Keep You Like an Oath by StarSpray  

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i can work a miracle

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I can move mountains
I can work a miracle, work a miracle, ooh-oh-oh
I'll keep you like an oath
May nothing but death do us part
- “Uma Thurman” by Fall Out Boy

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TA 1409
Eriador

 

From the end of a line of hills that stretched eastward from the southern reaches of the Ered Luin, the glimmer of the Baranduin was just visible in the distance across wide open lands, all rolling hills and green-gold grass and white heather. Small copses of trees and tiny forests dotted the landscape, but for the most part it was wide open country under an even wider sky, summer blue with white clouds drifting lazily across it. 

Maglor sat atop the last hill in the line, legs crossed, arms around his knees. At the bottom of the hill was a small cave, just big enough to make a comfortable shelter, with a sandy floor and smooth walls. He had left his harp there, and the flute and the set of pipes that he’d carved from wood gathered from the forests that covered the mountains behind him, and he was not singing. For some days he had been in no mood for music; the wind was out of the north, and there was a chill in it that he did not like—a chill that had no place in the height of summer. When he looked to the north the horizon seemed dark, as though with storm clouds, except that they had remained there for days, and showed no sign of moving or dispersing; when it came from the north, the wind carried a faint sour smell.

Something was happening—something dark and fell had come to the North Kingdom. Shadowy dreams had plagued him until he’d left the shores and struck inland. Usually when he came to this place it was for peace and quiet, for the pleasure of wildflowers and birdsong, of growing things and the freshwater spring that bubbled up on the other side of the hill from his little cave. No one else ever came here; he doubted anyone ever had. The things he left behind were always there when he returned, and he’d never so much as glimpsed a boat on the river in the distance. 

Now, though…he had seen many birds winging their way south; he did not need the omens on the horizon or the wind, or his dreams, to tell him something was amiss. These birds were many months too early for their yearly migrations. They were fleeing, and when they alighted in the grass around him or in the trees where he went in search of firewood, he could catch little bits of news from them, disjointed and frightened and quiet. They did not reply to his whistles and songs as they normally did. 

On this beautiful summer afternoon Maglor sat and watched the river in the distance, and wondered if he dared follow it upstream. He might find out more if he came at least to Sarn Ford. He wondered if he dared go even farther north, if there was anything he could do to help…

A nightingale came fluttering up the hill, erratic and clearly exhausted, startling Maglor out of his thoughts. He held out his hands and the bird landed clumsily on his palms; he could feel its little heart beating fast as it panted, beak open slightly, eyes closed. “Little one, what’s wrong?” he murmured, not really expecting an answer. He knew the tongues of many birds, including songbirds, but he was not one to whom nightingales usually came to sing. 

At last the nightingale caught its breath, and righted itself. Help! it cheeped at him. Help, please, help! And this it followed with a series of notes that was not a usual part of a nightingale’s song, but which took Maglor’s own breath away. He knew that melody. After a few moments he wet his lips and whistled the next few notes in the song, to which the nightingale replied with the ones following, and then repeated its plea for help. 

“Yes, of course,” Maglor said. “Of course I’ll help. Where? Show me where!” Heart in his throat, he scrambled to his feet and down the hill, sliding to the bottom over loose stones and earth. With one hand he held the nightingale, and with the other he grabbed his pack, and then his sword. He hadn’t used it in years beyond count, but he kept it sharp, and he still practiced with it sometimes—just in case. The nightingale, recovered enough to fly again, took off, flying east toward the Baranduin. Maglor followed as quickly as he could, though even as his fastest run he couldn’t keep up with a bird. The nightingale disappeared into the distance and then flew back to circle over his head, and then shot forward again. 

He reached the river and halted, having lost sight of the nightingale. As he caught his breath he looked around, wondering if he was meant to cross. The Baranduin was lazy and slow, but it was fairly deep here, and the riverbed was more mud than stone. Reeds and bulrushes grew thickly along the banks, full of frogs and cheeping insects. Ducks quacked at each other as they paddled near the opposite bank. 

The nightingale reappeared and fluttered around Maglor’s head before flying upstream. He followed, and came to a place where the nightingale disappeared again. “Hello?” Maglor called, but received no answer. He did hear, though, the sound of the water lapping against wood, as though a small boat or a raft was caught up in the reeds. He pushed his way through, and found that was precisely what it was—a half-sunken raft, if it could be called such a thing, for its only occupant barely fit. They lay unmoving and face down, hair and clothing soaked through. Maglor swore softly, and splashed into the water. Picking them up was easier than it should have been, but Maglor didn’t let himself think too much about it as he fumbled with his grip on their wet clothes, trying to be gentle even in his hurry. He stumbled against the reeds and in the mud, thick in the shallows and clinging, but at last he got them both onto the grassy bank. 

The person on the raft was exactly who Maglor had feared. Daeron’s head lolled on the grass as Maglor laid him down. His nose was broken and his eyes black and blue. He had numerous other scrapes and bruises, and underneath them he was thin and terribly pale. His shirt was stained with blood, but with the river water combining with it, Maglor couldn’t tell at first whether he was still bleeding. Maglor peeled away the sodden clothes, and found a single cut across Daeron’s chest, shallow but still bleeding sluggishly. When Maglor touched it, the skin around it was very cold—he was cold all over, but around that cut it was like ice—and he could tell at once that some terrible weapon had made that wound, worse than poison. Daeron’s heart was still beating, and he was breathing—but shallowly, and there was something almost translucent about his pale skin, something insubstantial about his whole being. 

“Daeron,” Maglor said, taking Daeron’s face in his hands. “Daeron, can you hear me? You must wake up!” Daeron’s eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t stir. Maglor cursed, and took his own cloak to wrap him up after peeling off the rest of his clothes, which were in such a state as to not be worth trying to salvage. “Who did this to you?” he asked as he pulled the cloak tight around Daeron. Of course he received no answer. He tried to see something of Daeron’s thoughts, reaching out carefully, but found nothing but a jumbled mess of terror and pain and confusion; he quickly withdrew, lest he unwittingly do more damage. “Oh, Daeron…”

There was no shelter nearby, not on the western bank of the river. The hills were too far to return to—too far from anything. Maglor was no healer, and Daeron needed far more help than he could give. There was only one who Maglor could think of who might be able to heal Daeron of the wound on his chest, but how was he to get Daeron alive all the way across Eriador, to the very feet of the Misty Mountains?

