A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Seventy Five

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“Did you foresee this?” Maglor asked Elrond. Everyone was watching Finwë’s reunion with his brothers, while pretending not to. There was a great deal of whispering going on in the clearing, and very little normal speech. They seemed to all be waiting in suspense, though for what exactly Maglor wasn’t quite sure.

“No,” Elrond said with a small smile. “I certainly did not. But have you noticed how Finwë is so obviously recently come from Mandos, and they are not?”

“I have,” Maglor said. He leaned forward to pick up Annem when she came sniffing around his feet. “But they did not return before the Darkening.” They did not have Treelight in their eyes, and Maglor could not believe that they would have stayed away from Tirion if Finwë had still been there. “I can’t imagine—they must have returned only to find out what had happened…”

“Do you know when they were killed, themselves?” Elrond asked, keeping his voice low. “Was it before or after Oromë…?”

“Before. He had three brothers,” Maglor added after a moment. “So either one has not come to the feast, or remains in Mandos, or…”

“Is forever lost,” Elrond murmured. “And his sisters…?”

“Two sisters, I think. Though of course others might have been born later—it’s impossible to know, now.”

“You might have found a whole new side of the family had you ventured east.”

“I didn’t know there was anyone to look for.” Maglor watched Indis and Míriel join the small group by the honeysuckle, and then a few minutes later watched them call their children over to meet the uncles they had never known. He wondered what those uncles made of them all. Surely they knew the stories—knew of the events of the Darkening and the deeds of their House afterward. Even if they hadn’t known before this summer, Maglor himself had gotten up to sing the Noldolantë, and many other stories and songs had been told and sung besides. He looked back across the clearing, at the way Finwë and his brothers held onto each other, and was reminded of the way his own brothers had clung to him when they’d first met again. 

Daeron came to kneel behind Maglor and wrap his arms around him, resting their temples together. “You still look like a stiff breeze would knock you over, love,” he said.

“I still can’t quite believe this is all real.”

“It will pass,” Daeron said. 

“It always feels that way when something longed for but not really expected happens,” said Elrond. “I don’t think I really felt the truth of the Quest’s success until we reached Minas Tirith and I saw Frodo and Sam, and the clear blue skies over the Ephel Dúath.”

“Tears are turning all to diamonds,” Daeron murmured in Maglor’s ear. He hummed quiet agreement. “I think they’re speaking of you now.”

“Surely not—”

“They’re looking at you,” Elrond said.

“They could be looking at you.”

“This is ridiculous,” he heard Finrod say nearby. “Where Maglor’s harp? Let’s have some music while we await our elders! Maglor, have you any stories to distract us?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Maglor as he found himself jostled over to sit between Finrod and Maedhros as the whole party shifted and gathered around. Náriel was still on Maedhros’ lap, and Maglor took a moment to think of the silliest possible thing that could have happened to him. “There was that time I accidentally trespassed in one of Ossë’s favorite coves and he turned me into a crab for several years—”

Finrod had been taking a drink, and now he choked and sprayed it all over Turgon, who shoved him away as everyone around them erupted in laughter. “Can Ossë do that?” Náriel demanded. 

“Of course he can!” Maglor said. “Didn’t I just say he did it to me? I spent the better part of five whole years dodging seagulls and grumpy sand sorcerers—” He kept going, because it was impossible to spend as many years beside the sea as he had without learning quite a lot about crabs and fish and other creatures that got washed up onto the beaches or who lived in the tide pools nestled in coves like the one he’d invented for the story. He could answer every question someone posed to try to trip him up, even when the sailors in the family were called upon. 

“I don’t know why you’re asking me,” Eärendil laughed when someone demanded he confirm some outrageous claim Maglor made about the social habits of a tide pool’s denizens. “I never cared about crabs.”

“And it is known that the Ainur can sometimes turn people into odd things,” Elwing added serenely, though her eyes sparkled with mirth. Beside her Elrond choked on his own drink, and Celebrían doubled over with giggles. 

And of course no one could disprove his insistence on strange and sorcerous beings that napped under the sand dunes in summer time—not when he could just point to Tom Bombadil as proof that even stranger folk roamed the world.

“I think you’re making it up,” Calissë said, coming to hang off of Maglor’s back. “Just like that story Daeron tells about the winged horses—”

“I beg your pardon!” Daeron exclaimed. 

“Hey, Atya!” Celegorm said as Fëanor and Fingolfin came back to join the rest of them. “Did you know Maglor got turned into a crab for a time?”

Fëanor’s eyebrows shot up, but he kept a straight face as he answered, “He has had some strange and marvelous adventures, it’s true.”

“You can go ask Ossë himself if you don’t believe me,” Maglor said, falling back on his usual bluff when Calissë called his tales into question—though this time he couldn’t call on Elrond or his sons, who could always be counted on to play along. 

“You can’t possibly expect Ossë to confirm the story,” Finrod said as Calissë and Náriel ran to climb onto Fëanor’s lap as he sat down. 

“I certainly can, because it’s true, but I also don’t expect anyone to actually go ask him,” Maglor replied. Beside Finrod, Turgon snorted.

“So who are these mysterious new relatives?” someone was asking Fëanor and Fingolfin. 

“Lindo and Urwë,” Fingolfin replied, “Finwë’s brothers.”

“Were they also released from Mandos because of Macalaurë’s song?”

“They were released from Mandos long ago,” said Fingolfin, “but I think Macalaurë’s song is why they are here now—or at least why Mithrandir chose this time to make introductions.”

