A Hundred Miles Through the Desert by StarSpray  

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Nine

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In spite of Daeron’s words, Maglor couldn’t quite imagine a world in which he didn’t worry about any of his brothers, at least a little. In spite of his own words, he could not so easily put Fëanor out of his mind either. He watched Celegorm return to company with a bright smile on his face, hiding away the hurt that lingered in his heart—that had lingered, it seemed, for years and years—and wished that he knew how to take it away. He wished that he had known before, but thought maybe Celegorm himself hadn’t even known, or at least that he had not had the words. 

He thought of Amras talking so frankly about Fëanor’s increasing absence in his and Amrod’s childhood, trying to say that it didn’t matter because their brothers had filled that empty space, and he thought of Curufin balancing between them all and Fëanor still, trying to find his way to a space where he could be himself but also remain Fëanor’s son, and of Caranthir’s shrug whenever Fëanor’s name was brought up, the one that tried to be careless but didn’t quite succeed. He thought of his own scars burning at the mere sight of Fëanor in the distance, and of the stiff way that Maedhros had held himself during that brief encounter on the road. 

As he tried to sort out his thoughts, he wandered into the library, and found Maedhros there, looking at a shelf full of collected documents and records from Himring. “Why would they keep old inventories and harvest records?” he asked as Maglor stepped up beside him. 

“You’ll have to ask Elrond,” Maglor said. “I suppose such things answer questions the loremasters might have about what it was like to live there, in such cases where there is no one to ask.”

“But why would they care?” 

“The same reason we always asked our grandparents about the Great Journey, or Cuiviénen, I suppose,” Maglor said. “Elrond had these same records in Imladris—and all of that was taken to Annúminas before we left, so the loremasters of Arnor can now answer whatever questions they have about what you ate for breakfast.”

Maedhros reached up to take one volume down. It was a familiar one; Maglor had read through it many times in Rivendell. It was a collection of letters from all of them to Maedhros. The ones Maedhros had written in reply, of course, were lost—nothing had survived the burning of Maglor’s Gap, or Thargelion, or Himlad. Perhaps some things had made it out of Amon Ereb, but nothing from before the Dagor Bragollach. It was always strange to pick it up and see his own words in another’s hand. “If you want copies, Elrond would be glad to have them made for you,” he said, as Maedhros paged through the recreated letters.

“Maybe,” Maedhros murmured. He ran his fingers over a page that showed a letter from Caranthir, talking of harvests in Thargelion. “It just seems strange, seeing all this and knowing it’s…history. That it’s studied, learned from.” He sighed, and turned away from the shelves, looking at Maglor instead. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I mean, nothing new. I just—I’ve been thinking of Atar.” It had been so much easier not to, in Lórien, when they were far away and there was no chance of coming upon him even if he did break his promise and come seeking them. Now they were back among their own people, they had seen him, and the knowledge that Fëanor was so close felt almost like the Oath had during the Long Peace, hovering in the back of his mind, never to be entirely forgotten or discarded, even if it could be set aside for a time. 

“If you’re worrying about me, don’t.”

“I worry about all of us. I just—I just don’t know how to sort out how I feel and what I want.” Maglor looked at the book in Maedhros’ hand. “Do you think he read those letters?”

“I think it’s likely.” Maedhros set the book back on the shelf. “Were you really serious about asking him to look into a palantír?”

“Yes. Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

“I think it could be. We don’t know how he’ll react to…any of it.”

“It will only be confirmation of what he’s been told already,” Maglor said.

“It’s different, though,” Maedhros said, “to hear of something and then to see it…the palantíri, they…you’ve never used them, really. I don’t know if you remember just how close they bring you.”

“That’s what I want,” Maglor said. “I want him to see. All the horrors and all the joys—if he cannot understand by reading old records or hearing what Curvo and Tyelpë have to tell him, what else is there? I don’t care if it hurts him.” 

“Be careful, Cáno,” Maedhros said softly. “That veers close to cruelty.”

“I don’t—” Maglor faltered. “Would it not be worse if he could watch what befell us without feeling anything? In his letter to me he tried to tell me that he loved me. How can I believe him if he will not even—” His voice broke, which was just as well because the library door opened a second later, and Erestor and Lindir came into the library, debating something about a metaphor. Maglor turned away from them, not wanting to get drawn into it, or to be asked what was the matter. 

