor brought his notes down to the library where he and Elrond spent the rest of the morning in quiet company, speaking little except when Maglor asked Elrond’s opinion on a couplet, or a snatch of melody, or when Elrond shared something amusing from the book he was reading. Celegorm had disappeared before breakfast, and had not reappeared by the time they started to get ready to dine at court. Maglor wore a similar style to the previous day, but choosing green instead of black, and fastening his braids with clips set with beryl and green opals. Daeron dressed in the courtly style of Taur-en-Gellam, in mallorn-flower yellow. When Elrond joined them he looked every inch the Lord of Imladris and of Imloth Ningloron, a circlet of chalcedony on his brow, and pearls glinting in his braids. Pídhres had to be left behind, and made her displeasure very clear. 

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” Maglor told her. “I know you’ve already charmed Finrod’s cook, so you’ll get all the treats you can eat and I’ll have to roll you back home to Imloth Ningloron.” She meowed, apparently affronted, and turned to trot off, tail held high—in the direction of the kitchen. 

Maglor had taken part in court functions in Arnor and Gondor, though not terribly often, so he did not feel quite as out of his depth as he might have. Still, it was a larger and much more formal gathering of people than he had yet attended there in Valinor. His uncle greeted him with a warm smile, and Anairë was there too to kiss him and welcome him back to Tirion. Curufin and Ambarussa were there with Celebrimbor and Rundamírë, but he did not see his father anywhere. 

“He’s not absent because of me, is he?” he whispered to Amras when he could catch him alone for a moment. “When I said I was going to keep avoiding him I didn’t mean—”

“No, he’s not. He got caught up in his own work this afternoon—you remember how he gets sometimes. He might miss part of dinner but he’ll be here to hear you sing.”

“That wasn’t what I—I just don’t want him to feel as though he has to stay away.”

“He understands that you’re caught up in your own work,” Amras said. “It didn’t upset him, and I know for a fact he very much wants to hear you tonight.”

Dinner was not unpleasant, though Maglor barely managed to eat anything in between all the people who came over to speak to him or to welcome him back. He was aware of everyone’s eyes on him, and he knew it was mostly because he had not been seen in Tirion in so long, and because everyone knew he was to sing for them that evening, but it was still horrible. That he was able to sit through the meal without betraying the anxiety growing in his chest was a sign of all that Lórien had done for him. He would have fled the room long before they sat down to the table if he had come there fifty years before. The anxiety was still there, though, and he disliked how fragile it made him feel.

Daeron sat beside him, and during a lull in the stream of conversation around them he put his hand over Maglor’s. “Are you nervous?” he asked in a low voice.

“Not about the singing,” Maglor said without looking up from his plate. He turned his hand to squeeze Daeron’s before letting go. “It’s—it’ll be easier after tonight, once everyone’s had their look at me.” 

Halfway through the meal Fëanor arrived, skin still pink from scrubbing. He took his place at the high table beside Fingolfin, just a few feet from where Maglor sat with Daeron and his brothers at the end of their table. He heard Fingolfin greet Fëanor, and Fëanor’s reply, and even knowing they were friendly hadn’t really prepared him for the sound of them conversing so cheerfully. He glanced up in time to see Fëanor sit down. Their eyes met briefly. Fëanor smiled at him, and turned away back to Fingolfin. 

“So it really did go well?” Amrod asked, leaning across the table toward Maglor.

“Why do any of you bother asking me things if you don’t believe my answers?” Maglor replied, trying to ignore how the knot of anxiety in his stomach had grown spikes. “Yes, like I told Amras—and Daeron, and Celegorm. It was fine.”

Amras frowned at him. “You weren’t yourself afterward, Cáno,” he said.

“A thing can go well and still be draining,” said Daeron, resting his hand on Maglor’s again. The scars weren’t painful, exactly, but they felt tender.

“Leave it, Ambarussa,” Curufin said from Daeron’s other side. “You’re as bad as Tyelko.”

Finally, the meal came to an end, and there was mingling and conversation, wine still flowing freely. Daeron and Maglor retreated to fetch their instruments. Daeron had left his flute and brought a harp, elegantly wrought of dark wood inlaid with swirling designs of blue and silver. Maglor, of course, had his harp made of driftwood, much plainer in style, but fitting comfortably in his hands. He rubbed his hand over the frame as he and Daeron stepped up onto the small stage meant for musicians, whether they were providing music to fill the gaps between conversations as the crowds mingled, or performing as Daeron and Maglor were. The pieces of his harp had been gathered on the course of far happier seaside wanderings at the beginning of this Age, and he had put them together and shaped them in Rivendell, listening to the familiar song of the river outside the window. It had crossed the Sea and gone with him all the way to the shores of Ekkaia, and then to Lórien and back, and now it had come back here to Tirion with him, to the very same hall where he had made his very first public performance, so long ago, before his grandfather’s court. Maglor looked out over the gathered crowd. It was so like and unlike the crowds before which he’d sung in his youth that he almost felt as though he were standing with one foot in the present and the other in the past. It was strange, almost dizzying. 