“I wish they’d stop calling it my song,” Maglor murmured, strumming his fingers over the harp so no one but Maedhros could hear him. “The words are from everyone, and it was Indis and Míriel’s idea.” And in his mind all along it had been Finwë’s song—the song for Finwë. Surely that was more important.

“You wrote it, you sang it,” Maedhros murmured back. “It’s your song, no matter whose idea it was. You won’t ever escape the credit for getting us Finwë back, you know, so you might as well stop try—ow!” He jerked back when Maglor pinched him. “What was that for?”

“Oops, sorry. Speaking of it must have brought a bit of my old crab-like habits back—” Maglor ducked when Maedhros tried to cuff him upside the head, and then slipped free when he tried to catch him, and scrambled—deliberately crab-like—to put Fëanor between them. 

Fëanor smiled, and put his arm around Maglor to pull him in close and kiss the top of his head. “What exactly are you supposed to have done to get turned into a crab?” he asked.

“I wandered into the wrong cove, but what do you mean supposed to have done? It’s all true, every single word of it—”

“Of course, my mistake.”

Maglor rested his head on Fëanor’s shoulder, glad that he was always warm. “Are you all right, Atya?”

“Oh, Cáno. I’m more than all right. I never thought—” Fëanor rested his cheek on top of Maglor’s head. “I never thought to see anything like this,” he whispered. He meant the whole scene before them, everyone gathered together—Finwë there, now eagerly pulling his brothers over to the crowd of their family to be overwhelmed by introductions. Lindo was the shorter of the brothers, and the one who looked most like Finwë, though his eyes were the same blue as Finarfin’s and Finrod’s. Urwë was taller and wore his hair cut short. Maglor thought it was Lindo that he had glimpsed in the crowd some weeks before, but he recognized Urwë too—he was a skilled hunter and horseman, though they hadn’t yet raced each other in Ingwion’s tournament.

“Come on,” Fëanor said. He rose to his feet and pulled Maglor after him. “They already know who you are—they’ve been watching you perform since before the feast got started—and they want to meet you properly.”

“But shouldn’t everyone else—”

“No, Cáno—you first.”

“Macalaurë!” Finwë embraced him again. “Lindo, Urwë, this is my grandson Canafinwë Macalaurë—Maglor in the eastern tongue. He is the mightiest singer of our people, and I would not be here now if it were not for his music.”

Maglor felt his face flush as red as Caranthir’s ever did. “I’m not that mighty—”

“No?” Finwë smiled at him. “Then whose voice was it that moved all the Valar at once to tears, as I’ve been told?”

“Was this late last summer?” asked Lindo. His smile was nearly identical to Finwë’s, though his voice was not so deep and he spoke in gently accented Quenya. Tattoos of flowering vines trailed down his neck and wound around his arm. “I heard a voice on the wind—I thought I was half-dreaming, for it sounded like Finwë’s own, and it brought with it a gentle rain that tapped the rhythms of the Third Theme of the Great Music onto the leaves all around me.”

“It was last summer,” said Fëanor. 

“I would like to hear this song,” said Urwë.

“I’m to sing it tomorrow night,” said Maglor, “alongside my cousins Findaráto and Findekáno.”

“It almost seems needless, now,” said Fëanor. 

“It isn’t,” said Maglor. “We’ve written a new verse for it—it won’t end in tears this time.”

“Is this how I am to be revealed, then?” Finwë asked, his smile turning almost mischievous.

“Finrod thinks it would be very funny,” Maglor said, and both Lindo and Urwë burst into bright laughter. “Daeron wants very badly to see the look on Thingol’s face—Elwë’s face, I mean.”

Finwë laughed then too. “I would like to see his face also! He and Ingwë, and Olwë—oh what a shock it will be to them!”

“To everyone,” said Fëanor. 

“Is Daeron also here?” Urwë asked. “We have heard much of him too—the tales of his deeds, and his own voice singing this summer, alone and with Macalaurë—but we did not think he was one of yours, Finwë. I thought he was one of Elwë’s people.”

“He is,” said Finwë, “though perhaps I am soon to gain another grandchild by marriage?” He grinned at Maglor, who had to resist the urge to pinch himself, just to prove he wasn’t dreaming. It had been such a long time since Finwë had teased him. 

“Someday maybe,” he said, echoing Daeron’s usual answer to the question. 

There were many others for Lindo and Urwë to meet, so Maglor made his escape back to Daeron after a few more minutes. “I think I might have met Lindo on my travels last year,” Daeron said thoughtfully, watching Maglor’s brothers greet their great-uncles. Maglor saw Urwë and Lindo both do a small double-take at the sight of Maedhros’ missing hand, though he didn’t think either of them commented on it. “He seems familiar, anyway…”

“You might have, but he also greatly resembles Finwë.” Both Urwë and Lindo were dressed in the fashions of the western Avari, and spoke with the same sort of accent—it made sense, Maglor thought, since they had not made their way to Tirion. He wasn’t sure even still how long ago they had been returned to life, but he did know that at the time of the Darkening there were very few Avari who had come to Valinor through Mandos. Most Elves who had died before Oromë had found Cuiviénen and had been reembodied during the Years of the Trees had very quickly found homes among the Vanyar or the Noldor or the Teleri. The story would come out in time, he supposed. There would be time for it, even if it was still hard to imagine. 

Daeron rested his head on Maglor’s shoulder as he joined their hands. “Do you still feel like you’re dreaming?”

“A little. Except I don’t think even my wildest dreams could have invented any of this.”