“I don’t believe what he wrote to me, either,” Maedhros said, half-whispering now that they were no longer alone. “But I know that he saw me, and he heard what I said. Maybe the palantír will do more, but maybe that is all we can hope for. Maybe just being able to meet sometimes without tears is as close as we can come to…something like peace.” He glanced over Maglor’s shoulder, and then took his hand. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“I know where we can go.” Maglor led the way, down the corridor and to a staircase half-hidden behind in an alcove behind a tapestry. The house was filled with such not-quite-secret doors and stairs and corridors; no room was without at least two exits. It had been built by many of the same hands that had made Imladris, and also Ost-in-Edhil and Gondolin and other cities now fallen and lost. There was no need for such measures here in Valinor, but they remained a comfort, and Celebrían had told Maglor once, laughing, how Bilbo had been wont to remind them all of the value of being able to escape unwanted visitors, especially since none of them had any magic rings that might turn them invisible. 

Maglor missed Bilbo; he would have had a great deal to say about Fëanor, little of it flattering and all of it funny.

This particular staircase led to a small balcony from which one could very easily climb onto the roof. It was not often used. “What’s the purpose of it?” Maedhros asked as he watched Maglor step onto the balcony railing and then hoist himself up onto the gently-sloping roof. 

“I’m told that Elrond often escaped to the roofs of Rivendell when it was first built when he needed a moment alone,” Maglor said as he leaned down to offer Maedhros a hand up. “I think Celebrían put this here as something of a joke. We won’t be disturbed up here, though. Hardly anyone remembers those stairs.”

The roof was not so steep that it was uncomfortable to sit on, and they moved away from the balcony into the shade of one of the chimneys. From there they could see the road stretching away out of the valley, and the fishpond closer at hand, and the gardens surrounding. Maglor looped his arms around his knees and watched Ambarussa kick a ball across a grassy lawn with Calissë. Maedhros leaned back on his elbows, sitting slightly lower on the roof so he could lean his shoulder against Maglor’s arm. “I don’t want to hate him,” Maglor said after a while. 

“Neither do I.”

“Did you know Ambarussa hardly feel anything at all for him? He was so absent when they were young—we were the ones…”

“I didn’t know. I suppose I can’t be surprised.” Maedhros leaned his head against Maglor’s arm. “It was the Silmarils, wasn’t it? He started that work when they were still small.”

“How do you come back from that?”

“You don’t. You try to build something new. Curvo thinks that’s what Ambarussa want to try to do.”

“Yes, Amras told me. I just—even then he was changing, and we didn’t see it.”

“How could we have? He had always gotten engrossed in projects like that. The Silmarils were different only in that they took longer. That they coincided with all the whispers.”

“He had never been so engrossed that he would ignore us, before,” Maglor said. But he wasn’t sure anymore if that was true. Maybe it was only his heart trying to turn his father into someone he had never been. Even so, all his memories of his own childhood in which he had gone looking for his father, no matter where he had been or what he had been doing, even if he had been meeting with someone important—Fëanor had always abandoned whatever it was, whether Maglor’s own wants or needs were really urgent or not. “And Tyelko…”

“Tyelko has been to Nienna. You can see that he’s steadier than he was.”

“Nienna can no more heal all hurts than Estë can,” Maglor said. Celegorm had sounded so very small when he had confessed his feeling that he was their father’s least-favorite son. Maglor hadn’t known what to say to comfort him; he wasn’t even sure now if he should tell Maedhros of it, or if Celegorm wished for it to be kept in confidence. “She told me in Lórien that some things must be settled between us Children.”

“I think she’s right,” Maedhros said quietly. “Have you spoken to Elrond about your hand hurting?”

“No. Have you?”

“I’ve barely spoken to him at all. There’s no hurry, you know. For me and Elrond, or for us and our father.”

“I know. I do. It’s just…still hard to think of time as something that won’t run out.”

“I know. I feel the same.” Maedhros looked up at Maglor and then sat up, putting his arm around Maglor’s shoulders. It was only then that Maglor realized he was weeping. He turned his face into Maedhros’ shoulder, and they sat in silence for a while, listening to Ambarussa and Calissë laugh below them. When the tears slowed, Maglor turned his head, and was just in time to see a small group of riders appear on the road. He sighed; there was a good chance those were cousins, or friends, come to see him and Maedhros. “That looks like Fingon,” Maedhros said almost as soon as the thought crossed Maglor’s mind. 

“Can you tell who is with him?”

“Finrod, I think. And someone with silver hair.”

