A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Thirty Five

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Maglor found his grandmother harvesting tomatoes in her garden. “Macalaurë! I was starting to think you’d forgotten about us.” She shifted her basket on her hip to accept his kiss. “I’m so glad to see you—and not only because you can help me harvest all of these!”

“I didn’t forget. I’ve just been busier than I expected to be.” Maglor picked up another basket and started picking small tomatoes from the plant beside Ennalótë’s. He asked about the rest of her garden and about his aunts and his uncle, and she cheerfully filled him in on all the family news and gossip that he’d missed over the last few decades. Some of it he had heard already, most of it he had not. It was nice to put one side of his family out of his mind and to think about the other for a few hours. Once the tomatoes were all picked and delivered to his Aunt Vanilómë in the kitchen they moved on to pruning roses and picking flowers to refill the vases scattered throughout the house. As they did that he told Ennalótë about the song his grandmother had asked him to write. Mahtan and Ennalótë had been staunch supporters and followers of Finwë since the time of the Great Journey, and she had much to tell Maglor about that time.

They ended up sitting in the grass near Mahtan’s largest forge, inside of which Maglor could hear voices and the ringing of several hammers. “Does Grandfather have students?” he asked.

“Not officially,” Ennalótë said, “but he’s managed to befriend your young cousin Maeglin. I haven’t seen anyone so skittish since Tyelkormo came back from the Halls, though he hides it well.”

“I suppose it’s me he’s hiding from?” Maglor asked, still skeptical of Maedhros’ claim that Maeglin wasn’t hiding. He and Daeron had arrived earlier than initially planned; finding Aredhel there had been an enormous shock, though afterward he’d been less surprised to learn that her son had come back from Mandos with her—or rather, that she had lingered there until he was ready to leave. It did not surprise him either that Maeglin was not prepared for his return to be widely known, but he hadn’t even caught a glimpse of him yet.

“I think today you’ve just missed one another by coincidence,” Ennalótë said. “It’s his uncles that he wishes to avoid, rather than your side of the family. We’re also all quite different from what he was used to either in Gondolin or—was it called Nan Elmoth?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, I keep getting all the different names there confused. Anyway, I think he finds the familiarity of forge work rather comforting—and your grandfather is a very undemanding teacher; Maeglin is not the first to have come here to relearn skills that his spirit remembers but his body no longer knows.”

That was everyone returned, now, Maglor thought, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head to watch the clouds drift by overhead. It would not be very long before word got out that Aegnor too had returned—beyond almost all hope. Of their family that left only Finwë himself lingering in the Halls. Again.

Sometime in the afternoon Aredhel came wandering through the shrubbery, idly twirling her hair around a finger as she glanced around. “There you are,” she said when she saw Maglor.

“Were you looking for me, Irissë?” he asked.

“I was. Can I borrow him for a little while?” Aredhel asked Ennalótë.

“For a while,” Ennalótë agreed, laughing. “I want you both back before dinnertime! And will you bring your harp tonight, Macalaurë?”

“Yes, of course.” Maglor kissed her cheek before getting to his feet. “I’ll play whatever you want.”

Aredhel slipped her arm through his and pulled him away through the garden to the orchard. “Tyelko told me about your song,” she said, “and that you’d probably want to talk to me about Grandfather.”

“Only if you want to,” said Maglor. “I know you must have other things to be thinking about.”

“No, I want to help—it wouldn’t be very fair if I didn’t, since you’ve talked to everyone else.” Aredhel flashed a grin. “You know I hate being left out of all the fun.”

Maglor smiled back, but said, “I wouldn’t really call this fun. But I’ll gladly listen to whatever you have to say.”

“All right, but some of it is a secret, at least for now.”

“Well, now you have me terribly curious.”

“I can tell you of Finwë in Mandos,” Aredhel said after a moment, growing more serious. “I’m told these memories will begin to fade before too long, so I must tell you now while they remain fresh in my mind. He has told every one of us, when we leave, to give his love to all the rest of you.”

Maglor bit the inside of his cheek hard, blinking back sudden tears. It was difficult to keep his voice steady. “That’s—thank you for that.”

“I don’t think you’ve seen anyone else fresh enough out of Mandos to hear that, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I’m glad I could be the one to tell you, then. He is…I remember when I first came to Mandos he was one of the first to find me. I was so furious, then—so terribly angry at having died and at having died the way I did, without even a weapon of my own in my hand. It was Grandfather who calmed me down and comforted me when the rest of it finally sank in, though he was still in such pain himself.”

