A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Thirty One

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While Maglor spoke with Finarfin, Daeron had gone to Alqualondë to find his own aunt and uncle, who had been there since the previous summer when they had at last found Daeron’s parents. He came back late in the evening, when Maglor was in their room with his notes, and crawled onto the bed and into Maglor’s lap. “All right?” Maglor asked, putting an arm around him as he gathered up his papers with his other hand.

“I have sisters,” Daeron said into his shoulder. “And a brother. And two brothers-in-law, as well. What am I supposed to do with that? They are all waiting to meet me.”

“Did they surprise you today?” Maglor asked. “I thought you were just going to meet your aunt and uncle.”

“No they didn’t, thank goodness. But Mablung could have written about them, and he didn’t. I’m going to do something awful to him when we get to Taur-en-Gellam. Snakes in his bed, or frogs in his wardrobe, or something. I’ll practice my loudest instruments outside his window every night for a month.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to scare you away,” Maglor murmured. He kissed Daeron’s temple, resting a hand on his hair. “Does this change your plans?”

“No. We’re to meet tomorrow on the beach for a lovely picnic, just a much bigger gathering than I was expecting, unless Aunt Lacheryn can convince them all that it would be better for only my parents to come. I’m sure it won’t work, but it will be fine. Was this how it felt to come back and be told all your brothers were alive?”

“Well,” Maglor said, “I did already know that I had brothers.”

“Right.” Daeron sighed and turned his face into the crook of Maglor’s neck. “So it was rather a different kind of shock.”

“Still a shock. I’m sorry.” Maglor leaned back against the pillows. Pídhres jumped up onto the bed, meowing for attention. As he reached over to scratch her ears he said, “Are you sure you still want me to go?”

“Of course. I don’t think I could make myself go if it was just me.”

“I just—all things considered, might not my presence just be another source of tension?”

“Maybe. But it will not be a surprise—I asked Uncle Belthond and he assured me that everyone knows to expect you there, and that you and your family are in the good graces of Olwë and Elu Thingol both—though really it’s Olwë that they care the most about.”

“But if any of them were there at the—”

“They weren’t. I asked about that, too.” Daeron raised his head. “I care far more about my aunt and uncle liking you than anyone else we’re here to see, you know. I know that sounds terrible, but it’s true.”

“It doesn’t sound terrible.”

“They expect to like you, and they like all that I’ve told them of you, if that makes you less nervous.”

“I suppose it does. At least I know with certainty that Mablung likes me.” Maglor tucked a stray bit of hair behind Daeron’s ear. “But my nerves aren’t that important. I just don’t want to be the cause of any…” He didn’t know how to phrase it. Whatever assurances Daeron had been given, there was likely to be tension at the very least. Maglor would be surprised if there wasn’t, considering his past and his deeds on both sides of the Sea. 

“It will only be awkward if they decide to make it so. Whatever happens, I’m very good at ignoring that sort of thing, and I’ll drag us all through this meeting with determined cheerfulness, whatever happens.”

“You know I’ll follow where you lead in this. I just—there should be no stain on this reunion. It should be a thing of joy, not of anxiety or…”

“I have not expected it to be wholly joyful from the moment I read of Aunt Lacheryn’s own reunion with my father. Whatever my parents hope for from me, they will be disappointed.”

“Disappointed in you, the mightiest singer of the Eldalië?”

“That might be the only thing that doesn’t disappoint them. I also never completed the Great Journey, and they were among the most enthusiastic of Thingol’s followers before they disappeared. They would not have stayed behind—they would have come with Olwë, and do not understand why I did not, and understand even less why I stayed as long as I did after it was possible to come west after the War of Wrath.”

“Do not put words in their mouths yet,” Maglor said. “You do not know what they will think when they meet you, when they come to know you.”

“I’m not—my aunt and uncle have already spoken with them of this. I’m only relating what they told me of it.” Daeron sighed. “I can’t wait to find out what they think of me going back east.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, love.”