Indis came over to kiss Maglor’s cheek. “I haven’t yet thanked you, Macalaurë. Thank you—and I am so sorry that we asked such a thing of you, and that you were given so little warning. I did not think the Valar would act as quickly as they did—in the summons, I mean, though I did not expect such a quick response afterward either.”

“You don’t have apologize,” Maglor said as Daeron lifted his head. “I’m all right, really.”

Indis smiled at him, radiant as Laurelin, and turned to answer someone else’s call. 

Pídhres jumped onto Maglor’s lap, demanding to be petted, and Daeron asked quietly, “Does it still hurt?”

“A little.” Maglor looked again toward Finwë, as he grasped Celeborn’s hand, both of them smiling. It was too easy still to remember the last time he’d seen his grandfather, but so it had been with all his brothers—and that had passed, and Maglor knew better now how to deal with it. It just was. The grief would never really go away, but it would soon start to shrink, becoming easier to forget about. “Everyone is going to be so surprised tomorrow night.”

Daeron grinned. “Do you think we should warn Elemmírë?”

“Probably—I don’t think anyone is supposed to come onto the stage after us, but it might be a good idea to make sure. The song is longer now, and everything is going to get very chaotic as soon as we finish the last verse.”

“I’ll conspire with Finrod about it later,” said Daeron. 

They all lingered in the clearing late into the evening. Everyone seemed half-afraid that leaving would break some kind of spell, and they would wake up in the morning to find Finwë gone again. But eventually the babies needed to be carried back to their proper beds, as well as Calissë and Náriel in spite of their valiant attempts to stay awake. 

As the party started to break up, Maglor lifted Calissë into his arms. Finwë came over to kiss them both goodnight. “I don’t think you’ll see me until tomorrow evening,” he said in Maglor’s ear, “but I hear there’s horse racing in the morning, and I will certainly be watching that.”

The walk back to the encampment was quiet but giddy. Ambarussa kept bursting into giggles before Rundamírë shushed them. Calissë fell asleep on Maglor’s shoulder, and Daeron carried Náriel. Fëanor had remained behind alongside his own siblings, and the rest of their cousins had gone on ahead or followed more slowly, lingering by the lakeside under the stars. Everyone had eagerly agreed with the idea of surprising the rest of the gathered Elves with Finwë’s return, but Angrod had laughingly demanded to know how they were all supposed to keep it a secret for a full day. 

“It’s easy,” Turgon had replied. “Just don’t talk about it.”

“Good luck in the races tomorrow!” said Aegnor when he and Angrod and Orodreth parted from Maglor and his brothers. “I think you’ll be racing our great-uncle in the morning!”

“You’ll still win,” said Amras as their cousins disappeared toward their tents. “You’ve won every single race so far this summer.”

“I tied the last two,” said Maglor.

“For first.”

A little later, after tucking Calissë into her bed, Maglor asked Curufin quietly, “Are things all right between you and Míriel? I know you were upset…”

“Of course it’s all right—I can’t be upset now, knowing where she was. A few months of wondering is a very small price to pay for today.” 

“She could still have at least sent a message.”

“I think she was a little busy,” said Curufin. “And you know how odd time is in Lórien. I think we’re lucky that they left it in time to be here now.”

Outside, Caranthir snorted. “Of course they didn’t tell anyone. It’s hard enough getting used to being alive again when you don’t have your entire family trying to track you down in Lórien.”

“Oh,” Maglor said as Celegorm snickered. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“It’s different for everyone,” Caranthir said. “Nelyo didn’t stay in Lórien at all—which we can all agree was stupid—”

“I disagree, but go on,” said Maedhros.

“—and some people only need a few weeks or a couple of months, and some people linger there for years. I think I spent the better part of a year there, but it’s always so hard to keep track.”

“No one wants an audience when you’re trying to learn how to walk in a straight line again, wobbly as a newborn colt and smacking yourself into tree branches,” said Celegorm.

“I would have liked to be the audience for that,” said Daeron.

“Of course you would.”

“It’s just odd,” said Amras, “waking up in a brand new body when your spirit is used to—well, just being a spirit. I can’t say it’s very pleasant either, at least those first few minutes.”

“There have been times in my life I’ve envied those who spent time in Mandos,” Daeron murmured to Maglor as they walked back to their own tent. “Not often and never for very long—but I think I’ve been entirely cured of the impulse now.”

“You too?” Maglor asked, startled. He had once envied all his brothers deeply the healing they’d found in Mandos that was so much harder to come by in life. 

“I’ve envied Men, too—when the world seemed on the brink of utter darkness, and the years weighed heavily on me.” They stepped into the tent and Daeron sighed as the small crystal lights flared around them. “Not for a long time, though. Only when I was at my lowest.”

“I don’t think you are the only one,” said Maglor. “I’ve noticed that the only ones who ever question Elros or Arwen’s choices are those who never knew Middle-earth.” He paused in unraveling his braids, struck by another wave of grief—for Finwë would never know either of them, would only glimpse them if he ever happened to looked into a palantír seeking the distant past, or perhaps seeking Arwen’s children who still lived and danced in Annúminas and Minas Anor.

Daeron looked at him, and then stepped forward to wipe away the sudden tears. “They knew what they were doing,” he said softly. “That was not a choice made lightly. They knew, just as Lúthien did.”

“I know. I just—I miss them.”

“Will you wear one of the tunics Arwen made for you tomorrow night?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“I think you should. It’s too bad you have nothing to carry with you from Elros.”