Maybe better to try to reach Lindon. But the only way Maglor could imagine Círdan might help was to put Daeron aboard a ship—and he could not say why, but he feared that Daeron would not survive such a voyage. It must be Rivendell, then. 

It was growing late, the shadows lengthening as the sun sank over the Ered Luin in the distance. Maglor rose to his feet to look around. He did not like how exposed they were, feared who might be coming down the river in pursuit of Daeron, who had only barely escaped whatever it was that had wounded him so terribly. 

On the other side of the Baranduin, some miles upstream, he saw a thick cluster of willow trees, and other trees beyond them—a little wood that would offer shelter and fuel for a fire. There was much Maglor couldn’t do for Daeron, but he could at least get him warm. Maglor gathered his things and lifted Daeron, who still did not stir. “Don’t you dare die,” Maglor said as he started walking. “Don’t you dare. Not out here. Not like this.”

The river was still deep and muddy when Maglor reached the place he wanted to cross, but there was nothing for it. He made two trips, trying to keep both Daeron and his supplies dry, and only partly succeeding. Once safely among the trees Maglor worked as quickly as he could to build a fire, and to wrap Daeron in blankets, and to clean and bandage the cut over his chest. As he worked he sang as many songs of concealment and safety, of warding and of hiding, as he could think of. Then he sang songs of healing, and found they had no effect at all upon the cut, and only limited effect on Daeron’s other bruises and cuts, and his broken nose, though at least Maglor could make sure that healed straight. 

He fetched water to heat, and then went foraging for something he could make into tea, or soup, or something hot that Daeron might drink when he woke. And it was when, Maglor thought, gritting his teeth, because Daeron would wake. 

In his search, he stumbled upon a patch of thickly growing dark plants, who gave off a fresh and clean smell when he brushed against them. Athelas. Maglor knew a little of its virtues, and he cut several stems to take back with him. He cast the leaves into the boiling water, and the smell grew stronger, bringing to mind clear mountain streams and springtime flowers. Maglor used the athelas water to clean again the cut on Daeron’s chest before he wrapped it up once mroe, and then drew Daeron into his arms, sitting so that Daeron lay in his lap, resting his head on Maglor’s chest, near enough to the steam to breathe it in. His color improved, and his breathing deepened. Maglor tried his songs of healing again, and found them a little more effective. Daeron began to shiver, on and off. Maglor hated to leave him, but he had to replace the water and figure out something for them to eat. 

The problem with having spent so many centuries almost entirely alone was that he had few supplies that would work for two. He had only one pot and one pan, neither of them large. He had several blankets but he wasn’t sure that was enough, and only one set of spare clothes. Those he would give to Daeron, which meant he would be uncomfortable and sticky until the ones he wore were dry. A small price to pay, but a reminder of how ill-equipped he was to save anyone’s life, let alone someone as badly wounded as Daeron was. 

Daeron finally stirred as night fell, and Maglor put his pan over the coals to cook some mushrooms he had found. He dumped them into the pan and went to kneel beside Daeron. “Can you hear me?” he asked, placing his hand over Daeron’s chest. “Daeron?” Daeron’s eyelids fluttered, and then slowly blinked open. The starlight in his eyes was dimmed, and he could not open his eyes fully because they were still swollen. “Daeron,” Maglor said again, and Daeron flinched away, a whimper escaping. “No, it’s all right. You’re safe. It’s me—do you know me?”

Finally, Daeron’s gaze focused on him, though Maglor wasn’t really sure that he could see very well. “…You,” Daeron breathed, hoarse and almost voiceless. “You…”

“Do you know me? Do you know my name?”

Daeron’s lip curled a little. “Kinslayer,” he whispered, before seeming to run out of strength, head sinking back against the blankets. 

“Close enough,” Maglor sighed. He smoothed Daeron’s hair back. It was still damp, and Daeron was still too cool to the touch. “I’ll be back soon.” He’d seen some gorse growing near the riverbank, and he went to pick some flowers before night fell. He did not think it was particularly medicinal, but it made a fragrant tea that if nothing else would be something hot for Daeron to drink. While the mushrooms cooked, he tossed the gorse flowers into the pot filled with fresh water to let them brew, and fished out some dried herbs from his pack that he could add to their dinner. As he worked he was aware of Daeron watching him, though his eyes were mostly closed, and he did not move. 

Finally, the mushrooms were cooked through and the tea was done. Maglor had more than one cup, at least—he carved them of wood, just for something to do with his hands. Most of the things he made he traded whenever he came upon other travelers—very rare—or made his way into a village or small town—only a little less rare. “Here,” he said, bringing the cup over to Daeron and helping him to sit. Daeron squinted at the golden liquid in the cup, apparently dubious. “It’s just tea, made from flowers.”

“Flowers can be poison,” Daeron rasped.

“For goodness’ sake,” Maglor sighed. “Here.” He took a sip, and then held it out again. “Gorse isn’t poison, and anyway why would I go to the trouble of pulling you out of the river just to kill you again?”

Daeron glared at him, but took the cup, holding it with both hands. They shook, and Maglor had to steady them as Daeron drank, small and slow sips. “Do you need me to prove the mushrooms aren’t poison either?”

“What are you—why—” Daeron swayed, and Maglor caught him before he fell over. The blankets slipped, and Daeron began to shiver again. 

“Hold on.” Maglor grabbed his spare shirt and helped ease it over Daeron’s head, careful of his broken nose. It was too big, and hung loosely on his thin frame. Once it was on Maglor drew up the blankets again. “What happened to you?” Daeron just shivered, and shook his head. “Your chest, the wound there—”

“Do not,” Daeron hissed, pressing a hand to his chest, turning his head away.

“Daeron.” Maglor took his face in his hands, so that Daeron had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Something is happening in the north, but I do not know what. Please, let me help you. Tell me what happened.” 

“I don’t know,” Daeron said. “I don’t…Angmar—they have—they have come south like a great storm, and the Dúnedain cannot…”

“I do not know that name,” Maglor said. He had been too far south, it seemed, too far from any news such as this. He did not like the sound of it—Angmar. “What of the blade that wounded you? It is not like anything I have seen before. I do not know how to treat it.”

“I don’t know,” Daeron repeated. “But it’s—I can feel—” He turned his head, and Maglor let him go. He did not speak again, and when Maglor tried to coax him to eat he only took a few mouthfuls before refusing anymore. 