“I’m trying, I just—” Daeron closed his eyes. “I wasn’t expecting brothers or sisters. Everything I’ve tried to plan—what to say, how to act—it feels as though it’s now all for naught.”

“Whatever happens, it will take time for them to know you, and for you to know them,” Maglor said. “But you have time, all the time in the world. All you need to do tomorrow is to see them and let them see you. It’s just the first step of many.”

“I know that. I do. It’s just—the first step sets the course for all the rest. I’m sure to get it wrong somehow, and I don’t know how to avoid it.”

They left late the next morning, making their way down to the beach between Finarfin and Eärwen’s house and Alqualondë just before noon. Daeron gripped Maglor’s hand tightly. He had his favorite amethysts and pearls woven through his hair, and wore the pendant that Maglor had made for him. They had not spoken much of their plans beyond that day, whether they would go to Avallónë or return more directly to Tirion. Finarfin and Eärwen were kind and welcoming, but Finarfin still clearly valued his solitude, and was out of practice as a host, and Maglor did not want to impose longer than he needed to. If it went well, he thought they could go stay with Celebrían and the twins in Avallónë for a while, where Daeron’s family could come visit with ease, and Daeron would be on firmer ground among more familiar faces. If it did not go well, Nerdanel’s house was only a little farther than Tirion itself, and would be even more familiar and grounding. 

“This is the place, I think,” said Daeron finally. “There is the tree Uncle Belthond described.” It was a tall pine standing by itself, near to the beach, just by the road. Daeron kicked off his shoes and Maglor followed suit so they could go down to the water’s edge, letting the waves wash up over their feet, cool and smooth. The sand glittered around them, white and streaked with rainbows of tiny gemstones. Maglor inhaled deeply the fresh clean smell of the wind off of the water. “Have you missed it?” Daeron asked.

“Yes.” He watched a pod of dolphins jump high into the air, and the ships going to and fro across the bay—ferries carrying folk to or from Eressëa, pleasure boats out for an afternoon on the water, fishing boats drifting back into Eldamar from the wider seas beyond. It was a beautiful scene, joyful—and so very different from the seashores that he missed. 

“I don’t think I asked how your talk with your uncle went,” Daeron said after a few minutes. “He seems weary.”

“He never wanted to be king. I think it took a bigger toll on him than he’ll ever admit to—and he was wounded in the War of Wrath, badly enough that it still troubles him sometimes.”

“No wonder he wishes for quiet,” Daeron said. “Does he not get along with his brothers? I have always been under the impression that he is far more mild-tempered than either Fingolfin or Fëanor.”

“That does not mean he has no temper,” Maglor said. “It is just slower to wake, I think—and it smolders longer.”

“Rather like you.”

“My temper doesn’t smolder. It might be slower than some of my brothers’ to ignite, but it burns hot and fast. But if anyone deserves to be angry with the lot of us, it’s Finarfin. I don’t blame him in the least.” Maglor glanced back toward Alqualondë. “Is that them?” Daeron turned. A pair of figures came walking down the road from the city—two men, both dark-haired, one carrying a basket and the other with a folded blanket in his arms. 

“The taller is my uncle,” said Daeron. “I don’t know the other.”

Pídhres had been curled around Maglor’s shoulders; now she roused herself and jumped into Daeron’s arms, startling them both before she climbed her way up to his shoulders instead, tail swishing as she rubbed her head against his chin and purred. Daeron sighed and leaned into it, as he reached again for Maglor’s hand. Maglor pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It will be fine,” he said. Daeron nodded.

The smile he turned on his uncle and the stranger, though, betrayed none of his anxiety. It was bright as the sunshine on the waves, and were it not for the way he still clung to Maglor’s hand it would be so easy to believe him entirely at ease. “Hello, Uncle!” he said. “Which of my ever-increasing relations is this, then?”

“This is your brother Simpalírë, Daeron,” Belthond said with a smile of his own. Maglor thought that he saw right through Daeron’s cheerfulness, but was willing to play along. “And this must be Maglor.”