Maglor managed a smile as he raised his arm. “I have his teeth marks, remember?” 

“Ah yes. How could I forget?” Daeron kissed the scar and then kissed Maglor. “That’s not as nice a memory, though.”

“No, but he would find it very funny.” Maglor had a letter from him tucked away at home in Imloth Ningloron, and the wax he’d pressed his thumbprint in to seal it. It wasn’t something he could carry with him, but he didn’t really need to. Missing Elros didn’t usually hurt, these days. “I only wish my grandfather could have met them.”

Sleep came that night far more easily than Maglor had expected, and he woke in the morning feeling rested and ready for whatever was to come. “Yesterday did happen how I remember, didn’t it?” he asked Daeron as they dressed. “My grandfather’s really—”

“Yes, it all really happened.”

They went to the horse track after breakfast, and there Gandalf sidled up beside Maglor. “So, how was the party yesterday?” he asked.

Maglor grinned at him. “Amazing. But how did you know…?”

“It’s my job to know things, Maglor,” Gandalf laughed. “But I was familiar with your kinsmen from long ago, when I was serving under my Lady Nienna in Lórien, tending to those newly-come from Mandos—those who had been quite startled to find themselves there, and who were often reluctant to return to life, coming as they were to strange lands filled with even stranger beings. You can imagine our horror when the Trees went out just as two new spirits emerged from the doors.”

“Did you know what was happening?” Daeron asked.

“No! All of the Valar were away, and so we just brought all the Elves in our care to the shores of Lórellin where it was safe and we felt we could best protect them, if it came to it. Then it was only a matter of waiting.”

“Of all the places to be when that happened, I suppose Lórien would have been the best,” Daeron said. 

“Perhaps,” said Gandalf, “though very few who were there dared to leave for a very long time, even after the rising of the Moon and Sun.” He sighed, and then smiled at them. “That was a very frightening time, as you well know—but this! This summer is quite the opposite, and I am very glad to have at last enabled a reunion very much longed-for, though never expected.”

“Thank you,” Maglor said, as the horns sounded to call the riders to the starting line. He embraced Gandalf, and laughed at the startled noise he made. “Thank you so much, Gandalf—for everything.”

“Oh, this won’t do at all!” Gandalf protested as he drew back. “Don’t go thanking me, Maglor. Now I have to go cause a bit of trouble to make up for it!”

“Go tell stories to all the children to encourage them into adventures!” Maglor said over his shoulder as he turned to accept the reins of his horse from Celegorm. “That caused plenty of trouble in the Shire, didn’t it?”

“Curvo will never forgive you that,” Celegorm said as Gandalf laughed. 

“Oh, Calissë’s already acquired a taste,” Maglor said. He swung himself into the saddle. “Wish me luck?”

“You don’t need it.” Celegorm said, but he gripped Maglor’s hand tight for a moment anyway.

“Come here,” Daeron said, and Maglor leaned down to accept a kiss. He had to hurry to join the rest of the riders before the race began. 

He ended up beside Urwë, who flashed him a grin. “I hear you’re the one to beat, Nephew,” he said. 

“You can try,” Maglor replied, and then the horn sounded and they were off, hoof beats like thunder all around. The track was longer this time, circling out and around part of the encampment, and Maglor leaned forward in the saddle, murmuring encouragement to his horse as she sped through the grass. The wind caught in his hair and overhead an eagle swooped over them with a shrill call before wheeling away. Maglor joined his voice to those calling back. 

It was a little like charging across the plains of Ard Galen—but better, because he had no sword in his hand and there was nothing awaiting him at the end of the race except for Daeron and his brothers. When he crossed the finish line it was to a great rush of cheers, and when he slowed enough to glance back he found that Urwë had come in mere seconds behind him. They grinned at each other and clasped hands. “Well done!” Urwë said, before he was called away in one direction and Maglor was called in another.

As he prepared to dismount the next set of riders were called forth, and Galadriel trotted by. “Good luck!” Maglor called to her.

“I don’t need it!” she called back.

Galadriel did not win her race, however—she came in second, just behind Dior Eluchíl. “Could have used some luck after all,” Maglor said. She shoved at his arm, laughing. 

The day seemed to pass with agonizing slowness. Maglor was aware that Finwë was somewhere, perhaps walking about disguised or, as the afternoon brought rain, hooded. The clouds moved on before dinner, and afterward the night’s performances of Elemmírë’s song cycle began. Maglor sat beside Finrod and Daeron as Legolas and Gimli got up to sing songs of the Greenwood and the Lonely Mountain. Tonight was a night of remembrances—Elemmírë had already sung of the Darkening, and of the making of the Sun and Moon afterward, and Legolas and Gimli would sing for Boromir too, before they were done, and Aragorn, and Arwen, and the hobbits; and others would get up to sing of others lost and mourned, though Finwë would not be the only one sung of who had returned to hear the songs himself. There were songs for Denethor, and for Oropher, and for Gil-galad and Fingolfin and Finrod and Fingon and Celebrimbor—and Gondolin and Nargothrond and Doriath, and Númenor and even Cuiviénen—and so many others besides. Maglor had written none of them and he sang none of them. Legolas and Gimli had asked him if he would join them in singing for Aragorn, but he hadn’t had the heart for it. 

As the time for Maglor and Finrod and Fingon’s performance drew near, Maglor leaned over to whisper, “Did either of you warn Elemmírë?”