Maglor sat up and raised a hand to shade his eyes. “Míriel,” he said. “That is Míriel—and Indis, too.” He looked at Maedhros. “Have you not met her, Míriel?” Maedhros just shook his head. “She came to meet me in Avallónë.”

“I avoided meeting nearly everyone for a long time,” Maedhros said. He spoke matter-of-factly about it, though Maglor knew it weighed on him, like a responsibility he had abandoned, even though no one had expected or asked anything of him. “I suppose she has come to remedy that.”

“Míriel isn’t someone we need fear,” Maglor said. “I suppose this means we should get down from here.

“Probably. Especially since Fingon has seen us.” Maedhros lifted his hand in a wave as Fingon’s voice reached them. Maglor looked and saw him waving back, the gold threads in his hair glinting in the bright summer sunshine. “You should wash your face.”

“I know.” Maglor wiped his sleeve over it, and then slid down the roof to the balcony, Maedhros following. 

They parted in front of Maglor’s room, and he retreated inside with a feeling of relief, able to close the door between himself and the new visitors for at least a little while longer. Pídhres was there, curled up on the rug with Aegthil and Annem and Aechen. Maglor splashed his face in the basin of water near the wardrobe, and sat down to spend a few minutes with them, letting the hedgehogs climb over his lap while he scratched Pídhres. She arched her back into his fingers and purred. Maglor heard the faint commotion of the visitors’ arrival downstairs, and sighed.

The door opened before he could get up, and Daeron came in. “Your grandmother is here,” he said. 

“I know.”

“What’s the matter?” Daeron knelt on the rug beside him.

“Maedhros and I were speaking of our father. It’s…I’ll be all right.”

“I thought Lórien was to help you put such things out of your mind,” Daeron said, tucking a strand of damp hair behind Maglor’s ear.

“Estë and Nienna cannot heal all things. Whatever this is between us and our father is something we must figure out on our own, I suppose. I found peace with myself in Lórien—that was what I needed most. And if it were only me I could put him out of my mind easily enough—I did it for centuries in Middle-earth—but it pains all of my younger brothers, and I don’t…I don’t know how to help them.”

“They know that you love them,” Daeron said, “and that you will never act as your father has. I think that is all you can do, and all that they need from you.” He pressed a kiss to Maglor’s cheek. “Do you want to hide away from the guests? Fingon is downstairs too—and Finrod.”

“No, I don’t want to hide. I’m done hiding.” Maglor kissed Daeron. “I just needed a few minutes. Is it so obvious I’ve been upset?”

“No, but let me fix your hair.” Daeron pulled the hair clip free and used his fingers to neaten the strands before putting it back. “There. Lady Indis is also downstairs.”

“I know. Maedhros and I were on the roof and saw them arrive.”

“Is it as overwhelming as it was when you first came?” Daeron asked as he rose, holding out his hands. Maglor took them and sent the hedgehogs tumbling over the rug, curling up into little indignant spiky balls. 

“Not yet, but I’m sure it will be. I hardly saw anyone really, before I went to Lórien. I saw Finrod, of course, but Fingon came the same day my father did, so I hardly spoke to him at all. I met my grandmother on Eressëa, but I have not seen Indis yet. Is anyone else with them?”

“A lady I did not recognize.”

“Dark or fair?”

“Dark.”

“Lalwen, maybe.” Maglor bent to pick up Pídhres, who was making herself a nuisance. “Of course you’re coming too, silly cat.” She climbed onto his shoulders and stuck her nose in his ear. 

“Come on, then. The sooner everyone has greeted everyone else, the sooner you’ll be at ease again.” Daeron opened the door to let the hedgehogs scurry out, all in a line. As they followed Maglor slipped his hand into Daeron’s. 

“Celebrían, are those hedgehogs?” Finrod’s voice floated up the stairs after a few minutes. 

“Oh, that just means Maglor is coming downstairs,” Celebrían laughed. “You see?” She gestured toward Maglor and Daeron as they appeared around the corner. Finrod and Fingon were there, alongside Míriel and Indis and the dark-haired lady that Daeron had not recognized—not Lalwen, but Gilheneth, Fingon’s wife.

“Maglor!” Finrod sprang forward to embrace him, just as Maedhros straightened with Aechen in his hands, to the great amusement of Fingon. Pídhres jumped from Maglor’s shoulder to Daeron’s arms with a yowl. “You took your time in Lórien, didn’t you?”