Maglor had to let go of Daeron’s hand to take Belthond’s, summoning a smile of his own. “I’m very glad to meet you at last,” he said, as Simpalírë moved to Daeron to greet him properly. 

“So am I,” said Belthond. His smile was warm and his grip strong. “I’m very glad you’re here,” he added in a lower voice, and in Sindarin rather than the Quenya they had been using. “Daeron is far less at ease about this meeting than he would have everyone believe.”

“I know,” Maglor said. “Does he have good reason to worry?”

“He might,” Belthond admitted, glancing toward Daeron and Simpalírë, who was being introduced to Pídhres. They were both laughing, and Maglor thought that Daeron’s was genuine. Simpalírë seemed familiar, though at first Maglor attributed that to his resemblance to Daeron—there was no question that they were brothers, though Simpalírë had the shine of Treelight in his eyes, and was taller, and the shape of their faces was slightly different. 

But then Simpalírë turned to him and said, “It is good to see you again, Prince Macalaurë.”

“Again?” Maglor repeated, startled. “Have we met?”

“We were peers for a brief time, in Valmar—I left Elemmírë’s tutelage not very long after you entered it.”

“Oh—oh, of course. I beg your pardon.”

“Were you one of Elemmírë’s students?” Daeron asked his brother. “I met her only recently, but I liked her very much.”

“I was,” Simpalírë said. His smile was identical to Daeron’s. “But I do not claim to be nearly as good as either of you.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Daeron said. Simpalírë looked at him a little doubtfully, but a call from up the road heralded the arrival of Daeron’s aunt, parents, and sisters. Lacheryn was slender and dark, as Daeron was, and her brother Aldalëo. Aldalëo’s wife Escelírë was silver-haired and round-faced, with Daeron’s dark eyes and such a similar cheerful air that Maglor wondered if she, too, was putting on a performance to hide her nerves. Neither she nor Aldalëo hesitated in embracing Daeron, exclaiming over how he had grown and how they had missed him. 

That left Maglor to be introduced to Lacheryn and Daeron’s sisters by Belthond. Lacheryn met him with a warm smile, taking his hands. “I’m so glad to meet you at last,” she said. “Daeron speaks of you often—he missed you terribly while you were away in Lórien.”

“I missed him too,” Maglor said.

Pídhres, disturbed by everyone jostling around Daeron, abandoned him and jumped down into the sand. She trotted over to paw at Maglor until he picked her up. Lacheryn laughed. “Daeron told us about this little one too,” she said, “and a hedgehog.”

“Leicheg’s children were quite happy to remain behind in Imloth Ningloron,” Maglor said, “but Pídhres hates to miss out on any excitement.”

Pídhres smoothed the slight awkwardness of his introductions to Daeron’s sisters, Netyalossë and Vinyelírë. They were perfectly polite, but addressed him as Prince Macalaurë even when he asked them not to, and Maglor could tell that they wished to keep him at a distance, though whether it was just uncertainty or for other reasons, he couldn’t tell. It was nothing he hadn’t expected, but it was still uncomfortable, and he was very glad that Lacheryn and Belthond were much warmer. They asked after his mother, and about their travels, and listened to his answers with genuine interest. 

Aldalëo and Escelírë were just as polite and lacking in warmth as their daughters when they greeted Maglor. Daeron embraced Lacheryn and then returned to Maglor’s side to take his hand again. 

