From That Rubble by StarSpray  

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Twenty Two

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You wanna run away, run away
And you say that it can’t be so
You wanna look away, look away
But you stay ‘cause it’s all so close
When you stand up and hold out your hand
In the face of what I don’t understand
My reason to be brave
- “Brave” - Josh Groban 

 

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Fëanor sent Curufin home, and then went to the palace. He walked around through the gardens on his way to the library, and just as he reached the door he thought he heard a cat. When he paused to listen, the door opened and Nerdanel stepped out. “Fëanáro? What are you doing?”

“Does that sound like Macalaurë’s cat to you?”

“What?”

“He never went home this afternoon, and his brothers are worried. I thought he might be in the library and just lost track of time.”

“He isn’t in there, or I would have seen him,” said Nerdanel. “Did something happen?”

“I don’t know.” That was definitely a cat, and it sounded upset. Fëanor walked a few steps down the path, trying to determine where the noise was coming from. 

“Yes, that sounds like Pídhres,” said Nerdanel, having followed Fëanor. “But that isn’t the noise she makes when she gets herself stuck somewhere. She sounds very unhappy.” 

Maybe Curufin was right to be worried. “I think it’s coming from over here.”

Twilight had settled over the world between Fëanor’s parting from Curufin and his arrival at the palace. Overhead the stars were coming out, shining soft and silver, and over the sounds of Pídhres’ distress was the usual chorus of crickets. Fireflies winked at them from the flower beds as they walked down the path; the air smelled heavily of roses and lavender. Fëanor expected to hear Maglor’s voice at any moment, cajoling or scolding, but he heard nothing else.

“Oh dear,” said Nerdanel. She stopped and caught Fëanor’s hand. It was the first time she had actually touched him since he’d come back—excepting one dance they’d shared at a Midwinter feast years before—and he nearly tripped over his own feet in surprise. “I think she’s in the hedge maze.”

They entered the maze, which was quite dark under the towering boxwood. Nerdanel led the way, and they very quickly came to the center garden, but found it empty except for more fireflies twinkling in the rosemary. Pídhres sounded much louder, but it was hard to tell exactly how they might reach her. “You try that way, and I’ll go this way,” Fëanor said, pointing to two different paths heading more or less in the same general direction.

“You think Macalaurë got himself lost?” Nerdanel asked.

“Pídhres did, at the very least.” And maybe that was why he hadn’t returned home, Fëanor thought. He might have lost Pídhres elsewhere in the gardens or even somewhere in the city, and was now making a search of his own, unaware that his brothers were looking for him in turn. 

They parted, and it was only another minute or so before Fëanor heard, “I’ve found him!” 

He hadn’t actually expected Maglor to be in the maze—and Nerdanel sounded almost as distressed as Pídhres. Fëanor hurried after her, and found two different dead ends before he made the right turning. Nerdanel knelt on the ground beside Maglor, who was white-faced and wide-eyed. “I’m sorry,” he was saying as Fëanor approached. “I can’t do it, I—”

“Cáno?” Fëanor knelt on his other side and Maglor flinched hard enough to lose his balance, falling away from Fëanor into Nerdanel’s arms. “What’s happening?” Fëanor asked. “What’s wrong with him?” He knew what it looked like when Maglor was upset, and when he was afraid—but this was something new. He wasn’t even sure Maglor knew who it was that had found him. Pídhres sat nearby, tail lashing, occasionally meowing, but seeming calmer now that someone else had arrived.

This was what Curufin had been so afraid of—rightfully so. 

“I don’t know,” Nerdanel said. “Macalaurë, what can’t you do?”

Maglor was shaking all over, and he didn’t raise his head as he said, voice muffled by Nerdanel’s tunic, “I can’t go. They expect me at the Máhanaxar—”

“The Máhanaxar?” Fëanor repeated, a chill sweeping down his spine. He looked at Nerdanel, but did not see the same horror or surprise in her expression. 