“Yes,” Finrod whispered back. “I’ve never seen her rendered speechless before. It was very funny. And when she recovered—you see, she’s managed to get Ingwë and Thingol and Olwë all sitting together, and it’s very close to where our grandparents have hidden themselves in the crowd. I helped with that, too,” he added with a grin. 

“Did you now, Dungalef?” 

Daeron, sitting between them, had to cover his mouth to stifle his laughter. 

“All right, that was perhaps not my best moment, but—”

“Are you two coming?” Fingon appeared before them, resplendent in fine robes of blue and gold, with golden ribbons in his braids, his harp in his hands. “Come on!”

“I’m going to go where I can see Thingol’s face, but I won’t be hard to find in the crowd,” Daeron whispered to Maglor. “You’re going to be wonderful.”

Maglor smiled and kissed him before following Finrod and Fingon up onto the stage. Fingon, as they had agreed, stood up to introduce their song—a tribute to their grandfather, Finwë Noldóran. Without quite meaning to Maglor scanned the crowd, and glimpsed several of the Valar—not in their great and glorious forms, but still unmistakable, and he had to avert his gaze, biting his tongue as he inhaled deeply through his nose. “All right?” Finrod murmured beside him. 

“Yes.” Maglor took another breath and when he exhaled he felt calmer. Fingon rejoined them, and as one they began to play. They had not practiced much together—there had not been time—but in the past they had played together so often that it was almost second nature, and as Maglor picked out the main melodies, Finrod and Fingon harmonized effortlessly. 

They traded off some lines, some verses, though Maglor still did the bulk of the main singing. It was very different, singing this song now before their own family and their own people. The only purpose now was to honor Finwë, to give words to the love and longing they had all been feeling for years uncounted. As he had done in the Máhanaxar, Maglor ignored most of the audience and sang for just one person—he could not see Finwë when he looked out, but he knew he was there. 

The final verses came, full of lamentation for Finwë’s spirit wandering alone in the Halls of Mandos. Maglor opened his eyes and glanced at Fingon as they sang the last words, and Fingon grinned suddenly, changing the key of his playing, and a beat later Finrod followed. Maglor strummed out the change on his own harp—of sorrow turned to triumph, and when he looked he saw Elu Thingol sit up suddenly straight. Maglor and Finrod and Fingon sang as one this last verse, of the return of the High King of the Noldor unlooked for and beyond all hope. By the real end of the song Thingol was on his feet, and so was Ingwë, and Olwë rose after them—nearly everyone had risen, too astonished even to clap. 

“Where is he?” Maglor heard Thingol demanding, though he couldn’t tell who he was speaking to.

Ingwë and Olwë and Thingol had been seated near the front of the audience, before an open space leading to the stage. Finwë stepped out from between Fingolfin and Fëanor, clad in gold and silver. A gasp rippled through the crowd, and then a great cheer arose, as Ingwë rushed forward to embrace him, laughing through the tears falling down his cheeks. Thingol was a step behind, and Olwë with him. Maglor glanced away from the meeting, and saw Fingolfin between Fëanor and Finarfin having removed his crown, waiting with it in his hands. “What’s he doing?” Maglor whispered to Fingon.

“Don’t worry, they’ve spoken of this,” Fingon whispered back.

Movement in the crowd caught Maglor’s eye, and when he looked up he found himself meeting Manwë’s own gaze. Manwë smiled and winked before disappearing like mist into the breeze. 

At last, Finwë was able to turn around again, and Fingolfin strode forward to kneel before him. “Finwë Noldóran,” he said, his voice ringing out and silencing the crowd, “in your absence I have ruled the Noldor, as you bade me ere you departed from Tirion for the last time, to the best of my abilities through our darkest years. When I left these lands with the greater part of our people, Arafinwë ruled—for many years, wise and well—until my return. Now you have returned, and I gladly surrender this crown back to you, to whom it rightfully belongs.”

“And gladly do I accept it,” Finwë said, as Ingwë stepped forward to take the crown from Fingolfin’s hands. As Ingwë set it upon Finwë’s head all gathered there knelt, but for the other high kings of the Eldar. 

Then Fingon sprang to his feet again and cried out in the same loud voice that had once stirred hope in all the Elves and Men of Beleriand, “Hail Finwë Noldóran, the longed for that cometh beyond hope!” A great cry went up—Hail Finwë! Hail Noldóran! As all of the Noldor gathered there burst into cheers, joined by all the other kindreds in a greater celebration than Maglor had ever seen. He took up his harp and began to play the last verse of the song again, and Finrod joined him as Fingon sang out the words, his voice rising above all the noise around them. Maglor joined his voice to Fingon’s as they played it again, and soon a great choir of Elves all around them was singing it too—the last verse of a song written as lamentation turned to a chorus of joy. 

Amidst the celebrations Lindo and Urwë reappeared, to shock Ingwë and Thingol and Olwë all over again. They were all laughing, in amidst the tears. 

Maglor jumped down from the stage, followed by Finrod and then Fingon, who threw his arms around both of them. “We should sing together more often!” he said, laughing, voice slightly scratchy. “I think tonight was a great success!”

“It would have been a success if we got up there and sounded like bullfrogs,” Finrod laughed. 

“I could sound like a bullfrog, but I don’t know if I could keep it up for a whole song.”

“Careful,” Maglor laughed, “or Finrod will remember that when he gets out the wine later.”

“I will absolutely remember that,” Finrod agreed. “In fact, I think we three at least deserve a good drink right now! Where’s Russo? He promised to get tipsy with me, and he mustn’t miss your bullfrog impression.”

“We should find Gil-galad too,” said Maglor.