“I’m glad to see you, too,” Maglor said. “I hope you didn’t bring any wine,” he added, lowering his voice a little. “I’m not going to get drunk with you again this summer.”

Finrod grinned at him. “No, not this time!”

“Never again,” Maglor said, trying to sound stern.

“Mm, we’ll see about that. Hello, Daeron!”

As Finrod finally released Maglor to greet Daeron properly, Fingon and Gilheneth left Maedhros to come make their own greetings. “I hope you aren’t going to go running off again before we can actually speak,” Fingon said, embracing him tightly. “You’re looking much lighter; I’m glad.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Maglor said. “Well met, Gilheneth.”

“It’s good to see you, Maglor.” Gilheneth rose onto her toes to kiss his cheek. “Lórien was kind to you, it seems.”

“It was.”

“Are you going to explain the hedgehogs?” Fingon asked. 

“Explain what? They’re just hedgehogs. Maedhros has Aechen, and the other two are Annem and Aegthil.”

“All right, fine,” Fingon laughed, “I’ll ask him. Russo! Explain the hedgehogs?”

Maedhros glanced up from speaking with Celebrían and Míriel. “They’re hedgehogs, Fingon. What is there to explain?”

“I hate you both.”

Maglor laughed at Fingon, and moved forward to greet Indis, and then Míriel, who kissed him and smiled warmly. “I’m glad to see you again, Macalaurë,” she said. “You are looking much lighter than when we last met.”

“I feel lighter. I’m glad to see you too, Grandmother.”

Elrond came to join Celebrían in welcoming the newcomers then, and Maglor and Maedhros’ brothers all followed—or almost all of them. Maglor caught a glimpse of silver hair as Celegorm turned and slipped away. He started to go after him, but Finrod called to him and by the time he could get away, there was no telling where Celegorm had gone. He did manage to catch Curufin alone, as they all walked outside to the wide veranda. “Curvo, has Tyelko ever met Míriel?”

“I don’t think so. He’s never been in Tirion when she comes. I don’t know where he is now.” Curufin glanced around, frowning. “He was with us earlier.”

“I know visiting Nienna did him good, but I’m still worried.”

“I’ll find him. I think Míriel wants to speak with you.” Curufin squeezed Maglor’s shoulder before slipping away, out into the garden. Maglor watched Huan trot down one path and join him, before he went to sit beside Míriel when she beckoned to him. 

“Have you written many songs since you came west?” she asked as he sat. Pídhres jumped up onto his lap.

“I’ve written bits and pieces of many, but have managed to finish only a few,” Maglor said, “and most of those are ones I’ve written with Daeron.” He glanced over at where Daeron sat with Finrod and Galadriel, all three of them laughing at something. It was a very merry party out on the veranda. Maedhros sat a little apart with Fingon and Gilheneth, not laughing but still looking happy as they spoke together. “Maedhros and I have only just come from Lórien, and I’ve written nothing new in the last few weeks.”

“I would speak with you more of your music while we are here,” Míriel said. 

“Of course,” Maglor said. He did not quite understand the expression on her face, thoughtful and concerned at once. “I did not know you had any great interest in it.”

“Oh, I’m no musician—but we can speak of it later,” she said. “I did get your letter before you left, and what you asked for is waiting at your mother’s house.”

Maglor had almost forgotten. “Thank you,” he said. 

“It was a pleasure to make such a gift for one of my grandsons,” Míriel said, smiling. Then Indis called to draw them into the conversation between her and Ambarussa and Celebrían, leaving Maglor to wonder what it was Míriel really wanted to speak to him about. He glanced more than once toward the garden paths, but neither Curufin nor Celegorm reappeared all afternoon. 

It was not until that evening after dinner that Míriel sought to speak to Maglor alone again—or not quite alone, for she brought Indis with her. They stepped outside into a small courtyard that smelled of bluebells and rosemary, and sat on either side of him on a bench near the doorway. “It is good to see you again, Macalaurë,” Indis said, taking his hands and kissing his cheek. “We were all very glad to hear you and Maitimo had returned from Lórien.”

“I’m sorry that I went there before seeing everyone as I should have,” Maglor said.

“Oh, there’s no need for that. You needed peace more than you needed an army of cousins and kinfolk descending upon you.”

“What is it you wished to speak to me about?” Maglor asked, looking between them. “Is there some song of mine…?”