He’d been right—there was something he was missing, and it seemed like it might be worse than Maedhros’ false memories. The Valar themselves wanted Maglor to come to them, and Fëanor couldn’t think of any reason why—he hadn’t done anything since he’d come back to Valinor, and if they wanted to render some judgment on the past they would have done it as soon as he had stepped off the ship, rather than waiting decades. It didn’t make any sense.

“—and I can’t. I knew it wouldn’t work but I thought—I thought I’d be able to sing it but I don’t—” Maglor’s voice broke, and Fëanor understood even less of what was going on. He put a hand on Maglor’s back, careful, but Maglor didn’t flinch away that time. 

“What are you to sing before the Valar, Cáno?” he asked.

Nerdanel looked up, eyebrows raised. “Do you not know?”

“If I knew, Nerdanel,” Fëanor bit out, trying to swallow his frustration because he knew it wasn’t helpful even if he hated that apparently everyone knew something important that he didn’t, “I would not have to ask—”

“For what other purpose do you think your mother wants a song written for Finwë?” Nerdanel asked. Fëanor stared at her. “You’ve heard the tales of Eärendil and Lúthien both—”

She wouldn’t do that, Fëanor thought, even as several things Maglor had said—and not said—clicked into place in his mind. She wouldn't ask such a thing of Maglor, not as soon as he came back from Lórien, not after everything he had gone through. She had to know how hard it would be, know how much such a performance would frighten him. “Surely that isn’t—” he began.

“I said I would,” Maglor said, still without raising his head, “but Eönwë came and—I can’t. I can’t bear it, I’m not—I’m sorry.”

“No, Macalaurë,” Nerdanel said, kissing the top of his head and wrapping her arms a little more tightly around him, “don’t apologize. None of this is your fault.” She looked back up at Fëanor and said quietly, “He isn’t in any state to walk back through the city tonight.”

“There are rooms aplenty here,” said Fëanor. “I can have dinner brought to my rooms, and we can find a bed for him afterward. Or—where are you staying?”

“With my brother—but his house is already crowded with his family and students, and is even farther from here than Atarinkë’s.”

Maglor didn't seem to be listening. He had curled in on himself, one arm crossed over his chest like he wanted to protect something there; he kept his face hidden, and was shivering, like he was cold even though the evening was pleasantly warm. Finally, Nerdanel kissed him again, and shifted to start helping him rise. “You’ve been working so hard,” she said. “You need to rest, and then—”

The change was instantaneous. “No!” Maglor tore himself out of Nerdanel’s arms. She fell back, nearly falling into the bushes, and Fëanor lost his own balance as Maglor pushed himself to his feet, stumbling on the gravel path and the hems of his robes. “No, no I won’t—you can’t—” 

“Macalaurë!” Nerdanel exclaimed.

“You can’t trick me—”

Fëanor recognized blind panic, at least, when he saw it. There was no way Maglor could find his way out of the maze in this state. “Macalaurë—” He rose and caught his arms. Pídhres yowled, and Nerdanel quickly scooped her up before she was trampled—because Maglor was panicked enough to fight. He twisted in Fëanor’s arms, pushing and kicking and thrashing, even trying to scratch at his face. If he had been even just a little more clear-headed, Fëanor would not have stood a chance—even if Maglor hadn’t actually done much fighting for centuries, he still had honed his skills over many years of warfare, and retained all the memory that Fëanor’s newer body lacked.

“Let me go—let me go letmego—please—”

He didn’t want to use any kind of force, and was badly out of practice in doing anything with his voice but singing light into gems and subtle enchantments into metal, but it was that or end up with a broken nose while Maglor lost himself entirely. “Maglor—stop!” Maglor immediately went limp.

“Fëanáro!” Nerdanel protested.

Fëanor caught Maglor before he could hit the ground, cradling him against his chest. “I’ve got you, Cáno,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “It’s all right. You’re safe, it’s me, it’s Atya. Just sleep.” Maglor made a soft, distressed noise, but his body obeyed. 

“Fëanáro, you shouldn’t have—”

“He’s stronger than I am, Nerdanel. I didn’t have a choice, unless you wanted him to run away and get even more lost—or hurt himself.”