Daeron fell into a fitful sleep not long afterward. Maglor stayed awake, with Daeron’s head on his lap, tending to their small fire and listening to the river and the wind in the trees. He combed out and braided Daeron’s hair, and then sang quiet songs, lullabies out of his own childhood, songs he had made over the course of his lonely exile. He did not sing the song that the nightingale had brought to him, though his thoughts drifted back to Ivrin again and again, in spite of his best efforts. 

The morning dawned clear and bright. Maglor heated more water and dropped athelas into it, left Daeron sleeping by the fire, and ventured out of the wood toward the river. He walked upstream a little ways, wondering what he would find if he went all the way to Sarn Ford. Maybe crossing the Baranduin had been a mistake. Maglor knew too little of what Daeron was suffering, and maybe he was wrong—maybe he would survive a voyage into the west…

Yet his heart kept telling him no. That the only hope for Daeron lay in the east, at the feet of the Misty Mountains. 

Back at the camp Daeron was just stirring when Maglor returned. He knelt to toss more wood onto the fire, and watched Daeron blink his eyes open. The swelling was going down, the effects of Maglor’s songs finally starting to show. “If I can get you to the Havens,” Maglor began, because surely Daeron would know better than he what was needed. 

“No.” Daeron did not look at him, gazing up at the boughs overhead. “There is no ship that can take me.”

“Then you do know what—”

“No. Not—I know I am…tethered. I can feel it.” He pressed a hand to his chest, over the bandages. 

“Then if not Mithlond,” Maglor said, “Imladris.” He didn’t know where it was, but he thought he could find it. It was somewhere east of the Bruinen, and surely Elrond’s folk would be out and about, making patrols, defending the valley from whatever Angmar was, whatever it was doing. “If I can get you to Elrond—”

“I will not last that long.” Daeron’s voice was very quiet. There was a certain resignation in it, a despair that Maglor did not like at all. 

“So, what, you intend to just give up?” he demanded. “Why call for me if you will not accept—”

Daeron turned his head, frowning slightly. “Call for you?”

“The nightingale—”

“What nightingale?”

Maglor whistled the notes that the nightingale had sung for him. In response the nightingale itself appeared, fluttering down to land on his outstretched fingers, singing the next few notes. Daeron stared, his expression stricken. “No one else knows that song—not unless you have been singing—”

“I have not,” Daeron snapped. Good, Maglor thought. If he was angry he was present, he was himself, not fading away into whatever it was this strange weapon of Angmar would make of him. “I barely even remember it!”

That was such a blatant lie that Maglor did not bother responding. “Whether you called for me or not, I am here now. I will take you to Elrond, and you will not fade before we get there!”

Daeron sat up. He moved stiffly, and his arms shook as he pushed himself off the ground, but his eyes flashed, and his cheeks almost looked pink, rather than the terrible pallor from only a few minutes before. “Who are you to decide my fate, son of Fëanor? I will not be indebted to a kinslayer!”

“Would you rather be enslaved by the sorceries of Angmar?”

“I would—” Daeron swayed, all the color draining from his face. Maglor caught him before he could fall, and he did not try to pull away. “I would be free of it all,” he whispered, eyes falling closed. A tear escaped, sliding down over the bruises under his eye until Maglor wiped it away with his thumb. 

“You will be, if you can only hold on until I get you to Imladris,” Maglor said. “Would you truly cede your rank as the mightiest singer of the Eldalië to me?”

Daeron made a small, pained noise, but did not answer. Maglor had been trying to goad him again, but his words seemed to have had the opposite effect. 

“We cannot linger,” Maglor said after a moment, “especially if we find the road held against us.”

“It will be,” Daeron sighed. “The Weather Hills are overrun. Cardolan burns…”

Maglor cursed softly, and then lay Daeron down. “I’ll be back soon. Gather your strength, Daeron. I will get you to the Ford of Bruinen.”

“Will you swear it, kinslayer?” Daeron asked, voice heavy with irony and with something else Maglor couldn’t quite identify. 

He paused for a moment. Then he said, “Yes.” Daeron opened his eyes as wide as they would go, staring in shock. Maglor met his gaze and did not hesitate. “I swear by the sun and stars, with the earth itself as my witness, I will see you safe and alive to the House of Elrond, or perish myself in the attempt.” Then he turned away. If he was going to keep this oath, he had preparations to make. 

He found the patch of athelas, and harvested more, tying it into a bundle and wrapping it up carefully, singing songs of freshness and potency over the leaves, and silently praying to whoever might be listening that it would be enough, combined with what songs he had, to keep Daeron holding on. He found a few other herbs and some early-ripened berries that he gathered. There was no time to hunt, and even if there was, there was no time to prepare the meat properly. He quickly packed his things away and retrieved his now-dry cloak, and then returned to Daeron, who watched his activity through half-closed eyes, his expression unreadable. “Come on, up,” Maglor said, adopting a brisk tone as he hauled Daeron to sitting and then to standing. “My clothes are too big for you, but we’ll make do. At least you didn’t lose your own boots.”

“This is folly,” Daeron said, even as he went along with it. 

“Perhaps. I like my folly better than yours.” Maglor rolled up his blankets and stowed them away, and then he doused the fire, kicking dirt over the ashes. He held out a handful of wild strawberries. Daeron regarded them warily, but didn’t try to argue about it this time. He took them, and then Maglor took his hand. “Come. We have many miles to go ere we reach the Mitheithel, let alone the Bruinen.”

“We must pass through Cardolan, and it is overrun,” Daeron said as they started walking. 

“I can hide us,” Maglor said. “I am very good by now at passing unseen when I wish. I swore I would get you to Imladris, and so I will, whatever it takes.”

“That was folly,” Daeron sighed, but said no more. He moved slowly and unsteadily, but once they emerged into the sunlight and open grasslands he revived a little. When Maglor began to sing—a simple walking song—he revived even more, though he did not have the strength to walk and sing at the same time. The nightingale followed them, flying in circles around them occasionally before disappearing into the heather. Maglor wondered at it a little, since Daeron seemed to have no memory of the bird, let alone sending it to seek for help. 

