The Stars Sending Messages by StarSpray  

The summer night glowed; in the field, fireflies were glinting.
And for those who understood such things, the stars were sending messages
- “Midsummer” by Louise Cluck

- - 

“We’ll not have a harvest this year,” said Maedhros as he stood beside Maglor, the two of them surveying the large garden—or what should have been a garden, rather than a ragged patch of dirt with precious little green to be found in it.

“We’ll have one,” Maglor said as he knelt to press his fingers into the dry soil. They had not had rain for many days, though the skies were dark and the sunlight sickly. It reminded him of the moments before the Trees had gone out—when Laurelin’s light had dimmed from gold to an ugly yellow, and Telperion’s had turned greenish. The sun would not go out, but it would soon be covered. Fumes and clouds poured south from Angband, darkening the horizon. Soon even the Amdram would be overtaken. “We’ll have a harvest, but it won’t be enough.”

There was little enough to forage, too, in the wooded hills and in the plains to the south and east. Orcs and wolves and other fell creatures roamed the lands, and trying to hunt was an ever-growing risk as they had to go farther and farther afield to find any animals that had not fled the enemy or the lack of food.

They would have to leave Amon Ereb soon too. Maedhros had been sending scouts out, both west and east, though they all already knew there were no roads open to the west, even if they could have counted on any kind of welcome from Círdan or Gil-galad. It would not have even been considered if not for the twins.

Maglor did not stand up again. He’d sung himself hoarse all morning, trying to coax growth out of the garden, just as he had been for days, for weeks. There was only so much song could do, though, when there was no rain, and when the wells were drying up. His head ached, and he would have liked to return to bed. Maedhros’ hand rested briefly on top of his head.

A whistle from the gates heralded the return of one of the scouts. Maglor pushed himself up to follow Maedhros out to meet her. Angrenel had been sent west, and when Maedhros asked for news she shook her head. “All paths are closed,” she said, “not even I alone could slip through to the coast. It feels, though, as if all the land is holding its breath, waiting for something. I can say no more than that.” She was dusty and sported a rough bandage around one arm, but otherwise it seemed that she’d gotten through unharmed.

As she spoke Maglor caught sight of a pair of dark heads creeping past, slipping in through the gate just before it shut. “Boys,” he said, alarm giving his voice an edge he usually tried to avoid when speaking to the twins. They froze in place as he strode forward. “What were you doing out there? You know you aren’t supposed to—”

Elrond and Elros turned, revealing a basket held between them, filled to the brim with blackberries and red raspberries. Maglor stopped short, blinking in surprise. “We were picking berries,” Elros said, holding up his end of the basket.

“Where did you find berries?” Maglor asked. Then he remembered himself. “It’s far too dangerous for you to be wandering about outside the walls, especially alone!”

“We didn’t go far,” said Elrond. Neither he nor Elros looked particularly abashed either. “The brambles are only just down the hill.”

“There are no berries anywhere on this hill,” said Angrenel. “There are no berries for miles—it’s too dry.” In reply, the twins just held up the basket again, full of plump ripe berries. Maglor took one, half expecting it to be crushed to dust in his fingers—instead it burst with juice on his tongue. The taste of its sharp sweetness nearly brought tears to his eyes; he could not recall when they’d last had fresh berries.

“We just sang the songs like you taught us, Maglor,” said Elros, looking up at him with wide eyes, all innocence underneath sun-pinked cheeks and berry-stained lips.

Maglor was too shocked to remember that they should be at least scolded properly for venturing out of the fort by themselves until well after the twins escaped inside with their berries to take to the kitchens. He turned to Maedhros. “My songs have not worked in weeks,” he said. “They cannot work without rain.”

“Do you have songs to call the rain?” Maedhros asked.

Maglor did not roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. “Do you not think I would have sung them if I did?”

“Do they have songs to call the rain, I wonder?”

“Do they need songs?” Angrenel asked. When Maglor and Maedhros turned to her she pointed to the ground at their feet. Maglor looked down to see white and pale green flowers blooming. He knelt and picked one. Its petals were soft as satin under his fingertips. “Those are niphredil blossoms,” Angrenel said.

Once the flowers started to grow they did not stop, growing thicker than grass and perfuming the whole fort with their sweet scent. It was as though the land had suddenly woken up and recognized the children that lived there. The hillside seemed greener, and white heather grew and bloomed upon it; those sent out to forage had more success than they had in many weeks—berries, nuts, roots, even small game. Birds returned to flutter about the walls and roofs of the fort, and fireflies danced through the dandelions and clover in the evenings to the great delight of Elrond an Elros, who chased after them and laughed when they caught one or two, who set in their hands to shine bright and yellow for a few seconds before flying away.

Three days after the berry incident, it rained, a steady and heavy rain that lasted for several days. The earth drank it in eagerly, and when Maglor went out to sing his own growing songs to the garden, he heard the quiet song of the plants responding—the peas and the potatoes, the beans and the carrots and the beets.

As he sat back on his heels, Elrond appeared to wrap his arms around Maglor’s neck, hanging off his back. “Did it work?” he asked.