Daeron stepped forward, and both he and Maglor bowed to Fingolfin, and Daeron announced that they would sing the first song they had written together, which had not yet been performed before an audience. Maglor put his fingers to his harp strings and began to play. After a few beats Daeron joined him with the harmonies, and lifted his voice, singing the praises of Ekkaia, his words the joyous ones of a traveler discovering something new and wondrous—the sea at the farthest edge of the world, waters dark under the bright glow of the summer sun overhead. When his verse ended Maglor responded with his own, of his memories of Ekkaia as it was in the Years of the Trees when only starlight could reach it. 

Maglor’s brothers had heard the first handful of verses, which he and Daeron had sung immediately and with no planning upon reaching those shores, not yet knowing they were not alone there. The rest of the song remained centered upon the image of Ekkaia, but it was really about the joys of wandering, one of them familiar with the lands through which they passed and the other not, of sharing in new discoveries and old memories, of the changes that had come even to the Undying Lands with the rising of the Sun and Moon and the delights they brought—of glorious sunsets over Ekkaia’s smooth waters, and the Moon’s rising over the heather-clad hills behind.

When the song ended Maglor startled a little at the applause; he’d almost forgotten that they had an audience. He and Daeron bowed again, and stepped down from the dais. He took a deep breath, finding himself shaking a little as he let it out. Daeron smiled at him. “That went quite well, for a first performance,” he said.

“It did,” Maglor agreed, smiling back. 

Everyone wanted to talk to them, to ask about the song and about their journey to Ekkaia. Maglor let Daeron do most of the talking; he was better at answering such questions without saying too much. He looked around and saw Elrond, who smiled at him from where he stood with Celebrimbor and Rundamírë. 

Ambarussa appeared with Curufin at Maglor’s side. “You could have warned us you were going to sing that song,” Curufin muttered into his ear. 

“Whatever for?” Maglor looked at him, and noticed that his eyes were a little red. “Curvo, you weren’t crying?”

“You forget your own power,” Amras said, shoving lightly at his shoulder. “It took us right back to Ekkaia when we first heard it.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” said Curufin. “It’s a beautiful song. Just warn us next time. Lalwen kept giving us strange looks.”

Amras leaned in to whisper, “Atya was crying too.” Maglor glanced around, but only caught a glimpse of Fëanor through the crowd. He stood with Lalwen and Findis, the former gesturing widely as she spoke. Findis caught his eye, and tilted her head slightly toward Fëanor. “I think he missed hearing you sing even more than he realized.”

With a little help from his brothers, Maglor escaped the crowd and made his way over to Fëanor. His heart still pounded, and he would rather have stayed by Daeron or joined Elrond instead, but he did not want to deal with any sidelong looks or pointed questions about avoiding his father so publicly. “Macalaurë!” Lalwen turned to him, beaming. “That was marvelous! It was even better than when we first heard the two of you together at the Mereth Aderthad!”

“Thank you,” Maglor said. “We’re more practiced now at performing together.”

“That’s a fascinating looking harp, too,” Lalwen added. “What sort of wood is it?”

“Driftwood,” Maglor said. He held it out for her to take and look at. “I don’t know what any of the pieces were originally. I found them in different places on the coasts of Eriador.”

As Lalwen handed it back Findis pulled her away, saying someone was calling them but giving Maglor a meaningful look as she went. That left Maglor alone with Fëanor. He turned to his father, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. “It was a beautiful song, Cáno,” Fëanor said. “I’ve missed your music.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said.

“I’d heard, though, that you don’t like performing before large audiences anymore.”

“I don’t dislike it, exactly—but it’s not so daunting now as it was before I went to Lórien.”

Fëanor smiled at him, and stepped forward to rest a hand on his shoulder for a moment. He kissed Maglor’s temple. “I’m so proud of you, Canafinwë,” he whispered, and then stepped away, disappearing into the crowd, having no idea how much those words really meant, as Maglor realized only in that moment just how much he had needed to hear them.

Even though the evening went well, it was a relief to slip out of the palace with Daeron later—Elrond remained behind, being much in demand—to walk home under the stars. Daeron slipped his hand into Maglor’s. “We’ll be asked for the same in Taur-en-Gellam, you know.”

“I know.”

“Have you spoken to everyone here that you needed to?”