The nights were warm, but Daeron still felt a chill. Out in the open Maglor would not have dared to light a fire even if there was wood for it. Soon, he thought, they would need to travel by night and hide by day, but he hoped they would not have to do that until they crossed over the North-South Road. In the meantime, when they did stop at night, Maglor curled up around Daeron, covering them both with the blankets. Daeron didn’t try to protest; he spoke very little, and at least their shared warmth seemed to help. So did the quiet lullabies that Maglor sang until Daeron drifted off to sleep.

For a while it seemed as though Daeron was growing stronger. He did not need to rest as often, and it was easier to rouse him in the mornings. Maglor picked the occasional fight, when they stopped to rest, but though his body seemed to be recovering, Daeron’s mind wandered and it was at times hard to get him to focus, and nearly impossible to goad him into losing his temper again. 

Then one morning Maglor tried to wake him, and he would not stir. By then his nose had healed, and the bruises around his eyes were fading yellow. The cut across his chest had healed to a pale scar that remained cold to touch, and when Maglor touched it now it was icy, as it had been when he’d pulled Daeron out of the river. “Daeron? Daeron!” He shook him by the shoulders. “Daeron, wake up! Wake!” He put forth his power, and that worked, jolting Daeron out of his slumber with a gasp, eyes opening wide, wild and filled with fear. Relief made Maglor’s throat go tight, and he pulled Daeron up to embrace him, burying his face in his hair to hide his own fear. 

“Where—who—what…” Daeron gasped, fingers grasping at Maglor’s shirt, fumbling as though he wasn’t sure whether to hold him closer or push him away. “Where—”

“Safe,” Maglor whispered. “You’re safe. I promise.” He drew back, feeling his hair catch in the heather under which they’d made their tiny camp the night before. Daeron looked at him with terrifyingly blank eyes before he blinked and seemed to remember—where he was and why, and with whom. “Wait here a moment.”

“But—” 

“Do not go back to sleep!”

Maglor climbed a nearby hill and spotted what he needed almost immediately—a stream, small but swift-moving. A few trees grew along it; no true copses or anything that might provide more shelter than shade from the midsummer sun, but trees meant wood. Maglor slid back down the hill and pulled Daeron out of the heather. He was shaking all over, and almost fell against Maglor once he was on his feet. “I’ve got you,” Maglor murmured, as he gathered up the blankets to stuff them into his pack. “It’s not far. Come on.”

“I cannot—he is looking, Maglor, he is looking for me—” There was a note of panic in Daeron’s voice that Maglor had never heard before. “I can’t breathe—”

“Shh, it’s all right.” Maglor kept his arm around Daeron as they stumbled through the hills toward the stream. Once there he gathered just enough wood to get a fire started. It had not rained for some time, and so the wood was dry and gave off very little smoke. Daeron sat curled in on himself, head resting on his knees, arms hugging his stomach, shivering. Maglor put water on to heat, and then pulled out the blankets again. He draped them over Daeron’s shoulders, and stroked his hair, unsure what to say to offer comfort—if there was any real comfort to be had. The water seemed to take an age to boil, but once it did he brought the pan off the flames closer to Daeron, and cast in a handful of athelas leaves, only slightly wilted. “Breathe, Daeron,” he murmured, moving to sit behind him, bracketing him with both arms and legs so that he could share as much of his own body’s warmth as he could. “It will help.” Daeron took a few deep, shuddering breaths, inhaling the fragrant steam. “Good. Keep going. Just breathe.”

“Why are you doing this?” Daeron asked finally. His voice was firmer, and when Maglor gripped his wrist he could feel his pulse beating steadily, still strong. He stopped shivering. 

“I swore an oath,” Maglor said.

“But why?”

Maglor sighed. He rested his head on Daeron’s back, listening to his heartbeat and to the steady inhale and exhale of his lungs, and thought of the new-risen Sun sparkling upon the waters of Ivrin, long ago, and the taste of wine and summer berries upon soft lips and hands sliding over smooth warm skin, and a single song authored together, away from the feasting and the calls for ever-increasing challenges of skill and song to see which of them was really the greater, Maglor of the Noldor or Daeron of the Sindar. He usually shied away from such memories, for they were painful in their sweetness. 

It had been so long since he’d not been alone, since he had done more than exchange just enough words to make some sort of trade for supplies and maybe a scrap of news, since he had met anyone who knew even so much as his name. Daeron was there now, Maglor knew, because he had no other choice. He hadn’t forgotten their last meeting, either, after the Dagor Bragollach but before any word had come to Himring of the goings on in Doriath or Nargothrond concerning the Silmaril—but he turned his thoughts very deliberately from that, which was painful in different and worse ways. 

Finally, he lifted his head, and released Daeron to get to his feet and douse the fire. There was no time to linger, or to dwell upon the past. He did not answer Daeron’s question, and Daeron did not ask it again. 

Daeron’s sleep grew more troubled, and Maglor often had a difficult time waking him. The athelas helped, even when there was no water to provide steam to breathe in—just bruising the leaves and inhaling their scent seemed to help. Maglor sang every song he knew for strength, of both body and spirit, in Sindarin and in Quenya, though the first time he spoke the latter language Daeron fixed him with a glare. It was a tired look, though, without any real heat behind it. 

Soon, they came to the North-South Road, and hid for most of an afternoon on a wooded hillside, watching traffic going to and fro—all armed, all moving quickly, all in large groups—almost all of it going south. In the east beyond Maglor could see smoke as fields and villages burned in the distance. The road marked the border to Cardolan. It would be safest, he thought, to turn south and follow it to Tharbad, and then make their way north following the Gwathló until it branched into the Bruinen and Mitheithel. Maglor had never gone that far north or east, toward the Misty Mountains. He hadn’t wanted to risk being discovered so near Imladris. That had been, in retrospect, a mistake, for he did not know the lands well enough, and could only go by what he had heard from others, and so what knowledge he did have was terribly out of date, and would be even if there was not war raging. 

Regardless, Daeron did not have that kind of time. As they sat hidden in among the gorse and the heather, Daeron leaned against Maglor, awake but not aware, his gaze distant and distressingly vacant. He woke most days more often than not forgetting where he was. Sometimes he grew distressed and confused at the sound of his own name. It came back to him after a time, but that time was growing longer and longer, as he grew colder, and the color faded from him so he was only dark hair and pale skin, bringing to mind the naked forests of deep midwinter, when it was tempting to believe that spring would never come again. 

They had to cut across Cardolan, heading northeast. There was a bridge, Maglor thought, across the Mitheithel—and then, if he remembered right, it was not terribly far to the Bruinen. Hopefully.