“Oh, I see how it is,” said Fingon, still hanging onto the two of them as they made their way toward where Maedhros could be seen standing a head taller than almost everyone else around him. “You just want to embarrass me in front of my son.”

“If you haven’t done it yourself already, I’ll be shocked,” said Finrod. “Hello, Russo! Let’s go find some good wine and get pleasantly drunk.”

“What, just us?” Maedhros asked. “Or can everyone else come too?”

“Of course! Anyone, everyone! Joyous or not, I’m sick of tears and I want to laugh!”

“Fingon’s going to sing like a bullfrog,” Maglor added. 

Maedhros burst into laughter. “What?!”

“I have many talents,” Fingon said airily.

“Are you already drunk?”

“No!”

Their parents appeared out of the crowd to surround them, full of praise for the song and their performance. Nerdanel held onto Maglor very tightly. “That was beautiful,” she told him. “But I am so, so glad you’ve said you’ll write no more laments.”

“There’s no need for them anymore,” Maglor said. 

Fëanor held on even tighter. “You already know what I think of it,” he said into Maglor’s ear. “But it was even better to hear you sing with your cousins.”

Finarfin stepped up after Fëanor released Maglor. His embrace was gentler. “I don’t know how you did it—how you took all of our thoughts, which were not all very lovely, and wove them together into something so beautiful. It was wonderful.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“And your hopes have come true—do you remember, you said you hoped we could all come together without strife?”

“I do—and it’s even better than I ever thought it would be.”

Findis and Lalwen came to him at the same time. “Oh, Macalaurë, it was beautiful!” Lalwen said. “I knew it would be, of course—you’ve never written a terrible song in your life!”

“That’s definitely not true,” said Maglor, spotting Daeron close by. “I have a very terrible lay about a sea monster half-written that Daeron wouldn’t let me sing before Thingol and his court—”

“Don’t you dare,” Daeron called over Caranthir’s shoulder. 

“I told you that I foresaw, years ago, that my father would return to us,” Findis told him as Lalwen turned to Daeron to demand more details about the joke and the sea monster story. “But I never thought it would happen this soon. Thank you so much, Macalaurë.”

“It wasn’t just me,” said Maglor. “I never could’ve written the song without everyone—”

“But you did write it—the words are all yours, and the music. And I’m very sorry that I tried to push you in other directions when you didn’t want to—when you had this hanging over you already.”

Maglor shook his head as she took his hands. “Don’t apologize. I know you meant well, really. And you weren’t wrong, exactly—”

“I went about it wrong, at the very least. Are you still afraid, Macalaurë?”

“No,” Maglor said. It was even more true now than when Daeron had asked him the same question. “No, I’m not afraid at all anymore.”

Fingolfin grasped his shoulder and kissed his temple. “Beautiful, Macalaurë,” was all he said, but that was enough. Indis and Míriel both came to embrace him, and Finrod and Fingon too, full of effusive praise. 

Finwë came through the crowd to draw all three of them into his embrace. “I’ve missed hearing your voices,” he said, with a kiss for each of them. “You were wonderful.” His voice shook just a little, as though he were only then allowing himself to be overcome by the words of the song rather than what had taken place directly after it. 

“The song was all Macalaurë’s,” said Finrod.

“But I wrote it with the words you all gave me,” Maglor said.

“Yes, you wrote it,” laughed Fingon. “Grandfather, it’s appalling how little credit he wants to take for his own work anymore!”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Finwë said. “I’ll just shower him with accolades when we return to Tirion.”

“Grandfather!” Maglor protested. 

“I am your king, Macalaurë, and so you really don’t have a choice but to accept all honors I wish to bestow.” Finwë’s smile softened as Finrod and Fingon left them, and he turned his attention fully on Maglor. “I’m only teasing,” he said more quietly, “but you can’t escape all the praise you deserve. I knew what it meant when I agreed to the Valar’s ruling before I married Indis, and I knew what it meant when I chose to remain in Mandos so that Míriel could return to life—I never expected such a reverse of their decision, and that is thanks to you.”

“I don’t know why,” Maglor said. “I didn’t—I just—”

“I learned a great deal in Mandos of how the world works, of how the Valar move within it—which is very different from us Children, both Elves and Men. I’ve had a very long time to study it all, you know. They cannot act as freely as it might seem, however powerful they are—they have already sung the song of the world, and are still bound to its beats and cues. I think it was in trying to break those bounds that Melkor fell, and his lieutenant after him. I think they could not act until Eärendil came to them—and I think they could not act in this until you came, playing their own Music back to them, reaching past all the barriers that lay between us, for if the Music can be changed, it is only by the Children of Ilúvatar, and not the Valar. Fëanáro has told me that you did not think you could convince them, but you insisted on trying anyway.”

“It was important,” Maglor said. “I really didn’t…I’m sorry, I really didn’t think they would listen. I just—I don’t know why, I just had to.”

“Because you are right—it was important.” Finwë kissed his forehead. “When you sang tonight I could feel the weight of the sorrow you’ve carried for so long, Macalaurë—not just for me, but for the whole world. I’m so sorry. That burden should never have been yours to bear.”

“It was my own actions that brought so much of it about. The Oath—”

“Is over. But nothing you did means that you deserved this.” Finwë’s thumb traced over the scar on Maglor’s cheek, and there was sorrow of a much older kind in his eyes as he took in Maglor’s face—all the scars, all the marks Dol Guldur had left behind. “I lost too many to the dark,” he said, very softly, “and I am so, so glad that you were not one of them, Macalaurë. I am so glad that you are here now—you and Maitimo.”