They picnicked on the beach, the conversation for the most part cheerful and pleasant. Maglor spoke little, keeping half an eye on Pídhres as she stalked through the grass just beyond the sand, near the road. Daeron spoke more, answering questions and asking his own. Doriath and Alqualondë were spoken of, mostly, with some reminisces from the Great Journey. Daeron either ignored or deliberately misunderstood anything that might lead to deeper or more serious conversation, and more than once deftly turned questions around so that his family spoke of themselves instead. He was showing his family Daeron the performer, the bright presence who had dazzled Thingol’s court for many years, who could command an audience of any size, and reveal nothing of himself except what he wished for them to see. This was the Daeron that Maglor had met first, at the Mereth Aderthad, and he hadn’t realized until that moment just how quickly Daeron had let that mask fall away when they were alone, how willing he had been to show his real self and share his real thoughts. Maybe it didn’t mean anything, and Maglor had not really been an exception to any rule, and Daeron had simply grown more guarded as the years passed—except that he had put on no such performance when they’d met again aboard the ship at Mithlond—but he worried, a little, that Daeron was preventing any real foundation being laid that could be built upon by anyone, even himself, as his family sought to know him. He was trying too hard to avoid any missteps, so that it seemed he wasn’t willing to take any step at all. 

They parted with promises to meet again in Avallónë in the next few days or the next week. Daeron watched his family head back down the road to Alqualondë, and once they were out of earshot he sighed, shoulders slumping. “Well, that’s over,” he said.

“I thought it went well,” Maglor said.

“It went better than I feared.”

“You’ll have to let them start to get to know you, though—the real you, not the one you show your audiences.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sure my aunt will have something to say about that later, too. It’s just—I don’t think I can, yet.” 

“I understand.” Maglor opened his arms, and Daeron stepped into them. Down the road someone glanced back, but Maglor ignored them. “Do you want to go to Avallónë today, or wait another day or two?”

“Will your aunt and uncle be offended if we leave today?”

“I think they’ll be happy to have their house to themselves again.”

“Then let’s go to Avallónë as soon as we can find a boat. Will we wait there for Elrond?”

“I have no idea how long Elrond will stay with Gil-galad,” said Maglor as they turned back toward Finarfin’s house. “But there’s no real hurry. I want to consult with Finrod about my song, anyway. We can stay as long a time or as short a time as you wish.” He wanted to finish speaking to everyone else, too, but he had plenty of notes to work with until they could make it to Taur-en-Gellam.

“Is it still going well?”

“Yes, I think so.”

They took their leave of Eärwen and Finarfin. Finarfin embraced Maglor warmly. “I am glad you’re back, Nephew,” he said into his ear. “Next time I hope we can meet for happier reasons.”

“I hope someday soon we can all come together and be happy for it,” Maglor said. “Farewell for now, Uncle.”

The ferry from Alqualondë was just preparing to leave when they reached the dock. Once safely on board Daeron sighed and leaned against Maglor. Pídhres curled up on Maglor’s lap, ears flat, unhappy about being put on a boat. “I did not expect to be so tired,” Daeron murmured.

“It will get easier,” Maglor said.

“I hope so. And…I think that I like them. I like my brother, at least—as strange as it feels to say such things. I certainly wasn’t expecting you to have met any of them.”

“Neither was I. But I’m not really surprised to know that at least one of your siblings shares your talents.”

“None of yours do.”

“That’s not really true—they all have good voices, and they could learn at least one instrument if they wanted. It’s just that I’m the only one that really loves it.”

Celebrían and Elrohir were at home when they arrived. The house was elegant and spacious, built of white stone as were most other homes in Avallónë. Ivy and roses twined around the pillars, and the gardens were lush and fragrant. A path led through them down to a small white beach where the waves were gentle and quiet. From the upper windows Alqualondë could be seen across the bay, glittering in the coming evening. The sunlight slanted deep gold through the Calacirya, slowly turning orange with the approach of sunset. “Welcome!” Celebrían said, embracing each of them in turn. “How was Tirion and Alqualondë? How are my grandparents?”

“Your grandparents are doing very well, and both send their love; and both Tirion and Alqualondë were lovely,” said Maglor, kissing her cheek. “Where is Elladan?”

“Gone down to the eastern docks to see what news there is from Middle-earth,” said Elrohir, as he took his turn embracing Maglor. “He should be back soon. Where is Ada?”

“Still with Gil-galad, I assume,” said Maglor. He’d written ahead to tell Celebrían of it, and he would have expected Elrond to write as well. “I’m sure that you’ll hear from him before I do.”