“Everyone I came to see, yes, but I should go sit myself somewhere in the palace tomorrow and talk to anyone else with something to say.” There had been several questions asked that evening about the song he was writing, and Maglor knew he shouldn’t forget that there were many others who had loved Finwë—Finwë the king, the leader, the friend. “I think…I want to visit Formenos, too, before we go on to Alqualondë.”

“Do you want company?” Daeron asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“You should take someone. Perhaps not me. One of your brothers?”

Maglor squeezed his hand. “I don’t think any of them could bear it. I don’t know if I can.” Fingolfin had called it beautiful, that place, lonely as it now was. Maglor wanted to see it, wanted to pay his respects to his grandfather’s grave, but it would be foolish to imagine it wouldn’t be hard, wouldn’t conjure up all the memories he was trying to keep tucked away.

The next day he did as he’d said and went to the palace, choosing a place in the gardens that was easy to find, and he listened to everything anyone could tell him about Finwë—to the lords and ladies, to old friends, those who had learned from him or followed him all the way from Cuiviénen. Some had followed Fëanor or Fingolfin back to Middle-earth; others had remained behind or turned back with Finarfin. Maglor smiled at them all and took notes and ignored the lingering stares at the scars on his face and pretended not to hear some of the more pointed questions they asked. By the time he left he felt as though he’d walked all the way to Ekkaia and back since the morning. Celegorm frowned at him but said nothing when Maglor declined dinner and retreated upstairs. His mockingbird had returned, and had proved to be a distraction from his worrying—or at least now he seemed more worried about Pídhres trying to eat the bird than about whatever Maglor’s face was doing at any given moment. To avoid any of that trouble, Maglor scooped Pídhres up as he passed by, and she only squirmed a little until the mockingbird on Celegorm’s shoulder was out of sight. 

It was Elrond who followed him. “Did you already eat?” he asked as Maglor tossed Pídhres onto the bed.

“No,” Maglor said, “but I’m not very hungry.” 

“Have you eaten at all today?”

“I had lunch with both of my aunts. Missing one meal isn’t going to send me into a decline you know.”

“No, but I’m starting to see why all your brothers are so concerned.” Elrond crossed the room to take Maglor’s hand. He’d been absently rubbing his thumb into his palm. “What’s the matter? Is it being in Tirion, or seeing your father, or…?”

“I don’t know. All of it, maybe. Please don’t start hovering like Celegorm.”

“Have you been having any nightmares?”

“No.” He’d expected dark dreams, but if he had had any he’d woken without any memory of them. Daeron was good at chasing such things away; Maglor suspected songs of subtle power were being sung every night after he fell asleep.

“Should I ask Daeron instead?”

Maglor sighed. “When have I ever lied to you about such things, Elrond? I’m not having nightmares. I’m tired, and I miss my grandfather. That’s all.”

“Writing this song should not turn into some kind of punishment,” Elrond said quietly. “I thought we were past all of that.”

“I’m not—I would very much like for this to be easier.” Maglor pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes. “I did not expect—I knew it was going to be difficult, I just underestimated how hard it would be to be so constantly thinking of him and of what happened and—and of what my grandmother wants me to accomplish with this song. If I stop now, if I put it away for more than a day, I don’t think I will be able to pick it up again, and I can’t leave it unfinished. I know what I said in the beginning, but I was wrong. I must finish this song, and I must do it before Ingwë’s feast—I cannot explain why. It almost feels like the Oath pulling on me, except I have made no such promises.”

“If you say it is important, I believe you,” Elrond said.

“It won’t work,” Maglor said, “so I don’t know why—”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Elrond said. “But you do not have to carry this burden alone. How can I help?”

Maglor started to shake his head, before remembering what Daeron had said of going to Formenos. He could not ask his brothers. “Will you go with me to Formenos? Not for long—I don’t think I want to stay the night there—but it’s away from everything and I…would like to see his grave.”

“Are you sure?” Elrond asked.

“Yes. I know it seems backwards, but I think it might help.” If nothing else he could sit and cry for a while beside the lake and the cairn. Elrond was one of the few he didn’t mind seeing him like that, who wouldn’t worry unnecessarily, and who always seemed to know what to say afterward.

“Of course I’ll go,” said Elrond. He embraced Maglor, both of them holding on very tightly. “I suppose the sooner you get this song written, the sooner the burden will be lifted. Just do not let it crush you before you can finish.”

“No fear of that, with you and Daeron watching so closely.”

They did not leave the next day; Maglor did not go anywhere, intending to tuck himself away in Finrod’s library to write, with Pídhres on his lap and Daeron across the table with his own work. Celegorm vanished in the morning after muttering something about not wanting to hear any more of Daeron’s wordplay, and Elrond went back to the palace, and so it was something of a surprise when the door opened, and a visitor was shown in. 