“Is he still hurting?” Maglor asked. “Is he still…?”

“I think he is as healed now as is possible in Mandos. It’s hard to explain if you haven’t been there yourself.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Maglor said.

“He always tried to be there for us if we needed comforting, even if he had to step away from something important for it, do you remember?” Aredhel said with a quiet sigh. “That has not changed. He gave that same love and comfort to Lómion, too—even when all the other spirits there shunned and avoided him. Not that they were not right to, I mean—”

“I understand,” Maglor said.

“I miss my brothers,” Aredhel said quietly, leaning her head on Maglor’s arm as they continued to stroll through the trees, “but I dread seeing Turukáno again. He spoke to no one in the Halls, except perhaps Elenwë—and Finwë, of course. I did not go near him; I did not know what to say, or to do.”

“It was not your fault, what happened to Gondolin,” Maglor said.

“No, it was my son’s.”

“I think Turgon would argue that he also bears much of the blame,” Maglor said, remembering the look on Turgon’s face as he spoke of his own failures. “And…Finrod would welcome Maeglin. We spoke of him a little earlier this summer after Gil-galad returned from the Halls. You might be surprised by who is willing to forgive and to move forward—to start over, and build something new.”

“Maybe,” Aredhel said. “At least I’m not surprised to hear of Findaráto, though he must still be close in friendship with Turukáno. You and your brothers are not among them, though—those willing to start over. Tyelko’s told me all about what’s between you and your father.”

“It’s complicated,” Maglor said. “I did not mean to suggest it wouldn’t be for Maeglin, either. Complicated, though, doesn’t mean impossible.”

“True. For what it’s worth, I remember Fëanáro in the Halls too, and how he watched all of you. It’s hard to describe what it’s like…spirits don’t have eyes, so we did not see one another exactly, but it’s also impossible to hide what you’re feeling or sometimes even what you’re thinking of. I did not speak to him, but I could see that he was terribly grieved. Sometimes when I glimpsed him it was as though the fire of his spirit seemed on the verge of guttering out like a candle in the wind. I pitied him—and I never thought I would say that about your father, of all people.”

The image of his father’s spirit guttering like a dying candle made something hurt under Maglor’s ribs. “I’m not angry with him anymore,” Maglor said. “It’s just…hard. Until I am finished with this song our grandmothers want me to write, I don’t think I can speak to him again. I can’t speak for Tyelko or anyone else.”

“I never thought I would be in the position of defending Fëanáro,” Aredhel said wryly, “but—well. Death makes a lot of things horribly clear. Do you want to know anything else about Mandos?”

“No,” Maglor said, “but thank you. And if Lómion is at all worried, please tell him he has nothing to fear from either me or Daeron.”

“I have told him,” Aredhel said. “You won’t find him shy, only…cautious.”

“I understand. But what’s the secret you were going to share with me?”

“Of course—I nearly forgot! All along, Finwë has been urging us back toward life, when he could tell that we were ready, or nearing it. I was ready myself some time ago but I did not want Lómion to come back alone. But Finwë has been working on Aikanáro for a very long time, and though we did not see him when we lingered in Lórien, I know he came from the Halls not long after we did.”

“Oh,” Maglor said, and laughed a little. “I already knew that—or at least I knew that Aikanáro is back, not that it was Finwë who convinced him to come.”

“What!” Aredhel cried. “How? Who told you?”

“Finrod did. I was with him in Avallónë when he got the news from one of his other brothers. He nearly spilled wine all over my notes—but he also asked me to keep it a secret for now, so I haven’t told anyone else except Celebrían.”

“Oh, that’s not fair! I thought I was going to shock you! But I’m not sure you can use any of this in your song anyway—I don’t even know what the song’s about, except that it’s for Finwë.”

“It’s a song for and about him—a proper lament, as has not been written before. Your grandmother and mine asked me to write it. I might not use the details of what you’ve told me, but it still helps.” Maglor reached up to muss Aredhel’s hair, making her squawk indignantly. “Thank you, Irissë. You and Aikanáro were the last ones, you know. All of us have returned now, even Gil-galad.”