Night fell, and the road grew quiet. “Come on,” Maglor said, drawing Daeron up. Summer was getting on and soon the nights would grow cold, but for now it remained warm. Were it not for the smell of woodsmoke on the air and the distant howling of wolves, Maglor would have thought it a wonderful night for walking. “We must move by night now, I think, and go quickly.”

“I can’t,” Daeron whispered, though he let Maglor take his hand and guide him down the hill. 

“You can and you will. Is this how you want to cede your place as the mightiest singer of the Eldalië?” Maglor was aiming to annoy, but something flickered through Daeron’s eyes that was darker and more despairing, and he did not answer. “Do you know any walking songs? Teach me some song you’ve learned or made since last we sang together.”

“I cannot,” Daeron repeated. “I have not…” He stumbled, and Maglor caught him. Daeron leaned heavily against him, face pressed into his shoulder. “Please do not ask of me what I cannot give,” he whispered.

“All right,” Maglor said, resting a hand for a moment on the back of Daeron’s head. “If you have no songs to teach me, I will teach you some of mine. You can tell me later how terrible they are, after you are recovered.”

They crossed the road into Cardolan. Fields and pastures were burned or destroyed, and the farmsteads and villages lay crumbling and abandoned, sometimes still smoking. It was slow going; even at night they had to stop often and hide themselves, for orcs as well as men roamed the countryside, hacking and burning. Maglor wrapped the two of them in as many enchantments and songs of concealment as he knew, and still he feared it would not be enough. Food grew scarce, until he got the idea to do a little raiding of his own. 

Instead of moving on as evening fell, he roused Daeron and told him of the plan. “I’ll be back as swiftly as I can,” he said, as Daeron struggled to focus his gaze on Maglor’s face. “Do not go back to sleep, Daeron. Stay awake.”

“Maglor, don’t—” Daeron reached for him as he started to get up. “If they catch you—”

“They won’t. And if I don’t do something we’ll get caught anyway, or starve before we reach the Mitheithel.”

“But—” A distant sound made them both go still. It was a shrill cry that sent a chill down Maglor’s spine and made Daeron cry out softly, curling in on himself like he wanted to hide, to make himself as small as possible. Maglor pulled him into his arms, holding on tightly long after the cry faded away, as Daeron shook and shivered and gasped for breath, like his chest pained him, or like his lungs wouldn’t work. 

“Shh, shh, it’s all right,” Maglor murmured. “I’m here.”

“Do not leave,” Daeron gasped. “Please—he’ll find me—”

“He will not.” Maglor stroked Daeron’s hair until the tremors eased, though they didn’t stop. “I have to go, Daeron, but I promise I’ll be quick, and then we’ll move on and be far away before anyone realizes a thief has been among them.” When he drew back Daeron made a small, desperate noise. “Stay right here. I promise, no one will find you before I return.”

“If you don’t return?” Daeron whispered.

“Look at me.” Maglor took his face in his hands, forcing Daeron to meet his gaze. “I swore an oath,” he said, very softly, “and not lightly. You know what that means. I will return.”

Soldiers was perhaps a generous word for the men Maglor found camped a mile or so away. They were rough and disorganized, and overconfident—they had only two on watch while the rest drank and laughed about their conquests. They spoke the Common Speech, and Maglor almost wished they didn’t; he did not want to hear most of what they were saying. He did learn a little of their movements, though—they and other bands of both Men and orcs, and even a complaint about the road being held against them in the east, with forces led by some mighty elven warrior. 

He moved through the shadows beyond their fires, keeping away from the sentries. They had no supply wagon, and only a single packhorse. That was disappointing; Maglor had been contemplating stealing a horse, sacrificing secrecy for speed, but it was not to be. Carefully, he crept closer, and then began to sing, very softly, putting forth all the power that he dared, so the whole camp was ensnared in his lullaby. Slowly the speech and laughter faltered and faded, and one by one the men drifted off to sleep, even the sentries, though one of them seemed to realize what was happening just before he fell to the ground in a dead faint. 

Then Maglor moved. His enchantments would hold for some time, unless another power interfered, but he and Daeron needed to be many miles away before then. He dug through packs and found a great store of dried meat and dried fruits, of waybreads wrapped up securely. He stuffed as much as would fit into one of their bags, and stole an extra cloak and some extra clothing. The rest of the food he dumped into the fire. He thought of freeing the packhorse, but there were wolves about, and it would be cruel to send the poor thing out into the night with no protection. Instead he just stroked its nose and murmured a few encouraging words to it.

After a moment’s thought, Maglor took a stick and drew an eight-pointed star in the dirt near the fire. Maybe it was a sign no one could read now, after so long—but maybe it would serve as a warning, should the Lord of Angmar come to hear of it, that he had more enemies abroad than perhaps he realized. 

When he returned to Daeron he found him exactly as he’d left him, curled up in a ball with his head bowed, arms wrapped around his legs. He seemed almost childlike, smaller than he really was. The word diminished entered Maglor’s thoughts, and he pushed it away. Daeron was not faded yet. Hope remained, however it had begun to dwindle. “Daeron,” he said, and Daeron’s head jerked up, eyes wide and dark in his pale face. In the thin moonlight he looked ghostly. “See? I told you I’d return.” Maglor forced himself to speak cheerfully. “And not only that, I return victorious! Come on. I have fresh food and we can eat it as we walk.” He drew Daeron to his feet, and then staggered when Daeron threw his arms around him, holding on like he wanted to burrow under Maglor’s very skin. “It’s all right. I’m here, as I promised.”

“Don’t do that again.” Daeron’s voice was muffled and tremulous.

“Hopefully I won’t have to. Come. We need to keep moving.”

The food seemed to revive Daeron, as well as Maglor’s return. Walking under the stars also seemed to help. The wind picked up again, though, blowing cold from the north and carrying the smell of smoke. They took shelter in a half-tumbled down barn the next morning. After changing into clean clothes that were still too loose, and eating a bit of dried meat and a piece of waybread, Daeron fell into a deep sleep, curled up against Maglor’s side. Maglor sat leaning against the wall and watched clouds drift over the hazy sky overhead. He hummed lullabies and other comforting songs until his voice grew hoarse, and then he dozed. 