“I think so,” Maglor said. The harvest would still be less than they needed, and there would be much tightening of the belts come winter—but if the land kept waking up, maybe it would not be as bad as they’d feared. Maybe they could put off leaving until the spring, could spend one more winter with sturdy walls and a roof over their heads. “Thanks to you, Child of Melian,” he said, turning his head to kiss Elrond’s nose and make him giggle. “But when you want to go pick berries you must ask me first. Please. It’s still too dangerous.”

“I’m sorry,” Elrond said, though he did not sound like it. The berries had been very good, and there were many more where they came from; they would at least have many jars of sweet jam to get them through the cold winter days.

“Promise me you won’t sneak out again, Elrond.”

“I promise.” Elrond rested his head on Maglor’s shoulder. “I had a dream last night.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“Birds,” Elrond said. “All kinds of them, flying from over the Sea. Eagles and seagulls and nightingales, and crows and ravens and even little songbirds. I was standing on a hillside and they all flew right over me.”

“Was it a good dream?” Maglor asked. None of those birds sounded like ill omens, except perhaps crows, but he could not imagine such a host of creatures flying towards him being anything but frightening.

“Oh, yes. They were going to help.” Elrond released his neck and came around to sit on his lap. “What does it mean, Maglor?”

“I don’t know.” Maglor wrapped his arms around Elrond and kissed the top of his head. “I’m the wrong person to ask about such things. I have never had such gifts, or any understanding of them.”

“Might it mean Naneth is going to come back?”

“I don’t know, Elrond. It may be you will not understand the full meaning of the dream until whatever it portends comes to pass.”

Elrond wrinkled his nose. “That’s stupid.”

Maglor couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Maybe. But how did it make you feel? I think that is more important than understanding exactly what it means.”

“Good,” Elrond said after a moment. “It was a good dream, like I told you.”

“Then whatever it means, it will be a good—oof!” Elros collided with Maglor, nearly knocking him over and sending all three of them sprawling among the potato plants. “Elros!”

“Did Elrond tell you about his dream?” Elros asked. “I had one too!”

“He did,” said Maglor as he sat up again, and pulled Elros onto his lap to join Elrond. “But before you tell me yours I want you to promise me, too, that you won’t sneak out again, even if it’s just halfway down the hill to pick berries.”

“Oh, but—”

“Elros.”

“All right, I promise.”

“Thank you.” Maglor kissed the top of his head. Both of the twins had grass stains on their knees and bits of leaves in their hair from whatever roughhousing game they had been playing while he sang to the garden. “What was your dream, Elros?”

“I was flying through the stars,” Elros said, “and I could hear singing—lots of voices all singing together, and it was the most beautiful singing in the world. Even better than yours! I didn’t know what they were singing about, though. I think something is going to happen soon.”

“Something good or something bad?” Maglor asked.

“Something important,” Elros said, looking suddenly very serious and far older than his years. He and Elrond both looked at Maglor with starlit eyes under shadowy hair, Melian’s children whom the birds and the stars would both love. They should be somewhere far fairer and with stronger walls than the fort of Amon Ereb—should have better guardians and better teachers than Maglor and Maedhros and what remained of their folk. It was a thought Maglor often had, but always at the same time he was so glad that they were there. He could not give them all the things that they deserved but he could love them—and he did, though he feared that it was only selfishness on his part, to cling so tightly to anything that might bring him a little bit of joy as the world around them grew darker and darker.

In the end the woods and hills provided far more than they had dared to hope, not only that winter but the one after, and it was several more years that they were able to stay upon Amon Ereb, until the crawling armies of orcs and packs of wargs grew too numerous. They were far too few to hold the fort against a sustained attack, and at last Maedhros gave the order to prepare to flee. They would go east, to take shelter in the still-green woods of Ossiriand, where the rivers still ran clear and clean.

On the night before their departure, Elros burst in to drag Maglor outside. “It’s happened! Maglor, it’s happened! Or happening! Or going to happen soon! The dream I had of the stars, do you remember? Maedhros, come look!”

“I remember,” Maglor said as he stumbled over the threshold after Elros. “Slow down, Elros, I’m coming!” Maedhros followed after, looking amused. “What’s happening?”

“Look!” Elros pointed to the western sky, only just faded fully from sunset into evening, and Maglor forgot how to breathe.

All amusement had drained from Maedhros’ face. He rested his hand on Maglor’s shoulder. “Surely that is a Silmaril?” he whispered.

It was. Of course it was—it could be nothing else. Somehow Elwing had come into the Uttermost West, and…Elros was right. If something had not already happened, it would soon. Maglor could almost feel the ground shiver under his feet. When he turned his gaze to the north he saw, above the dark clouds that shrouded the horizon, the Sickle blazing brighter than it had in years. He looked to Elrond and Elros, standing and whispering together, their faces alight. Flowers bloomed all around them, pale in the starlight.

For the first time in he could not remember when, Maglor felt something dangerously like hope stir in his heart.

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