“Almost all,” Aredhel said. “That stupid statute, though—ugh, it’s so terribly unfair. When will you have this song of yours finished? Tyelko said you’ve been working on it since last fall.”

“I don’t know,” said Maglor. “There’s to be a great gathering of all the Eldar in Aman in a few years’ time—Tyelko probably told you about that too. I hope to have it completed by then. I’ve spoken to nearly everyone that I want to speak to, and then I just have to—well, write it. I have bits and pieces, but it’s only a beginning and will take many drafts, I think, to get right.”

“Well, I look forward to hearing it, whenever you do complete it,” said Aredhel. “We will all be missing Finwë when it comes to this gathering. He will be the only Elvenking absent.”

They returned to Nerdanel’s house to find Calissë sitting in the garden with Maedhros and Daeron, playing with Aechen, while Caranthir and Celegorm dug several large holes where the old forge had once stood. “What are you digging for?” Maglor asked them.

“Moryo’s going to plant apricots,” Celegorm said.

“Oh, I haven’t had an apricot in—I don’t know how long,” Aredhel said. “That’s the best part so far of returning to life. All the fruit! I could eat my weight in apricots.”

“You’ll have to wait until next year,” Caranthir said, “or the year after. One of Lisgalen’s friends is bringing a few saplings and I don’t know exactly how big they are already.”

“We’ll be drowning in plums soon enough,” said Celegorm. “And then apples, once that harvest starts. I didn’t know a tree could hold as many apples as Celebrían’s all do.”

“I have not yet met Celebrían, but she’s already my new favorite cousin,” laughed Aredhel.

Maglor went to sit by Maedhros and greet Calissë. “Where did you come from, sweetheart?” he asked as she climbed onto his lap to hug him.

“I came with Tyelpë! He’s inside with Cousin Lómion.”

“And we’ve been kicked out of our room,” Daeron added. “I’m not sure yet how annoyed I am about it.”

“Kicked out of our room? What’s Tyelpë doing in there?”

“It’s a surprise!” Calissë said.

“Oh no,” Maglor said before he could stop himself. Maedhros snorted.

“It’s a good surprise,” Calissë said.

“What is it, then?” Maglor asked.

Calissë poked him in between the eyes. “I can’t tell you, silly, because it’s a surprise!”

“All right, all right. Where’s your sister?”

“She stayed home.”

“Curvo’s starting to teach her some things in the forge,” Maedhros said. “Apparently not even Aechen was enough to tempt her away.”

Caranthir called over to them suddenly. “Hey, Calissë! Will you run over to Grandmother Ennalótë’s house and ask for a lemon?”

Calissë jumped up and ran off around the lilac bushes. “Do I want to know why you want a lemon?” Maedhros asked Caranthir.

“Irissë wants to eat one.”

“A whole lemon?” Daeron asked, eyebrows shooting up as he leaned against Maglor, slipping an arm around his waist.

“I’ll eat any fruit you put in front of me,” Aredhel said. “Whether it be a lemon or a peach or an entire bushel of cherries—”

“I feel like I should discourage this,” Maedhros said to Daeron and Maglor, “but I’m not going to. I think most everyone who comes back from Mandos makes one or two stupid decisions in the excitement of having a body again. Tyelko broke his arm within three months because he forgot he didn’t have the same strength he’d had before, and he fell out of one of the plum trees.”

“Of course he did,” said Maglor as Daeron laughed. “But I think this particular stupid decision of Irissë’s is just a refusal to back down from a dare, and that’s nothing new.”

Aredhel did not back down even when Calissë returned with what Caranthir called the biggest lemon he’d ever seen. She peeled it and picked out a wedge and popped it into her mouth without hesitation. Immediately her whole face puckered, making Calissë burst into giggles. “It’s delicious,” she declared once she’d swallowed it, and ate the second one.

Jokes about lemons followed them all the rest of the afternoon. They returned to Mahtan and Ennalótë’s house for dinner, which was a loud and merry affair, as it always was. The last time Maglor had dined at his grandparents’ had also been the first time, since his return to Valinor, and it had been overwhelming in all the worst ways. This time he did not feel any desire to run away back to Nerdanel’s house, and when Ennalótë asked him to play something for them after the meal, he was both willing and happy to oblige.

Mahtan embraced him as they all prepared to part for the evening. “It’s good to have you back, Macalaurë,” he said into his ear, before kissing his forehead.