As evening fell, the sound of heavy feet tramping over the fields roused Maglor suddenly. Carefully he got up and went to peer around the broken wall, and finding what he had dreaded. Orcs. He counted no more than a dozen, but they were making for the barn. Maglor drew back, reaching for his sword; there was no time to weave any enchantments of concealment. As he picked it up Daeron stirred. “Shh,” Maglor hissed, pressing a hand over Daeron’s mouth. Daeron’s eyes opened wide, but he held very still. “Orcs,” Maglor breathed. “Don’t move. They might pass by.” He released Daeron and remained in a crouch with his hand on his sword hilt. Daeron kept very still, both of them hardly daring to breathe. The orcs passed by on the other side of the wall, and Maglor thought for a moment they would keep going—but then one stepped around it, looking around as though wanting to make sure the abandoned barn really was empty. Maglor spared a thought to pray that it would not look toward them, but it did, and its yellow eyes glinted as they met Maglor’s. He didn’t wait for it to so much as take a breath before he moved, drawing his sword as he charged forward. 

With no armor and only his voice and sword for weapons, speed and surprise were his only real advantages, and he made good use of them. The orcs had not expected a fight, let alone one with an elf—however rusty his skills—and for a moment it all seemed to go his way. He cut down half the orcs before the rest knew what was happening. Then, as he opened his mouth to lend his voice to the fight, Daeron cried out, and Maglor turned to see more orcs having come up around the other side of the barn. They seized Daeron, who struggled against them but was too weak for any real resistance. Maglor threw himself forward, but his way was blocked by the largest orc, the band’s leader. Their swords met with a ringing crash, hard enough to jar both Maglor’s arms, and he gritted his teeth, kicking out and twisting away. As the orc stumbled forward Maglor slashed at him, opening his throat. Black blood sprayed out, but Maglor had already turned away. The orcs were carrying Daeron away, and he sped after them, calling up what power remained in him, and spoke words to trip them up, to ring in their ears and confuse them, so when he crashed into the first one it went down with hardly a fight at all. Everything was a blur after that, just movement and instinct and panic. 

Finally, Maglor blinked and found himself the last one standing. The orcs lay around him unmoving, and Daeron was a huddled shape on the ground some feet away, dropped or thrown when Maglor had caught up to them. “Daeron?” Maglor fell to his knees at his side, heart in his throat as he turned him over. Daeron cried out and flinched away. “It’s me, Daeron—it’s me, it’s Maglor.” Maglor pulled him up. Daeron fell against him, choking on a sob as he buried his face in Maglor’s chest. “Can you stand, did they hurt you?” Maglor got to his feet, drawing Daeron with him. He seemed none the worse for wear, only bruised. “Come on.” Together they staggered back to the barn, where the orcs had not touched their things. Daeron had been a greater prize than Maglor’s battered pack. 

“Maglor,” Daeron gasped once they were back behind the wall. “Maglor, your arm—”

“What?” Maglor looked down and found his sleeve soaked with blood. He cursed, and found the tear in the fabric that revealed the gash on his bicep. Daeron insisted on helping to get his shirt off and to wrap the last of Maglor’s bandages around his arm. Both of them were shaking by that point, but Maglor staggered to his feet, lifting their supplies and holding out his hand to Daeron. 

“If it’s poisoned,” Daeron began even as he grabbed Maglor’s hand.

“I don’t think it is.”

“But how can you—”

“Orc poisons begin their work fast. I’m fine, Daeron. I can still get you to Rivendell.”

Daeron practically snarled at him. “That isn’t what I’m worried about!”

“The sooner we get to the Bruinen, the sooner neither of us will have to worry about anything,” Maglor said, suddenly determined to make light of his injury, if it would keep Daeron angry at him—anger meant he was present, it meant he still cared what was happening around him. He examined his torn and bloody shirt, and discarded it in favor of one he’d stolen from the soldiers, now some days behind them. It was too short in the sleeves; when he made a face at that he was gratified to see Daeron roll his eyes and scowl. “Come on,” he said. “We need to be very far from here by morning.” He held out his hand again and Daeron did not hesitate to grasp it; his grip was firmer than it had been lately; he felt more solid. 

By the time they stopped to rest Maglor’s arm was throbbing and he was out of breath and dizzy, almost as bad as Daeron. They found a hollow between some hills where a stream flowed. It was clear and cold, and it was a relief to wash the dried blood off of his hands, and then to properly clean the wound on his arm. Daeron sank onto the ground, silent again, his gaze distant. It was with difficulty that Maglor was able to get him to eat something. “Daeron, look at me.” Daeron lifted his head. Maglor brushed strands of hair out of his face. “Stay with me,” he said.

“They’re looking for me,” Daeron whispered. “Those orcs, they knew…I can feel…” His hand went to his chest. “It—it hurts, every breath is like…” 

“They won’t find you,” Maglor said. He sat back against a stone and pulled Daeron against his side. Daeron curled up against him, face turned into his shoulder. The anger had ebbed away, and seemed to have taken even more of him with it.

“Why are you doing this?” Daeron asked after a while. “Do not say because you swore an oath.”

Maglor wrapped a blanket around both of them, for Daeron had started to shiver again. “Because I’m selfish,” he said finally. Daeron made a noise that was equal parts incredulous and derisive. 

“What is selfish about any of this? You did not have to—you would be safe and far away from all of this if you had—”

“I do not want to live in a world without you in it,” Maglor said, very softly. Daeron fell silent. “I certainly do not want to live in a world that would see you slain and enslaved by whatever or whoever it is that hunts you.”

“I have hated you,” Daeron whispered, “for a very long time. You knew that, and yet…”

“That is the selfish part,” Maglor said, “for you cannot stop hating me if you are dead.” He did not look at Daeron as he spoke, instead casting his gaze out past the stream, past the hollow where they were huddled. In the distance he could see the dark shape of a forest, woodlands heralding their approach to river lands. “It isn’t far now to the Mitheithel.”

“There is only one way to cross,” Daeron said after a few moments. He did not draw away, or lift his head from Maglor’s shoulder. “There is only the bridge. It will be held against us.”

“Maybe not. Rivendell has not been idle, I think.”

They sat in silence as the sun rose higher in the sky. The air was hazy. Cardolan still burned behind them, though they’d managed to skirt around the worst of the destruction and the fighting. Daeron exhaled, finally, and whispered, “I have not had the heart for music in many years. This fading, it is not…” He lifted one of his hands, his skin very pale, almost translucent. Maglor took it, disliking the contrast between them, his suntanned skin against Daeron’s pallor, the solidity of himself in contrast to Daeron’s fading and failing strength. “This wound only quickens what has been happening for a long time,” Daeron said. “You cannot stop it, Maglor. The kindest thing would be to slay me and to find some song to break the hold that the Witch-king—”

“No!”