“I lost everyone,” Maglor whispered. 

“But not forever—you have us all back, and you can rejoice now, and let go of the sorrow at last.”

Well, some of them were lost forever. But that was a conversation for another time. Now Maglor only nodded, and let his grandfather pull him back into his embrace—there was no safer place in all of Arda than the circle of Finwë’s arms. That had been true when Maglor had been a child, and it felt true now.

He did not join his cousins to get drunk, in the end. Too many people kept coming up to him with questions and praise for the song, from Ingwë to Lindo to others who Maglor did not know. Finwë and Fëanor both remained beside him the whole time, and it wasn’t until Daeron interrupted to very firmly insist that Maglor be allowed to go to bed that he was able to escape. 

“Thank you,” he said to Daeron once they were away from the crowds and it was quieter. 

“You weren’t able to take any time to just sit quietly tonight,” Daeron said, his bright smile falling away into a look of concern. “Are you all right?”

Maglor realized all of a sudden that he was exhausted. “I think so. Do we have anything to do in the morning?”

“No,” said Daeron. “I think quite a lot of the schedule is going to be shuffled around a bit, but even if someone does come looking for us, I’m going to ask Huan to stand guard. You’re going to sleep as long as you need to, and then hide for as long as you want to.”

Maglor squeezed his hand. “I really am all right, Daeron.”

“Of course you are. That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a good long rest.”

Once they reached their tent Maglor stripped off all his fine clothes and jewels and then pulled Daeron down onto the bed. “You’re supposed to rest, I said!” Daeron protested, laughing. 

“I will, but kiss me senseless first?”

“Oh, well—when you put it like that.”

Maglor slept deeply and slept late. When he woke it was to Daeron wrapped around him and someone outside the tent arguing with Huan. It sounded like Celegorm. “I thought you were joking about Huan,” he muttered into Daeron’s hair. 

“I never joke about such things,” Daeron replied. He lifted his head and kissed Maglor. “Watch your voice, love. I think I have some miruvor somewhere.”

“Tea would be better,” Maglor said. He stretched as Daeron got up, and then sat up to reach for a robe. Once they were both decent he called, “Huan, it’s all right, Tyelko can come in.”

Celegorm ducked into the tent. “I don’t mind you borrowing him to keep people out, but I think I should be the exception, at least.”

“You are,” Daeron said as he handed a flask to Maglor. “You’re in here now, aren’t you? What do you want?”

“It’s nearly noon. Are you all right, Cáno?”

“I was just tired,” Maglor said, and sighed when Celegorm frowned. “We were sleeping.”

“You sound awful.”

“Something about that song in particular seems to take it out of me,” Maglor admitted after a moment. He’d been exhausted and hoarse after going before the Valar too—though he’d thought at the time it was just because he had gone before the Valar. “I’ll be fine, I’m sure someone has some disgusting drink that will cure my voice in a moment.” He already felt better, having slept and drunk some miruvor. “What’s happening today?”

“I checked, and you will be doing nothing. No singing, or racing, or anything. But everyone still wants to talk to you, and Finrod’s disappointed that you didn’t join us last night.”

“I’ll take the blame,” Daeron said as he picked up his comb. “But I think Maglor would have fallen asleep after the first drink anyway.”

“Probably,” Maglor agreed. “We’ll be here all summer. There will be plenty of other nights to get drunk, though I am sorry I missed Fingon trying to sound like a bullfrog.”

“Fingon makes as good a bullfrog as you do a crab.”

“Those were very difficult years, it’s true. Perhaps the most difficult of all my long and lonely exile—”

“Oh shut up.”

The atmosphere of the feast had not changed, except that the excitement had heightened even farther, if that were possible. As the days passed Maglor saw more of Finwë than he would have expected to; the King of the Noldor had returned and was in very high demand, but Finwë had always been good at putting his foot down—and no one was going to say no when he said he wished to spend time with his family. Lindo and Urwë were never far from his side, and Maglor knew that Finwë was doing his best to make time for every one of his numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren, particularly those who had been born long after his death. He was as delighted with all of them as Maglor had known he would be. 

“It isn't very often that I feel young,” Elrond told Maglor when they had a moment to speak, “even since coming here. Somehow I do now.” He watched Elladan and Elrohir where they sat nearby with Finwë, Elrohir gesturing wildly as he told some amusing story. 

“Not in a bad way, I hope.”

“No, not at all.” Elrond leaned his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “He looks like Gil-galad, but speaking to him reminds me of speaking to you.”

The games and tournaments continued apace, and at last, on one of the hottest days of the summer, Maglor mounted his horse for the last race. Galadriel was beside him, her hair bound up in braids that shone like gold in the bright sunshine. “Good luck!” she said to him with a grin. 

“You think I need it?” Maglor grinned back.

The horn sounded, and they charged forward, urged on by the roar of the crowd. Maglor’s mare tossed her head and lengthened her stride eagerly. She loved this as much as he did. Behind him the other riders shouted to their horses and to each other. The wind tore the ties out of his hair, and as the finish line appeared ahead of him he laughed and leaned forward. 

At the last moment Galadriel caught up and surpassed him, crossing the finish line by the length of a single stride, to an eruption of cheers from the gathered crowd. Galadriel’s braids had come loose just as Maglor’s had; she was flushed and windblown, wild looking as he hadn’t seen her since their youth. “Am I still your favorite now?” she asked.