“Well, now what?” she asked as Fëanor lifted Maglor into his arms. 

“Get him somewhere more comfortable and private. My rooms are still closest.”

Nerdanel went ahead, opening doors and making sure they did not meet anyone between the hedge maze and Fëanor’s rooms. As Fëanor carefully laid Maglor on the bed she said, “I don’t suppose you know what it is I said that distressed him so.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Out of everyone in the world, Nerdanel should have been the last person to cause such a reaction. Fëanor smoothed a strand of hair away from Maglor’s face. Maglor frowned in his sleep, but didn’t stir. “When did my mother ask Maglor to take his song before the Valar?”

“From the start,” Nerdanel said. “Or nearly so, a few months after they first asked him to write it. I was there when she broached the subject. She said that they—she and Indis—have tried everything else.”

“Do you know why? I thought this song was brought up almost as soon as he came back from Lórien.”

“I do not think anyone expected him to write it so quickly,” Nerdanel said. “Míriel assumed it would be the work of many years, and it was only because he said it might affect the writing that she told him of its intended audience at all. It is Macalaurë himself who has felt so strongly that he needs to finish and take it before the Valar before next year’s feast. He has been nervous, but there has never been anything to suggest their summons—which he requested, through Indis, last week—would send him into such a panic.”

Fëanor rubbed a hand over his face. Pídhres jumped onto the bed and curled up beside Maglor, resting her chin on his arm. “This shouldn’t have been asked of him at all,” he said. 

“I agree.”

“And why was I not told?”

“I don’t know. Míriel did not want this particular part of it to be widely known—and Macalaurë didn’t either—but I don’t know why it was kept from you.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“His brothers. I’m sure Daeron does, and most likely Elrond, but no one else as far as I am aware.” Nerdanel hesitated, and then said, “I think I should not stay. I was what upset him the most in the hedge maze, and I do not want him to wake up only to be frightened again.”

Fëanor wished he could disagree. “Will you tell the other boys that we found him, and he’s safe with me?”

“Yes, of course. They’ll probably know better how to help him come morning.” Nerdanel approached the bed and kissed Maglor’s forehead before looking at Fëanor. “Don’t leave him alone, Fëanáro. The very worst of what he went through was the loneliness.”

“I won’t,” Fëanor said. 

“Do not try to talk him out of going to the Máhanaxar, either,” she added as she moved to the door.

“I’m not just going to stand aside and let him hurt himself.”

Nerdanel turned to frown at him. “Even though this is the best chance we have had in years beyond count of convincing the Valar to release your father?”

Fëanor wanted his father back so badly that it burned. He thought of the lonely grave beside the mist-shrouded lake, and the crumbling walls of Formenos, and the empty wood shop behind the cherry orchard. “Of course I wish the Valar would change their minds,” he said, though it was as useless as wishing for the stars to change their courses. “I wish my father were here every single day. But if this is the cost?” He gestured at Maglor. “It’s too high. My father would say the same.”

“You were ready to burn down the world once, just to avenge him,” Nerdanel said quietly.

“And I was wrong. He wouldn’t have wanted that, either.”

He couldn’t tell what Nerdanel was thinking. That was new—he’d once known her as well as he knew himself—and it hurt the same way that missing Finwë hurt. It felt like she was equally out of reach, even though she only stood across the room. Finally she said, “I’m glad you see that now,” and left. 

The door clicked shut. Fëanor sighed, and went to the wardrobe to pull out a nightshirt that Maglor could borrow. It had been a long time since he had had to undress one of his sleeping sons—not since they had all reached adulthood. Maglor had worn fine robes to dine with his cousins that afternoon, and they were stained at the hems now. Fëanor carefully removed the outer robes and his shoes, and set them aside. Pídhres grumbled when he moved her out of the way. “Oh, hush,” he said. “You’re all right.” She meowed at him and then went to sit on one of the pillows.

He undressed Maglor the rest of the way before he realized, suddenly, why Maglor wore long sleeves no matter the weather—why he always chose sleeves that were a little too long, so he could pull them down over his hands. 