“It is a song we would like you to write for us, unless you have written such a one already,” Míriel said. “Have you ever written anything for Finwë, Macalaurë?”

“Finwë?” Maglor repeated. “I…no. I have tried, but I could never find the words. What sort of song would you have me write?”

“A lament,” Indis said quietly. “There are none that have been written, except the most private of songs that are not meant to be performed aloud. You are the mightiest singer of the Noldor, Macalaurë—inheritor of Finwë’s own great power of song, alongside Findekáno, Findaráto, and Artanis. Now that you are returned to us, it seems only fitting that it is you we should turn to.”

“I can try,” Maglor said. “But I’ve…I’ve tried many times, and have not been able to find the words even for a song I would sing only to the wind and the waves. So it has been for all my fallen kin that I should have been able to remember in verse.”

“If you cannot, you cannot. The grief remains heavy for all of us,” said Indis. “All we would ask is that you try.”

“For whom would I perform this song?”

“When it is finished, come to us in Tirion,” Míriel said. “We will speak of performance then.”

Maglor frowned at that, but found himself already thinking of what shape the song would take—it would be something very different from what he had been envisioning before. It would not be only a grandson’s song for his grandfather, but the song of a whole family—a whole people—lamenting the loss of their patriarch and king, leader and father and husband. “May I speak to each of you alone, before you leave?” he asked. “Of Finwë, I mean?”

“Of course.” Indis squeezed his hand and rose. “We will answer whatever questions you have.”

“Thank you, Macalaurë,” Míriel said, also rising. She kissed his cheek, just over the scar on his cheekbone. “And in a happier vein, I look forward to hearing you sing again—merry songs, I mean.”

Daeron came to take Míriel’s place beside Maglor as Míriel and Indis departed. “What were you speaking of?” he asked. 

“They wish for me to write a lament for Finwë.”

“You were planning to do so regardless.”

“Yes…that was a different kind, though. What I had in mind would not have been a song I would sing before anyone except my brothers. Maybe my cousins. The song they want…it will be something more. Not just for my grandfather but for the King of the Noldor”

“You are equal to it,” Daeron said softly. 

“I hope so.”

“I will not offer my help; this is a song for you, Canafinwë of the Noldor, to write, and not for Daeron of Doriath to have any hand in. I will listen, though, when you need an ear.”

“Thank you.” Maglor offered him a smile. “I will have to go to Tirion, and maybe other places. I need to speak to my aunts and uncles, and all of my cousins. It is not only my own memories of Finwë that must be put into this song. And…perhaps I should write to Elu Thingol, too.”

“I will see that your letter reaches him, of course, and I will go with you wherever you must travel.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Oh, don’t start that again.” Daeron leaned his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “I am where I wish to be, which is at your side. We have been apart far longer than we have been together, even since coming west, and I would like to change that count of years. Don’t remind me of my duties to Thingol, either. He’s managed quite a long time without me, and I can write my studies and chronicles just as well here as I can in Taur-en-Gellam. Better, even, with Elrond’s library at my fingertips.”

“Should I remind you then of your students?”

“The younger ones are in good hands under Pirineth’s instruction, not to mention my other older students. Maybe I will bring some here so they can learn of you and of Lindir and the rest.”

“Lindir would certainly like that, but you’ll be sending them all back singing verses full of tra la la lallies and making up very silly rhymes to tease Thingol.”

“Good. Kings need teasing, sometimes.”

“Maglor, Daeron?” Elrond appeared in the doorway. “We will be playing music and telling tales soon. You’ll both be wanted.”

“We’re coming,” Maglor said, as he and Daeron rose. Daeron went ahead, and Elrond fell into step beside Maglor. “I think there will be more travel in my near future than I had thought.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet. Nowhere until next summer at least—and then maybe only as far as Tirion. My grandmother and Indis have asked me to write a song for Finwë.”

Elrond looked at him. He knew already that Maglor had never been able to write such songs for those he loved. “You agreed?”

“How could I refuse? I’d been thinking of trying again anyway, and it seems that no one else has. If I find I cannot do it…then I cannot do it, and someone else will have to try. I’ll have to go to Tirion to speak to others, to know what they would wish to hear in such a song. I can’t only write it for myself, as I had been thinking, not if it’s to be something sung before others.”

“Well, at least this won’t take you all the way to Ekkaia,” Elrond said. “I have been hearing more talk of Finwë over the last few years than I have in all the time I’ve lived in these lands.”