“Is there anyone here on Eressëa that you must meet with?” Celebrían asked.

“Idril maybe, if she’s here. I’m going to take some time to work on the song itself, I think, and put my notes in order.”

“Your notes are never in order,” Daeron said. “It’s appalling.” Elrohir laughed.

“I want to visit with Finrod too,” Maglor added, ignoring Daeron. “And Daeron’s family will be coming to look for him in the next few days.”

“They’re very welcome of course,” Celebrían said. She slipped her arm through Daeron’s as they passed through the house. “How did your meeting go, Daeron?”

“Well enough,” Daeron said. “It still feels very strange.”

“I’m sure it does,” Celebrían said. 

They had a few days of respite before Daeron’s parents came looking for him, accompanied by his aunt and uncle. Celebrían greeted them with her usual bright cheerfulness and warmth. They were all outside in the garden when the visitors arrived, and Maglor remained where he was, cross-legged on the grass beside the bench where Elladan and Elrohir were seated. He had his notes and his harp, experimenting with melodies and musical themes. Belthond joined them, as Lacheryn sat with Celebrían nearby and Daeron’s parents walked with him a little farther away, to sit under a large purple hydrangea. Maglor watched out of the corner of his eye as Daeron plucked a few soft purple asters as he passed them, twisting them together in his fingers as he spoke with his parents. There were no smiles or laughter this time, but Maglor could not tell if that boded ill or not. At least Daeron was not trying to hide himself behind smiles and wit.

“Oh, play that again,” Elrohir said after a little while. Maglor obliged, plucking an intricate series of notes over the harp strings. “I like that a lot. Will it work in your song?”

“I don’t know.” Maglor picked up his pencil to scribble the notes down anyway. “If not, I can use it for something else. Or you can use it if you like.”

“I’m no songwriter,” Elrohir laughed. “I just know what sounds nice.”

Down the garden voices rose suddenly, and Maglor looked up to see Daeron on his feet. “—should not have died, then!” he snapped, voice shivering through the air, before storming away down a path half-hidden from where Maglor sat by an arbor draped with sweet-smelling yellow roses. A few birds flew up from beyond the arbor, disturbed by Daeron’s abrupt passage. 

“Let me go,” Belthond said, rising to his feet as Maglor made to set aside his harp. Lacheryn was already on her feet, going to Daeron’s parents. Maglor settled back onto the grass as Belthond vanished after Daeron. 

“Well,” Elladan murmured after a few moments, “I suppose that was bound to happen eventually.”

“For the best that it happened so soon, I think,” Elrohir said.

“Maybe,” Maglor said. He glanced at Daeron’s parents, now in heated conversation with Lacheryn. They wanted their child back, but Daeron had not been that child for a very, very long time. It seemed almost absurd to think that the Great Journey and the many splittings and sunderings between families and peoples that had accompanied it could still be a source of tension and strife so long afterward—but then, Maglor thought, he of all people should know what it was to have old hurts rear their heads unexpectedly, thousands of years later. 

“When did Daeron’s parents die?” Elladan asked, keeping his voice low.

“He was too young to remember them,” Maglor said. “That is why he has been so anxious leading up to this meeting.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” said Elladan as he and Elrohir grimaced. “That is hard—they’re practically strangers.”

Aldalëo and Escelírë did not stay for dinner, though Lacheryn and Belthond did—or at least Lacheryn did. Neither Daeron nor Belthond appeared again, and Maglor itched to go looking for them. He slipped out of the house as evening drew on, and saw Belthond returning alone from the direction of the beach. He did not see Maglor, and once Belthond stepped inside Maglor retraced his steps, and soon heard the haunting, melancholy notes of a flute. 

Daeron sat on the white sand, legs crossed, eyes closed as he played. Maglor sat beside him without a word, and waited until the song was done. As he lowered his flute Daeron sighed, and did not open his eyes. “Do you want to be alone?” Maglor asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Daeron turned and leaned against Maglor. “I’m just—I’m not who they wish I was. Who they thought I would be.”