“What difference would it make to you? You are already a—”

“Did you not hear what I said?” Maglor sat up, taking Daeron by the shoulders. “I will not. If they cannot fully heal you in Rivendell, they will find a way to get you to the Havens so you may seek it across the Sea.”

“That still leaves you in a world where I am not,” Daeron said, but he would not meet Maglor’s gaze. 

“It is a world in which you live,” Maglor said. 

“But I don’t under—”

“Do you not, truly?” Maglor threw caution to the wind and leaned forward, catching Daeron in a kiss. Daeron made a quiet, shocked sound, but his hands came up to tangle in Maglor’s hair, keeping him from pulling away. It was a far cry from the sweet and soft kisses they’d shared at the Mereth Aderthad, warm and tasting of wine. Daeron kissed now not unlike he’d kissed Maglor at their last meeting, before he had left Beleriand forever—he had been furious then, cursing Maglor and the Silmarils even as he had dragged him closer, all teeth and tears, his hands on them both so rough and quick so that there was almost more pain than pleasure in it. 

He had been out on patrol with what remained of his people who had survived the ruin of the Gap, and Daeron had stumbled into their camp, wild-eyed and lost. Some had wanted to take him back to Himring—for his own safety as much as anything else—but Maglor had taken one look at him and known that Himring’s walls that had withstood dragonfire and long siege would not hold him, if he did not wish to go there. So he had given Daeron supplies that he did not want, and a knife that was the only weapon they could spare, which Maglor's second in command had advised against. Maglor had just laughed at her, though there had been no mirth in it. “You think he needs a knife to kill me if he wishes?”

He’d followed him from their camp afterward, hoping that if they were alone Daeron would be more willing to explain what he was doing out there so far from Doriath and the safety of its Girdle, and where he was going. He hadn’t been, had just shoved Maglor up against a tree. “One last time,” he’d whispered against Maglor’s mouth before biting hard enough that Maglor had tasted blood, “before you bring ruin to us all.”

Maglor had not understood then. No word had yet come to Himring of the goings on in Nargothrond or Beren’s quest. But when they had learned that a Silmaril shone in the hands of Elu Thingol, in Doriath…? He had remembered the despairing hatred in Daeron’s eyes before he turned to walk away into the trees, never to be seen again west of the Ered Luin, and felt despair begin its slow creep into his own heart, as the Oath had stirred in him, pulling south, instead of north. 

So many years had passed since, and the sinking of Beleriand, and yet here they were with so little now changed between them, danger and despair still dogging their heels. When they parted at last he reached up to run his thumb over Daeron’s lip, relieved to see spots of color in his cheeks and a light returned to his eyes. “Not a day goes by that I do not regret the oath I swore in Tirion,” Maglor whispered, “but I do not and will not regret the one I have sworn to you, whatever happens. You are worth far more than any gem.”

“You are an even greater fool than I thought,” Daeron said, before he leaned forward for another kiss, this one much softer. “This can only end in disaster.”

“I swore an oath,” Maglor said. “I keep my oaths—whatever comes.”

“It is your own ruin to which this one will lead you.”

“So did the last one. What is left of me to ruin?” Maglor kissed Daeron again, feeling the skin under his hands begin to grow warm. He didn’t know if he loved Daeron, or if he had loved him before—but he knew there was a chance for it, for something to grow out of the seeds that had been sown at the Mereth Aderthad, even if later events had tried to burn and strangle the roots. Or there might have been a chance, if they had met again under different circumstances.

They heard the pounding of hooves beyond the hills where they hid sometime in the afternoon, but no one found or stumbled upon them. Daeron slept fitfully, and Maglor dared do no more than doze. His arm hurt, and his head ached, and he was so tired. The years had not felt so heavy in a long time; they had slipped by unnoticed in his solitude, the seasons blending into one another by the seashore, marked only by the storms of autumn and winter, and by the changing populations of birds in their yearly journeys into the north and away south. The last few weeks had passed, in contrast, with agonizing slowness—and yet so terribly swiftly. 

As evening fell, Maglor woke Daeron, who blinked his eyes open only slowly, and looked at Maglor again as though he did not know who he was, or where they were or why—he knew only that he was cold and frightened and weak. Yet this time he did not panic when Maglor spoke to him, did not seem afraid of him. He ate when Maglor gave him food, and drank when offered water, and then followed after when Maglor took his hand so they might begin the night’s walk. He stumbled, though, as though dizzy, and his gaze kept straying to the north with a look of dread behind his eyes. 

They did not make the trees that marked the river that night, and as morning dawned hazy and dim, Maglor decided there was no good place to stop, not out in the open. Daeron could not go another step, and so Maglor did some swift repacking, and left a few unnecessary things hidden under a clump of sage, and then hoisted Daeron onto his back, carrying him like he’d once carried his brothers as children, and then Elrond and Elros. Daeron looped his arms around Maglor’s neck and rested his head on his shoulder. “Maglor,” he murmured. 

“I’ve got you,” Maglor said.

“Do not let him take me. Please,” Daeron whispered. “When I—”

“He won’t have you,” Maglor said. “Don’t despair now, when we’re so close!” Daeron didn’t answer, just pressed his face into Maglor’s hair. He was too light a burden, even with Maglor’s own weariness and wounds, and they made good time, reaching the woodlands that lined the Mitheithel by noon, and then soon after coming to the steep banks of the river, which flowed by in a rushing torrent, shimmering silver-grey in the sunlight. 

It was quiet in the woods; few birds were there to sing, but as Maglor turned north he found perched on a low branch just ahead a nightingale. It sang that song again, and he knew it for the bird that had brought him to Daeron so far away now, at the Baranduin, and couldn’t help but smile, feeling like he’d come upon an old friend. “Hello, little one,” he said. It cheeped a greeting, and as he walked it kept pace, flitting from branch to branch, singing snatches of its own songs, and the one Daeron must have taught it, though he had no memory of doing so. 

“Will you sing?” Daeron asked after a little while. 

“What song?” Maglor asked.

“Ours.”