“Undoubtedly!” Maglor grabbed her hand and raised it, so the cheers around them grew louder. Then he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I expected nothing less from the greatest of the House of Finwë.”

Ingwion came forward to crown them with circlets fashioned in the shape of leaves—gold for Galadriel and mithril for Maglor, and bright copper for his own sister Ilmayullë who had come in third.

Daeron pushed his way through the crowd to Maglor. “You just cost me a very nice bracelet,” he informed him. 

“Who were you wagering with?”

“Celeborn. He’s going to be insufferable.”

Maglor laughed and kissed him. “I’ll get you another one.”

“That’s not the point!”

The feasting did not come to a close until the nights began to grow cool and birds could be seen gathering for their yearly migrations into the south. It was a matter of many speeches and many songs—including several brand new ones to mark Finwë’s return to them. Ingwë’s plans for the summer had been achieved—and more. True to Caranthir and Amrod’s predictions, a dozen couples left the celebrations married, and there were countless more courtships and friendships established, with new plans being laid for proper roads in between the eastern and western cities. No longer would the Eldar and the Avari hold themselves apart—already Maglor heard more and more people using the word Quendi again. 

“Bilbo once said,” Gimli remarked to Maglor, “that Elvish singing under the stars in June is not a thing to miss. He was right, of course, but even he could not have imagined anything like this.”

“I do wish he could have been here,” Maglor replied. “But I am very glad that you are.” Gimli grinned up at him, eyes almost disappearing into the laugh-lines around them. “Are you for Imloth Ningloron after this, or will you be whisked away somewhere else?”

“Oh, I’m for home,” Gimli said, chuckling. “These old bones need a bit of a rest, and on either side of the Sea there is no place for it like Elrond’s house.”

When it came time to depart there was far less ceremony than when everyone had arrived. Maglor and Daeron joined their families to make the trip back to Tirion together. Maglor saw his father speaking to Daeron’s parents, and Nerdanel laughing with Lacheryn, and he saw Calissë with Calindë saying farewell to Cýroniel and all the rest of their friends. 

Finwë would be traveling back in the company of Ingwë and Olwë and Thingol—all the kings and their queens together. He bid them farewell as the various factions of the family split up, making their various ways to their various homes. There was no sorrow in the parting, however—they had never all come together in such a way before that summer, but Maglor thought that Tirion would see the entire House of Finwë far more often now than it ever had. 

On the road, Maglor watched Calissë and Calindë race ahead, followed by Simpalírë and Amras to make sure they didn’t get into trouble, or somehow lose themselves in the tall grass. Maglor fell in beside Maedhros, with just enough space between them and the others that they could speak privately if they kept their voices low enough. “Are you all right?” Maglor asked him. After the initial shock, Maedhros had been almost as merry as the rest of them—but Maglor had noticed that he’d kept himself more distant from Finwë than everyone else. Finwë seemed to understand, but Maglor knew Fëanor had noticed and was worried.

“Yes,” Maedhros said. He glanced at Maglor, saw the look on his face, and sighed. “I am. I just—I can’t carry it like you do.”

“Carry what?”

“The grief, alongside—everything else. I mean, now that he’s back.”

It wasn’t the grief, Maglor thought, looking at the way Maedhros held himself, in that stiff sort of way, like he had before their time in Lórien. It was guilt—all the things they’d all done that would have horrified Finwë, that there wasn’t time or room to really speak of when all around them was festival and celebration. There would be time in the months and years to come, though. “Is that all it is?” he asked. 

Maedhros didn’t answer, but his gaze flicked to Fëanor, riding nearby with Curufin on one side and Caranthir on the other. “I just keep—I keep expecting to find out that something else I remember isn’t real,” he said, speaking so quietly that Maglor almost couldn’t hear. “I know I won’t—it’s just…”

“You really didn’t give yourself that long to come to terms with it,” Maglor said after a moment. “I know you only came back to Tirion when you did because of me.”

“You were more important.”

“That doesn’t make you unimportant. Is that why you’ve been avoiding Grandfather?”

“I didn’t think I had been,” Maedhros said. 

“It’s not obvious, except to me. And, I think, to Atya.” Maedhros glanced toward Fëanor again, and Maglor wondered if he too was thinking of their return from Lórien and that chance encounter on the road outside of Imloth Ningloron. The tension in the air had been thick enough to cut with a knife, and none of them had been happy to see their father. Only a handful of years had passed since, and Maglor marveled a little at how easy it was now. The anger had faded and if the fear had not gone completely, it was on its way. 

He scratched Pídhres behind the ears where she was perched in her usual spot on the saddle in front of him. “Do you think you need to return to Lórien?” he asked after a while.

“No,” Maedhros said, very quickly and almost sharply. “I don’t need the Valar to go looking around in my head. I know this fear is baseless—I just need time.”

“All right, I was just asking. Are you going home to Tirion or home with me?”

“Home with you.”

All around them their brothers and their parents were laughing together. Daeron rode between his sisters and his mother, and brought out his flute to play a traveling song as his parents and uncle lifted their voices—an ancient song, from the time of the Great Journey. As that song blended into the next and others lifted their voices in the chorus, Maglor pulled out his harp. The songs were of travel but also of seeking an end to it, in a land far from danger and strife, where the sky was lit with stars and the lands were wide and welcoming. All around them the greens of summer were slowly changing into brilliant gold and yellow. As both he and Maedhros joined their voices to the others, Maglor looked up into the cloudless sky to see an enormous flock of geese passing by, pointing like an arrow toward home.