Fëanor had seen Dol Guldur—had seen the scars when they were fresh. Most were faded now, some entirely gone, but there were enough still to make it obvious what had happened. His wrists were ringed with scar tissue from years of manacles rubbing away the skin. And his back—it was a mess of criss-crossing lines, almost as bad as the still-livid burn mark on his chest. Too livid, for how old it was. When Fëanor touched it, he thought it felt warm—inflamed as it should not have been. The scars on his hand were not inflamed, and he wondered at that a little. Whatever had frightened Maglor—whatever Eönwë had done—it had nothing to do with the First Age but with the far more recent Third.

Seeing something in the palantír was one thing—it felt close and real, in the moment, but it wasn’t, and ceased to feel quite so real after the stone was put away. Seeing it in person—feeling the texture of the scars under his hands as he lifted Maglor’s arms into the sleeves—was something else entirely. Fëanor bit his tongue until he tasted blood, and finished dressing Maglor in the nightshirt and bundling him under the blankets. He got cold so easily—especially when he was upset. Pídhres immediately went to curl up by his shoulder. He wished there was something else he could be doing, something more useful than just sitting there and trying not to cry.

“Oh, Cáno,” Fëanor sighed. At least Maglor’s expression had smoothed out a little, and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully now, untroubled by nightmares. 

He heard someone enter the sitting room, and went out to find Lalwen. “Fëanáro, you’ll be late for dinner again!” she exclaimed, seeing that he was still dressed in his work clothes. “What’s keeping you?”

“I’m not joining the rest of you tonight,” Fëanor said. 

“Why not? I saw Nerdanel a few minutes ago, but you can’t have fought with her or else we would have all felt the walls shaking.”

“We didn’t fight, but we did—speak. I’m just tired, Lalwen, that’s all. I was working at the house today.”

Lalwen looked at him skeptically. “Well…if you insist.”

“I do.”

“Do you want company this evening?”

“No, thank you. I have a stack of books I’ve been wanting to get to, and I might as well start tonight.”

“All right then. Do remember to eat something though. I’ll have a tray sent.”

“Thank you.”

“And—you and Nerdanel?”

Fëanor shrugged. “Could’ve been worse.”

Lalwen left, and Fëanor glanced at the stack of books in question. He took one back to the bedroom and then went to wash the dust out of his hair and change his own clothes. By the time he got back Pídhres had jumped off the bed and begun investigating the room. Fëanor watched her for a moment, and then went to get comfortable on the bed himself. He stayed on top of the blankets, knowing sleep wouldn’t come, but made sure he was close enough that Maglor would be aware upon waking that he wasn’t alone. Pídhres soon returned, and curled up right in between them. She purred when Fëanor stroked his hand down her back. What a strange little creature she was, he thought. She had crossed the Sea with Maglor and then somehow charmed the Valar into extending her life far beyond any normal cat’s. And it was a good thing, too, or else Maglor might have been trapped in the hedge maze until someone stumbled upon him in the morning.

Fëanor stared at the pages of his book without really taking in any words until he heard someone come and drop off his meal. He didn’t have any real appetite, but he went and ate anyway, and gave what he couldn’t choke down to Pídhres. 

He kept wondering what it was Eönwë had said that had thrown Maglor into such a state, if it was a summons he had been expecting—a summons he had requested. Then he wondered when it was he was supposed to appear before the Valar. When they had summoned Fëanor to that half-hearted attempt at reconciliation with Fingolfin, he had been given several months’ notice, which he suspected had been to give Finwë time to convince him to go. But if they expected Maglor to have been waiting, they might have set a date much sooner—within the next few days, perhaps. It would only take a day or so to get from Tirion to the Máhanaxar if one’s horse was swift. 