“I’m glad to be back,” Maglor said.

Later, he and Daeron retreated to Curufin’s room, since Celebrimbor still wouldn’t let them into their own and the two extra guest rooms were taken by Aredhel and Maeglin. “You slept late today,” Maglor said as Daeron pulled the blankets up to envelope the two of them in quiet and warm darkness. “Are you all right?”

“I couldn’t sleep last night. I spoke to Maedhros sometime in the wee hours of the morning, and that seems to have helped.” Daeron tucked himself up against Maglor, face in the crook of Maglor’s neck. “You still could’ve woken me up this morning.”

“I’m not going to wake you when you clearly need sleep.” Maglor wrapped his arms around Daeron, who sighed as he relaxed against him.

“Being tired is better than waking in an empty bed,” Daeron said very softly after a few minutes.

“I’m sorry. I’ll wake you if you really want me to.”

“It’s all right. It’s not your fault. I’m just being ridiculous—”

“No you’re not.” Maglor kissed his temple. “You just had a rather trying month.”

“It doesn’t feel as though it should have been so trying,” Daeron said, and sighed again. “It feels a little as though I’m just being difficult, except—”

“Except?”

Daeron shook his head a little. “I don’t—not yet.”

“All right.” Maglor kissed him again. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, you know.”

“I don’t want to keep secrets. I just need to stew in it a little longer. Which reminds me—there is something else I have been meaning to tell you, only you’ve been so weighed down by your songwriting, and then I was caught up in my own complicated…whatever you can call what’s between me and my family.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” Daeron pulled back so they could look at one another. “The opposite, in fact. I spoke to your father in Tirion.”

“My father?” Maglor couldn’t hide his surprise. “I thought the two of you avoided each other when at all possible.”

“We did, but I sought him out after you spoke to him.” Daeron reached up to run his fingers through Maglor’s hair. “Your aunt was worried that I was the thing holding you back. I know I am not, but I don’t want to become such a thing—so I went to apologize.”

“Did you have something to apologize for?” Maglor asked.

“Yes. I’m not entirely sorry that I said all of the things I did, because I’m not sure he really understood how deep your pain went even after he saw you, but if I had not lost my temper I might have said them more gently. And…I misunderstood him, going to Tirion expecting not to find anything to like in the first place, and also finding him very different than I expected, and he misunderstood me, because I was making a concerted effort to hide how unhappy I was at the time. You know what it looks like when I put on a smile for an audience. Our mutual misunderstandings clashed in just such a way that he spoke foolishly and I replied very harshly. I think we’ve remedied that, now. He was very quick to apologize himself, which I did not expect.”

“I’m glad,” Maglor whispered. “You didn’t have to do that, but—thank you.”

“I did have to.” Daeron offered a small smile. “I don’t actually enjoy being at such odds with someone, however entertaining it was in the beginning to throw someone like Fëanor off balance.”

“Were you really so unhappy then?”

“It was only a few years after you had left for Lórien, and I was in Tirion. I had a nice time and I certainly don’t regret going—that was when I started really becoming friends with your brothers—but I missed you terribly.” Daeron tucked his face back into the crook of Maglor’s neck. “You haven’t yet told me what it was you spoke to him about, besides Finwë.”

“He apologized to me,” Maglor said, “but would not let me apologize to him.”

“What do you have to apologize for?”

“When we first met here I said some cruel things. None if it was untrue, but I only said it to hurt him, because I was in pain and it didn’t seem fair that he wasn’t—of course that wasn’t true, and I just couldn’t see clearly. But it was—it was a step forward, when we spoke this summer. I don’t know what Celegorm or Caranthir intend to do, and Maedhros is still so uncertain, but I’m…more hopeful than I was. More hopeful than I ever thought I would be.”

“Good,” Daeron murmured. “He asked me some questions about you, when we spoke, and I answered them. I didn’t think you would mind.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

Daeron fell asleep eventually, still holding onto Maglor like he was afraid to wake up and find him gone again. Maglor sang a few quiet songs of rest and peaceful dreams until the frown on Daeron’s face smoothed away. Sleep did not come so quickly for him that night, and he lay awake for a while listening to the quiet settling of the house around them, and the muffled sounds of his family downstairs or in their own rooms. Outside the open window Nallámo was singing.