“More and more of us are returning,” Maglor said. “Perhaps it is only that our thoughts now turn to those who still remain lost.”

“Perhaps,” Elrond murmured, frowning a little. His thoughts were surely with Gil-galad, who was among those that lingered still in Mandos—and, likely, with Elros and Arwen and those who had died and would never return. Maglor put an arm around his shoulders as they returned to the hall where the music was to be played and the stories were to be told. 

“Uncle Cáno!” Náriel ran over. As Maglor lifted her up onto his hip she said, “I ate all of my vegetables at dinner! So will you tell us the story of the enchantress and the bits of magic in your hair?”

“Of course!” Maglor said, as Elrond quickly turned a startled laugh into a cough. 

“What enchantress was this?” Elrond asked, a little hoarse and a little strangled. 

“The one that almost turned me into a statue made all of ice and snow, of course,” Maglor said, smiling brightly at him. “You remember.”

“Oh, of course, that enchantress.”

Náriel perked up. “Did you meet more than one?” she asked.

“Lots,” Maglor said, and Elrond had to leave them before he started laughing too hard and gave the game away. “Wizards, too! You have to watch out for wizards, even more than enchantresses. Have you heard the story about the wizard that sent the halfling Bilbo Baggins across the Misty Mountains and Wilderland to steal treasure from a dragon?”

“No!” Náriel said, eyes going wide. “Can you tell that story next?”

“Not tonight, I think,” Maglor said, “but sometime soon.” He went to sit by Daeron, settling Náriel on his lap, and Calissë came over to sit beside him, also demanding the story of the enchantress. Celebrían burst into giggles when Elrond whispered something in her ear, but Maglor ignored them and the incredulous look Finrod gave him as he began the tale. 

He had gone looking for the snow-enchantress story just after they had arrived in Imloth Ningloron, and found it in a book of Shire tales that Sam had brought with him, though it had been in the Shire itself that Maglor had first heard the story—from Pippin, telling tales of his ancestors’ adventures. Pippin’s version was about two Took siblings who had wandered off to have adventures in the far north, and escaped home again through cleverness and courage and sturdy hobbit-sense as well as help from kindly talking animals. It was a very good story, Maglor thought, as were so many that the hobbits told, and he looked forward to Calissë or Náriel finding it themselves someday. 

In the meantime he told his own version of it, starring himself being not so very clever at all, and escaping by means of luck—and also a few kindly talking animals—rather than bravery. He concluded with Elladan and Elrohir finding him half-frozen and taking him back home to their father in his beautiful and hidden mountain valley filled with flowers, who thawed him out and scolded him very soundly for being so foolish as to disturb such a powerful enchantress. 

By the time he was done it was time for the girls to go to bed, and after Rundamírë and Curufin took them upstairs Lisgalen asked, “Is any of that true?”

“No,” Elladan said, laughing. He and Elrohir had nearly spit out their drinks when Maglor had brought them into the story. 

“Well, the part about Elladan and Elrohir bringing me to Imladris is,” said Maglor, “though it was from the other direction and I wasn’t actually half-frozen.” It was also partly true that he’d gotten into trouble through his own foolishness—though perhaps careless was a better word—and the bone-deep cold that had clung to him for years was real enough too. He said none of that aloud, though, for it was too fine an evening for such memories. “I described Imladris precisely as I remember it upon first coming there, too.” Beside him Daeron took his hand, sliding their fingers together. Elrohir too glanced at him, less assured that the shadows really didn’t trouble him. When Maglor smiled at him, though, he relaxed a little more.

“So there really wasn’t any strange snow-wielding sorceresses living in the far north of the world?” Finrod asked with an arched eyebrow.

“There was according to Pippin Took,” Maglor said, “but I never went so far north.”

“I thought that sounded like a hobbit’s tale,” Elladan said. 

“So it is,” Maglor agreed, “but I did promise, and Náriel did eat all of her vegetables.”

“Yes, thank you for that,” said Curufin as he returned. “I hope you have more tales of your misadventures for the next time I need to bribe her into eating a few mouthfuls of asparagus.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Maglor said. Everyone laughed at him, and he leaned against Daeron, feeling warm and comfortable. The song for Finwë loomed before him, so different from a silly made-up story about enchantments and talking foxes, and a thing he would never have been able to contemplate before going to Lórien; however daunting the task, though, the more he thought of it the more he felt equal to it. It was the least he could do—for Míriel and Indis, and for Finwë.