Assuming Maglor went. Fëanor had already determined to try to talk him out of it in spite of Nerdanel’s warning. If a single encounter with Eönwë was enough to frighten him out of his mind, he did not need to go before all of the Valar at once. But whatever he might hope for, Fëanor was also fairly certain that whatever he said, he would not be able to talk Maglor out of it—whatever Maglor might say of himself, his fear had not yet stopped him from doing anything, in the end. If he had been afraid of his brothers, as Caranthir had said, he had not tried to flee when chance brought them together by Ekkaia. He had been afraid of Fëanor, and that hadn’t stopped him from seeking him out the year before to talk of this song, or from speaking his mind that spring when everything had gone so wrong with Maedhros. He had surely known he would be afraid when it came time to take this song before the Valar—and he had agreed to do it anyway. 

It seemed incredible, though, that no one else had attempted to talk him out of it—that his brothers would not have tried to stop it, knowing far better than Fëanor how fragile he still was. Maybe they had and failed. But would he not have listened to Daeron? Fëanor frowned at his book, and then looked at Maglor, still fast asleep, shivering slightly—shudders passing through him in waves, as though a chill clung to him in spite of the summer-warmth of the night and the blankets tucked around him. Pídhres stretched out her front legs and then curled up again, pressing herself against his chest.

Fëanor had never actually been angry with his mother before. It had felt like the worst betrayal to be angry with her for any reason when she was dead, and since both of them had returned to life they had not really disagreed about anything—or at least not anything important. Now he found himself glad that she was not in Tirion, because he was very angry indeed—that she would not only ask for something like this but then keep it from him. He didn’t know what would come out of his mouth if she happened to arrive that evening or even come morning, but it wouldn’t be good. 

Finwë was his father. Maglor was his son. Why would such a plan as this be kept from him? Who else knew? Fingolfin didn’t, Fëanor was certain—but Findis might. She was the one convinced that Finwë would return, somehow, someday. 

All of his sons knew. If Ambarussa or Curufin had not told him, it was because they had been asked not to. Fëanor understood that, and he understood why Maglor would not have wanted to tell him of it in the beginning, when things had still been so tense and uncertain between them. But lately…

Why only once? he had asked, that afternoon in the wood shop.

Once or twice is all I have in me, Maglor had replied, in that odd and distant tone.

Fëanor dropped his head back against the pillows he’d piled behind his back and stared at the ceiling. Should he have tried to push? Would that have even worked—or would it have just made Maglor withdraw again? He didn’t know, and he couldn’t know, and he hated it.

Daeron should have been there. Fëanor couldn’t begin to guess why Maglor hadn’t waited for him to return before taking steps to gain an audience with the Valar, unless he knew that Daeron would and could talk him out of it, and he had wanted to avoid that argument entirely. But if Daeron was going to try, surely he would have said something months ago. Maybe he’d ask in the morning when Maglor woke up and could both think and speak calmly. 

He dozed off and on, and managed to read a few pages before the pale light of dawn brightened the window. Just as it got bright enough for it to be properly called morning, Fëanor heard the door to his sitting room open, and a couple of familiar voices. He glanced down at Maglor, who had shifted around to curl up on his side, still deeply asleep, frowning but only slightly. Pídhres was sprawled out on Fëanor’s other side, and if she had been asleep she woke quickly when he left the bed, and jumped down to follow at his heels. 

In his sitting room he found Caranthir, Curufin, and the twins engaged in a half-whispered argument about whether they should knock on the bedroom door. “Where’s Cáno?” Caranthir demanded as soon as he saw Fëanor.

“Still sleeping,” Fëanor said as he shut the door behind him. “He’s not hurt.”

“What happened? Do you know?” Curufin asked. He knelt to pick up Pídhres when she trotted over to twine around his ankles. 

“I only know as much as whatever your mother told you,” Fëanor said. “Something Eönwë said sent him into a panic, and he got lost in the hedge maze—I don’t know what he was doing in there in the first place.”

“Probably Pídhres,” Caranthir muttered, glaring at the little cat, who just purred as Curufin petted her. 

“Can we stay until he wakes up?” Amras asked.

“Of course. But I think it would be better if you waited out here.”