When Maglor fell asleep at last he dreamed of Formenos. He stood by the flower-covered cairn watching the water. It was raining, but the clouds were beginning to break, and a rainbow arced across the sky over the lake. Still, Maglor felt a chill, and he knew in that strange way of dreaming that if he were to turn around he would see Formenos not as it now was, or as it had been when new-built, but as it had stood immediately after the Darkening, shrouded in shadows, the doors broken in and the lamps burning in the entryway, and his grandfather—

He did not turn around. Instead he walked down to the water, finding a space where the reeds fell away and he could kneel at the water’s edge on the grass. It lapped gently against the shore, and the Music in it was not that of the Wilwarinen in waking life. In the dream it sounded like Ekkaia instead, like lamentation wound through with the thinnest thread of hope shining like starlight piercing through the cloud-wrack. Maglor reached out to touch the water, but as he did the dream dissolved.

Maglor woke to Pídhres kneading her paws onto his arm, and Daeron still curled up around him, deeply asleep but looking far more at peace than he had been the night before. Maglor freed his arm to grab Pídhres and move her to the pillow above his head, where she curled up with a soft purr, and then closed his eyes again with a sigh. It was warm, and the bed was soft. He dozed, letting his thoughts drift until Daeron woke up. When he did it was with a soft sigh, and then a reluctant loosening of his grip on Maglor. “Good morning,” Maglor murmured, smoothing a few strands of Daeron’s hair away from his eyes.

“Did I oversleep again?” Daeron asked without quite opening his eyes.

“No.” Maglor kissed him softly. “I’d suggest we lock the door and stay in bed all day, except I’d rather do that in our bed and not my brother’s.”

A small smile touched Daeron’s lips. “Me too. We’ll have to bother your nephew about it today.”

Once they dressed and made their way downstairs, Pídhres riding on Daeron’s shoulder, they found Lisgalen making lemonade and Maedhros sitting at the kitchen table while Caranthir braided his hair. “…can do it myself,” Maedhros was saying.

“And have it turn out lopsided and likely to unravel halfway through the morning, and then you’ll just get paint in it again” Caranthir replied. “Morning Cáno, Daeron.”

“Good morning. I know I’m not supposed to ask what he’s doing, but do we know how long it will take Celebrimbor to do whatever-it-is in our room?”

“He said he hopes to be done by this afternoon,” said Lisgalen.

“Oh, good.”

“He was supposed to come install it three weeks ago,” Lisgalen added, “but got caught up in another project in Tirion. You know how it goes.”

“Do you know what it is?” Daeron asked.

“Yes, of course. But it’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“A surprise for Maglor, not for me,” Daeron said. “What if you just told me what it is? You know I can keep a secret.”

Lisgalen laughed at him as they set the pitcher on the table. “Nice try.”

Maglor took his notes and papers outside into the garden after breakfast. Daeron joined him, bringing out Maglor’s harp rather than his own flute, and they sat under the hawthorn tree. Aechen came over to sniff at their fingers before scurrying away, chased by Pídhres; Maglor’s brothers all dispersed. Calissë vanished into Nerdanel’s workshop with her and Celegorm, who was apparently learning stone carving in the mornings and practicing knitting, of all things, in the afternoons.

Daeron played some of the music Maglor was writing as he wrote it out. “This sounds familiar,” he said. “Where have I heard it before?”

“Ekkaia,” Maglor said.

“You didn’t play anything like this there.”

“No—it’s as near as I can render the part of the Song I could hear in the waves there.”

“You think you’ll use it in this song for your grandfather?”

“Maybe. I have the main melody here, but…I’m not sure. I want to fit it in somehow.”

“Hm.” Daeron peered at the main melody, and played through a part of it, and then played through again, adding just hints of Ekkaia’s theme as he did so. “Something like that?”

“Yes—yes, just like that. Hold on, play it through again—” Maglor grabbed his pencil as Daeron obliged, so he could note down the changes. “And what if you played them both, one with each hand…?”

“Like this?”

“Yes, that’s perfect—”

“Stars above, Cáno,” Caranthir said, coming around the tree. He was pink-cheeked and rubbing at his eyes. “What are you trying to do, move Manwë himself to tears with this song?”

“Sorry,” Maglor said, trying not to wince at Caranthir’s choice of words as Daeron stilled the harp strings.