It was Elessúrë. “Hello, Cousin,” he said, looking faintly sheepish. “Am I interrupting?”

“No—no, of course not.” Maglor gathered his papers together, ignoring Daeron’s pained look at the haphazard pile, and went to the door. “I’m glad to see you. Shall we go out into the garden?”

Pídhres followed them, and disappeared into the flowers as they stepped out into Finrod’s elegant gardens. “How was Midsummer here?” Maglor asked, after casting around for something, anything, to talk about that wasn’t awkward or painful.

“Bustling, as usual. Russandol came with us, and we spent the day with my sister and her wife, and all your brothers. Well, almost all, since Tyelkormo was with you. How was it at Imloth Ningloron?”

“Lovely, as always. Gandalf brought fireworks.”

“There were some set off here, too, at the palace. I think your father made them.” 

Silence fell, and Maglor didn’t know how to break it. They sat by a fountain, and Pídhres emerged from the cowslip to jump up onto Maglor’s lap. “Is that the same cat from before?” Elessúrë asked.

“Yes. I think she received a blessing of some kind from Estë in Lórien. Her name is Pídhres, and she came with me all the way from Rivendell.”

“Do you still have hedgehogs? One’s always following Russandol around at home.”

Maglor smiled. “That’s Aechen. I have his siblings Annem and Aegthil at Imloth Ningloron.” Elessúrë laughed, shaking his head a little. “How is your family? I’ve heard of Vindimórë’s music. Elemmírë speaks very highly of him.”

“They’re all well. My daughter Isilmiel starts her apprenticeship with Aunt Nerdanel soon.”

“Elemmírë spoke highly of her talents, too, but said she does not have Vindimórë’s same passion.”

“She’s still looking for it,” Elessúrë said. “She wants to learn everything, is the problem—everything all at the same time.”

Maglor ventured to say, after a moment, “I would like to meet her. And Vindimórë—properly, I mean. And your wife.”

“I would like that too,” said Elessúrë, to his surprise. “I’m sorry, Macalaurë. I said some very unkind things when last we met.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I deserved far worse.”

He shook his head. “No, you didn’t. Especially not then. Can we start over, please? I’ve been getting to know all the rest of my cousins, but I never missed them like I missed you.”

“Of course, Elessúrë,” said Maglor. “I missed you too—I missed you terribly.”

Elessúrë stayed the rest of the day, and his wife joined them at dinner along with Caranthir and Lisgalen. It was a more cheerful day than Maglor had had in some time, and he hardly thought about his song or about Finwë at all, or even about his father. After Elessúrë and Lossenyellë left that evening, Daeron sprawled out on the sofa, resting against Maglor’s chest. Caranthir and Lisgalen lingered; the conversation meandered around their wedding—the debate over whether they should elope or not remained ongoing—and Celegorm’s mockingbird, who had flown up to roost for the night in the recess of one of the relief carvings near the ceiling. Then Caranthir asked, “Are you done talking to everyone here for your song, Maglor?”

“I think so.” 

“So you’ll be heading off to Alqualondë soon.”

“Yes, but I’m going to Formenos first.”

Both Caranthir and Celegorm frowned, and Maglor sighed. “I’ll be fine. Stop looking at me like that.”

“But why go at all?” Celegorm asked.

“I’m surprised it’s still standing,” Caranthir said. “I would’ve had it razed to the ground long ago, if I were Finarfin. Or Ingwë.” Lisgalen reached for his hand. 

“Fingolfin and Findis both spoke of it,” Maglor said, “and if I’m going to write of it, I should see for myself what it looks like now.”

“I’ll be there,” Elrond added mildly, when Celegorm glanced at him, clearly hoping for support that he wasn’t going to get. “It’s not very far, and we won’t stay long.” 

“Oh, good,” Daeron murmured. He seemed half asleep as Maglor played with his hair. Without opening his eyes he added, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep Celegorm busy while you’re gone.”

“I’m not going to sit around listening to you make puns all day again,” Celegorm said. Lisgalen nearly spit out their wine as they laughed. 

“No, you’re going to help me with another project. I will excuse you the day after tomorrow, however, because I’m to meet Rúmil then—in person, at last. I’m very excited, but you’d think it terribly boring.” Celegorm made a face at him and Daeron made a rude gesture back, still without opening his eyes. 

“I do hope to come back and find you both in one piece,” Maglor said, amused in spite of himself. 

“I’ll knock their heads together if they start fighting,” said Caranthir. Celegorm punched his arm, and he smacked him upside the head.

“Don’t make me knock your heads together,” said Lisgalen, reaching out to smack them both in turn. The growing tension broke, and Lisgalen caught Maglor’s eye and winked as the conversation turned away to other subjects, and no one tried to turn the talk back again to Formenos.