“Yes, of course,” Amras agreed immediately, shooting Caranthir a warning look when his scowl deepened. “We don’t want to overwhelm him all over again, Moryo.”

“Fine,” Caranthir muttered, and stalked over to the window. 

“He’s not hurt,” Fëanor said again after a moment. 

“Did he have nightmares?” Amrod asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“You’d know if he did,” Caranthir said without looking away from the window. 

Fëanor returned to the bedroom. Pídhres followed after Curufin let her down, and she curled up beside Maglor, purring gently as she pressed her face into his arm. Fëanor settled in with his book, stroking Maglor’s hair with his free hand as he tried to focus. 

A few more hours passed before Maglor shifted slightly, and sighed. A second later he sat up, flailing a little as he sucked in a breath. “Canafinwë?” Fëanor reached for him, and he flinched. “It’s all right, Cáno.”

Maglor took another unsteady breath, but he didn’t pull away. “Where—?”

“My rooms. You weren’t in any state to return to Curvo’s house last night.”

“Last night,” Maglor repeated faintly, as though in a daze. “Then…” He started to push the blankets down. “I have to go.”

“Cáno, you shouldn’t—”

“I have to be at the Máhanaxar tomorrow.”

Of course they would only give him two days. “No, you don’t,” Fëanor said.

Maglor shook his head once, sharply, hair tumbling over his shoulders. “I can’t just—just ignore a summons from the Valar!”

Under other circumstances, Fëanor might have agreed. Even he had gone when summoned. But he had also defied them afterward, and found that he felt no real compunctions about doing it again now. “In this instance,” he said, “yes, you can! And if anyone comes with questions or demands, I will deal with them. I’ll not hesitate to slam the door in Manwë’s own face if I must—” He almost hoped he’d get the chance, actually. It might make him feel better about everything.

“Atya,” Maglor protested, pained. 

Fëanor put his book aside and moved to kneel on the bed in front of Maglor, who looked back at him wide-eyed and clearly still terrified, even if he wasn’t lost anymore. Fëanor gripped his shoulders. “There is no performance worth pushing yourself to the breaking point, Macalaurë! I understand why you feel this is important, but it should never have been asked of you to begin with.”

“But if—it’s for Grandfather.”

“He is in Mandos, and he is safe and at rest and at peace.” Of course they all wanted him back, but that was important to remember too. Finwë had made his choice, and he was as content as an Elven spirit could be in Mandos. It was poor comfort, but it was what they had. At least they knew where he was—that he was at peace. “He is not in any pain, Cáno,” Fëanor said. “You are, and he would not want you to suffer like this.” Even now his face was very pale, and the scars there stood out lividly; there were shadows behind his eyes, a haunted look that he was trying and failing to hide. The scar on his chest was hidden, but Fëanor knew what it looked like, knew it had pained him before and was likely still tender. What he needed was to eat something and to return to Curufin’s house to sleep some more, with all of his brothers to stand between him and the rest of the world for a while. 

“It is important,” Maglor said, and now he had that familiar, stubborn glint in his eyes, and his jaw was set. Like Finwë—like Fëanor himself—he would not be swayed from the course he had chosen, whether it was wise or not. “I have to go, Atya. It won’t be—Eönwë caught me by surprise yesterday. That won’t happen again.”

“You told me before that performance doesn’t frighten you as it once did—but you are frightened now.”

“We were not speaking then of going before the Valar.”

“No, I suppose not—though you knew even then that this was coming, didn’t you?” Maybe not the surprise of Eönwë, but he’d known he would have to go through with this, fighting near-debilitating fear every step of the way. He was trembling again under Fëanor’s hands, shivering like he was half-frozen.

“I knew from the start,” Maglor said. “I just—I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Why, Cáno? Did you think I would—”

“For the same reason I didn’t want you to look for Formenos in the palantír.”

