Out There In the Cold by StarSpray  

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Three

Years of the Trees
Tirion

The music coming from the gardens behind the enormous palace in Tirion is bright and quick, music meant for dancing. Artanis does not know all of the instruments, but she recognizes a flute and a drum, and she squirms in her brother’s arms, eager to get down and join the dancing she is sure they will find just ahead.

“Patience!” Findaráto exclaims, laughing as he adjusts his grip on her, hoisting her higher onto his hip. “We’ll be there in a moment, Artanis.”

“I want to dance!”

“And so you shall!” Findaráto steps outside into the bright golden afternoon, and they find Findekáno there with Irissë twirling in circles around him, white skirts flaring as she laughs. She has daisies in her dark braids, like white and yellow stars. Findaráto at last sets Artanis down and she runs to her cousin. They clasp hands and spin, too small still to keep up with their older and taller brothers cousins—Findekáno and Turukáno, Findaráto and Aikanáro, and a handful of others that Artanis does not yet know, for they have never visited her home in Alqualondë.

Angaráto sits on the fountain lip, laughing as he beats the drum in his lap, and beside him the flute player trills the melody, keeping perfect time with the drum beats and the dancers’ steps. When the song ends he laughs, and that is the first memory Artanis has of her bright and musical cousin Macalaurë. His hair is raven-dark and his eyes are bright, and when they are properly introduced he bows and kisses her small fingers gallantly, calling her my lady , and complimenting her dancing.

All of Artanis’ cousins are bright and beautiful, and all of them love singing and dancing, but it is Macalaurë whose voices enchants, who can weave anything into a song and make it beautiful. His long fingers dance over the strings of his harp, and when he lifts his voice to sing even the Valar stop to listen.

Best of all, he always has time for a curious younger cousin. When Artanis asks if he will teach her music, he does more—he makes for her a harp, perfectly fitted to her small hands, of silvery wood sanded and polished until it is soft as satin, and inlaid delicately with gold with leaves and flowers. “Have you ever seen the malinornë?” he asks her as she runs her fingers over the flowers. With a teasing smile he tugs on the end of her braid. “They remind me of you, especially in spring when they are all silver and gold—for they don’t lost their golden winter leaves until the golden flowers bloom, and their trunks are like silver pillars caught in between. Their wood makes wonderful instruments, I have found.”

“It’s beautiful,” Artanis says, and smiles up at him. “Thank you!”

“Come sit here,” he says, and places his big hands over hers atop the strings, showing her how to hold her hands and how to pluck the strings. The sound of the harp is bright and clear and sweet, and as he tells her the names of each note and the best tricks to remembering them all, his arm around her shoulders is a warm and encouraging weight.

- -

TA 3020
Rivendell

“When Bilbo first came to dwell here, he brought some interesting tales,” Elrond said. He and Galadriel walked through the gardens of Rivendell, enjoying the summer breezes and the music of the many streams and the river that flowed through the valley. Daisies and buttercups lined the path. “I have been unable, until now, to follow them.”

“What sort of tales?”

“Of ghosts near the shore, north and south of Lindon, brought back to the Shire by some of the more adventurous Tooks.” Elrond spoke with fondness of the hobbits, particularly of Bilbo. “Of singing heard on the wind, fair but mournful, or at times of the sound of a harp.”

Time was growing short. They would be taking ship soon—not that autumn, but the next or the one after. Galadriel looked down at her hands. Nenya glinted in the sunshine. On Elrond’s hand Vilya glowed deep blue. Their power was gone, and there was no more need for secrecy. Both of them were weary—but not so weary, perhaps, that one last search was beyond them. “Which direction will you take?” she asked.

“South.”

“Then I will go north.”

They went to Mithlond first to speak to Círdan, who had little more to say than the tales of the hobbits. Sometimes, he said, he heard a voice on the breeze, but had never been able to trace its origins. Sometimes fishermen or sailors spoke of a helpful figure, there and gone in the span of moments, with whispers of warning or advice— do not go out, for a storm is coming , or wait for the next tide and you will have better luck . When he vanished music was often heard afterward, a distant voice on the wind, mournful as the soft rush of the waves over sand. To hear it was held by some to be good luck. To encounter him was even better.