“It’s beautiful, but I’m not sure anyone will be able to listen to the whole thing if it sounds like that.”

“Noted,” Maglor said.

“It was a mistake to let you two make music together, if you’re just going to work together to find the prettiest way to break every heart in Aman.” Caranthir shook his head as he went away.

“I’ll have to play some of old Bombadil’s most ridiculous songs later to make up for that,” Daeron said. “Do you want me to keep going now?”

“No, I’ve got what I needed down. Thank you.”

Daeron shifted to playing something much more cheerful, though not quite as bright as anything Tom Bombadil sang as he bounded over the downs and through the Old Forest. Huan came around the tree to flop down beside Maglor, sending all his papers flying. “Menace,” Maglor muttered as he grabbed at them.

“You are going to drive me mad someday, the way you never keep your notes organized,” said Daeron as Maglor shuffled everything back together.

“I do keep it organized,” Maglor protested.

“I’m not sure you really know what that word means.”

Calissë wandered out of Nerdanel’s workshop after a while, and came to crawl onto Maglor’s lap. “What are you writing?” she asked, peering curiously at the papers.

“A song about my grandfather, Finwë,” Maglor said. “Your great-grandfather.”

“I’ve never met him,” Calissë said after a moment, frowning as she counted her great-grandparents on her fingers.

“No,” Maglor agreed. “He is in Mandos.”

“What happened to him?”

“You know how we all went away across the Sea a long time ago?”

“Yes. To fight the Enemy, Atya said.”

“Yes, and because Finwë had died—because of the Enemy.”

“Oh.” Calissë seemed to be counting on her fingers again, and then said, “You’re the only one that didn’t, Uncle Cáno.”

“Our cousin Galadriel didn’t, either,” Maglor said.

“Was it very scary, across the Sea?” Calissë asked after a little while, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. “Sometimes Uncle Tyelko tells scary stories but I don’t know if he’s just making it up to get us to scream.”

“It was scary,” Maglor said, though whatever scary stories Celegorm had told were made-up, he was sure. “But it is also very beautiful.” He kissed the top of her head. “Finwë was born across the Sea, and he led our people across the whole world here to Valinor. It was supposed to be safe, but the Enemy crept in and fooled even the Valar—but he was defeated a very long time ago and cast out of the world, so there’s nothing to fear anymore.”

“What about in Middle-earth?” Calissë asked.

“There are always dangers in the wider world, but the last great Enemy there has been defeated too,” said Daeron.

“So why can’t Grandfather Finwë come back?”

Maglor looked at Daeron helplessly. Daeron said, “That is a question, I think, for the Valar.”

“Oh.” Calissë snuggled against Maglor’s chest. “D’you miss him?”

“Yes. Very much.” Maglor had a sudden thought. “He taught me woodcarving. Would you like to learn a little, Calissë?”

“Oh, yes please!”

“You have fun,” Daeron said when Maglor glanced him. He leaned over to kiss him. “I’m going to bother Caranthir to make up for the music earlier.”

Maglor hoisted Calissë onto his back to carry her off through the orchard to Mahtan’s workshops. Mahtan happened to be in his woodworking shop himself, and was more than happy to allow Maglor and Calissë room and tools for a lesson. “Finwë would be very happy to see you right now,” he whispered to Maglor as he handed him a few pieces of scrap wood, “and very proud.”

That morning Maglor and Calissë worked together to carve a small and very simple duck shape out of a piece of pale wood. Calissë was truly her parents’ daughter: when really interested in something, all of her attention and focus was caught up in it. She was also, like her father, a very quick learner, and as soon as they were done sanding the duck she wanted to go show it off to everyone, but particularly Celebrimbor.

By then it was past lunchtime, and when they returned to Nerdanel’s house they found Celebrimbor in the kitchen looking faintly alarmed, though he relaxed as soon as he spotted Calissë in Maglor’s arms. “There you are!” he exclaimed. “Where have you been?”

“Just next door,” Maglor said. “Calissë wanted to learn woodcarving.”

“Look, Tyelpë!” Calissë held up the duck. “Look what we made!”

“I love it,” Celebrimbor said as he lifted her into his own arms. To Maglor he added, “Next time just tell someone when you take my sister away somewhere, won’t you?”