Fëanor wasn’t sure what the connection was for a moment, until he realized—Maglor didn’t believe the Valar would really listen. He felt it important to try but was also sure he would fail. In not telling Fëanor, and in asking his brothers to keep it secret as well, he had been trying to protect him, to shield him from the pain of rising hopes that would only be dashed, in the end. It was supposed to be the other way around, Fëanor thought with a sigh. Well, he could not protect Maglor from this—not when he was determined to see it through and no one else seemed inclined to add their voices to the argument—but he could at least help. “Do you remember the first time you sang before your grandfather’s court?”

Maglor blinked, startled by the sudden change. “I—yes? But—”

“You were afraid then, too.” It hadn’t been nearly this bad—nervous was a better word—but it was close enough. “Do you remember what I said to you?”

“You said to ignore everyone else and just sing for you. But, Atya…” 

It had been some years before Maglor had been old enough to travel to Valmar to study under Elemmírë, but he had been soaking up all that his music teachers in Tirion—Finwë foremost among them—could teach him like a sponge, and even then his voice had been entrancing, his talent unmistakable. He had also been, usually, as self-assured as any of his brothers—but a large crowd of adults was still intimidating, and he had shrunk back from it, half-hiding behind Fëanor instead of bounding forward to spring onto the stage as he would in the future. “What if it’s not that good?” he’d whispered. “What if my harp isn’t in tune? What if—”

“It is that good, and it is in tune—I know because I tuned it myself.” Fëanor had kissed his cheeks and turned him gently but firmly toward the stage. “Ignore everyone else, Canafinwë. I’ll be right there in front of you—just sing for me, as you do at home. You’re going to be amazing.”

Now, in the present, Fëanor tucked a strand of hair behind Maglor’s ear. So many years had passed and so many things had happened since that very first performance. Maglor had grown and thrived on the stage, soon forgetting his initial fears—and then he had been cast into darkness and doubt and had emerged knowing what real fear was, and it clung to him still, like the frost from the story he’d told of the frozen wastes. “I still say this should never have been asked of you,” Fëanor said, and saw Maglor frown, ready to argue, “but if you feel that you must see this through, you need not do it alone. I will go, and you’ll stand before the Valar, yes, but you’ll sing for me. Not for them.”

Maglor opened his mouth, and then shut it again, and sighed. He wouldn’t be swayed from his course, and he knew that Fëanor wouldn’t, either. There was no point in either of them trying to argue with the other. “All right. But it’s—two days, Eönwë said to me, and that was yesterday. I must be there tomorrow.”

Fëanor had several things he would like to say about Eönwë, but they weren't helpful, and would probably just make Maglor feel worse. “There’s still time,” he said instead, and slid off of the bed. “You need to eat something, and one of your brothers can fetch your harp and a change of clothes. They’re all lurking in my sitting room, and have been for the last three hours waiting for you to wake up.”

“But if you—” Maglor began. 

“There is nothing happening here that I cannot set aside, especially for this.” Fëanor grabbed a tunic at random, and then a robe also more or less at random, which he handed to Maglor, who was blinking at him as though Fëanor had just hit him over the head. “I’m sorry I forgot that before, Cáno,” Fëanor said quietly. “I won’t forget it again. Talk to your brothers; I’ll arrange for horses and a late breakfast to be sent up. You haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday.” That was partly Fëanor’s own fault—only he hadn’t wanted to wake him out of what was probably the most restful sleep he’d gotten since coming to Tirion. Even now there were shadows under his eyes. 

Fëanor stepped back out into the sitting room, finding Caranthir turning quickly and almost guiltily from his bookshelf, and Curufin and Ambarussa sitting on the sofa talking quietly together. “He’s awake,” Fëanor said, “and will be out in a minute. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Amrod asked. “Is he all right?”

“To arrange for breakfast, and yes he is. He can tell you himself in a minute.”

It was a very simple matter to arrange for two horses to be saddled, and to stop by the kitchen to ask for a tray of foods that were simple and easy and quick to eat. Fëanor had intended to just ask for it to be sent up, but in the end he waited until it was done and insisted on taking it himself. It gave his sons a few minutes longer to speak to one another without his presence making it difficult, at least—and though Maglor’s presence in the palace was surely not unknown, at least to Fingolfin and the servants, Fëanor didn’t think he would want anyone outside of family to see him just then.