Elrond struck off south; Galadriel went north. They left their horses behind, instead following the shoreline on foot. The wind off of the water was cool and refreshing, smelling of salt and seaweed. The beaches were sometimes of soft sand, other times of smooth stones. She remembered standing upon the edge of the world long ago, when all had been jagged and sharp like the edge of a broken blade. Now so many thousands of years had passed by, and the winds and the rains and the constant wash of the waves and tides had worn away those edges, turning stones and shells to stand, turning broken rocks to smooth and rounded pebbles.

Galadriel had brought her harp, and when she stopped to rest—which was more often now than it would have been before the Ring’s destruction—she played, songs of Lothlórien and of Beleriand long ago, songs of Valinor in the even more distant past that Maglor had taught her under the light of Telperion and Laurelin, before either of them knew what grief was. For a long time she heard no reply, not even a whisper on the wind or the echo of other harp strings.

After many days she came within sight of Himling Isle. It was shrouded in mist; overhead the skies were grey and heavy with clouds, and the wind out of the north was cold. Through the drifting mists, though, Galadriel could see the walls of Himring that Maedhros had built long ago, still standing even after all this time. Like the stones and the sands they too were worn and rounded—but still tall, still sturdy. Galadriel drew closer and began to wonder if she might need a boat, if Maglor had made his way to his brother’s crumbling fortress to haunt its ramparts as a mournful, despairing ghost. She drew closer, wondering if the the tides went out far enough that she could walk or wade to the island—but before she found out one way or the other she heard a faint voice on the breeze, coming from farther up the coast and not from the island. She turned away from Himling and hurried on, singing a song of her own in reply.

Finally, she came to a small cove, the shores all of grey pebbles rather than sand. At its deepest point she came upon a tree, fallen long ago and hardened into something like the stones, pale grey. On it sat a figure, clad in grey, gazing out at the Sea. His spirit was as frayed as his tattered cloak, as tangled as his dark hair, and Galadriel had to stop some distance away to catch her breath. It seemed the inexorable work of time had been working upon Maglor, too. He was fading, and if she could not bring him back, he would soon be nothing more than a voice on the wind, an echo of long-ago tragedy heard only upon moonless nights when the wind howled about the crumbling towers of his brother’s fortress.

Galadriel approached. Maglor raised his head; his eyes glinted with Treelight still, but his gaze seemed to go right through her without seeing her. “Macalaurë,” she said, sitting on the log beside him.

His gaze focused on her face. When he spoke his voice was dreamy, as though he were half asleep. “I have not heard that name in a very long time,” he murmured. “Is it mine?”

“It is. Do you know mine?”

He searched her face for a moment, and the effort seemed to bring him back to himself a little more. “Artanis,” he whispered at last, “but—no, not anymore. Galadriel.”

“Yes. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, Cousin.” Galadriel reached out her hands to grasp Maglor’s. Her fingers slid over the scars left by the Silmaril upon his right hand. “The time of the Elves is coming to an end. Sauron has been defeated at last, and it is time for us to leave these shores.”

Maglor looked down at their hands; his grip was weak and half-hearted, but he lifted Galadriel’s hand to look more closely at Nenya, glinting in the pale light. Then his gaze traveled up her hand to her wrist, where the bracelet of mallorn leaves and flowers rested. “I made that, did I not?” he whispered.

“You did.” Galadriel released his hand to brush his tangled and salt-stiff hair from his face, to cup his cheek in her hand. “The kings of Númenor once gifted mallorn seeds to Gil-galad. They would not grow in Lindon, but I planted them beyond the Misty Mountains and there they thrive still, in the Golden Wood.”

“I have heard that name,” Maglor said, gaze going distant again. “Tales of the Lady of the Golden Wood. A sorceress dwells there, and few who enter ever return—nor unscathed, if they do.”