“I told Daeron,” said Maglor. “When I steal away your sisters I’m always mostly responsible about it.” That made Calissë giggle. “Are you done with our bedroom now? Daeron and I would very much like to sleep in our own bed tonight.”

“Yes, I’m done. Calissë, why don’t you go show Grandmother?” Celebrimbor set her down and she darted out of the room. “You can tell me if you don’t like it, and I’ll take it out,” he said to Maglor once she’s gone. “I wasn’t sure about it, but he thought—Grandfather, I mean—he seemed confident that you would.”

“My father made me something?”

“I helped, a little. But it was mostly him.”

“Things have changed a bit since the last time my father made me a gift. I’m sure I’ll like whatever it is.” Maglor offered Celebrimbor a smile, and kissed his temple as he passed by on the way to the stairs. “Thank you, Tyelpë.”

The bedrooms were all on the north side of the house, with windows facing the orchard or the road or the river. Daeron and Maglor’s was near the front of the house, and had two windows looking out toward the orchard and Ennalótë’s gardens beyond. One of those windows, Maglor found when he stepped into the room now, had been replaced with stained glass, all blues and greys and smoky-whites. Maglor stepped up to it, recognizing the scene as one of the seashore, but not quite sure at first what to make of it.

Standing directly in front of the window revealed the subtle and lovely enchantments that had been laid over the glass, so that it was both like looking at a work of stained glass art, but also very like looking through the window at the scene it depicted. It was that stretch of shore again, the one Maglor dreamed of most often, the one the palantír in Avallónë had shown him. It was not quite the same, being a work of art and not a memory of his own or the reality of it that the palantír had revealed. It was beautiful—it was a glimpse of the way Fëanor had seen those same shores, the things he thought most striking about them or the most worth preserving or depicting.

He didn’t know how long he stood staring at it before he heard the door behind him. “Cáno?” He turned to see Maedhros. “Is that what Tyelpë was doing in here?”

“Atya made it,” Maglor said.

Maedhros came to stand with him. “I’ve seen that place before,” he said, reaching out to brush his fingers over the glass. “I dreamed it once, I think. Dreaming of you.”

“I spent a lot of time on that particular stretch of beach,” said Maglor. “Atya must have seen it in the palantír.”

“It’s so empty, though,” Maedhros said softly. He let his hand drop to his side. “Míriel made me tapestries, you know. Of Himring.”

“I know,” Maglor said, earning himself a look of surprise. “I asked her to. You’d been trying to draw it before we left for Lórien and didn’t seem satisfied with anything you did, so I wrote to her. Do you like them?”

“Of course I do. You never said—”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” Maglor hesitated for a moment. Then he asked, “When Atar comes back from Ambarussa’s mountain, will you speak to him?”

“I don’t know.” Maedhros looked away, back to the window. “I know I need to, but I don’t want to do it alone.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You’ve got your song to write.”

“Yes, but—”

“After it’s done. Then maybe I’ll speak to him, if you’re there too. But don’t push yourself for my sake, Maglor.”

“I won’t.” He was going to push himself anyway, because the sooner he got the song written the sooner it would stop hanging over him like a storm cloud threatening to burst. But if Maedhros wanted a reason to put this meeting off, Maglor could give it to him. He just hated to see the painful uncertainty on Maedhros’ face whenever Fëanor so much as hovered at the edges of a conversation. “Just—just one conversation, Maedhros, just so it stops being something to dread. If nothing else, you’ll be able to see more clearly what you want afterward.”

Maedhros sighed. “I know.” He reached out to touch the glass again. “Why this place? Why did you spend so much time there?”

It had been empty and desolate, and he’d spent enough time there to watch as the jagged edges of the broken coast softened into stand and wind-rounded stones, to watch the generations of birds come to nest in the nearby cliffs every year, raising their chicks and diving into the waters for fish. He’d seen ships in the distance and had probably been the source of many strange stories the sailors told, if the wind was right and they happened to hear his voice singing. “It was peaceful,” he said finally, unable to think of anything else to say that wouldn’t just upset Maedhros. “It was quiet. Safe.”

“Lonely,” Maedhros said softly.

“Yes, but…that doesn’t always have to be a bad thing. I was not always unhappy in Middle-earth.”

“So you’ve said.”

“You just never believe me when I do.”

Maedhros kissed the top of his head, resting his hand on Maglor’s hair. “I believe you. I just also know the difference between not unhappy and happy.”