It was not a particularly special song in itself, not the best either one of them had written; it was a song of sunlight on clear water and of butterflies in the flowers—of summertime by the Pools of Ivrin and the banks of the River Narog. Yet it was the only one they had written together, just to see how it would work with their different styles of both singing and of writing, and neither of them accustomed to collaboration. It had gone better than Maglor had thought it would, and he sometimes sang it to himself even so many years afterward when he felt particularly heartsick and in the mood to dwell upon lost things. Nor was it a very long song, but he sang it over and over as he walked, keeping time with his steps, and on his back Daeron sighed, relaxing a little. 

When Maglor stopped to rest, he found Daeron had fallen asleep. But when it was time to move on again, Daeron would not wake. “No.” Maglor shook him by the shoulders, lightly slapped his face. “Daeron. Daeron, wake up! Do not give up now! Daeron wake!” Even a command with all the power he dared to put forth barely worked. Daeron’s eyes opened slowly, as though they were too heavy for it. He had not the strength to lift his head. “Stay with me, Daeron, please,” Maglor said, taking his face in his hands. “Do you know me?”

“It is so dark,” Daeron whispered, though it was still afternoon, with sunshine slanting golden through the trees. “It is dark and grey, and I am bound…”

“Not for much longer,” Maglor said. “Please, Daeron, please hold on.”

Daeron took a breath, but seemed to struggle to fill his lungs. “It’s so—so cold—Maglor—”

“I’ve got you. I’m here.” Maglor wrapped him up in both cloaks, his own and the one he’d stolen from the soldiers, and lifted him again onto his back. “It’s so close, Daeron. The bridge is so close—and then to the Ford. You can make it.” He kept talking as he walked, sometimes singing, songs of strength for the both of them as his legs burned and his arm throbbed and his own lungs ached. The hours passed and night fell, and still he kept going, not daring to stop, though ahead of them he heard wolves howling in the distance, and when the north wind blew sharply into their faces it brought autumn’s first chill, and the smell of blood. Daeron made a soft, pained sound, and Maglor began to chant the silliest song he knew from his youth in Tirion, translating it as he went and knowing he did a poor job of it. He hoped Daeron would say something, or at least notice, but he said nothing. 

Finally, the ground sloped up suddenly, and Maglor glimpsed an open space between the trees—and upriver, a bridge, stones arching elegantly across the water. “There it is,” he breathed. “Daeron, we’ve made it to the bridge.” Daeron did not reply. Maglor scrambled up the embankment to the road, which was bounded on the other side by steep hills. From the west he heard a noise like horses, or like tramping feet. Cursing softly he knelt in the tree-shadows and lowered Daeron off of his back. He did not move, or make a sound. “Daeron. Daeron! No, no, no…” Maglor pulled some athelas out, crushing it and holding it to Daeron’s face, pressing it under his shirt against his chest, but whatever virtues the leaves alone held wasn’t enough, and Maglor was no healer; he had no power to stop this fading. Already Daeron seemed partly gone. Maglor did not know if he really could see something of the tree roots through him or if fear only made it seem so. 

Then he heard the oddest sound. Bells. He stood and looked down the road, and saw a pale horse come trotting down, bells upon its harness, and a rider with his hood thrown back so his long golden hair seemed to glow in the last rays of the setting sun. Maglor wanted to laugh, suddenly and hysterically. He did not know how it was possible—Glorfindel had perished with Gondolin, and yet here he was on the road to Rivendell, appearing just in the nick of time! Behind him was a troop of soldiers, not Elven but Men, Dúnedain of either Cardolan or Arthedain by the emblems upon their arms. They were too few and clearly weary and wounded. 

“Hail, Glorfindel!” Maglor called out, stepping out of the bushes onto the road. Glorfindel pulled up short, raising his hand to halt the men behind him. In the distance a horrible call rose up, that shrill and frozen voice, chilling the blood and making the soldiers quail.

“Who goes there?” Glorfindel called back, moving forward only slowly, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. 

Maglor pushed his hair out of his face, straightening his shoulders as he lifted his head. “One in great need of your help.”

“Maglor…?” Glorfindel’s eyes widened, his jaw going slack, but only for a moment before he recovered himself. “What need have you? I cannot linger; we are fleeing to Rivendell with the Witch-king himself at our heels. You would do well to flee yourself.”

“I have Daeron with me, once of Doriath,” Maglor said. “He is sorely wounded by some evil weapon of Angmar, and I cannot heal him. He will die if he cannot reach Rivendell. Will you take him?”

“Wonders upon wonders,” he heard Glorfindel mutter. Then he turned to his men and waved them forward. “Keep going! Do not tarry!” They hurried past, some of them casting looks of wonder on Maglor, who kept still, his hands at his sides. Once the men were crossing the bridge Glorfindel rode up before Maglor, and did not dismount. “Where is he, then?” he asked. 

“Just here.” Maglor hurried back to the tree where he’d left Daeron, and lifted him in his arms. Maglor pressed his lips to his temple. “You will reach Rivendell,” he whispered. “I have kept my oath.” He reached into his pack and drew out the small wooden flute he’d carved, and tucked it into the pocket of his cloak for Daeron to find later. “Just hold on a little longer, Daeron.”

All doubt left Glorfindel when Maglor reemerged, and he leaned down to take Daeron into the saddle. “Go,” said Maglor. “Please hurry. He is running out of time.”

“What of you?” Glorfindel asked. “Elrond will—”

“I will hold the bridge. I can at least give you time to make the Ford.”

“You cannot hold it alone, not against the Witch-king. He is the greatest of Sauron’s captains, no longer living but not quite dead. Even a sword of Fëanor’s make will not be enough.”

“I will hold the bridge,” Maglor repeated.

Daeron stirred in Glorfindel’s arms. “Maglor…?” His eyes opened, bleary and confused. “What…”

“Go,” Maglor said, stepping back. “I am in your debt, Glorfindel.”

Daeron seemed to realize something of what was happening. “Wait. Wait, Maglor—”

Glorfindel adjusted his grip and took up the reins. The bells jingled. The sound of other horses reached them from farther down the road. “May Elbereth bless you, son of Fëanor,” he said. “Rivendell will not forget this.” And then he was gone, charging away into the growing evening. 

Maglor closed his eyes for a moment. He could feel the Witch-king approaching. Not living but not dead—not someone Maglor could destroy, but he was yet a mighty singer, however far he had fallen. Angmar would not cross the Mitheithel, not while he yet drew breath.