“Many have entered and come out again unscathed, though perhaps not unchanged. I have not, however, come to take you back with me to Lothlórien, however much I wish you could see it and walk with me under the flowering trees in spring. It is to Mithlond it would take you, and thence to Rivendell, until all is ready. I am leaving these shores, Macalaurë, and Elrond with me. We would take you with us, if you would come.”

“Elrond…?” A tear slid down Maglor’s face as he breathed the name.

“He has searched for you, also. So did Elros, before he led the Edain away to Númenor. It grieved them both deeply that Elros could not say one last farewell to you.” The tears fell more quickly now, and Maglor closed his eyes, turning away. His dark hair tumbled forward like a curtain between them. Galadriel drew it back again. “Do not make Elrond depart these shores still uncertain of your fate. Do not make him leave you behind as he must leave his daughter. Do not make me leave you behind, please. You and I are the only two left. I am so weary, and I do not want to return to Tirion alone.” Maglor did not answer. Galadriel rose to her feet and held out her hand. “It is long past time, Cousin. Come home with me.”

For several long moments there was silence in the cove, but for the sea beside them. Finally, Maglor sighed, a sound of great and aching weariness, and he reached out his hand. Galadriel pulled him to his feet, and embraced him. He did not seem to know how to accept it; she felt him shaking in her arms. “Come,” she said, drawing back and smiling at him. “It is a long way back to Mithlond.” She took him by the hand, and led him out of the cove.

The clouds were parting, and the mists dispersing, revealing more of Himring upon its island. Birds nested in the towers, and vines grew up the walls. Maglor stopped to look at it. “That was my brother’s,” he said after a little while. He spoke quietly, and his voice was nearly lost in the sound of the waves. “But he is gone.”

“You may yet see him again,” Galadriel said. Maglor shook his head, just once, and did not answer. He did not look back, though, when she pulled him away.

The journey south was long, as the journey north had been. Maglor spoke little and sometimes seemed to forget where he was and where they were going. Galadriel spoke to him to fill the silence, and to try to draw him out, and she thought that it was working, little by little. She sang, too, and that worked even better, though he wept more often than not when she sang a song of Valinor, of their youth—songs that he had taught her long ago, as his big hands guided her small ones over the harp strings.

At last they came to the Gulf of Lhûn, and the towers of Mithlond arose before them. Maglor faltered and stumbled, but Galadriel did not let go of his hand—not until a figure appeared, racing down the beach toward them. Elrond threw himself into Maglor’s arms, already weeping. Maglor staggered under the force of him, but there was no hesitation when he wrapped his arms around Elrond in turn. “Elrond?” Galadriel heard him say, sounding astonished, as though he had not actually expected the sort of welcome she had promised him, or had forgotten what she had told him. She did not hear what Elrond said in reply, but Maglor then said, “I will. I will go with you. I promise.” He raised his head to look at Galadriel then, his eyes very wide and startled as though he had just fully woken from a long and dark dream; there were tears on his cheeks.

True to his word, the next autumn Maglor was just behind Galadriel as she stepped off of the shores of Middle-earth for the last time, onto the ship that would bear them, at least, into the west. They stood near Elrond and Frodo, watching the Havens and then the wider shores recede behind them. Maglor was still dreamy-eyed and distant, but he did not look quite so insubstantial now. The tangles of his hair had been combed out and a circlet befitting a prince of the Noldor lay across his brow. He was clad in fine new clothes, sturdy and warm, and a cloak of Lothlórien lay over his shoulders, secured with a brooch in the shape of a mallorn leaf—but not of silver and green, as Galadriel had given to the Fellowship, but rather the pale gold of the leaves in winter. A year in Rivendell had made a great change in him. As twilight settled over the world like a soft purple blanket, he turned his gaze to the western horizon, where Gil-estel glimmered. Galadriel took his hand, and he looked at her. A small smile touched his lips. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Nai hiruvalyë Valimar Macalaurë,” Galadriel murmured. “Nai elyë hiruva.”

Chapter End Notes

Galadriel's last line is taken from her song of Eldamar in The Fellowship of the Ring.

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