“Are they who you thought they would be?”

“I hadn't really thought of it at all. Of course, I didn’t think I was angry at them either, so I don’t know if that means much.”

Maglor wrapped his arms around Daeron and kissed the top of his head. “Do you want to come back and eat something?”

“No. But I’ll come back and go to bed.”

In their room, seated on the bed, Maglor asked as he combed out Daeron’s hair, “Were you angry with your aunt and uncle?”

“No. They were caught up in the Dagor Bragollach—it was war, it was…at least we knew what had happened, awful as it was. My parents—they just walked away and never came back. I know it wasn’t their fault, but it’s still—it just feels different. Especially when they seem so eager to just—just forget about it, to act as though it doesn’t matter at all, when only a year ago I had no way of knowing whether they had ever made it to Mandos in the first place.”

“They returned from death a very long time ago,” Maglor said as he wove Daeron’s hair into a simple braid for sleeping. “By now I suppose it is something they can forget about.”

“They look at my decision to go into the east as the worst thing I could have done,” Daeron said after a moment. “Yet I think of it as one of the best. I do not regret it, but they do not want to listen.”

“They will in time,” Maglor said.

“I don’t know if I’m patient enough for that.”

“You can find patience—and you still have your whole life outside of your parents. You have your songbirds and your friends, and your writing.”

“And you,” Daeron added.

“And me.” Maglor tied off the braid, and Daeron turned to face him. “You always have me.”

“I know.” Daeron smiled at him. “You’re the only thing keeping me from running away—all the way back home to Taur-en-Gellam.”

“We can leave whenever you want,” said Maglor, “but you were the one to encourage me to give my brothers a chance, remember?”

“I do.” 

They curled up together under the blankets. Through the window the sound of the sea came, steady and quiet; the breeze smelled of salt and roses. Daeron wrapped himself around Maglor. “I don’t think my parents like you very much,” he said after a while. 

“I didn’t really expect them to,” Maglor said. “And they have good cause. I’m sorry.”

“If they do not change their minds, there is no hope for any kind of relationship between us, whatever other understanding we might find.”

“Daeron, I do not want to be the cause of—”

Daeron raised himself onto his arm and cupped Maglor’s face with his other hand, his eyes glinting in the dark. “Listen to me,” he said. “I chose you, beloved—the moment you smiled to see me aboard that ship at Mithlond, I chose you. You are my family, as much as my aunt and uncle and my cousin. If it comes to it, I will always, always choose you, and I will never regret it.”

“That’s not fair to you,” Maglor said softly. 

“If it isn’t fair, it’s no doing of yours.”

“But—”

“It is my choice to whom I give my heart, and I have made it. Those who know me and love me best understand it and support it, and if my parents cannot find it in themselves to do the same, then we must part ways and continue on as we were before, and I will not regret it.”

“Do not turn your back entirely,” Maglor said. “It’s still so early.”

“I won’t—I will give it time, I promise.” Daeron sighed, and leaned in to kiss him. “But I need you to know—I love you, and nothing is going to change that.”

“I have been afraid of many things, love, but never that. I just don’t want you to have to choose.”

“I don’t either. But I will not hesitate.”

Daeron fell asleep after a while, frowning slightly in his dreams. Maglor lay awake, listening to the waves outside and wishing there was something more he could do. When he had had his own difficult reunions, Daeron’s mere presence at his side had been such a great comfort—but his whole family had been disposed to like Daeron from the start, and Daeron was not the one with terrible deeds lurking in his past. As a whole the Teleri had forgiven the Noldor, but that did not mean all of them shared Olwë’s views, or that any of them would be pleased with their child taking up with a kinslayer. Maglor couldn’t begrudge them that, really. He counted himself very lucky already that Mablung and his parents were so accepting.

It was always going to be complicated, this reunion—Maglor had just hoped it would be more joyful than it seemed that it was turning out to be.