When he returned it was in time to hear Maglor say, sounding much more like himself, “I am letting you help. But you can’t come.” He sat between Amrod and Curufin, with Pídhres in his arms, looking smaller than he really was because Fëanor’s robe was slightly too big in the shoulders. 

“Cáno—” Caranthir protested.

“Please don’t. I’m too tired to argue about it.”

“Fine.” Caranthir relented, and leaned over the back of the sofa to kiss the top of Maglor’s head. “Come straight back to Curvo’s when it’s over. We’ll be waiting for you there.”

“I will.”

Amrod whispered something in his ear before getting up to follow Caranthir. Curufin also rose, saying, “I’ll be back later with your harp.”

“And when this does work,” Amras added, leaning over the back of the sofa as Caranthir had, to wrap his arms around Maglor, “we’ll all say we told you so.” Fëanor didn’t think he could see the pained look that flashed across Maglor’s face at the words.

“Take your time, Curvo,” Fëanor said quietly as Curufin passed him. “We don’t need to leave immediately.”

“I’m glad you’re going with him,” Curufin replied before he followed his other brothers out of the room. 

As the door shut Maglor slumped in his seat and buried his face in Pídhres’ fur. “Who else knows I fell to pieces yesterday?” he asked, voice slightly muffled.

“No one,” said Fëanor, “though I’m sure Nolofinwë at least knows you slept here last night.” There would be questions, but with luck they could escape all of them and leave before anyone thought to come looking. He set the tray down and sat down beside Maglor to pry Pídhres out of his arms. “Eat something before Curvo comes back, and then we can leave.” Pídhres squirmed a little in his arms before settling on his lap. Fëanor hadn't actually expected her to stay put. “In the meantime,” he said, looking back at Maglor, “what exactly is it you hope to accomplish with this song? I’ve read it, and there is nothing in it that sounds like any kind of plea.” It could not fail to move anyone who heard it, but there was nothing in it that asked anything more of the audience—only that they listen.

“All those have been made already.” Maglor eyed the tray before picking up a roll, still warm from the oven and faintly sweet-smelling. “The Valar know what we want, and they know all the arguments for it. This is just—this is just the why. It’s what the statute really means. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“It does,” Fëanor said quietly. It made sense now—the song was an incredible tribute to Finwë all on its own, but he could see now the additional reasons for the way it was structured, and why some parts of it were given particular prominence—such as the passages near the end about the Halls of Mandos. The song was, put into words, not only who Finwë was, but what his absence cost both their family and the Noldor as a whole. It was masterful songwriting, Fëanor thought, but he didn’t want to say it yet—not when it would only sound to Maglor like encouragement for encouragement’s sake, and not the truth. 

Maglor didn’t eat as much as Fëanor would have liked, but it looked like he couldn’t, rather than wouldn’t, so he let it go. He threw some things into a satchel, and by the time he came back out Curufin had returned with a bag for Maglor along with his harp, and was promising to take Pídhres home with him. They had to lock her in the bedroom to keep her from following when they went down to the stables, and Fëanor could hear her yowling from the hallway. Maglor grimaced, and ducked his face to hide behind his hair. 

It was a beautiful day, cloudless and warm—perfect for riding hard and fast. Fëanor kissed Curufin’s forehead. “Tell your mother where we’ve gone?”

“I will. Be safe.”

Once they left the city Maglor urged his horse into a canter, weaving through the crowds with ease. Fëanor followed in his wake, and once they reached the emptier roads beyond Tirion, leading west, Maglor leaned forward and broke into a gallop. They had to ride hard if they were to reach the Máhanaxar at the appointed time, but there was also joy in it alongside the anxiety—in the wind in their hair and the bright flowers blooming by the roadside, and the fields and villages flying by as the horses’ hooves pounded the road in smooth rhythm as Tirion shrank and then disappeared into the distance behind them. For a few hours, at least, they could cease to think about where they were going and why, and just enjoy the bright sunshine and the speed.